diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 1029-0.txt | 5885 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 1029-h/1029-h.htm | 7087 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1029-0.txt | 6272 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1029-0.zip | bin | 0 -> 121884 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1029-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 128062 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1029-h/1029-h.htm | 7488 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1029.txt | 6272 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1029.zip | bin | 0 -> 121455 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/old/ntbrn10.txt | 6724 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/old/ntbrn10.zip | bin | 0 -> 119685 bytes |
13 files changed, 39744 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1029-0.txt b/1029-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..db8f03a --- /dev/null +++ b/1029-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5885 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1029 *** + +THE NIGHT-BORN + +By Jack London + + + +CONTENTS: + + THE NIGHT-BORN + THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED + WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG + THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT + WINGED BLACKMAIL + BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES + WAR + UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS + TO KILL A MAN + THE MEXICAN + + + + +THE NIGHT-BORN + +It was in the old Alta-Inyo Club--a warm night for San Francisco--and +through the open windows, hushed and far, came the brawl of the streets. +The talk had led on from the Graft Prosecution and the latest signs +that the town was to be run wide open, down through all the grotesque +sordidness and rottenness of man-hate and man-meanness, until the name +of O'Brien was mentioned--O'Brien, the promising young pugilist who +had been killed in the prize-ring the night before. At once the air +had seemed to freshen. O'Brien had been a clean-living young man with +ideals. He neither drank, smoked, nor swore, and his had been the body +of a beautiful young god. He had even carried his prayer-book to the +ringside. They found it in his coat pocket in the dressing-room... +afterward. + +Here was Youth, clean and wholesome, unsullied--the thing of glory and +wonder for men to conjure with..... after it has been lost to them and +they have turned middle-aged. And so well did we conjure, that Romance +came and for an hour led us far from the man-city and its snarling roar. +Bardwell, in a way, started it by quoting from Thoreau; but it was old +Trefethan, bald-headed and dewlapped, who took up the quotation and for +the hour to come was romance incarnate. At first we wondered how many +Scotches he had consumed since dinner, but very soon all that was +forgotten. + +“It was in 1898--I was thirty-five then,” he said. “Yes, I know you are +adding it up. You're right. I'm forty-seven now; look ten years more; +and the doctors say--damn the doctors anyway!” + +He lifted the long glass to his lips and sipped it slowly to soothe away +his irritation. + +“But I was young... once. I was young twelve years ago, and I had +hair on top of my head, and my stomach was lean as a runner's, and the +longest day was none too long for me. I was a husky back there in '98. +You remember me, Milner. You knew me then. Wasn't I a pretty good bit of +all right?” + +Milner nodded and agreed. Like Trefethan, he was another mining engineer +who had cleaned up a fortune in the Klondike. + +“You certainly were, old man,” Milner said. “I'll never forget when +you cleaned out those lumberjacks in the M. & M. that night that +little newspaper man started the row. Slavin was in the country at +the time,”--this to us--“and his manager wanted to get up a match with +Trefethan.” + +“Well, look at me now,” Trefethan commanded angrily. “That's what the +Goldstead did to me--God knows how many millions, but nothing left in my +soul..... nor in my veins. The good red blood is gone. I am a jellyfish, +a huge, gross mass of oscillating protoplasm, a--a...” + +But language failed him, and he drew solace from the long glass. + +“Women looked at me then; and turned their heads to look a second time. +Strange that I never married. But the girl. That's what I started to +tell you about. I met her a thousand miles from anywhere, and then some. +And she quoted to me those very words of Thoreau that Bardwell quoted a +moment ago--the ones about the day-born gods and the night-born.” + +“It was after I had made my locations on Goldstead--and didn't know what +a treasure-pot that that trip creek was going to prove--that I made that +trip east over the Rockies, angling across to the Great Up North there +the Rockies are something more than a back-bone. They are a boundary, +a dividing line, a wall impregnable and unscalable. There is no +intercourse across them, though, on occasion, from the early days, +wandering trappers have crossed them, though more were lost by the way +than ever came through. And that was precisely why I tackled the job. It +was a traverse any man would be proud to make. I am prouder of it right +now than anything else I have ever done. + +“It is an unknown land. Great stretches of it have never been explored. +There are big valleys there where the white man has never set foot, and +Indian tribes as primitive as ten thousand years... almost, for they +have had some contact with the whites. Parties of them come out once in +a while to trade, and that is all. Even the Hudson Bay Company failed to +find them and farm them. + +“And now the girl. I was coming up a stream--you'd call it a river in +California--uncharted--and unnamed. It was a noble valley, now shut in +by high canyon walls, and again opening out into beautiful stretches, +wide and long, with pasture shoulder-high in the bottoms, meadows dotted +with flowers, and with clumps of timberspruce--virgin and magnificent. +The dogs were packing on their backs, and were sore-footed and played +out; while I was looking for any bunch of Indians to get sleds and +drivers from and go on with the first snow. It was late fall, but +the way those flowers persisted surprised me. I was supposed to be in +sub-arctic America, and high up among the buttresses of the Rockies, +and yet there was that everlasting spread of flowers. Some day the white +settlers will be in there and growing wheat down all that valley. + +“And then I lifted a smoke, and heard the barking of the dogs--Indian +dogs--and came into camp. There must have been five hundred of them, +proper Indians at that, and I could see by the jerking-frames that the +fall hunting had been good. And then I met her--Lucy. That was her name. +Sign language--that was all we could talk with, till they led me to a +big fly--you know, half a tent, open on the one side where a campfire +burned. It was all of moose-skins, this fly--moose-skins, smoke-cured, +hand-rubbed, and golden-brown. Under it everything was neat and orderly +as no Indian camp ever was. The bed was laid on fresh spruce boughs. +There were furs galore, and on top of all was a robe of swanskins--white +swan-skins--I have never seen anything like that robe. And on top of it, +sitting cross-legged, was Lucy. She was nut-brown. I have called her a +girl. But she was not. She was a woman, a nut-brown woman, an Amazon, a +full-blooded, full-bodied woman, and royal ripe. And her eyes were blue. + +“That's what took me off my feet--her eyes--blue, not China blue, but +deep blue, like the sea and sky all melted into one, and very wise. More +than that, they had laughter in them--warm laughter, sun-warm and human, +very human, and... shall I say feminine? They were. They were a woman's +eyes, a proper woman's eyes. You know what that means. Can I say more? +Also, in those blue eyes were, at the same time, a wild unrest, a +wistful yearning, and a repose, an absolute repose, a sort of all-wise +and philosophical calm.” + +Trefethan broke off abruptly. + +“You fellows think I am screwed. I'm not. This is only my fifth since +dinner. I am dead sober. I am solemn. I sit here now side by side with +my sacred youth. It is not I--'old' Trefethan--that talks; it is my +youth, and it is my youth that says those were the most wonderful eyes +I have ever seen--so very calm, so very restless; so very wise, so very +curious; so very old, so very young; so satisfied and yet yearning so +wistfully. Boys, I can't describe them. When I have told you about her, +you may know better for yourselves.” + +“She did not stand up. But she put out her hand.” + +“'Stranger,' she said, 'I'm real glad to see you.' + +“I leave it to you--that sharp, frontier, Western tang of speech. +Picture my sensations. It was a woman, a white woman, but that tang! +It was amazing that it should be a white woman, here, beyond the last +boundary of the world--but the tang. I tell you, it hurt. It was like +the stab of a flatted note. And yet, let me tell you, that woman was a +poet. You shall see.” + +“She dismissed the Indians. And, by Jove, they went. They took her +orders and followed her blind. She was hi-yu skookam chief. She told the +bucks to make a camp for me and to take care of my dogs. And they +did, too. And they knew enough not to get away with as much as a +moccasin-lace of my outfit. She was a regular She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, +and I want to tell you it chilled me to the marrow, sent those little +thrills Marathoning up and down my spinal column, meeting a white woman +out there at the head of a tribe of savages a thousand miles the other +side of No Man's Land. + +“'Stranger,” she said, 'I reckon you're sure the first white that ever +set foot in this valley. Set down an' talk a spell, and then we'll have +a bite to eat. Which way might you be comin'?' + +“There it was, that tang again. But from now to the end of the yarn I +want you to forget it. I tell you I forgot it, sitting there on the edge +of that swan-skin robe and listening and looking at the most wonderful +woman that ever stepped out of the pages of Thoreau or of any other +man's book. + +“I stayed on there a week. It was on her invitation. She promised to fit +me out with dogs and sleds and with Indians that would put me across +the best pass of the Rockies in five hundred miles. Her fly was pitched +apart from the others, on the high bank by the river, and a couple of +Indian girls did her cooking for her and the camp work. And so we talked +and talked, while the first snow fell and continued to fall and make a +surface for my sleds. And this was her story. + +“She was frontier-born, of poor settlers, and you know what that +means--work, work, always work, work in plenty and without end. + +“'I never seen the glory of the world,' she said. 'I had no time. I knew +it was right out there, anywhere, all around the cabin, but there was +always the bread to set, the scrubbin' and the washin' and the work that +was never done. I used to be plumb sick at times, jes' to get out into +it all, especially in the spring when the songs of the birds drove me +most clean crazy. I wanted to run out through the long pasture grass, +wetting my legs with the dew of it, and to climb the rail fence, and +keep on through the timber and up and up over the divide so as to get a +look around. Oh, I had all kinds of hankerings--to follow up the +canyon beds and slosh around from pool to pool, making friends with +the water-dogs and the speckly trout; to peep on the sly and watch the +squirrels and rabbits and small furry things and see what they was doing +and learn the secrets of their ways. Seemed to me, if I had time, I +could crawl among the flowers, and, if I was good and quiet, catch them +whispering with themselves, telling all kinds of wise things that mere +humans never know.'” + +Trefethan paused to see that his glass had been refilled. + +“Another time she said: 'I wanted to run nights like a wild thing, just +to run through the moonshine and under the stars, to run white and naked +in the darkness that I knew must feel like cool velvet, and to run and +run and keep on running. One evening, plumb tuckered out--it had been a +dreadful hard hot day, and the bread wouldn't raise and the churning had +gone wrong, and I was all irritated and jerky--well, that evening I +made mention to dad of this wanting to run of mine. He looked at me +curious-some and a bit scared. And then he gave me two pills to take. +Said to go to bed and get a good sleep and I'd be all hunky-dory in +the morning. So I never mentioned my hankerings to him, or any one any +more.' + +“The mountain home broke up--starved out, I imagine--and the family came +to Seattle to live. There she worked in a factory--long hours, you +know, and all the rest, deadly work. And after a year of that she became +waitress in a cheap restaurant--hash-slinger, she called it. She said +to me once, 'Romance I guess was what I wanted. But there wan't no +romance floating around in dishpans and washtubs, or in factories and +hash-joints.' + +“When she was eighteen she married--a man who was going up to Juneau to +start a restaurant. He had a few dollars saved, and appeared prosperous. +She didn't love him--she was emphatic about that, but she was all tired +out, and she wanted to get away from the unending drudgery. Besides, +Juneau was in Alaska, and her yearning took the form of a desire to see +that wonderland. But little she saw of it. He started the restaurant, +a little cheap one, and she quickly learned what he had married her +for..... to save paying wages. She came pretty close to running the +joint and doing all the work from waiting to dishwashing. She cooked +most of the time as well. And she had four years of it. + +“Can't you picture her, this wild woods creature, quick with every old +primitive instinct, yearning for the free open, and mowed up in a vile +little hash-joint and toiling and moiling for four mortal years? + +“'There was no meaning in anything,' she said. 'What was it all about! +Why was I born! Was that all the meaning of life--just to work and work +and be always tired!--to go to bed tired and to wake up tired, with +every day like every other day unless it was harder?' She had heard talk +of immortal life from the gospel sharps, she said, but she could +not reckon that what she was doin' was a likely preparation for her +immortality. + +“But she still had her dreams, though more rarely. She had read a few +books--what, it is pretty hard to imagine, Seaside Library novels most +likely; yet they had been food for fancy. 'Sometimes,' she said, 'when +I was that dizzy from the heat of the cooking that if I didn't take +a breath of fresh air I'd faint, I'd stick my head out of the kitchen +window, and close my eyes and see most wonderful things. All of a sudden +I'd be traveling down a country road, and everything clean and quiet, +no dust, no dirt; just streams ripplin' down sweet meadows, and lambs +playing, breezes blowing the breath of flowers, and soft sunshine over +everything; and lovely cows lazying knee-deep in quiet pools, and young +girls bathing in a curve of stream all white and slim and natural--and +I'd know I was in Arcady. I'd read about that country once, in a book. +And maybe knights, all flashing in the sun, would come riding around a +bend in the road, or a lady on a milk-white mare, and in the distance +I could see the towers of a castle rising, or I just knew, on the next +turn, that I'd come upon some palace, all white and airy and fairy-like, +with fountains playing, and flowers all over everything, and peacocks +on the lawn..... and then I'd open my eyes, and the heat of the +cooking range would strike on me, and I'd hear Jake sayin'--he was my +husband--I'd hear Jake sayin', “Why ain't you served them beans? Think I +can wait here all day!” Romance!--I reckon the nearest I ever come to +it was when a drunken Armenian cook got the snakes and tried to cut my +throat with a potato knife and I got my arm burned on the stove before I +could lay him out with the potato stomper. + +“'I wanted easy ways, and lovely things, and Romance and all that; but +it just seemed I had no luck nohow and was only and expressly born for +cooking and dishwashing. There was a wild crowd in Juneau them days, but +I looked at the other women, and their way of life didn't excite me. +I reckon I wanted to be clean. I don't know why; I just wanted to, I +guess; and I reckoned I might as well die dishwashing as die their way.” + +Trefethan halted in his tale for a moment, completing to himself some +thread of thought. + +“And this is the woman I met up there in the Arctic, running a tribe of +wild Indians and a few thousand square miles of hunting territory. And +it happened, simply enough, though, for that matter, she might have +lived and died among the pots and pans. But 'Came the whisper, came the +vision.' That was all she needed, and she got it. + +“'I woke up one day,' she said. 'Just happened on it in a scrap of +newspaper. I remember every word of it, and I can give it to you.' And +then she quoted Thoreau's Cry of the Human: + +“'The young pines springing up, in the corn field from year to year are +to me a refreshing fact. We talk of civilizing the Indian, but that is +not the name for his improvement. By the wary independence and aloofness +of his dim forest life he preserves his intercourse with his native gods +and is admitted from time to time to a rare and peculiar society with +nature. He has glances of starry recognition, to which our saloons +are strangers. The steady illumination of his qenius, dim only because +distant, is like the faint but satisfying light of the stars compared +with the dazzling but ineffectual and short-lived blaze of candles. The +Society Islanders had their day-born gods, but they were not supposed to +be of equal antiquity with the..... night-born gods.' + +“That's what she did, repeated it word for word, and I forgot the tang, +for it was solemn, a declaration of religion--pagan, if you will; and +clothed in the living garmenture of herself. + +“'And the rest of it was torn away,' she added, a great emptiness in her +voice. 'It was only a scrap of newspaper. But that Thoreau was a wise +man. I wish I knew more about him.' She stopped a moment, and I swear +her face was ineffably holy as she said, 'I could have made him a good +wife.' + +“And then she went on. 'I knew right away, as soon as I read that, what +was the matter with me. I was a night-born. I, who had lived all my +life with the day-born, was a night-born. That was why I had never been +satisfied with cooking and dishwashing; that was why I had hankered to +run naked in the moonlight. And I knew that this dirty little Juneau +hash-joint was no place for me. And right there and then I said, “I +quit.” I packed up my few rags of clothes, and started. Jake saw me and +tried to stop me. + +“'What you doing?” he says. + +“'Divorcin' you and me,' I says. 'I'm headin' for tall timber and where +I belong.'” + +“'No you don't,' he says, reaching for me to stop me. 'The cooking has +got on your head. You listen to me talk before you up and do anything +brash.' + +“But I pulled a gun-a little Colt's forty-four--and says, 'This does my +talkin' for me.' + +“And I left.” + +Trefethan emptied his glass and called for another. + +“Boys, do you know what that girl did? She was twenty-two. She had spent +her life over the dish-pan and she knew no more about the world than I +do of the fourth dimension, or the fifth. All roads led to her desire. +No; she didn't head for the dance-halls. On the Alaskan Pan-handle it +is preferable to travel by water. She went down to the beach. An Indian +canoe was starting for Dyea--you know the kind, carved out of a single +tree, narrow and deep and sixty feet long. She gave them a couple of +dollars and got on board. + +“'Romance?' she told me. 'It was Romance from the jump. There were three +families altogether in that canoe, and that crowded there wasn't room to +turn around, with dogs and Indian babies sprawling over everything, and +everybody dipping a paddle and making that canoe go.' And all around the +great solemn mountains, and tangled drifts of clouds and sunshine. And +oh, the silence! the great wonderful silence! And, once, the smoke of +a hunter's camp, away off in the distance, trailing among the trees. +It was like a picnic, a grand picnic, and I could see my dreams coming +true, and I was ready for something to happen 'most any time. And it +did. + +“'And that first camp, on the island! And the boys spearing fish in the +mouth of the creek, and the big deer one of the bucks shot just around +the point. And there were flowers everywhere, and in back from the beach +the grass was thick and lush and neck-high. And some of the girls went +through this with me, and we climbed the hillside behind and picked +berries and roots that tasted sour and were good to eat. And we came +upon a big bear in the berries making his supper, and he said “Oof!” and +ran away as scared as we were. And then the camp, and the camp smoke, +and the smell of fresh venison cooking. It was beautiful. I was with the +night-born at last, and I knew that was where I belonged. And for the +first time in my life, it seemed to me, I went to bed happy that night, +looking out under a corner of the canvas at the stars cut off black by a +big shoulder of mountain, and listening to the night-noises, and knowing +that the same thing would go on next day and forever and ever, for I +wasn't going back. And I never did go back.' + +“'Romance! I got it next day. We had to cross a big arm of the +ocean--twelve or fifteen miles, at least; and it came on to blow when we +were in the middle. That night I was along on shore, with one wolf-dog, +and I was the only one left alive.' + +“Picture it yourself,” Trefethan broke off to say. “The canoe was +wrecked and lost, and everybody pounded to death on the rocks except +her. She went ashore hanging on to a dog's tail, escaping the rocks and +washing up on a tiny beach, the only one in miles. + +“'Lucky for me it was the mainland,' she said. 'So I headed right away +back, through the woods and over the mountains and straight on anywhere. +Seemed I was looking for something and knew I'd find it. I wasn't +afraid. I was night-born, and the big timber couldn't kill me. And on +the second day I found it. I came upon a small clearing and a tumbledown +cabin. Nobody had been there for years and years. The roof had fallen +in. Rotted blankets lay in the bunks, and pots and pans were on the +stove. But that was not the most curious thing. Outside, along the +edge of the trees, you can't guess what I found. The skeletons of eight +horses, each tied to a tree. They had starved to death, I reckon, and +left only little piles of bones scattered some here and there. And each +horse had had a load on its back. There the loads lay, in among the +bones--painted canvas sacks, and inside moosehide sacks, and inside the +moosehide sacks--what do you think?'” + +She stopped, reached under a corner of the bed among the spruce boughs, +and pulled out a leather sack. She untied the mouth and ran out into my +hand as pretty a stream of gold as I have ever seen--coarse gold, placer +gold, some large dust, but mostly nuggets, and it was so fresh and rough +that it scarcely showed signs of water-wash. + +“'You say you're a mining engineer,' she said, 'and you know this +country. Can you name a pay-creek that has the color of that gold!' + +“I couldn't! There wasn't a trace of silver. It was almost pure, and I +told her so. + +“'You bet,' she said. 'I sell that for nineteen dollars an ounce. You +can't get over seventeen for Eldorado gold, and Minook gold don't fetch +quite eighteen. Well, that was what I found among the bones--eight +horse-loads of it, one hundred and fifty pounds to the load.' + +“'A quarter of a million dollars!' I cried out. + +“'That's what I reckoned it roughly,' she answered. 'Talk about Romance! +And me a slaving the way I had all the years, when as soon as I ventured +out, inside three days, this was what happened. And what became of the +men that mined all that gold? Often and often I wonder about it. They +left their horses, loaded and tied, and just disappeared off the face of +the earth, leaving neither hide nor hair behind them. I never heard tell +of them. Nobody knows anything about them. Well, being the night-born, I +reckon I was their rightful heir.'” + +Trefethan stopped to light a cigar. + +“Do you know what that girl did? She cached the gold, saving out thirty +pounds, which she carried back to the coast. Then she signaled a passing +canoe, made her way to Pat Healy's trading post at Dyea, outfitted, +and went over Chilcoot Pass. That was in '88--eight years before the +Klondike strike, and the Yukon was a howling wilderness. She was afraid +of the bucks, but she took two young squaws with her, crossed the lakes, +and went down the river and to all the early camps on the Lower Yukon. +She wandered several years over that country and then on in to where I +met her. Liked the looks of it, she said, seeing, in her own words, 'a +big bull caribou knee-deep in purple iris on the valley-bottom.' She +hooked up with the Indians, doctored them, gained their confidence, and +gradually took them in charge. She had only left that country once, and +then, with a bunch of the young bucks, she went over Chilcoot, cleaned +up her gold-cache, and brought it back with her. + +“'And here I be, stranger,' she concluded her yarn, 'and here's the most +precious thing I own.' + +“She pulled out a little pouch of buckskin, worn on her neck like a +locket, and opened it. And inside, wrapped in oiled silk, yellowed with +age and worn and thumbed, was the original scrap of newspaper containing +the quotation from Thoreau. + +“'And are you happy... satisfied?' I asked her. 'With a quarter of a +million you wouldn't have to work down in the States. You must miss a +lot.' + +“'Not much,' she answered. 'I wouldn't swop places with any woman down +in the States. These are my people; this is where I belong. But there +are times--and in her eyes smoldered up that hungry yearning I've +mentioned--'there are times when I wish most awful bad for that Thoreau +man to happen along.' + +“'Why?' I asked. + +“'So as I could marry him. I do get mighty lonesome at spells. I'm just +a woman--a real woman. I've heard tell of the other kind of women that +gallivanted off like me and did queer things--the sort that become +soldiers in armies, and sailors on ships. But those women are queer +themselves. They're more like men than women; they look like men and +they don't have ordinary women's needs. They don't want love, nor little +children in their arms and around their knees. I'm not that sort. I +leave it to you, stranger. Do I look like a man?' + +“She didn't. She was a woman, a beautiful, nut-brown woman, with a +sturdy, health-rounded woman's body and with wonderful deep-blue woman's +eyes. + +“'Ain't I woman?' she demanded. 'I am. I'm 'most all woman, and then +some. And the funny thing is, though I'm night-born in everything else, +I'm not when it comes to mating. I reckon that kind likes its own kind +best. That's the way it is with me, anyway, and has been all these +years.' + +“'You mean to tell me--' I began. + +“'Never,' she said, and her eyes looked into mine with the straightness +of truth. 'I had one husband, only--him I call the Ox; and I reckon he's +still down in Juneau running the hash-joint. Look him up, if you ever +get back, and you'll find he's rightly named.' + +“And look him up I did, two years afterward. He was all she said--solid +and stolid, the Ox--shuffling around and waiting on the tables. + +“'You need a wife to help you,' I said. + +“'I had one once,' was his answer. + +“'Widower?' + +“'Yep. She went loco. She always said the heat of the cooking would +get her, and it did. Pulled a gun on me one day and ran away with some +Siwashes in a canoe. Caught a blow up the coast and all hands drowned.'” + +Trefethan devoted himself to his glass and remained silent. + +“But the girl?” Milner reminded him. + +“You left your story just as it was getting interesting, tender. Did +it?” + +“It did,” Trefethan replied. “As she said herself, she was savage in +everything except mating, and then she wanted her own kind. She was very +nice about it, but she was straight to the point. She wanted to marry +me. + +“'Stranger,' she said, 'I want you bad. You like this sort of life or +you wouldn't be here trying to cross the Rockies in fall weather. It's +a likely spot. You'll find few likelier. Why not settle down! I'll make +you a good wife.' + +“And then it was up to me. And she waited. I don't mind confessing that +I was sorely tempted. I was half in love with her as it was. You know I +have never married. And I don't mind adding, looking back over my life, +that she is the only woman that ever affected me that way. But it was +too preposterous, the whole thing, and I lied like a gentleman. I told +her I was already married. + +“'Is your wife waiting for you?' she asked. + +“I said yes. + +“'And she loves you?' + +“I said yes. + +“And that was all. She never pressed her point... except once, and then +she showed a bit of fire. + +“'All I've got to do,' she said, 'is to give the word, and you don't get +away from here. If I give the word, you stay on... But I ain't going to +give it. I wouldn't want you if you didn't want to be wanted... and if +you didn't want me.' + +“She went ahead and outfitted me and started me on my way. + +“'It's a darned shame, stranger,” she said, at parting. 'I like your +looks, and I like you. If you ever change your mind, come back.' + +“Now there was one thing I wanted to do, and that was to kiss her +good-bye, but I didn't know how to go about it nor how she would take +it.--I tell you I was half in love with her. But she settled it herself. + +“'Kiss me,' she said. 'Just something to go on and remember.' + +“And we kissed, there in the snow, in that valley by the Rockies, and +I left her standing by the trail and went on after my dogs. I was six +weeks in crossing over the pass and coming down to the first post on +Great Slave Lake.” + +The brawl of the streets came up to us like a distant surf. A +steward, moving noiselessly, brought fresh siphons. And in the silence +Trefethan's voice fell like a funeral bell: + +“It would have been better had I stayed. Look at me.” + +We saw his grizzled mustache, the bald spot on his head, the puff-sacks +under his eyes, the sagging cheeks, the heavy dewlap, the general +tiredness and staleness and fatness, all the collapse and ruin of a man +who had once been strong but who had lived too easily and too well. + +“It's not too late, old man,” Bardwell said, almost in a whisper. + +“By God! I wish I weren't a coward!” was Trefethan's answering cry. “I +could go back to her. She's there, now. I could shape up and live many a +long year... with her... up there. To remain here is to commit suicide. +But I am an old man--forty-seven--look at me. The trouble is,” he lifted +his glass and glanced at it, “the trouble is that suicide of this sort +is so easy. I am soft and tender. The thought of the long day's travel +with the dogs appalls me; the thought of the keen frost in the morning +and of the frozen sled-lashings frightens me--” + +Automatically the glass was creeping toward his lips. With a swift +surge of anger he made as if to crash it down upon the floor. Next came +hesitancy and second thought. The glass moved upward to his lips and +paused. He laughed harshly and bitterly, but his words were solemn: + +“Well, here's to the Night-Born. She WAS a wonder.” + + + + +THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED + +I TELL this for a fact. It happened in the bull-ring at Quito. I sat +in the box with John Harned, and with Maria Valenzuela, and with Luis +Cervallos. I saw it happen. I saw it all from first to last. I was on +the steamer Ecuadore from Panama to Guayaquil. Maria Valenzuela is +my cousin. I have known her always. She is very beautiful. I am a +Spaniard--an Ecuadoriano, true, but I am descended from Pedro Patino, +who was one of Pizarro's captains. They were brave men. They were +heroes. Did not Pizarro lead three hundred and fifty Spanish cavaliers +and four thousand Indians into the far Cordilleras in search of +treasure? And did not all the four thousand Indians and three hundred +of the brave cavaliers die on that vain quest? But Pedro Patino did +not die. He it was that lived to found the family of the Patino. I am +Ecuadoriano, true, but I am Spanish. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. I own +many haciendas, and ten thousand Indians are my slaves, though the law +says they are free men who work by freedom of contract. The law is a +funny thing. We Ecuadorianos laugh at it. It is our law. We make it for +ourselves. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. Remember that name. It will be +written some day in history. There are revolutions in Ecuador. We call +them elections. It is a good joke is it not?--what you call a pun? + +John Harned was an American. I met him first at the Tivoli hotel in +Panama. He had much money--this I have heard. He was going to Lima, +but he met Maria Valenzuela in the Tivoli hotel. Maria Valenzuela is +my cousin, and she is beautiful. It is true, she is the most beautiful +woman in Ecuador. But also is she most beautiful in every country--in +Paris, in Madrid, in New York, in Vienna. Always do all men look at her, +and John Harned looked long at her at Panama. He loved her, that I know +for a fact. She was Ecuadoriano, true--but she was of all countries; she +was of all the world. She spoke many languages. She sang--ah! like an +artiste. Her smile--wonderful, divine. Her eyes--ah! have I not seen +men look in her eyes? They were what you English call amazing. They were +promises of paradise. Men drowned themselves in her eyes. + +Maria Valenzuela was rich--richer than I, who am accounted very rich in +Ecuador. But John Harned did not care for her money. He had a heart--a +funny heart. He was a fool. He did not go to Lima. He left the steamer +at Guayaquil and followed her to Quito. She was coming home from Europe +and other places. I do not see what she found in him, but she liked him. +This I know for a fact, else he would not have followed her to Quito. +She asked him to come. Well do I remember the occasion. She said: + +“Come to Quito and I will show you the bullfight--brave, clever, +magnificent!” + +But he said: “I go to Lima, not Quito. Such is my passage engaged on the +steamer.” + +“You travel for pleasure--no?” said Maria Valenzuela; and she looked at +him as only Maria Valenzuela could look, her eyes warm with the promise. + +And he came. No; he did not come for the bull-fight. He came because of +what he had seen in her eyes. Women like Maria Valenzuela are born once +in a hundred years. They are of no country and no time. They are what +you call goddesses. Men fall down at their feet. They play with men and +run them through their pretty fingers like sand. Cleopatra was such a +woman they say; and so was Circe. She turned men into swine. Ha! ha! It +is true--no? + +It all came about because Maria Valenzuela said: + +“You English people are--what shall I say?--savage--no? You prize-fight. +Two men each hit the other with their fists till their eyes are blinded +and their noses are broken. Hideous! And the other men who look on cry +out loudly and are made glad. It is barbarous--no?” + +“But they are men,” said John Harned; “and they prize-fight out of +desire. No one makes them prize-fight. They do it because they desire it +more than anything else in the world.” + +Maria Valenzuela--there was scorn in her smile as she said: “They kill +each other often--is it not so? I have read it in the papers.” + +“But the bull,” said John Harned. + +“The bull is killed many times in the bull-fight, and the bull does not +come into the the ring out of desire. It is not fair to the bull. He +is compelled to fight. But the man in the prize-fight--no; he is not +compelled.” + +“He is the more brute therefore,” said Maria Valenzuela. + +“He is savage. He is primitive. He is animal. He strikes with his paws +like a bear from a cave, and he is ferocious. But the bull-fight--ah! +You have not seen the bullfight--no? The toreador is clever. He must +have skill. He is modern. He is romantic. He is only a man, soft and +tender, and he faces the wild bull in conflict. And he kills with a +sword, a slender sword, with one thrust, so, to the heart of the great +beast. It is delicious. It makes the heart beat to behold--the small +man, the great beast, the wide level sand, the thousands that look on +without breath; the great beast rushes to the attack, the small man +stands like a statue; he does not move, he is unafraid, and in his hand +is the slender sword flashing like silver in the sun; nearer and nearer +rushes the great beast with its sharp horns, the man does not move, and +then--so--the sword flashes, the thrust is made, to the heart, to the +hilt, the bull falls to the sand and is dead, and the man is unhurt. It +is brave. It is magnificent! Ah!--I could love the toreador. But the +man of the prize-fight--he is the brute, the human beast, the savage +primitive, the maniac that receives many blows in his stupid face and +rejoices. Come to Quito and I will show you the brave sport of men, the +toreador and the bull.” + +But John Harned did not go to Quito for the bull-fight. He went because +of Maria Valenzuela. He was a large man, more broad of shoulder than +we Ecuadorianos, more tall, more heavy of limb and bone. True, he was +larger of his own race. His eyes were blue, though I have seen them +gray, and, sometimes, like cold steel. His features were large, too--not +delicate like ours, and his jaw was very strong to look at. Also, his +face was smooth-shaven like a priest's. Why should a man feel shame for +the hair on his face? Did not God put it there? Yes, I believe in God--I +am not a pagan like many of you English. God is good. He made me an +Ecuadoriano with ten thousand slaves. And when I die I shall go to God. +Yes, the priests are right. + +But John Harned. He was a quiet man. He talked always in a low voice, +and he never moved his hands when he talked. One would have thought his +heart was a piece of ice; yet did he have a streak of warm in his blood, +for he followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito. Also, and for all that he +talked low without moving his hands, he was an animal, as you shall +see--the beast primitive, the stupid, ferocious savage of the long ago +that dressed in wild skins and lived in the caves along with the bears +and wolves. + +Luis Cervallos is my friend, the best of Ecuadorianos. He owns three +cacao plantations at Naranjito and Chobo. At Milagro is his big sugar +plantation. He has large haciendas at Ambato and Latacunga, and down +the coast is he interested in oil-wells. Also has he spent much money +in planting rubber along the Guayas. He is modern, like the Yankee; and, +like the Yankee, full of business. He has much money, but it is in many +ventures, and ever he needs more money for new ventures and for the old +ones. He has been everywhere and seen everything. When he was a very +young man he was in the Yankee military academy what you call West +Point. There was trouble. He was made to resign. He does not like +Americans. But he did like Maria Valenzuela, who was of his own country. +Also, he needed her money for his ventures and for his gold mine in +Eastern Ecuador where the painted Indians live. I was his friend. It +was my desire that he should marry Maria Valenzuela. Further, much of my +money had I invested in his ventures, more so in his gold mine which was +very rich but which first required the expense of much money before it +would yield forth its riches. If Luis Cervallos married Maria Valenzuela +I should have more money very immediately. + +But John Harned followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito, and it was quickly +clear to us--to Luis Cervallos and me that she looked upon John Harned +with great kindness. It is said that a woman will have her will, but +this is a case not in point, for Maria Valenzuela did not have her +will--at least not with John Harned. Perhaps it would all have happened +as it did, even if Luis Cervallos and I had not sat in the box that day +at the bull-ring in Quito. But this I know: we DID sit in the box that +day. And I shall tell you what happened. + +The four of us were in the one box, guests of Luis Cervallos. I was next +to the Presidente's box. On the other side was the box of General Jose +Eliceo Salazar. With him were Joaquin Endara and Urcisino Castillo, +both generals, and Colonel Jacinto Fierro and Captain Baltazar de +Echeverria. Only Luis Cervallos had the position and the influence +to get that box next to the Presidente. I know for a fact that the +Presidente himself expressed the desire to the management that Luis +Cervallos should have that box. + +The band finished playing the national hymn of Ecuador. The procession +of the toreadors was over. The Presidente nodded to begin. The bugles +blew, and the bull dashed in--you know the way, excited, bewildered, the +darts in its shoulder burning like fire, itself seeking madly whatever +enemy to destroy. The toreadors hid behind their shelters and waited. +Suddenly they appeared forth, the capadores, five of them, from every +side, their colored capes flinging wide. The bull paused at sight of +such a generosity of enemies, unable in his own mind to know which to +attack. Then advanced one of the capadors alone to meet the bull. The +bull was very angry. With its fore-legs it pawed the sand of the arena +till the dust rose all about it. Then it charged, with lowered head, +straight for the lone capador. + +It is always of interest, the first charge of the first bull. After a +time it is natural that one should grow tired, trifle, that the keenness +should lose its edge. But that first charge of the first bull! John +Harned was seeing it for the first time, and he could not escape the +excitement--the sight of the man, armed only with a piece of cloth, +and of the bull rushing upon him across the sand with sharp horns, +widespreading. + +“See!” cried Maria Valenzuela. “Is it not superb?” + +John Harned nodded, but did not look at her. His eyes were sparkling, +and they were only for the bull-ring. The capador stepped to the side, +with a twirl of the cape eluding the bull and spreading the cape on his +own shoulders. + +“What do you think?” asked Maria Venzuela. “Is it not +a--what-you-call--sporting proposition--no?” + +“It is certainly,” said John Harned. “It is very clever.” + +She clapped her hands with delight. They were little hands. The audience +applauded. The bull turned and came back. Again the capadore eluded him, +throwing the cape on his shoulders, and again the audience applauded. +Three times did this happen. The capadore was very excellent. Then he +retired, and the other capadore played with the bull. After that they +placed the banderillos in the bull, in the shoulders, on each side of +the back-bone, two at a time. Then stepped forward Ordonez, the chief +matador, with the long sword and the scarlet cape. The bugles blew for +the death. He is not so good as Matestini. Still he is good, and with +one thrust he drove the sword to the heart, and the bull doubled his +legs under him and lay down and died. It was a pretty thrust, clean and +sure; and there was much applause, and many of the common people threw +their hats into the ring. Maria Valenzuela clapped her hands with the +rest, and John Harned, whose cold heart was not touched by the event, +looked at her with curiosity. + +“You like it?” he asked. + +“Always,” she said, still clapping her hands. + +“From a little girl,” said Luis Cervallos. “I remember her first fight. +She was four years old. She sat with her mother, and just like now she +clapped her hands. She is a proper Spanish woman. + +“You have seen it,” said Maria Valenzuela to John Harned, as they +fastened the mules to the dead bull and dragged it out. “You have seen +the bull-fight and you like it--no? What do you think? + +“I think the bull had no chance,” he said. “The bull was doomed from +the first. The issue was not in doubt. Every one knew, before the bull +entered the ring, that it was to die. To be a sporting proposition, the +issue must be in doubt. It was one stupid bull who had never fought +a man against five wise men who had fought many bulls. It would be +possibly a little bit fair if it were one man against one bull.” + +“Or one man against five bulls,” said Maria Valenzuela; and we all +laughed, and Luis Ceryallos laughed loudest. + +“Yes,” said John Harned, “against five bulls, and the man, like the +bulls, never in the bull ring before--a man like yourself, Senor +Crevallos.” + +“Yet we Spanish like the bull-fight,” said Luis Cervallos; and I swear +the devil was whispering then in his ear, telling him to do that which I +shall relate. + +“Then must it be a cultivated taste,” John Harned made answer. “We kill +bulls by the thousand every day in Chicago, yet no one cares to pay +admittance to see.” + +“That is butchery,” said I; “but this--ah, this is an art. It is +delicate. It is fine. It is rare.” + +“Not always,” said Luis Cervallos. “I have seen clumsy matadors, and I +tell you it is not nice.” + +He shuddered, and his face betrayed such what-you-call disgust, that I +knew, then, that the devil was whispering and that he was beginning to +play a part. + +“Senor Harned may be right,” said Luis Cervallos. “It may not be fair +to the bull. For is it not known to all of us that for twenty-four hours +the bull is given no water, and that immediately before the fight he is +permitted to drink his fill?” + +“And he comes into the ring heavy with water?” said John Harned quickly; +and I saw that his eyes were very gray and very sharp and very cold. + +“It is necessary for the sport,” said Luis Cervallos. “Would you have +the bull so strong that he would kill the toreadors?” + +“I would that he had a fighting chance,” said John Harned, facing the +ring to see the second bull come in. + +It was not a good bull. It was frightened. It ran around the ring in +search of a way to get out. The capadors stepped forth and flared their +capes, but he refused to charge upon them. + +“It is a stupid bull,” said Maria Valenzuela. + +“I beg pardon,” said John Harned; “but it would seem to me a wise bull. +He knows he must not fight man. See! He smells death there in the ring.” + +True. The bull, pausing where the last one had died, was smelling the +wet sand and snorting. Again he ran around the ring, with raised head, +looking at the faces of the thousands that hissed him, that threw +orange-peel at him and called him names. But the smell of blood decided +him, and he charged a capador, so without warning that the man just +escaped. He dropped his cape and dodged into the shelter. The bull +struck the wall of the ring with a crash. And John Harned said, in a +quiet voice, as though he talked to himself: + +“I will give one thousand sucres to the lazar-house of Quito if a bull +kills a man this day.” + +“You like bulls?” said Maria Valenzuela with a smile. + +“I like such men less,” said John Harned. “A toreador is not a brave +man. He surely cannot be a brave man. See, the bull's tongue is already +out. He is tired and he has not yet begun.” + +“It is the water,” said Luis Cervallos. + +“Yes, it is the water,” said John Harned. “Would it not be safer to +hamstring the bull before he comes on?” + +Maria Valenzuela was made angry by this sneer in John Harned's words. +But Luis Cervallos smiled so that only I could see him, and then it +broke upon my mind surely the game he was playing. He and I were to be +banderilleros. The big American bull was there in the box with us. We +were to stick the darts in him till he became angry, and then there +might be no marriage with Maria Valenzuela. It was a good sport. And the +spirit of bull-fighters was in our blood. + +The bull was now angry and excited. The capadors had great game with +him. He was very quick, and sometimes he turned with such sharpness +that his hind legs lost their footing and he plowed the sand with his +quarter. But he charged always the flung capes and committed no harm. + +“He has no chance,” said John Harned. “He is fighting wind.” + +“He thinks the cape is his enemy,” explained Maria Valenzuela. “See how +cleverly the capador deceives him.” + +“It is his nature to be deceived,” said John Harned. “Wherefore he is +doomed to fight wind. The toreadors know it, you know it, I know it--we +all know from the first that he will fight wind. He only does not know +it. It is his stupid beast-nature. He has no chance.” + +“It is very simple,” said Luis Cervallos. “The bull shuts his eyes when +he charges. Therefore--” + +“The man steps, out of the way and the bull rushes by,” Harned +interrupted. + +“Yes,” said Luis Cervallos; “that is it. The bull shuts his eyes, and +the man knows it.” + +“But cows do not shut their eyes,” said John Harned. “I know a cow at +home that is a Jersey and gives milk, that would whip the whole gang of +them.” + +“But the toreadors do not fight cows,” said I. + +“They are afraid to fight cows,” said John Harned. + +“Yes,” said Luis Cervallos, “they are afraid to fight cows. There would +be no sport in killing toreadors.” + +“There would be some sport,” said John Harned, “if a toreador were +killed once in a while. When I become an old man, and mayhap a cripple, +and should I need to make a living and be unable to do hard work, +then would I become a bull-fighter. It is a light vocation for elderly +gentlemen and pensioners.” + +“But see!” said Maria Valenzuela, as the bull charged bravely and the +capador eluded it with a fling of his cape. “It requires skill so to +avoid the beast.” + +“True,” said John Harned. “But believe me, it requires a thousand times +more skill to avoid the many and quick punches of a prize-fighter who +keeps his eyes open and strikes with intelligence. Furthermore, this +bull does not want to fight. Behold, he runs away.” + +It was not a good bull, for again it ran around the ring, seeking to +find a way out. + +“Yet these bulls are sometimes the most dangerous,” said Luis Cervallos. +“It can never be known what they will do next. They are wise. They are +half cow. The bull-fighters never like them.--See! He has turned!” + +Once again, baffled and made angry by the walls of the ring that would +not let him out, the bull was attacking his enemies valiantly. + +“His tongue is hanging out,” said John Harned. “First, they fill him +with water. Then they tire him out, one man and then another, persuading +him to exhaust himself by fighting wind. While some tire him, others +rest. But the bull they never let rest. Afterward, when he is quite +tired and no longer quick, the matador sticks the sword into him.” + +The time had now come for the banderillos. Three times one of the +fighters endeavored to place the darts, and three times did he fail. +He but stung the bull and maddened it. The banderillos must go in, you +know, two at a time, into the shoulders, on each side the backbone and +close to it. If but one be placed, it is a failure. The crowd hissed and +called for Ordonez. And then Ordonez did a great thing. Four times +he stood forth, and four times, at the first attempt, he stuck in the +banderillos, so that eight of them, well placed, stood out of the back +of the bull at one time. The crowd went mad, and a rain of hats and +money fell on the sand of the ring. + +And just then the bull charged unexpectedly one of the capadors. The man +slipped and lost his head. The bull caught him--fortunately, between his +wide horns. And while the audience watched, breathless and silent, John +Harned stood up and yelled with gladness. Alone, in that hush of all of +us, John Harned yelled. And he yelled for the bull. As you see yourself, +John Harned wanted the man killed. His was a brutal heart. This bad +conduct made those angry that sat in the box of General Salazar, and +they cried out against John Harned. And Urcisino Castillo told him to +his face that he was a dog of a Gringo and other things. Only it was +in Spanish, and John Harned did not understand. He stood and yelled, +perhaps for the time of ten seconds, when the bull was enticed into +charging the other capadors and the man arose unhurt. + +“The bull has no chance,” John Harned said with sadness as he sat down. +“The man was uninjured. They fooled the bull away from him.” Then he +turned to Maria Valenzuela and said: “I beg your pardon. I was excited.” + +She smiled and in reproof tapped his arm with her fan. + +“It is your first bull-fight,” she said. “After you have seen more you +will not cry for the death of the man. You Americans, you see, are more +brutal than we. It is because of your prize-fighting. We come only to +see the bull killed.” + +“But I would the bull had some chance,” he answered. “Doubtless, in +time, I shall cease to be annoyed by the men who take advantage of the +bull.” + +The bugles blew for the death of the bull. Ordonez stood forth with the +sword and the scarlet cloth. But the bull had changed again, and did not +want to fight. Ordonez stamped his foot in the sand, and cried out, and +waved the scarlet cloth. Then the bull charged, but without heart. There +was no weight to the charge. It was a poor thrust. The sword struck +a bone and bent. Ordonez took a fresh sword. The bull, again stung to +fight, charged once more. Five times Ordonez essayed the thrust, and +each time the sword went but part way in or struck bone. The sixth time, +the sword went in to the hilt. But it was a bad thrust. The sword missed +the heart and stuck out half a yard through the ribs on the opposite +side. The audience hissed the matador. I glanced at John Harned. He sat +silent, without movement; but I could see his teeth were set, and his +hands were clenched tight on the railing of the box. + +All fight was now out of the bull, and, though it was no vital thrust, +he trotted lamely what of the sword that stuck through him, in one side +and out the other. He ran away from the matador and the capadors, and +circled the edge of the ring, looking up at the many faces. + +“He is saying: 'For God's sake let me out of this; I don't want to +fight,'” said John Harned. + +That was all. He said no more, but sat and watched, though sometimes +he looked sideways at Maria Valenzuela to see how she took it. She was +angry with the matador. He was awkward, and she had desired a clever +exhibition. + +The bull was now very tired, and weak from loss of blood, though far +from dying. He walked slowly around the wall of the ring, seeking a +way out. He would not charge. He had had enough. But he must be killed. +There is a place, in the neck of a bull behind the horns, where the +cord of the spine is unprotected and where a short stab will immediately +kill. Ordonez stepped in front of the bull and lowered his scarlet cloth +to the ground. The bull would not charge. He stood still and smelled the +cloth, lowering his head to do so. Ordonez stabbed between the horns at +the spot in the neck. The bull jerked his head up. The stab had missed. +Then the bull watched the sword. When Ordonez moved the cloth on the +ground, the bull forgot the sword and lowered his head to smell the +cloth. Again Ordonez stabbed, and again he failed. He tried many times. +It was stupid. And John Harned said nothing. At last a stab went home, +and the bull fell to the sand, dead immediately, and the mules were made +fast and he was dragged out. + +“The Gringos say it is a cruel sport--no?” said Luis Cervallos. “That it +is not humane. That it is bad for the bull. No?” + +“No,” said John Harned. “The bull does not count for much. It is bad for +those that look on. It is degrading to those that look on. It teaches +them to delight in animal suffering. It is cowardly for five men to +fight one stupid bull. Therefore those that look on learn to be cowards. +The bull dies, but those that look on live and the lesson is learned. +The bravery of men is not nourished by scenes of cowardice.” + +Maria Valenzuela said nothing. Neither did she look at him. But she +heard every word and her cheeks were white with anger. She looked out +across the ring and fanned herself, but I saw that her hand trembled. +Nor did John Harned look at her. He went on as though she were not +there. He, too, was angry, coldly angry. + +“It is the cowardly sport of a cowardly people,” he said. + +“Ah,” said Luis Cervallos softly, “you think you understand us.” + +“I understand now the Spanish Inquisition,” said John Harned. “It must +have been more delightful than bull-fighting.” + +Luis Cervallos smiled but said nothing. He glanced at Maria Valenzuela, +and knew that the bull-fight in the box was won. Never would she have +further to do with the Gringo who spoke such words. But neither Luis +Cervallos nor I was prepared for the outcome of the day. I fear we do +not understand the Gringos. How were we to know that John Harned, who +was so coldly angry, should go suddenly mad! But mad he did go, as you +shall see. The bull did not count for much--he said so himself. Then why +should the horse count for so much? That I cannot understand. The mind +of John Harned lacked logic. That is the only explanation. + +“It is not usual to have horses in the bull-ring at Quito,” said Luis +Cervallos, looking up from the program. “In Spain they always have them. +But to-day, by special permission we shall have them. When the next bull +comes on there will be horses and picadors-you know, the men who carry +lances and ride the horses.” + +“The bull is doomed from the first,” said John Harned. “Are the horses +then likewise doomed!” + +“They are blindfolded so that they may not see the bull,” said Luis +Cervallos. “I have seen many horses killed. It is a brave sight.” + +“I have seen the bull slaughtered,” said John Harned “I will now see the +horse slaughtered, so that I may understand more fully the fine points +of this noble sport.” + +“They are old horses,” said Luis Cervallos, “that are not good for +anything else.” + +“I see,” said John Harned. + +The third bull came on, and soon against it were both capadors and +picadors. One picador took his stand directly below us. I agree, it was +a thin and aged horse he rode, a bag of bones covered with mangy hide. + +“It is a marvel that the poor brute can hold up the weight of the +rider,” said John Harned. “And now that the horse fights the bull, what +weapons has it?” + +“The horse does not fight the bull,” said Luis Cervallos. + +“Oh,” said John Harned, “then is the horse there to be gored? That must +be why it is blindfolded, so that it shall not see the bull coming to +gore it.” + +“Not quite so,” said I. “The lance of the picador is to keep the bull +from goring the horse.” + +“Then are horses rarely gored?” asked John Harned. + +“No,” said Luis Cervallos. “I have seen, at Seville, eighteen horses +killed in one day, and the people clamored for more horses.” + +“Were they blindfolded like this horse?” asked John Harned. + +“Yes,” said Luis Cervallos. + +After that we talked no more, but watched the fight. And John Harned was +going mad all the time, and we did not know. The bull refused to charge +the horse. And the horse stood still, and because it could not see it +did not know that the capadors were trying to make the bull charge upon +it. The capadors teased the bull their capes, and when it charged them +they ran toward the horse and into their shelters. At last the bull was +angry, and it saw the horse before it. + +“The horse does not know, the horse does not know,” John Harned +whispered to himself, unaware that he voiced his thought aloud. + +The bull charged, and of course the horse knew nothing till the picador +failed and the horse found himself impaled on the bull's horns from +beneath. The bull was magnificently strong. The sight of its strength +was splendid to see. It lifted the horse clear into the air; and as the +horse fell to its side on on the ground the picador landed on his feet +and escaped, while the capadors lured the bull away. The horse was +emptied of its essential organs. Yet did it rise to its feet screaming. +It was the scream of the horse that did it, that made John Harned +completely mad; for he, too, started to rise to his feet, I heard +him curse low and deep. He never took his eyes from the horse, which, +screaming, strove to run, but fell down instead and rolled on its back +so that all its four legs were kicking in the air. Then the bull charged +it and gored it again and again until it was dead. + +John Harned was now on his feet. His eyes were no longer cold like +steel. They were blue flames. He looked at Maria Valenzuela, and she +looked at him, and in his face was a great loathing. The moment of his +madness was upon him. Everybody was looking, now that the horse was +dead; and John Harned was a large man and easy to be seen. + +“Sit down,” said Luis Cervallos, “or you will make a fool of yourself.” + +John Harned replied nothing. He struck out his fist. He smote Luis +Cervallos in the face so that he fell like a dead man across the chairs +and did not rise again. He saw nothing of what followed. But I saw much. +Urcisino Castillo, leaning forward from the next box, with his cane +struck John Harned full across the face. And John Harned smote him with +his fist so that in falling he overthrew General Salazar. John Harned +was now in what-you-call Berserker rage--no? The beast primitive in him +was loose and roaring--the beast primitive of the holes and caves of the +long ago. + +“You came for a bull-fight,” I heard him say, “And by God I'll show you +a man-fight!” + +It was a fight. The soldiers guarding the Presidente's box leaped +across, but from one of them he took a rifle and beat them on their +heads with it. From the other box Colonel Jacinto Fierro was shooting at +him with a revolver. The first shot killed a soldier. This I know for +a fact. I saw it. But the second shot struck John Harned in the side. +Whereupon he swore, and with a lunge drove the bayonet of his rifle into +Colonel Jacinto Fierro's body. It was horrible to behold. The Americans +and the English are a brutal race. They sneer at our bull-fighting, yet +do they delight in the shedding of blood. More men were killed that day +because of John Harned than were ever killed in all the history of the +bull-ring of Quito, yes, and of Guayaquil and all Ecuador. + +It was the scream of the horse that did it, yet why did not John Harned +go mad when the bull was killed? A beast is a beast, be it bull or +horse. John Harned was mad. There is no other explanation. He was +blood-mad, a beast himself. I leave it to your judgment. Which is +worse--the goring of the horse by the bull, or the goring of Colonel +Jacinto Fierro by the bayonet in the hands of John Harned! And John +Harned gored others with that bayonet. He was full of devils. He fought +with many bullets in him, and he was hard to kill. And Maria Valenzuela +was a brave woman. Unlike the other women, she did not cry out nor +faint. She sat still in her box, gazing out across the bull-ring. Her +face was white and she fanned herself, but she never looked around. + +From all sides came the soldiers and officers and the common people +bravely to subdue the mad Gringo. It is true--the cry went up from +the crowd to kill all the Gringos. It is an old cry in Latin-American +countries, what of the dislike for the Gringos and their uncouth ways. +It is true, the cry went up. But the brave Ecuadorianos killed only +John Harned, and first he killed seven of them. Besides, there were many +hurt. I have seen many bull-fights, but never have I seen anything so +abominable as the scene in the boxes when the fight was over. It was +like a field of battle. The dead lay around everywhere, while the +wounded sobbed and groaned and some of them died. One man, whom John +Harned had thrust through the belly with the bayonet, clutched at +himself with both his hands and screamed. I tell you for a fact it was +more terrible than the screaming of a thousand horses. + +No, Maria Valenzuela did not marry Luis Cervallos. I am sorry for that. +He was my friend, and much of my money was invested in his ventures. It +was five weeks before the surgeons took the bandages from his face. And +there is a scar there to this day, on the cheek, under the eye. Yet +John Harned struck him but once and struck him only with his naked +fist. Maria Valenzuela is in Austria now. It is said she is to marry an +Arch-Duke or some high nobleman. I do not know. I think she liked John +Harned before he followed her to Quito to see the bull-fight. But why +the horse? That is what I desire to know. Why should he watch the bull +and say that it did not count, and then go immediately and most horribly +mad because a horse screamed? There is no understanding the Gringos. +They are barbarians. + + + + +WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG + +HE was a very quiet, self-possessed sort of man, sitting a moment on top +of the wall to sound the damp darkness for warnings of the dangers it +might conceal. But the plummet of his hearing brought nothing to him +save the moaning of wind through invisible trees and the rustling of +leaves on swaying branches. A heavy fog drifted and drove before the +wind, and though he could not see this fog, the wet of it blew upon his +face, and the wall on which he sat was wet. + +Without noise he had climbed to the top of the wall from the outside, +and without noise he dropped to the ground on the inside. From his +pocket he drew an electric night-stick, but he did not use it. Dark as +the way was, he was not anxious for light. Carrying the night-stick in +his hand, his finger on the button, he advanced through the darkness. +The ground was velvety and springy to his feet, being carpeted with dead +pine-needles and leaves and mold which evidently had been undisturbed +for years. Leaves and branches brushed against his body, but so dark was +it that he could not avoid them. Soon he walked with his hand stretched +out gropingly before him, and more than once the hand fetched up against +the solid trunks of massive trees. All about him he knew were these +trees; he sensed the loom of them everywhere; and he experienced a +strange feeling of microscopic smallness in the midst of great bulks +leaning toward him to crush him. Beyond, he knew, was the house, and he +expected to find some trail or winding path that would lead easily to +it. + +Once, he found himself trapped. On every side he groped against trees +and branches, or blundered into thickets of underbrush, until there +seemed no way out. Then he turned on his light, circumspectly, directing +its rays to the ground at his feet. Slowly and carefully he moved +it about him, the white brightness showing in sharp detail all the +obstacles to his progress. He saw, an opening between huge-trunked +trees, and advanced through it, putting out the light and treading +on dry footing as yet protected from the drip of the fog by the dense +foliage overhead. His sense of direction was good, and he knew he was +going toward the house. + +And then the thing happened--the thing unthinkable and unexpected. His +descending foot came down upon something that was soft and alive, and +that arose with a snort under the weight of his body. He sprang clear, +and crouched for another spring, anywhere, tense and expectant, keyed +for the onslaught of the unknown. He waited a moment, wondering what +manner of animal it was that had arisen from under his foot and that now +made no sound nor movement and that must be crouching and waiting just +as tensely and expectantly as he. The strain became unbearable. Holding +the night-stick before him, he pressed the button, saw, and screamed +aloud in terror. He was prepared for anything, from a frightened calf or +fawn to a belligerent lion, but he was not prepared for what he saw. In +that instant his tiny searchlight, sharp and white, had shown him what a +thousand years would not enable him to forget--a man, huge and blond, +yellow-haired and yellow-bearded, naked except for soft-tanned moccasins +and what seemed a goat-skin about his middle. Arms and legs were bare, +as were his shoulders and most of his chest. The skin was smooth and +hairless, but browned by sun and wind, while under it heavy muscles were +knotted like fat snakes. Still, this alone, unexpected as it well was, +was not what had made the man scream out. What had caused his terror was +the unspeakable ferocity of the face, the wild-animal glare of the blue +eyes scarcely dazzled by the light, the pine-needles matted and clinging +in the beard and hair, and the whole formidable body crouched and in the +act of springing at him. Practically in the instant he saw all this, and +while his scream still rang, the thing leaped, he flung his night-stick +full at it, and threw himself to the ground. He felt its feet and shins +strike against his ribs, and he bounded up and away while the thing +itself hurled onward in a heavy crashing fall into the underbrush. + +As the noise of the fall ceased, the man stopped and on hands and knees +waited. He could hear the thing moving about, searching for him, and he +was afraid to advertise his location by attempting further flight. He +knew that inevitably he would crackle the underbrush and be pursued. +Once he drew out his revolver, then changed his mind. He had recovered +his composure and hoped to get away without noise. Several times he +heard the thing beating up the thickets for him, and there were moments +when it, too, remained still and listened. This gave an idea to the man. +One of his hands was resting on a chunk of dead wood. Carefully, first +feeling about him in the darkness to know that the full swing of his arm +was clear, he raised the chunk of wood and threw it. It was not a large +piece, and it went far, landing noisily in a bush. He heard the thing +bound into the bush, and at the same time himself crawled steadily away. +And on hands and knees, slowly and cautiously, he crawled on, till his +knees were wet on the soggy mold, When he listened he heard naught but +the moaning wind and the drip-drip of the fog from the branches. Never +abating his caution, he stood erect and went on to the stone wall, over +which he climbed and dropped down to the road outside. + +Feeling his way in a clump of bushes, he drew out a bicycle and prepared +to mount. He was in the act of driving the gear around with his foot for +the purpose of getting the opposite pedal in position, when he heard the +thud of a heavy body that landed lightly and evidently on its feet. +He did not wait for more, but ran, with hands on the handles of his +bicycle, until he was able to vault astride the saddle, catch the +pedals, and start a spurt. Behind he could hear the quick thud-thud +of feet on the dust of the road, but he drew away from it and lost it. +Unfortunately, he had started away from the direction of town and was +heading higher up into the hills. He knew that on this particular road +there were no cross roads. The only way back was past that terror, +and he could not steel himself to face it. At the end of half an hour, +finding himself on an ever increasing grade, he dismounted. For still +greater safety, leaving the wheel by the roadside, he climbed through a +fence into what he decided was a hillside pasture, spread a newspaper on +the ground, and sat down. + +“Gosh!” he said aloud, mopping the sweat and fog from his face. + +And “Gosh!” he said once again, while rolling a cigarette and as he +pondered the problem of getting back. + +But he made no attempt to go back. He was resolved not to face that +road in the dark, and with head bowed on knees, he dozed, waiting for +daylight. + +How long afterward he did not know, he was awakened by the yapping bark +of a young coyote. As he looked about and located it on the brow of the +hill behind him, he noted the change that had come over the face of the +night. The fog was gone; the stars and moon were out; even the wind had +died down. It had transformed into a balmy California summer night. +He tried to doze again, but the yap of the coyote disturbed him. Half +asleep, he heard a wild and eery chant. Looking about him, he noticed +that the coyote had ceased its noise and was running away along the +crest of the hill, and behind it, in full pursuit, no longer chanting, +ran the naked creature he had encountered in the garden. It was a young +coyote, and it was being overtaken when the chase passed from view. The +man trembled as with a chill as he started to his feet, clambered over +the fence, and mounted his wheel. But it was his chance and he knew it. +The terror was no longer between him and Mill Valley. + +He sped at a breakneck rate down the hill, but in the turn at the +bottom, in the deep shadows, he encountered a chuck-hole and pitched +headlong over the handle bar. + +“It's sure not my night,” he muttered, as he examined the broken fork of +the machine. + +Shouldering the useless wheel, he trudged on. In time he came to the +stone wall, and, half disbelieving his experience, he sought in the road +for tracks, and found them--moccasin tracks, large ones, deep-bitten +into the dust at the toes. It was while bending over them, examining, +that again he heard the eery chant. He had seen the thing pursue the +coyote, and he knew he had no chance on a straight run. He did not +attempt it, contenting himself with hiding in the shadows on the off +side of the road. + +And again he saw the thing that was like a naked man, running swiftly +and lightly and singing as it ran. Opposite him it paused, and his heart +stood still. But instead of coming toward his hiding-place, it leaped +into the air, caught the branch of a roadside tree, and swung swiftly +upward, from limb to limb, like an ape. It swung across the wall, and a +dozen feet above the top, into the branches of another tree, and dropped +out of sight to the ground. The man waited a few wondering minutes, then +started on. + +II + +Dave Slotter leaned belligerently against the desk that barred the way +to the private office of James Ward, senior partner of the firm of Ward, +Knowles & Co. Dave was angry. Every one in the outer office had looked +him over suspiciously, and the man who faced him was excessively +suspicious. + +“You just tell Mr. Ward it's important,” he urged. + +“I tell you he is dictating and cannot be disturbed,” was the answer. +“Come to-morrow.” + +“To-morrow will be too late. You just trot along and tell Mr. Ward it's +a matter of life and death.” + +The secretary hesitated and Dave seized the advantage. + +“You just tell him I was across the bay in Mill Valley last night, and +that I want to put him wise to something.” + +“What name?” was the query. + +“Never mind the name. He don't know me.” + +When Dave was shown into the private office, he was still in the +belligerent frame of mind, but when he saw a large fair man whirl in +a revolving chair from dictating to a stenographer to face him, Dave's +demeanor abruptly changed. He did not know why it changed, and he was +secretly angry with himself. + +“You are Mr. Ward?” Dave asked with a fatuousness that still further +irritated him. He had never intended it at all. + +“Yes,” came the answer. + +“And who are you?” + +“Harry Bancroft,” Dave lied. “You don't know me, and my name don't +matter.” + +“You sent in word that you were in Mill Valley last night?” + +“You live there, don't you?” Dave countered, looking suspiciously at the +stenographer. + +“Yes. What do you mean to see me about? I am very busy.” + +“I'd like to see you alone, sir.” + +Mr. Ward gave him a quick, penetrating look, hesitated, then made up his +mind. + +“That will do for a few minutes, Miss Potter.” + +The girl arose, gathered her notes together, and passed out. Dave looked +at Mr. James Ward wonderingly, until that gentleman broke his train of +inchoate thought. + +“Well?” + +“I was over in Mill Valley last night,” Dave began confusedly. + +“I've heard that before. What do you want?” + +And Dave proceeded in the face of a growing conviction that was +unbelievable. “I was at your house, or in the grounds, I mean.” + +“What were you doing there?” + +“I came to break in,” Dave answered in all frankness. + +“I heard you lived all alone with a Chinaman for cook, and it looked +good to me. Only I didn't break in. Something happened that prevented. +That's why I'm here. I come to warn you. I found a wild man loose in +your grounds--a regular devil. He could pull a guy like me to pieces. +He gave me the run of my life. He don't wear any clothes to speak of, he +climbs trees like a monkey, and he runs like a deer. I saw him chasing a +coyote, and the last I saw of it, by God, he was gaining on it.” + +Dave paused and looked for the effect that would follow his words. But +no effect came. James Ward was quietly curious, and that was all. + +“Very remarkable, very remarkable,” he murmured. “A wild man, you say. +Why have you come to tell me?” + +“To warn you of your danger. I'm something of a hard proposition myself, +but I don't believe in killing people... that is, unnecessarily. I +realized that you was in danger. I thought I'd warn you. Honest, that's +the game. Of course, if you wanted to give me anything for my trouble, +I'd take it. That was in my mind, too. But I don't care whether you give +me anything or not. I've warned you any way, and done my duty.” + +Mr. Ward meditated and drummed on the surface of his desk. Dave noticed +they were large, powerful hands, withal well-cared for despite their +dark sunburn. Also, he noted what had already caught his eye before--a +tiny strip of flesh-colored courtplaster on the forehead over one eye. +And still the thought that forced itself into his mind was unbelievable. + +Mr. Ward took a wallet from his inside coat pocket, drew out a +greenback, and passed it to Dave, who noted as he pocketed it that it +was for twenty dollars. + +“Thank you,” said Mr. Ward, indicating that the interview was at an end. + +“I shall have the matter investigated. A wild man running loose IS +dangerous.” + +But so quiet a man was Mr. Ward, that Dave's courage returned. Besides, +a new theory had suggested itself. The wild man was evidently Mr. Ward's +brother, a lunatic privately confined. Dave had heard of such things. +Perhaps Mr. Ward wanted it kept quiet. That was why he had given him the +twenty dollars. + +“Say,” Dave began, “now I come to think of it that wild man looked a lot +like you--” + +That was as far as Dave got, for at that moment he witnessed a +transformation and found himself gazing into the same unspeakably +ferocious blue eyes of the night before, at the same clutching +talon-like hands, and at the same formidable bulk in the act of +springing upon him. But this time Dave had no night-stick to throw, and +he was caught by the biceps of both arms in a grip so terrific that it +made him groan with pain. He saw the large white teeth exposed, for all +the world as a dog's about to bite. Mr. Ward's beard brushed his face +as the teeth went in for the grip on his throat. But the bite was not +given. Instead, Dave felt the other's body stiffen as with an iron +restraint, and then he was flung aside, without effort but with such +force that only the wall stopped his momentum and dropped him gasping to +the floor. + +“What do you mean by coming here and trying to blackmail me?” Mr. Ward +was snarling at him. “Here, give me back that money.” + +Dave passed the bill back without a word. + +“I thought you came here with good intentions. I know you now. Let me +see and hear no more of you, or I'll put you in prison where you belong. +Do you understand?” + +“Yes, sir,” Dave gasped. + +“Then go.” + +And Dave went, without further word, both his biceps aching intolerably +from the bruise of that tremendous grip. As his hand rested on the door +knob, he was stopped. + +“You were lucky,” Mr. Ward was saying, and Dave noted that his face and +eyes were cruel and gloating and proud. + +“You were lucky. Had I wanted, I could have torn your muscles out of +your arms and thrown them in the waste basket there.” + +“Yes, sir,” said Dave; and absolute conviction vibrated in his voice. + +He opened the door and passed out. The secretary looked at him +interrogatively. + +“Gosh!” was all Dave vouchsafed, and with this utterance passed out of +the offices and the story. + +III + +James G. Ward was forty years of age, a successful business man, and +very unhappy. For forty years he had vainly tried to solve a problem +that was really himself and that with increasing years became more +and more a woeful affliction. In himself he was two men, and, +chronologically speaking, these men were several thousand years or so +apart. He had studied the question of dual personality probably more +profoundly than any half dozen of the leading specialists in that +intricate and mysterious psychological field. In himself he was a +different case from any that had been recorded. Even the most fanciful +flights of the fiction-writers had not quite hit upon him. He was not +a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, nor was he like the unfortunate young man in +Kipling's “Greatest Story in the World.” His two personalities were so +mixed that they were practically aware of themselves and of each other +all the time. + +His other self he had located as a savage and a barbarian living under +the primitive conditions of several thousand years before. But which +self was he, and which was the other, he could never tell. For he was +both selves, and both selves all the time. Very rarely indeed did it +happen that one self did not know what the other was doing. Another +thing was that he had no visions nor memories of the past in which that +early self had lived. That early self lived in the present; but while +it lived in the present, it was under the compulsion to live the way of +life that must have been in that distant past. + +In his childhood he had been a problem to his father and mother, and to +the family doctors, though never had they come within a thousand miles +of hitting upon the clue to his erratic, conduct. Thus, they could not +understand his excessive somnolence in the forenoon, nor his excessive +activity at night. When they found him wandering along the hallways +at night, or climbing over giddy roofs, or running in the hills, they +decided he was a somnambulist. In reality he was wide-eyed awake and +merely under the nightroaming compulsion of his early self. Questioned +by an obtuse medico, he once told the truth and suffered the ignominy of +having the revelation contemptuously labeled and dismissed as “dreams.” + +The point was, that as twilight and evening came on he became wakeful. +The four walls of a room were an irk and a restraint. He heard a +thousand voices whispering to him through the darkness. The night +called to him, for he was, for that period of the twenty-four hours, +essentially a night-prowler. But nobody understood, and never again did +he attempt to explain. They classified him as a sleep-walker and took +precautions accordingly--precautions that very often were futile. As his +childhood advanced, he grew more cunning, so that the major portion of +all his nights were spent in the open at realizing his other self. As +a result, he slept in the forenoons. Morning studies and schools were +impossible, and it was discovered that only in the afternoons, under +private teachers, could he be taught anything. Thus was his modern self +educated and developed. + +But a problem, as a child, he ever remained. He was known as a little +demon, of insensate cruelty and viciousness. The family medicos +privately adjudged him a mental monstrosity and degenerate. Such few +boy companions as he had, hailed him as a wonder, though they were all +afraid of him. He could outclimb, outswim, outrun, outdevil any of +them; while none dared fight with him. He was too terribly strong, madly +furious. + +When nine years of age he ran away to the hills, where he flourished, +night-prowling, for seven weeks before he was discovered and brought +home. The marvel was how he had managed to subsist and keep in condition +during that time. They did not know, and he never told them, of the +rabbits he had killed, of the quail, young and old, he had captured +and devoured, of the farmers' chicken-roosts he had raided, nor of the +cave-lair he had made and carpeted with dry leaves and grasses and in +which he had slept in warmth and comfort through the forenoons of many +days. + +At college he was notorious for his sleepiness and stupidity during the +morning lectures and for his brilliance in the afternoon. By collateral +reading and by borrowing the notebook of his fellow students he managed +to scrape through the detestable morning courses, while his afternoon +courses were triumphs. In football he proved a giant and a terror, and, +in almost every form of track athletics, save for strange Berserker +rages that were sometimes displayed, he could be depended upon to win. +But his fellows were afraid to box with him, and he signalized his last +wrestling bout by sinking his teeth into the shoulder of his opponent. + +After college, his father, in despair, sent him among the cow-punchers +of a Wyoming ranch. Three months later the doughty cowmen confessed he +was too much for them and telegraphed his father to come and take the +wild man away. Also, when the father arrived to take him away, the +cowmen allowed that they would vastly prefer chumming with howling +cannibals, gibbering lunatics, cavorting gorillas, grizzly bears, and +man-eating tigers than with this particular Young college product with +hair parted in the middle. + +There was one exception to the lack of memory of the life of his early +self, and that was language. By some quirk of atavism, a certain portion +of that early self's language had come down to him as a racial memory. +In moments of happiness, exaltation, or battle, he was prone to burst +out in wild barbaric songs or chants. It was by this means that he +located in time and space that strayed half of him who should have been +dead and dust for thousands of years. He sang, once, and deliberately, +several of the ancient chants in the presence of Professor Wertz, who +gave courses in old Saxon and who was a philogist of repute and passion. +At the first one, the professor pricked up his ears and demanded to +know what mongrel tongue or hog-German it was. When the second chant was +rendered, the professor was highly excited. James Ward then concluded +the performance by giving a song that always irresistibly rushed to his +lips when he was engaged in fierce struggling or fighting. Then it was +that Professor Wertz proclaimed it no hog-German, but early German, or +early Teuton, of a date that must far precede anything that had ever +been discovered and handed down by the scholars. So early was it that +it was beyond him; yet it was filled with haunting reminiscences of +word-forms he knew and which his trained intuition told him were true +and real. He demanded the source of the songs, and asked to borrow the +precious book that contained them. Also, he demanded to know why +young Ward had always posed as being profoundly ignorant of the German +language. And Ward could neither explain his ignorance nor lend the +book. Whereupon, after pleadings and entreaties that extended through +weeks, Professor Wert took a dislike to the young man, believed him +a liar, and classified him as a man of monstrous selfishness for not +giving him a glimpse of this wonderful screed that was older than the +oldest any philologist had ever known or dreamed. + +But little good did it do this much-mixed young man to know that half of +him was late American and the other half early Teuton. Nevertheless, the +late American in him was no weakling, and he (if he were a he and had +a shred of existence outside of these two) compelled an adjustment or +compromise between his one self that was a nightprowling savage that +kept his other self sleepy of mornings, and that other self that was +cultured and refined and that wanted to be normal and live and love and +prosecute business like other people. The afternoons and early evenings +he gave to the one, the nights to the other; the forenoons and parts of +the nights were devoted to sleep for the twain. But in the mornings he +slept in bed like a civilized man. In the night time he slept like a +wild animal, as he had slept Dave Slotter stepped on him in the woods. + +Persuading his father to advance the capital, he went into business +and keen and successful business he made of it, devoting his afternoons +whole-souled to it, while his partner devoted the mornings. The early +evenings he spent socially, but, as the hour grew to nine or ten, an +irresistible restlessness overcame him and he disappeared from the +haunts of men until the next afternoon. Friends and acquaintances +thought that he spent much of his time in sport. And they were right, +though they never would have dreamed of the nature of the sport, even if +they had seen him running coyotes in night-chases over the hills of Mill +Valley. Neither were the schooner captains believed when they reported +seeing, on cold winter mornings, a man swimming in the tide-rips of +Raccoon Straits or in the swift currents between Goat island and Angel +Island miles from shore. + +In the bungalow at Mill Valley he lived alone, save for Lee Sing, the +Chinese cook and factotum, who knew much about the strangeness of his +master, who was paid well for saying nothing, and who never did say +anything. After the satisfaction of his nights, a morning's sleep, and a +breakfast of Lee Sing's, James Ward crossed the bay to San Francisco on +a midday ferryboat and went to the club and on to his office, as normal +and conventional a man of business as could be found in the city. But as +the evening lengthened, the night called to him. There came a quickening +of all his perceptions and a restlessness. His hearing was suddenly +acute; the myriad night-noises told him a luring and familiar story; +and, if alone, he would begin to pace up and down the narrow room like +any caged animal from the wild. + +Once, he ventured to fall in love. He never permitted himself that +diversion again. He was afraid. And for many a day the young lady, +scared at least out of a portion of her young ladyhood, bore on her +arms and shoulders and wrists divers black-and-blue bruises--tokens of +caresses which he had bestowed in all fond gentleness but too late +at night. There was the mistake. Had he ventured love-making in the +afternoon, all would have been well, for it would have been as the quiet +gentleman that he would have made love--but at night it was the uncouth, +wife-stealing savage of the dark German forests. Out of his wisdom, he +decided that afternoon love-making could be prosecuted successfully; but +out of the same wisdom he was convinced that marriage as would prove +a ghastly failure. He found it appalling to imagine being married and +encountering his wife after dark. + +So he had eschewed all love-making, regulated his dual life, cleaned up +a million in business, fought shy of match-making mamas and bright-eyed +and eager young ladies of various ages, met Lilian Gersdale and made +it a rigid observance never to see her later than eight o'clock in the +evening, run of nights after his coyotes, and slept in forest lairs--and +through it all had kept his secret safe save Lee Sing... and now, +Dave Slotter. It was the latter's discovery of both his selves that +frightened him. In spite of the counter fright he had given the burglar, +the latter might talk. And even if he did not, sooner or later he would +be found out by some one else. + +Thus it was that James Ward made a fresh and heroic effort to control +the Teutonic barbarian that was half of him. So well did he make it +a point to see Lilian in the afternoons, that the time came when +she accepted him for better or worse, and when he prayed privily and +fervently that it was not for worse. During this period no prize-fighter +ever trained more harshly and faithfully for a contest than he trained +to subdue the wild savage in him. Among other things, he strove to +exhaust himself during the day, so that sleep would render him deaf to +the call of the night. He took a vacation from the office and went on +long hunting trips, following the deer through the most inaccessible and +rugged country he could find--and always in the daytime. Night found him +indoors and tired. At home he installed a score of exercise machines, +and where other men might go through a particular movement ten times, he +went hundreds. Also, as a compromise, he built a sleeping porch on the +second story. Here he at least breathed the blessed night air. Double +screens prevented him from escaping into the woods, and each night Lee +Sing locked him in and each morning let him out. + +The time came, in the month of August, when he engaged additional +servants to assist Lee Sing and dared a house party in his Mill Valley +bungalow. Lilian, her mother and brother, and half a dozen mutual +friends, were the guests. For two days and nights all went well. And on +the third night, playing bridge till eleven o'clock, he had reason to be +proud of himself. His restlessness fully hid, but as luck would have it, +Lilian Gersdale was his opponent on his right. She was a frail delicate +flower of a woman, and in his night-mood her very frailty incensed +him. Not that he loved her less, but that he felt almost irresistibly +impelled to reach out and paw and maul her. Especially was this true +when she was engaged in playing a winning hand against him. + +He had one of the deer-hounds brought in and, when it seemed he must fly +to pieces with the tension, a caressing hand laid on the animal brought +him relief. These contacts with the hairy coat gave him instant easement +and enabled him to play out the evening. Nor did anyone guess the +while terrible struggle their host was making, the while he laughed so +carelessly and played so keenly and deliberately. + +When they separated for the night, he saw to it that he parted from +Lilian in the presence or the others. Once on his sleeping porch +and safely locked in, he doubled and tripled and even quadrupled his +exercises until, exhausted, he lay down on the couch to woo sleep and to +ponder two problems that especially troubled him. One was this matter +of exercise. It was a paradox. The more he exercised in this excessive +fashion, the stronger he became. While it was true that he thus quite +tired out his night-running Teutonic self, it seemed that he was merely +setting back the fatal day when his strength would be too much for him +and overpower him, and then it would be a strength more terrible than +he had yet known. The other problem was that of his marriage and of the +stratagems he must employ in order to avoid his wife after dark. And +thus, fruitlessly pondering, he fell asleep. + +Now, where the huge grizzly bear came from that night was long a +mystery, while the people of the Springs Brothers' Circus, showing at +Sausalito, searched long and vainly for “Big Ben, the Biggest Grizzly +in Captivity.” But Big Ben escaped, and, out of the mazes of half a +thousand bungalows and country estates, selected the grounds of James J. +Ward for visitation. The self first Mr. Ward knew was when he found him +on his feet, quivering and tense, a surge of battle in his breast and +on his lips the old war-chant. From without came a wild baying and +bellowing of the hounds. And sharp as a knife-thrust through the +pandemonium came the agony of a stricken dog--his dog, he knew. + +Not stopping for slippers, pajama-clad, he burst through the door Lee +Sing had so carefully locked, and sped down the stairs and out into +the night. As his naked feet struck the graveled driveway, he stopped +abruptly, reached under the steps to a hiding-place he knew well, and +pulled forth a huge knotty club--his old companion on many a mad night +adventure on the hills. The frantic hullabaloo of the dogs was coming +nearer, and, swinging the club, he sprang straight into the thickets to +meet it. + +The aroused household assembled on the wide veranda. Somebody turned +on the electric lights, but they could see nothing but one another's +frightened faces. Beyond the brightly illuminated driveway the trees +formed a wall of impenetrable blackness. Yet somewhere in that blackness +a terrible struggle was going on. There was an infernal outcry of +animals, a great snarling and growling, the sound of blows being struck +and a smashing and crashing of underbrush by heavy bodies. + +The tide of battle swept out from among the trees and upon the driveway +just beneath the onlookers. Then they saw. Mrs. Gersdale cried out +and clung fainting to her son. Lilian, clutching the railing so +spasmodically that a bruising hurt was left in her finger-ends for +days, gazed horror-stricken at a yellow-haired, wild-eyed giant whom she +recognized as the man who was to be her husband. He was swinging a great +club, and fighting furiously and calmly with a shaggy monster that was +bigger than any bear she had ever seen. One rip of the beast's claws had +dragged away Ward's pajama-coat and streaked his flesh with blood. + +While most of Lilian Gersdale's fright was for the man beloved, there +was a large portion of it due to the man himself. Never had she dreamed +so formidable and magnificent a savage lurked under the starched shirt +and conventional garb of her betrothed. And never had she had any +conception of how a man battled. Such a battle was certainly not modern; +nor was she there beholding a modern man, though she did not know it. +For this was not Mr. James J. Ward, the San Francisco business man, but +one, unnamed and unknown, a crude, rude savage creature who, by some +freak of chance, lived again after thrice a thousand years. + +The hounds, ever maintaining their mad uproar, circled about the fight, +or dashed in and out, distracting the bear. When the animal turned to +meet such flanking assaults, the man leaped in and the club came down. +Angered afresh by every such blow, the bear would rush, and the man, +leaping and skipping, avoiding the dogs, went backwards or circled +to one side or the other. Whereupon the dogs, taking advantage of the +opening, would again spring in and draw the animal's wrath to them. + +The end came suddenly. Whirling, the grizzly caught a hound with a +wide sweeping cuff that sent the brute, its ribs caved in and its back +broken, hurtling twenty feet. Then the human brute went mad. A foaming +rage flecked the lips that parted with a wild inarticulate cry, as it +sprang in, swung the club mightily in both hands, and brought it down +full on the head of the uprearing grizzly. Not even the skull of a +grizzly could withstand the crushing force of such a blow, and the +animal went down to meet the worrying of the hounds. And through their +scurrying leaped the man, squarely upon the body, where, in the white +electric light, resting on his club, he chanted a triumph in an unknown +tongue--a song so ancient that Professor Wertz would have given ten +years of his life for it. + +His guests rushed to possess him and acclaim him, but James Ward, +suddenly looking out of the eyes of the early Teuton, saw the fair frail +Twentieth Century girl he loved, and felt something snap in his brain. +He staggered weakly toward her, dropped the club, and nearly fell. +Something had gone wrong with him. Inside his brain was an intolerable +agony. It seemed as if the soul of him were flying asunder. Following +the excited gaze of the others, he glanced back and saw the carcass of +the bear. The sight filled him with fear. He uttered a cry and would +have fled, had they not restrained him and led him into the bungalow. + +***** + +James J. Ward is still at the head of the firm of Ward, Knowles & Co. +But he no longer lives in the country; nor does he run of nights after +the coyotes under the moon. The early Teuton in him died the night of +the Mill Valley fight with the bear. James J. Ward is now wholly +James J. Ward, and he shares no part of his being with any vagabond +anachronism from the younger world. And so wholly is James J. Ward +modern, that he knows in all its bitter fullness the curse of civilized +fear. He is now afraid of the dark, and night in the forest is to him a +thing of abysmal terror. His city house is of the spick and span order, +and he evinces a great interest in burglarproof devices. His home is +a tangle of electric wires, and after bed-time a guest can scarcely +breathe without setting off an alarm. Also, he had invented a +combination keyless door-lock that travelers may carry in their vest +pockets and apply immediately and successfully under all circumstances. +But his wife does not deem him a coward. She knows better. And, like +any hero, he is content to rest on his laurels. His bravery is never +questioned by those friends who are aware of the Mill Valley episode. + + + + +THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT + +CARTER WATSON, a current magazine under his arm, strolled slowly along, +gazing about him curiously. Twenty years had elapsed since he had been +on this particular street, and the changes were great and stupefying. +This Western city of three hundred thousand souls had contained but +thirty thousand, when, as a boy, he had been wont to ramble along +its streets. In those days the street he was now on had been a quiet +residence street in the respectable workingclass quarter. On this late +afternoon he found that it had been submerged by a vast and vicious +tenderloin. Chinese and Japanese shops and dens abounded, all confusedly +intermingled with low white resorts and boozing dens. This quiet street +of his youth had become the toughest quarter of the city. + +He looked at his watch. It was half-past five. It was the slack time of +the day in such a region, as he well knew, yet he was curious to see. In +all his score of years of wandering and studying social conditions over +the world, he had carried with him the memory of his old town as a sweet +and wholesome place. The metamorphosis he now beheld was startling. He +certainly must continue his stroll and glimpse the infamy to which his +town had descended. + +Another thing: Carter Watson had a keen social and civic consciousness. +Independently wealthy, he had been loath to dissipate his energies +in the pink teas and freak dinners of society, while actresses, +race-horses, and kindred diversions had left him cold. He had the +ethical bee in his bonnet and was a reformer of no mean pretension, +though his work had been mainly in the line of contributions to the +heavier reviews and quarterlies and to the publication over his name +of brightly, cleverly written books on the working classes and the +slum-dwellers. Among the twenty-seven to his credit occurred titles such +as, “If Christ Came to New Orleans,” “The Worked-out Worker,” “Tenement +Reform in Berlin,” “The Rural Slums of England,” “The people of the East +Side,” “Reform Versus Revolution,” “The University Settlement as a Hot +Bed of Radicalism” and “The Cave Man of Civilization.” + +But Carter Watson was neither morbid nor fanatic. He did not lose his +head over the horrors he encountered, studied, and exposed. No hair +brained enthusiasm branded him. His humor saved him, as did his wide +experience and his conservative philosophic temperament. Nor did he +have any patience with lightning change reform theories. As he saw it, +society would grow better only through the painfully slow and arduously +painful processes of evolution. There were no short cuts, no sudden +regenerations. The betterment of mankind must be worked out in agony and +misery just as all past social betterments had been worked out. + +But on this late summer afternoon, Carter Watson was curious. As he +moved along he paused before a gaudy drinking place. The sign above +read, “The Vendome.” There were two entrances. One evidently led to the +bar. This he did not explore. The other was a narrow hallway. +Passing through this he found himself in a huge room, filled with +chair-encircled tables and quite deserted. In the dim light he made out +a piano in the distance. Making a mental note that he would come back +some time and study the class of persons that must sit and drink at +those multitudinous tables, he proceeded to circumnavigate the room. + +Now, at the rear, a short hallway led off to a small kitchen, and here, +at a table, alone, sat Patsy Horan, proprietor of the Vendome, consuming +a hasty supper ere the evening rush of business. Also, Patsy Horan +was angry with the world. He had got out of the wrong side of bed that +morning, and nothing had gone right all day. Had his barkeepers been +asked, they would have described his mental condition as a grouch. But +Carter Watson did not know this. As he passed the little hallway, Patsy +Horan's sullen eyes lighted on the magazine he carried under his arm. +Patsy did not know Carter Watson, nor did he know that what he carried +under his arm was a magazine. Patsy, out of the depths of his grouch, +decided that this stranger was one of those pests who marred and scarred +the walls of his back rooms by tacking up or pasting up advertisements. +The color on the front cover of the magazine convinced him that it was +such an advertisement. Thus the trouble began. Knife and fork in hand, +Patsy leaped for Carter Watson. + +“Out wid yeh!” Patsy bellowed. “I know yer game!” + +Carter Watson was startled. The man had come upon him like the eruption +of a jack-in-the-box. + +“A defacin' me walls,” cried Patsy, at the same time emitting a string +of vivid and vile, rather than virile, epithets of opprobrium. + +“If I have given any offense I did not mean to--” + +But that was as far as the visitor got. Patsy interrupted. + +“Get out wid yeh; yeh talk too much wid yer mouth,” quoted Patsy, +emphasizing his remarks with flourishes of the knife and fork. + +Carter Watson caught a quick vision of that eating-fork inserted +uncomfortably between his ribs, knew that it would be rash to talk +further with his mouth, and promptly turned to go. The sight of his +meekly retreating back must have further enraged Patsy Horan, for that +worthy, dropping the table implements, sprang upon him. + +Patsy weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. So did Watson. In this they +were equal. But Patsy was a rushing, rough-and-tumble saloon-fighter, +while Watson was a boxer. In this the latter had the advantage, for +Patsy came in wide open, swinging his right in a perilous sweep. All +Watson had to do was to straight-left him and escape. But Watson had +another advantage. His boxing, and his experience in the slums and +ghettos of the world, had taught him restraint. + +He pivoted on his feet, and, instead of striking, ducked the other's +swinging blow and went into a clinch. But Patsy, charging like a bull, +had the momentum of his rush, while Watson, whirling to meet him, had no +momentum. As a result, the pair of them went down, with all their three +hundred and sixty pounds of weight, in a long crashing fall, Watson +underneath. He lay with his head touching the rear wall of the large +room. The street was a hundred and fifty feet away, and he did some +quick thinking. His first thought was to avoid trouble. He had no wish +to get into the papers of this, his childhood town, where many of his +relatives and family friends still lived. + +So it was that he locked his arms around the man on top of him, held him +close, and waited for the help to come that must come in response to the +crash of the fall. The help came--that is, six men ran in from the bar +and formed about in a semi-circle. + +“Take him off, fellows,” Watson said. “I haven't struck him, and I don't +want any fight.” + +But the semi-circle remained silent. Watson held on and waited. Patsy, +after various vain efforts to inflict damage, made an overture. + +“Leggo o' me an' I'll get off o' yeh,” said he. + +Watson let go, but when Patsy scrambled to his feet he stood over his +recumbent foe, ready to strike. + +“Get up,” Patsy commanded. + +His voice was stern and implacable, like the voice of God calling to +judgment, and Watson knew there was no mercy there. + +“Stand back and I'll get up,” he countered. + +“If yer a gentleman, get up,” quoth Patsy, his pale blue eyes aflame +with wrath, his fist ready for a crushing blow. + +At the same moment he drew his foot back to kick the other in the face. +Watson blocked the kick with his crossed arms and sprang to his feet so +quickly that he was in a clinch with his antagonist before the latter +could strike. Holding him, Watson spoke to the onlookers: + +“Take him away from me, fellows. You see I am not striking him. I don't +want to fight. I want to get out of here.” + +The circle did not move nor speak. Its silence was ominous and sent a +chill to Watson's heart. + +Patsy made an effort to throw him, which culminated in his putting Patsy +on his back. Tearing loose from him, Watson sprang to his feet and made +for the door. But the circle of men was interposed a wall. He noticed +the white, pasty faces, the kind that never see the sun, and knew that +the men who barred his way were the nightprowlers and preying beasts +of the city jungle. By them he was thrust back upon the pursuing, +bull-rushing Patsy. + +Again it was a clinch, in which, in momentary safety, Watson appealed +to the gang. And again his words fell on deaf ears. Then it was that +he knew of many similar knew fear. For he had known of many similar +situations, in low dens like this, when solitary men were man-handled, +their ribs and features caved in, themselves beaten and kicked to death. +And he knew, further, that if he were to escape he must neither strike +his assailant nor any of the men who opposed him. + +Yet in him was righteous indignation. Under no circumstances could +seven to one be fair. Also, he was angry, and there stirred in him +the fighting beast that is in all men. But he remembered his wife and +children, his unfinished book, the ten thousand rolling acres of the +up-country ranch he loved so well. He even saw in flashing visions the +blue of the sky, the golden sun pouring down on his flower-spangled +meadows, the lazy cattle knee-deep in the brooks, and the flash of trout +in the riffles. Life was good-too good for him to risk it for a moment's +sway of the beast. In short, Carter Watson was cool and scared. + +His opponent, locked by his masterly clinch, was striving to throw him. +Again Watson put him on the floor, broke away, and was thrust back by +the pasty-faced circle to duck Patsy's swinging right and effect another +clinch. This happened many times. And Watson grew even cooler, while +the baffled Patsy, unable to inflict punishment, raged wildly and more +wildly. He took to batting with his head in the clinches. The first +time, he landed his forehead flush on Watson's nose. After that, the +latter, in the clinches, buried his face in Patsy's breast. But the +enraged Patsy batted on, striking his own eye and nose and cheek on the +top of the other's head. The more he was thus injured, the more and the +harder did Patsy bat. + +This one-sided contest continued for twelve or fifteen minutes. Watson +never struck a blow, and strove only to escape. Sometimes, in the free +moments, circling about among the tables as he tried to win the door, +the pasty-faced men gripped his coat-tails and flung him back at the +swinging right of the on-rushing Patsy. Time upon time, and times +without end, he clinched and put Patsy on his back, each time first +whirling him around and putting him down in the direction of the door +and gaining toward that goal by the length of the fall. + +In the end, hatless, disheveled, with streaming nose and one eye closed, +Watson won to the sidewalk and into the arms of a policeman. + +“Arrest that man,” Watson panted. + +“Hello, Patsy,” said the policeman. “What's the mix-up?” + +“Hello, Charley,” was the answer. “This guy comes in--” + +“Arrest that man, officer,” Watson repeated. + +“G'wan! Beat it!” said Patsy. + +“Beat it!” added the policeman. “If you don't, I'll pull you in.” + +“Not unless you arrest that man. He has committed a violent and +unprovoked assault on me.” + +“Is it so, Patsy?” was the officer's query. + +“Nah. Lemme tell you, Charley, an' I got the witnesses to prove it, so +help me God. I was settin' in me kitchen eatin' a bowl of soup, when +this guy comes in an' gets gay wid me. I never seen him in me born days +before. He was drunk--” + +“Look at me, officer,” protested the indignant sociologist. “Am I +drunk?” + +The officer looked at him with sullen, menacing eyes and nodded to Patsy +to continue. + +“This guy gets gay wid me. 'I'm Tim McGrath,' says he, 'an' I can do the +like to you,' says he. 'Put up yer hands.' I smiles, an' wid that, biff +biff, he lands me twice an' spills me soup. Look at me eye. I'm fair +murdered.” + +“What are you going to do, officer?” Watson demanded. + +“Go on, beat it,” was the answer, “or I'll pull you sure.” + +The civic righteousness of Carter Watson flamed up. + +“Mr. Officer, I protest--” + +But at that moment the policeman grabbed his arm with a savage jerk that +nearly overthrew him. + +“Come on, you're pulled.” + +“Arrest him, too,” Watson demanded. + +“Nix on that play,” was the reply. + +“What did you assault him for, him a peacefully eatin' his soup?” + +II + +Carter Watson was genuinely angry. Not only had he been wantonly +assaulted, badly battered, and arrested, but the morning papers without +exception came out with lurid accounts of his drunken brawl with the +proprietor of the notorious Vendome. Not one accurate or truthful line +was published. Patsy Horan and his satellites described the battle in +detail. The one incontestable thing was that Carter Watson had been +drunk. Thrice he had been thrown out of the place and into the gutter, +and thrice he had come back, breathing blood and fire and announcing +that he was going to clean out the place. “EMINENT SOCIOLOGIST JAGGED +AND JUGGED,” was the first head-line he read, on the front page, +accompanied by a large portrait of himself. Other headlines were: +“CARTER WATSON ASPIRED TO CHAMPIONSHIP HONORS”; “CARTER WATSON GETS +HIS”; “NOTED SOCIOLOGIST ATTEMPTS TO CLEAN OUT A TENDERLOIN CAFE”; and +“CARTER WATSON KNOCKED OUT BY PATSY HORAN IN THREE ROUNDS.” + +At the police court, next morning, under bail, appeared Carter Watson +to answer the complaint of the People Versus Carter Watson, for +the latter's assault and battery on one Patsy Horan. But first, the +Prosecuting Attorney, who was paid to prosecute all offenders against +the People, drew him aside and talked with him privately. + +“Why not let it drop!” said the Prosecuting Attorney. “I tell you what +you do, Mr. Watson: Shake hands with Mr. Horan and make it up, and we'll +drop the case right here. A word to the Judge, and the case against you +will be dismissed.” + +“But I don't want it dismissed,” was the answer. “Your office being what +it is, you should be prosecuting me instead of asking me to make up with +this--this fellow.” + +“Oh, I'll prosecute you all right,” retorted the Prosecuting Attorney. + +“Also you will have to prosecute this Patsy Horan,” Watson advised; “for +I shall now have him arrested for assault and battery.” + +“You'd better shake and make up,” the Prosecuting Attorney repeated, and +this time there was almost a threat in his voice. + +The trials of both men were set for a week later, on the same morning, +in Police Judge Witberg's court. + +“You have no chance,” Watson was told by an old friend of his boyhood, +the retired manager of the biggest paper in the city. “Everybody knows +you were beaten up by this man. His reputation is most unsavory. But it +won't help you in the least. Both cases will be dismissed. This will be +because you are you. Any ordinary man would be convicted.” + +“But I do not understand,” objected the perplexed sociologist. “Without +warning I was attacked by this man; and badly beaten. I did not strike a +blow. I--” + +“That has nothing to do with it,” the other cut him off. + +“Then what is there that has anything to do with it?” + +“I'll tell you. You are now up against the local police and political +machine. Who are you? You are not even a legal resident in this town. +You live up in the country. You haven't a vote of your own here. Much +less do you swing any votes. This dive proprietor swings a string of +votes in his precincts--a mighty long string.” + +“Do you mean to tell me that this Judge Witberg will violate the +sacredness of his office and oath by letting this brute off?” Watson +demanded. + +“Watch him,” was the grim reply. “Oh, he'll do it nicely enough. He will +give an extra-legal, extra-judicial decision, abounding in every word in +the dictionary that stands for fairness and right.” + +“But there are the newspapers,” Watson cried. + +“They are not fighting the administration at present. They'll give it to +you hard. You see what they have already done to you.” + +“Then these snips of boys on the police detail won't write the truth?” + +“They will write something so near like the truth that the public will +believe it. They write their stories under instruction, you know. They +have their orders to twist and color, and there won't be much left of +you when they get done. Better drop the whole thing right now. You are +in bad.” + +“But the trials are set.” + +“Give the word and they'll drop them now. A man can't fight a machine +unless he has a machine behind him.” + +III + +But Carter Watson was stubborn. He was convinced that the machine would +beat him, but all his days he had sought social experience, and this was +certainly something new. + +The morning of the trial the Prosecuting Attorney made another attempt +to patch up the affair. + +“If you feel that way, I should like to get a lawyer to prosecute the +case,” said Watson. + +“No, you don't,” said the Prosecuting Attorney. “I am paid by the People +to prosecute, and prosecute I will. But let me tell you. You have no +chance. We shall lump both cases into one, and you watch out.” + +Judge Witberg looked good to Watson. A fairly young man, short, +comfortably stout, smooth-shaven and with an intelligent face, he seemed +a very nice man indeed. This good impression was added to by the smiling +lips and the wrinkles of laughter in the corners of his black eyes. +Looking at him and studying him, Watson felt almost sure that his old +friend's prognostication was wrong. + +But Watson was soon to learn. Patsy Horan and two of his satellites +testified to a most colossal aggregation of perjuries. Watson could not +have believed it possible without having experienced it. They denied +the existence of the other four men. And of the two that testified, one +claimed to have been in the kitchen, a witness to Watson's unprovoked +assault on Patsy, while the other, remaining in the bar, had witnessed +Watson's second and third rushes into the place as he attempted to +annihilate the unoffending Patsy. The vile language ascribed to Watson +was so voluminously and unspeakably vile, that he felt they were +injuring their own case. It was so impossible that he should utter such +things. But when they described the brutal blows he had rained on poor +Patsy's face, and the chair he demolished when he vainly attempted to +kick Patsy, Watson waxed secretly hilarious and at the same time sad. +The trial was a farce, but such lowness of life was depressing to +contemplate when he considered the long upward climb humanity must make. + +Watson could not recognize himself, nor could his worst enemy have +recognized him, in the swashbuckling, rough-housing picture that was +painted of him. But, as in all cases of complicated perjury, rifts and +contradictions in the various stories appeared. The Judge somehow failed +to notice them, while the Prosecuting Attorney and Patsy's attorney +shied off from them gracefully. Watson had not bothered to get a lawyer +for himself, and he was now glad that he had not. + +Still, he retained a semblance of faith in Judge Witberg when he went +himself on the stand and started to tell his story. + +“I was strolling casually along the street, your Honor,” Watson began, +but was interrupted by the Judge. + +“We are not here to consider your previous actions,” bellowed Judge +Witberg. “Who struck the first blow?” + +“Your Honor,” Watson pleaded, “I have no witnesses of the actual fray, +and the truth of my story can only be brought out by telling the story +fully--” + +Again he was interrupted. + +“We do not care to publish any magazines here,” Judge Witberg roared, +looking at him so fiercely and malevolently that Watson could scarcely +bring himself to believe that this was same man he had studied a few +minutes previously. + +“Who struck the first blow?” Patsy's attorney asked. + +The Prosecuting Attorney interposed, demanding to know which of the two +cases lumped together was, and by what right Patsy's lawyer, at that +stage of the proceedings, should take the witness. Patsy's attorney +fought back. Judge Witberg interfered, professing no knowledge of any +two cases being lumped together. All this had to be explained. Battle +royal raged, terminating in both attorneys apologizing to the Court and +to each other. And so it went, and to Watson it had the seeming of a +group of pickpockets ruffling and bustling an honest man as they took +his purse. The machine was working, that was all. + +“Why did you enter this place of unsavory reputations?” was asked him. + +“It has been my custom for many years, as a student of economics and +sociology, to acquaint myself--” + +But this was as far as Watson got. + +“We want none of your ologies here,” snarled Judge Witberg. “It is a +plain question. Answer it plainly. Is it true or not true that you were +drunk? That is the gist of the question.” + +When Watson attempted to tell how Patsy had injured his face in his +attempts to bat with his head, Watson was openly scouted and flouted, +and Judge Witberg again took him in hand. + +“Are you aware of the solemnity of the oath you took to testify to +nothing but the truth on this witness stand?” the Judge demanded. “This +is a fairy story you are telling. It is not reasonable that a man would +so injure himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft +and sensitive parts of his face against your head. You are a sensible +man. It is unreasonable, is it not?” + +“Men are unreasonable when they are angry,” Watson answered meekly. + +Then it was that Judge Witberg was deeply outraged and righteously +wrathful. + +“What right have you to say that?” he cried. “It is gratuitous. It has +no bearing on the case. You are here as a witness, sir, of events that +have transpired. The Court does not wish to hear any expressions of +opinion from you at all.” + +“I but answered your question, your Honor,” Watson protested humbly. + +“You did nothing of the sort,” was the next blast. “And let me warn you, +sir, let me warn you, that you are laying yourself liable to contempt by +such insolence. And I will have you know that we know how to observe the +law and the rules of courtesy down here in this little courtroom. I am +ashamed of you.” + +And, while the next punctilious legal wrangle between the attorneys +interrupted his tale of what happened in the Vendome, Carter Watson, +without bitterness, amused and at the same time sad, saw rise before him +the machine, large and small, that dominated his country, the unpunished +and shameless grafts of a thousand cities perpetrated by the spidery +and vermin-like creatures of the machines. Here it was before him, a +courtroom and a judge, bowed down in subservience by the machine to a +dive-keeper who swung a string of votes. Petty and sordid as it was, it +was one face of the many-faced machine that loomed colossally, in every +city and state, in a thousand guises overshadowing the land. + +A familiar phrase rang in his ears: “It is to laugh.” At the height of +the wrangle, he giggled, once, aloud, and earned a sullen frown from +Judge Witberg. Worse, a myriad times, he decided, were these bullying +lawyers and this bullying judge then the bucko mates in first quality +hell-ships, who not only did their own bullying but protected themselves +as well. These petty rapscallions, on the other hand, sought protection +behind the majesty of the law. They struck, but no one was permitted to +strike back, for behind them were the prison cells and the clubs of the +stupid policemen--paid and professional fighters and beaters-up of +men. Yet he was not bitter. The grossness and the sliminess of it was +forgotten in the simple grotesqueness of it, and he had the saving sense +of humor. + +Nevertheless, hectored and heckled though he was, he managed in the end +to give a simple, straightforward version of the affair, and, despite +a belligerent cross-examination, his story was not shaken in any +particular. Quite different it was from the perjuries that had shouted +aloud from the perjuries of Patsy and his two witnesses. + +Both Patsy's attorney and the Prosecuting Attorney rested their +cases, letting everything go before the Court without argument. Watson +protested against this, but was silenced when the Prosecuting Attorney +told him that Public Prosecutor and knew his business. + +“Patrick Horan has testified that he was in danger of his life and that +he was compelled to defend himself,” Judge Witberg's verdict began. “Mr. +Watson has testified to the same thing. Each has sworn that the other +struck the first blow; each has sworn that the other made an unprovoked +assault on him. It is an axiom of the law that the defendant should +be given the benefit of the doubt. A very reasonable doubt exists. +Therefore, in the case of the People Versus Carter Watson the benefit +of the doubt is given to said Carter Watson and he is herewith ordered +discharged from custody. The same reasoning applies to the case of the +People Versus Patrick Horan. He is given the benefit of the doubt and +discharged from custody. My recommendation is that both defendants shake +hands and make up.” + +In the afternoon papers the first headline that caught Watson's eye was: +“CARTER WATSON ACQUITTED.” In the second paper it was: “CARTER WATSON +ESCAPES A FINE.” But what capped everything was the one beginning: +“CARTER WATSON A GOOD FELLOW.” In the text he read how Judge Witberg had +advised both fighters to shake hands, which they promptly did. Further, +he read: + +“'Let's have a nip on it,' said Patsy Horan. + +“'Sure,' said Carter Watson. + +“And, arm in arm, they ambled for the nearest saloon.” + +IV + +Now, from the whole adventure, Watson carried away no bitterness. It was +a social experience of a new order, and it led to the writing of another +book, which he entitled, “POLICE COURT PROCEDURE: A Tentative Analysis.” + +One summer morning a year later, on his ranch, he left his horse and +himself clambered on through a miniature canyon to inspect some rock +ferns he had planted the previous winter. Emerging from the upper end +of the canyon, he came out on one of his flower-spangled meadows, a +delightful isolated spot, screened from the world by low hills and +clumps of trees. And here he found a man, evidently on a stroll from the +summer hotel down at the little town a mile away. They met face to face +and the recognition was mutual. It was Judge Witberg. Also, it was +a clear case of trespass, for Watson had trespass signs upon his +boundaries, though he never enforced them. + +Judge Witberg held out his hand, which Watson refused to see. + +“Politics is a dirty trade, isn't it, Judge?” he remarked. “Oh, yes, +I see your hand, but I don't care to take it. The papers said I shook +hands with Patsy Horan after the trial. You know I did not, but let me +tell you that I'd a thousand times rather shake hands with him and his +vile following of curs, than with you.” + +Judge Witberg was painfully flustered, and as he hemmed and hawed and +essayed to speak, Watson, looking at him, was struck by a sudden whim, +and he determined on a grim and facetious antic. + +“I should scarcely expect any animus from a man of your acquirements and +knowledge of the world,” the Judge was saying. + +“Animus?” Watson replied. “Certainly not. I haven't such a thing in my +nature. And to prove it, let me show you something curious, something +you have never seen before.” Casting about him, Watson picked up a rough +stone the size of his fist. “See this. Watch me.” + +So saying, Carter Watson tapped himself a sharp blow on the cheek. The +stone laid the flesh open to the bone and the blood spurted forth. + +“The stone was too sharp,” he announced to the astounded police judge, +who thought he had gone mad. + +“I must bruise it a trifle. There is nothing like being realistic in +such matters.” + +Whereupon Carter Watson found a smooth stone and with it pounded his +cheek nicely several times. + +“Ah,” he cooed. “That will turn beautifully green and black in a few +hours. It will be most convincing.” + +“You are insane,” Judge Witberg quavered. + +“Don't use such vile language to me,” said Watson. “You see my bruised +and bleeding face? You did that, with that right hand of yours. You hit +me twice--biff, biff. It is a brutal and unprovoked assault. I am in +danger of my life. I must protect myself.” + +Judge Witberg backed away in alarm before the menacing fists of the +other. + +“If you strike me I'll have you arrested,” Judge Witberg threatened. + +“That is what I told Patsy,” was the answer. “And do you know what he +did when I told him that?” + +“No.” + +“That!” + +And at the same moment Watson's right fist landed flush on Judge +Witberg's nose, putting that legal gentleman over on his back on the +grass. + +“Get up!” commanded Watson. “If you are a gentleman, get up--that's what +Patsy told me, you know.” + +Judge Witberg declined to rise, and was dragged to his feet by the +coat-collar, only to have one eye blacked and be put on his back again. +After that it was a red Indian massacre. Judge Witberg was humanely and +scientifically beaten up. His checks were boxed, his cars cuffed, and +his face was rubbed in the turf. And all the time Watson exposited +the way Patsy Horan had done it. Occasionally, and very carefully, the +facetious sociologist administered a real bruising blow. Once, dragging +the poor Judge to his feet, he deliberately bumped his own nose on the +gentleman's head. The nose promptly bled. + +“See that!” cried Watson, stepping back and deftly shedding his blood +all down his own shirt front. “You did it. With your fist you did it. It +is awful. I am fair murdered. I must again defend myself.” + +And once more Judge Witberg impacted his features on a fist and was sent +to grass. + +“I will have you arrested,” he sobbed as he lay. + +“That's what Patsy said.” + +“A brutal---sniff, sniff,--and unprovoked--sniff, sniff--assault.” + +“That's what Patsy said.” + +“I will surely have you arrested.” + +“Speaking slangily, not if I can beat you to it.” + +And with that, Carter Watson departed down the canyon, mounted his +horse, and rode to town. + +An hour later, as Judge Witberg limped up the grounds to his hotel, he +was arrested by a village constable on a charge of assault and battery +preferred by Carter Watson. + +V + +“Your Honor,” Watson said next day to the village Justice, a well to +do farmer and graduate, thirty years before, from a cow college, “since +this Sol Witberg has seen fit to charge me with battery, following upon +my charge of battery against him, I would suggest that both cases +be lumped together. The testimony and the facts are the same in both +cases.” + +To this the Justice agreed, and the double case proceeded. Watson, as +prosecuting witness, first took the stand and told his story. + +“I was picking flowers,” he testified. “Picking flowers on my own land, +never dreaming of danger. Suddenly this man rushed upon me from behind +the trees. 'I am the Dodo,' he says, 'and I can do you to a frazzle. +Put up your hands.' I smiled, but with that, biff, biff, he struck +me, knocking me down and spilling my flowers. The language he used was +frightful. It was an unprovoked and brutal assault. Look at my cheek. +Look at my nose--I could not understand it. He must have been drunk. +Before I recovered from my surprise he had administered this beating. +I was in danger of my life and was compelled to defend himself. That +is all, Your Honor, though I must say, in conclusion, that I cannot +get over my perplexity. Why did he say he was the Dodo? Why did he so +wantonly attack me?” + +And thus was Sol Witberg given a liberal education in the art of +perjury. Often, from his high seat, he had listened indulgently to +police court perjuries in cooked-up cases; but for the first time +perjury was directed against him, and he no longer sat above the court, +with the bailiffs, the Policemen's clubs, and the prison cells behind +him. + +“Your Honor,” he cried, “never have I heard such a pack of lies told by +so bare-faced a liar--!” + +Watson here sprang to his feet. + +“Your Honor, I protest. It is for your Honor to decide truth or +falsehood. The witness is on the stand to testify to actual events that +have transpired. His personal opinion upon things in general, and upon +me, has no bearing on the case whatever.” + +The Justice scratched his head and waxed phlegmatically indignant. + +“The point is well taken,” he decided. “I am surprised at you, Mr. +Witberg, claiming to be a judge and skilled in the practice of the law, +and yet being guilty of such unlawyerlike conduct. Your manner, sir, and +your methods, remind me of a shyster. This is a simple case of assault +and battery. We are here to determine who struck the first blow, and we +are not interested in your estimates of Mr. Watson's personal character. +Proceed with your story.” + +Sol Witberg would have bitten his bruised and swollen lip in chagrin, +had it not hurt so much. But he contained himself and told a simple, +straightforward, truthful story. + +“Your Honor,” Watson said, “I would suggest that you ask him what he was +doing on my premises.” + +“A very good question. What were you doing, sir, on Mr. Watson's +premises?” + +“I did not know they were his premises.” + +“It was a trespass, your Honor,” Watson cried. “The warnings are posted +conspicuously.” + +“I saw no warnings,” said Sol Witberg. + +“I have seen them myself,” snapped the Justice. “They are very +conspicuous. And I would warn you, sir, that if you palter with +the truth in such little matters you may darken your more important +statements with suspicion. Why did you strike Mr. Watson?” + +“Your Honor, as I have testified, I did not strike a blow.” + +The Justice looked at Carter Watson's bruised and swollen visage, and +turned to glare at Sol Witberg. + +“Look at that man's cheek!” he thundered. “If you did not strike a blow +how comes it that he is so disfigured and injured?” + +“As I testified--” + +“Be careful,” the Justice warned. + +“I will be careful, sir. I will say nothing but the truth. He struck +himself with a rock. He struck himself with two different rocks.” + +“Does it stand to reason that a man, any man not a lunatic, would so +injure himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft and +sensitive parts of his face with a stone?” Carter Watson demanded + +“It sounds like a fairy story,” was the Justice's comment. + +“Mr. Witberg, had you been drinking?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Do you never drink?” + +“On occasion.” + +The Justice meditated on this answer with an air of astute profundity. + +Watson took advantage of the opportunity to wink at Sol Witberg, but +that much-abused gentleman saw nothing humorous in the situation. + +“A very peculiar case, a very peculiar case,” the Justice announced, +as he began his verdict. “The evidence of the two parties is flatly +contradictory. There are no witnesses outside the two principals. Each +claims the other committed the assault, and I have no legal way of +determining the truth. But I have my private opinion, Mr. Witberg, and +I would recommend that henceforth you keep off of Mr. Watson's premises +and keep away from this section of the country--” + +“This is an outrage!” Sol Witberg blurted out. + +“Sit down, sir!” was the Justice's thundered command. “If you interrupt +the Court in this manner again, I shall fine you for contempt. And I +warn you I shall fine you heavily--you, a judge yourself, who should be +conversant with the courtesy and dignity of courts. I shall now give my +verdict: + +“It is a rule of law that the defendant shall be given the benefit of +the doubt. As I have said, and I repeat, there is no legal way for me +to determine who struck the first blow. Therefore, and much to my +regret,”--here he paused and glared at Sol Witberg--“in each of these +cases I am compelled to give the defendant the benefit of the doubt. +Gentlemen, you are both dismissed.” + +“Let us have a nip on it,” Watson said to Witberg, as they left the +courtroom; but that outraged person refused to lock arms and amble to +the nearest saloon. + + + + +WINGED BLACKMAIL + +PETER WINN lay back comfortably in a library chair, with closed eyes, +deep in the cogitation of a scheme of campaign destined in the near +future to make a certain coterie of hostile financiers sit up. The +central idea had come to him the night before, and he was now reveling +in the planning of the remoter, minor details. By obtaining control of a +certain up-country bank, two general stores, and several logging camps, +he could come into control of a certain dinky jerkwater line which shall +here be nameless, but which, in his hands, would prove the key to a +vastly larger situation involving more main-line mileage almost than +there were spikes in the aforesaid dinky jerkwater. It was so simple +that he had almost laughed aloud when it came to him. No wonder those +astute and ancient enemies of his had passed it by. + +The library door opened, and a slender, middle-aged man, weak-eyed and +eye glassed, entered. In his hands was an envelope and an open letter. +As Peter Winn's secretary it was his task to weed out, sort, and +classify his employer's mail. + +“This came in the morning post,” he ventured apologetically and with +the hint of a titter. “Of course it doesn't amount to anything, but I +thought you would like to see it.” + +“Read it,” Peter Winn commanded, without opening his eyes. + +The secretary cleared his throat. + +“It is dated July seventeenth, but is without address. Postmark San +Francisco. It is also quite illiterate. The spelling is atrocious. Here +it is: + +“Mr. Peter Winn, SIR: I send you respectfully by express a pigeon worth +good money. She's a loo-loo--” + +“What is a loo-loo?” Peter Winn interrupted. + +The secretary tittered. + +“I'm sure I don't know, except that it must be a superlative of some +sort. The letter continues: + +“Please freight it with a couple of thousand-dollar bills and let it go. +If you do I wont never annoy you no more. If you dont you will be sorry. + +“That is all. It is unsigned. I thought it would amuse you.” + +“Has the pigeon come?” Peter Winn demanded. + +“I'm sure I never thought to enquire.” + +“Then do so.” + +In five minutes the secretary was back. + +“Yes, sir. It came this morning.” + +“Then bring it in.” + +The secretary was inclined to take the affair as a practical joke, but +Peter Winn, after an examination of the pigeon, thought otherwise. + +“Look at it,” he said, stroking and handling it. “See the length of the +body and that elongated neck. A proper carrier. I doubt if I've ever +seen a finer specimen. Powerfully winged and muscled. As our unknown +correspondent remarked, she is a loo-loo. It's a temptation to keep +her.” + +The secretary tittered. + +“Why not? Surely you will not let it go back to the writer of that +letter.” + +Peter Winn shook his head. + +“I'll answer. No man can threaten me, even anonymously or in foolery.” + +On a slip of paper he wrote the succinct message, “Go to hell,” signed +it, and placed it in the carrying apparatus with which the bird had been +thoughtfully supplied. + +“Now we'll let her loose. Where's my son? I'd like him to see the +flight.” + +“He's down in the workshop. He slept there last night, and had his +breakfast sent down this morning.” + +“He'll break his neck yet,” Peter Winn remarked, half-fiercely, +half-proudly, as he led the way to the veranda. + +Standing at the head of the broad steps, he tossed the pretty creature +outward and upward. She caught herself with a quick beat of wings, +fluttered about undecidedly for a space, then rose in the air. + +Again, high up, there seemed indecision; then, apparently getting her +bearings, she headed east, over the oak-trees that dotted the park-like +grounds. + +“Beautiful, beautiful,” Peter Winn murmured. “I almost wish I had her +back.” + +But Peter Winn was a very busy man, with such large plans in his head +and with so many reins in his hands that he quickly forgot the incident. +Three nights later the left wing of his country house was blown up. It +was not a heavy explosion, and nobody was hurt, though the wing itself +was ruined. Most of the windows of the rest of the house were broken, +and there was a deal of general damage. By the first ferry boat of the +morning half a dozen San Francisco detectives arrived, and several hours +later the secretary, in high excitement, erupted on Peter Winn. + +“It's come!” the secretary gasped, the sweat beading his forehead and +his eyes bulging behind their glasses. + +“What has come?” Peter demanded. “It--the--the loo-loo bird.” + +Then the financier understood. + +“Have you gone over the mail yet?” + +“I was just going over it, sir.” + +“Then continue, and see if you can find another letter from our +mysterious friend, the pigeon fancier.” + +The letter came to light. It read: + +Mr. Peter Winn, HONORABLE SIR: Now dont be a fool. If youd came through, +your shack would not have blew up--I beg to inform you respectfully, +am sending same pigeon. Take good care of same, thank you. Put five one +thousand dollar bills on her and let her go. Dont feed her. Dont try to +follow bird. She is wise to the way now and makes better time. If you +dont come through, watch out. + +Peter Winn was genuinely angry. This time he indited no message for the +pigeon to carry. Instead, he called in the detectives, and, under their +advice, weighted the pigeon heavily with shot. Her previous flight +having been eastward toward the bay, the fastest motor-boat in Tiburon +was commissioned to take up the chase if it led out over the water. + +But too much shot had been put on the carrier, and she was exhausted +before the shore was reached. Then the mistake was made of putting too +little shot on her, and she rose high in the air, got her bearings and +started eastward across San Francisco Bay. She flew straight over Angel +Island, and here the motor-boat lost her, for it had to go around the +island. + +That night, armed guards patrolled the grounds. But there was no +explosion. Yet, in the early morning Peter Winn learned by telephone +that his sister's home in Alameda had been burned to the ground. + +Two days later the pigeon was back again, coming this time by freight in +what had seemed a barrel of potatoes. Also came another letter: + +Mr. Peter Winn, RESPECTABLE SIR: It was me that fixed yr sisters house. +You have raised hell, aint you. Send ten thousand now. Going up all the +time. Dont put any more handicap weights on that bird. You sure cant +follow her, and its cruelty to animals. + +Peter Winn was ready to acknowledge himself beaten. The detectives +were powerless, and Peter did not know where next the man would +strike--perhaps at the lives of those near and dear to him. He even +telephoned to San Francisco for ten thousand dollars in bills of large +denomination. But Peter had a son, Peter Winn, Junior, with the +same firm-set jaw as his fathers, and the same knitted, brooding +determination in his eyes. He was only twenty-six, but he was all man, a +secret terror and delight to the financier, who alternated between pride +in his son's aeroplane feats and fear for an untimely and terrible end. + +“Hold on, father, don't send that money,” said Peter Winn, Junior. +“Number Eight is ready, and I know I've at last got that reefing down +fine. It will work, and it will revolutionize flying. Speed--that's +what's needed, and so are the large sustaining surfaces for getting +started and for altitude. I've got them both. Once I'm up I reef down. +There it is. The smaller the sustaining surface, the higher the speed. +That was the law discovered by Langley. And I've applied it. I can rise +when the air is calm and full of holes, and I can rise when its boiling, +and by my control of my plane areas I can come pretty close to making +any speed I want. Especially with that new Sangster-Endholm engine.” + +“You'll come pretty close to breaking your neck one of these days,” was +his father's encouraging remark. + +“Dad, I'll tell you what I'll come pretty close to-ninety miles an +hour--Yes, and a hundred. Now listen! I was going to make a trial +tomorrow. But it won't take two hours to start today. I'll tackle it +this afternoon. Keep that money. Give me the pigeon and I'll follow her +to her loft where ever it is. Hold on, let me talk to the mechanics.” + +He called up the workshop, and in crisp, terse sentences gave his orders +in a way that went to the older man's heart. Truly, his one son was a +chip off the old block, and Peter Winn had no meek notions concerning +the intrinsic value of said old block. + +Timed to the minute, the young man, two hours later, was ready for the +start. In a holster at his hip, for instant use, cocked and with the +safety on, was a large-caliber automatic pistol. With a final inspection +and overhauling he took his seat in the aeroplane. He started the +engine, and with a wild burr of gas explosions the beautiful fabric +darted down the launching ways and lifted into the air. Circling, as he +rose, to the west, he wheeled about and jockeyed and maneuvered for the +real start of the race. + +This start depended on the pigeon. Peter Winn held it. Nor was it +weighted with shot this time. Instead, half a yard of bright ribbon was +firmly attached to its leg--this the more easily to enable its flight +being followed. Peter Winn released it, and it arose easily enough +despite the slight drag of the ribbon. There was no uncertainty about +its movements. This was the third time it had made particular homing +passage, and it knew the course. + +At an altitude of several hundred feet it straightened out and went due +east. The aeroplane swerved into a straight course from its last curve +and followed. The race was on. Peter Winn, looking up, saw that the +pigeon was outdistancing the machine. Then he saw something else. The +aeroplane suddenly and instantly became smaller. It had reefed. Its +high-speed plane-design was now revealed. Instead of the generous +spread of surface with which it had taken the air, it was now a lean and +hawklike monoplane balanced on long and exceedingly narrow wings. + +***** + +When young Winn reefed down so suddenly, he received a surprise. It +was his first trial of the new device, and while he was prepared for +increased speed he was not prepared for such an astonishing increase. It +was better than he dreamed, and, before he knew it, he was hard upon +the pigeon. That little creature, frightened by this, the most monstrous +hawk it had ever seen, immediately darted upward, after the manner of +pigeons that strive always to rise above a hawk. + +In great curves the monoplane followed upward, higher and higher into +the blue. It was difficult, from underneath to see the pigeon, and young +Winn dared not lose it from his sight. He even shook out his reefs in +order to rise more quickly. Up, up they went, until the pigeon, true +to its instinct, dropped and struck at what it thought to be the back of +its pursuing enemy. Once was enough, for, evidently finding no life in +the smooth cloth surface of the machine, it ceased soaring and +straightened out on its eastward course. + +A carrier pigeon on a passage can achieve a high rate of speed, and +Winn reefed again. And again, to his satisfaction, he found that he was +beating the pigeon. But this time he quickly shook out a portion of his +reefed sustaining surface and slowed down in time. From then on he knew +he had the chase safely in hand, and from then on a chant rose to his +lips which he continued to sing at intervals, and unconsciously, for the +rest of the passage. It was: “Going some; going some; what did I tell +you!--going some.” + +Even so, it was not all plain sailing. The air is an unstable medium at +best, and quite without warning, at an acute angle, he entered an aerial +tide which he recognized as the gulf stream of wind that poured through +the drafty-mouthed Golden Gate. His right wing caught it first--a +sudden, sharp puff that lifted and tilted the monoplane and threatened +to capsize it. But he rode with a sensitive “loose curb,” and quickly, +but not too quickly, he shifted the angles of his wing-tips, depressed +the front horizontal rudder, and swung over the rear vertical rudder to +meet the tilting thrust of the wind. As the machine came back to an even +keel, and he knew that he was now wholly in the invisible stream, he +readjusted the wing-tips, rapidly away from him during the several +moments of his discomfiture. + +The pigeon drove straight on for the Alameda County shore, and it +was near this shore that Winn had another experience. He fell into an +air-hole. He had fallen into air-holes before, in previous flights, but +this was a far larger one than he had ever encountered. With his eyes +strained on the ribbon attached to the pigeon, by that fluttering bit of +color he marked his fall. Down he went, at the pit of his stomach that +old sink sensation which he had known as a boy he first negotiated +quick-starting elevators. But Winn, among other secrets of aviation, had +learned that to go up it was sometimes necessary first to go down. +The air had refused to hold him. Instead of struggling futilely and +perilously against this lack of sustension, he yielded to it. With +steady head and hand, he depressed the forward horizontal rudder--just +recklessly enough and not a fraction more--and the monoplane dived head +foremost and sharply down the void. It was falling with the keenness of +a knife-blade. Every instant the speed accelerated frightfully. Thus +he accumulated the momentum that would save him. But few instants were +required, when, abruptly shifting the double horizontal rudders forward +and astern, he shot upward on the tense and straining plane and out of +the pit. + +At an altitude of five hundred feet, the pigeon drove on over the town +of Berkeley and lifted its flight to the Contra Costa hills. Young Winn +noted the campus and buildings of the University of California--his +university--as he rose after the pigeon. + +Once more, on these Contra Costa hills, he early came to grief. The +pigeon was now flying low, and where a grove of eucalyptus presented a +solid front to the wind, the bird was suddenly sent fluttering wildly +upward for a distance of a hundred feet. Winn knew what it meant. It had +been caught in an air-surf that beat upward hundreds of feet where +the fresh west wind smote the upstanding wall of the grove. He reefed +hastily to the uttermost, and at the same time depressed the angle of +his flight to meet that upward surge. Nevertheless, the monoplane was +tossed fully three hundred feet before the danger was left astern. + +Two or more ranges of hills the pigeon crossed, and then Winn saw it +dropping down to a landing where a small cabin stood in a hillside +clearing. He blessed that clearing. Not only was it good for alighting, +but, on account of the steepness of the slope, it was just the thing for +rising again into the air. + +A man, reading a newspaper, had just started up at the sight of the +returning pigeon, when he heard the burr of Winn's engine and saw the +huge monoplane, with all surfaces set, drop down upon him, stop suddenly +on an air-cushion manufactured on the spur of the moment by a shift of +the horizontal rudders, glide a few yards, strike ground, and come to +rest not a score of feet away from him. But when he saw a young man, +calmly sitting in the machine and leveling a pistol at him, the man +turned to run. Before he could make the corner of the cabin, a bullet +through the leg brought him down in a sprawling fall. + +“What do you want!” he demanded sullenly, as the other stood over him. + +“I want to take you for a ride in my new machine,” Winn answered. +“Believe me, she is a loo-loo.” + +The man did not argue long, for this strange visitor had most convincing +ways. Under Winn's instructions, covered all the time by the pistol, +the man improvised a tourniquet and applied it to his wounded leg. Winn +helped him to a seat in the machine, then went to the pigeon-loft and +took possession of the bird with the ribbon still fast to its leg. + +A very tractable prisoner, the man proved. Once up in the air, he sat +close, in an ecstasy of fear. An adept at winged blackmail, he had no +aptitude for wings himself, and when he gazed down at the flying land +and water far beneath him, he did not feel moved to attack his captor, +now defenseless, both hands occupied with flight. + +Instead, the only way the man felt moved was to sit closer. + +***** + +Peter Winn, Senior, scanning the heavens with powerful glasses, saw +the monoplane leap into view and grow large over the rugged backbone +of Angel Island. Several minutes later he cried out to the waiting +detectives that the machine carried a passenger. Dropping swiftly and +piling up an abrupt air-cushion, the monoplane landed. + +“That reefing device is a winner!” young Winn cried, as he climbed out. +“Did you see me at the start? I almost ran over the pigeon. Going some, +dad! Going some! What did I tell you? Going some!” + +“But who is that with you?” his father demanded. + +The young man looked back at his prisoner and remembered. + +“Why, that's the pigeon-fancier,” he said. “I guess the officers can +take care of him.” + +Peter Winn gripped his son's hand in grim silence, and fondled the +pigeon which his son had passed to him. Again he fondled the pretty +creature. Then he spoke. + +“Exhibit A, for the People,” he said. + + + + +BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES + +ARRANGEMENTS quite extensive had been made for the celebration of +Christmas on the yacht Samoset. Not having been in any civilized port +for months, the stock of provisions boasted few delicacies; yet Minnie +Duncan had managed to devise real feasts for cabin and forecastle. + +“Listen, Boyd,” she told her husband. “Here are the menus. For the cabin, +raw bonita native style, turtle soup, omelette a la Samoset--” + +“What the dickens?” Boyd Duncan interrupted. + +“Well, if you must know, I found a tin of mushrooms and a package of +egg-powder which had fallen down behind the locker, and there are other +things as well that will go into it. But don't interrupt. Boiled yam, +fried taro, alligator pear salad--there, you've got me all mixed, Then +I found a last delectable half-pound of dried squid. There will be baked +beans Mexican, if I can hammer it into Toyama's head; also, baked papaia +with Marquesan honey, and, lastly, a wonderful pie the secret of which +Toyama refuses to divulge.” + +“I wonder if it is possible to concoct a punch or a cocktail out of +trade rum?” Duncan muttered gloomily. + +“Oh! I forgot! Come with me.” + +His wife caught his hand and led him through the small connecting door +to her tiny stateroom. Still holding his hand, she fished in the depths +of a hat-locker and brought forth a pint bottle of champagne. + +“The dinner is complete!” he cried. + +“Wait.” + +She fished again, and was rewarded with a silver-mounted whisky flask. +She held it to the light of a port-hole, and the liquor showed a quarter +of the distance from the bottom. + +“I've been saving it for weeks,” she explained. “And there's enough for +you and Captain Dettmar.” + +“Two mighty small drinks,” Duncan complained. + +“There would have been more, but I gave a drink to Lorenzo when he was +sick.” + +Duncan growled, “Might have given him rum,” facetiously. + +“The nasty stuff! For a sick man? Don't be greedy, Boyd. And I'm glad +there isn't any more, for Captain Dettmar's sake. Drinking always makes +him irritable. And now for the men's dinner. Soda crackers, sweet cakes, +candy--” + +“Substantial, I must say.” + +“Do hush. Rice, and curry, yam, taro, bonita, of course, a big cake +Toyama is making, young pig--” + +“Oh, I say,” he protested. + +“It is all right, Boyd. We'll be in Attu-Attu in three days. Besides, +it's my pig. That old chief what-ever-his-name distinctly presented it +to me. You saw him yourself. And then two tins of bullamacow. That's +their dinner. And now about the presents. Shall we wait until tomorrow, +or give them this evening?” + +“Christmas Eve, by all means,” was the man's judgment. “We'll call all +hands at eight bells; I'll give them a tot of rum all around, and then +you give the presents. Come on up on deck. It's stifling down here. I +hope Lorenzo has better luck with the dynamo; without the fans there +won't be much sleeping to-night if we're driven below.” + +They passed through the small main-cabin, climbed a steep companion +ladder, and emerged on deck. The sun was setting, and the promise was +for a clear tropic night. The Samoset, with fore- and main-sail winged +out on either side, was slipping a lazy four-knots through the smooth +sea. Through the engine-room skylight came a sound of hammering. They +strolled aft to where Captain Dettmar, one foot on the rail, was +oiling the gear of the patent log. At the wheel stood a tall South Sea +Islander, clad in white undershirt and scarlet hip-cloth. + +Boyd Duncan was an original. At least that was the belief of his +friends. Of comfortable fortune, with no need to do anything but take +his comfort, he elected to travel about the world in outlandish and +most uncomfortable ways. Incidentally, he had ideas about coral-reefs, +disagreed profoundly with Darwin on that subject, had voiced his opinion +in several monographs and one book, and was now back at his hobby, +cruising the South Seas in a tiny, thirty-ton yacht and studying +reef-formations. + +His wife, Minnie Duncan, was also declared an original, inasmuch as she +joyfully shared his vagabond wanderings. Among other things, in the six +exciting years of their marriage she had climbed Chimborazo with him, +made a three-thousand-mile winter journey with dogs and sleds in Alaska, +ridden a horse from Canada to Mexico, cruised the Mediterranean in a +ten-ton yawl, and canoed from Germany to the Black Sea across the +heart of Europe. They were a royal pair of wanderlusters, he, big and +broad-shouldered, she a small, brunette, and happy woman, whose one +hundred and fifteen pounds were all grit and endurance, and withal, +pleasing to look upon. + +The Samoset had been a trading schooner, when Duncan bought her in San +Francisco and made alterations. Her interior was wholly rebuilt, so that +the hold became main-cabin and staterooms, while abaft amidships were +installed engines, a dynamo, an ice machine, storage batteries, and, +far in the stern, gasoline tanks. Necessarily, she carried a small crew. +Boyd, Minnie, and Captain Dettmar were the only whites on board, though +Lorenzo, the small and greasy engineer, laid a part claim to white, +being a Portuguese half-caste. A Japanese served as cook, and a Chinese +as cabin boy. Four white sailors had constituted the original crew +for'ard, but one by one they had yielded to the charms of palm-waving +South Sea isles and been replaced by islanders. Thus, one of the dusky +sailors hailed from Easter Island, a second from the Carolines, a third +from the Paumotus, while the fourth was a gigantic Samoan. At sea, Boyd +Duncan, himself a navigator, stood a mate's watch with Captain Dettmar, +and both of them took a wheel or lookout occasionally. On a pinch, +Minnie herself could take a wheel, and it was on pinches that she proved +herself more dependable at steering than did the native sailors. + +At eight bells, all hands assembled at the wheel, and Boyd Duncan +appeared with a black bottle and a mug. The rum he served out himself, +half a mug of it to each man. They gulped the stuff down with many +facial expressions of delight, followed by loud lip-smackings of +approval, though the liquor was raw enough and corrosive enough to burn +their mucous membranes. All drank except Lee Goom, the abstemious +cabin boy. This rite accomplished, they waited for the next, the +present-giving. Generously molded on Polynesian lines, huge-bodied and +heavy-muscled, they were nevertheless like so many children, laughing +merrily at little things, their eager black eyes flashing in the lantern +light as their big bodies swayed to the heave and roll of the ship. + +Calling each by name, Minnie gave the presents out, accompanying each +presentation with some happy remark that added to the glee. There +were trade watches, clasp knives, amazing assortments of fish-hooks +in packages, plug tobacco, matches, and gorgeous strips of cotton for +loincloths all around. That Boyd Duncan was liked by them was evidenced +by the roars of laughter with which they greeted his slightest joking +allusion. + +Captain Dettmar, white-faced, smiling only when his employer chanced to +glance at him, leaned against the wheel-box, looking on. Twice, he left +the group and went below, remaining there but a minute each time. Later, +in the main cabin, when Lorenzo, Lee Goom and Toyama received their +presents, he disappeared into his stateroom twice again. For of all +times, the devil that slumbered in Captain Dettmar's soul chose this +particular time of good cheer to awaken. Perhaps it was not entirely the +devil's fault, for Captain Dettmar, privily cherishing a quart of whisky +for many weeks, had selected Christmas Eve for broaching it. + +It was still early in the evening--two bells had just gone--when Duncan +and his wife stood by the cabin companionway, gazing to windward and +canvassing the possibility of spreading their beds on deck. A small, +dark blot of cloud, slowly forming on the horizon, carried the threat +of a rain-squall, and it was this they were discussing when Captain +Dettmar, coming from aft and about to go below, glanced at them with +sudden suspicion. He paused, his face working spasmodically. Then he +spoke: + +“You are talking about me.” + +His voice was hoarse, and there was an excited vibration in it. Minnie +Duncan started, then glanced at her husband's immobile face, took the +cue, and remained silent. + +“I say you were talking about me,” Captain Dettmar repeated, this time +with almost a snarl. + +He did not lurch nor betray the liquor on him in any way save by the +convulsive working of his face. + +“Minnie, you'd better go down,” Duncan said gently. “Tell Lee Goom we'll +sleep below. It won't be long before that squall is drenching things.” + +She took the hint and left, delaying just long enough to give one +anxious glance at the dim faces of the two men. + +Duncan puffed at his cigar and waited till his wife's voice, in talk +with the cabin-boy, came up through the open skylight. + +“Well?” Duncan demanded in a low voice, but sharply. + +“I said you were talking about me. I say it again. Oh, I haven't been +blind. Day after day I've seen the two of you talking about me. Why +don't you come out and say it to my face! I know you know. And I know +your mind's made up to discharge me at Attu-Attu.” + +“I am sorry you are making such a mess of everything,” was Duncan's +quiet reply. + +But Captain Dettmar's mind was set on trouble. + +“You know you are going to discharge me. You think you are too good to +associate with the likes of me--you and your wife.” + +“Kindly keep her out of this,” Duncan warned. “What do you want?” + +“I want to know what you are going to do!” + +“Discharge you, after this, at Attu-Attu.” + +“You intended to, all along.” + +“On the contrary. It is your present conduct that compels me.” + +“You can't give me that sort of talk.” + +“I can't retain a captain who calls me a liar.” + +Captain Dettmar for the moment was taken aback. His face and lips +worked, but he could say nothing. Duncan coolly pulled at his cigar and +glanced aft at the rising cloud of squall. + +“Lee Goom brought the mail aboard at Tahiti,” Captain Dettmar began. + +“We were hove short then and leaving. You didn't look at your letters +until we were outside, and then it was too late. That's why you didn't +discharge me at Tahiti. Oh, I know. I saw the long envelope when Lee +Goom came over the side. It was from the Governor of California, printed +on the corner for any one to see. You'd been working behind my back. +Some beachcomber in Honolulu had whispered to you, and you'd written to +the Governor to find out. And that was his answer Lee Goom carried +out to you. Why didn't you come to me like a man! No, you must play +underhand with me, knowing that this billet was the one chance for me to +get on my feet again. And as soon as you read the Governor's letter your +mind was made up to get rid of me. I've seen it on your face ever since +for all these months.. I've seen the two of you, polite as hell to me +all the time, and getting away in corners and talking about me and that +affair in 'Frisco.” + +“Are you done?” Duncan asked, his voice low, and tense. “Quite done?” + +Captain Dettmar made no answer. + +“Then I'll tell you a few things. It was precisely because of that +affair in 'Frisco that I did not discharge you in Tahiti. God knows you +gave me sufficient provocation. I thought that if ever a man needed a +chance to rehabilitate himself, you were that man. Had there been no +black mark against you, I would have discharged you when I learned how +you were robbing me.” + +Captain Dettmar showed surprise, started to interrupt, then changed his +mind. + +“There was that matter of the deck-calking, the bronze rudder-irons, the +overhauling of the engine, the new spinnaker boom, the new davits, and +the repairs to the whale-boat. You OKd the shipyard bill. It was four +thousand one hundred and twenty-two francs. By the regular shipyard +charges it ought not to have been a centime over twenty-five hundred +francs-” + +“If you take the word of those alongshore sharks against mine--' the +other began thickly. + +“Save yourself the trouble of further lying,” Duncan went on coldly. +“I looked it up. I got Flaubin before the Governor himself, and the old +rascal confessed to sixteen hundred overcharge. Said you'd stuck him up +for it. Twelve hundred went to you, and his share was four hundred and +the job. Don't interrupt. I've got his affidavit below. Then was when I +would have put you ashore, except for the cloud you were under. You had +to have this one chance or go clean to hell. I gave you the chance. And +what have you got to say about it?” + +“What did the Governor say?” Captain Dettmar demanded truculently. + +“Which governor?” + +“Of California. Did he lie to you like all the rest?” + +“I'll tell you what he said. He said that you had been convicted on +circumstantial evidence; that was why you had got life imprisonment +instead of hanging; that you had always stoutly maintained your +innocence; that you were the black sheep of the Maryland Dettmars; that +they moved heaven and earth for your pardon; that your prison conduct +was most exemplary; that he was prosecuting attorney at the time you +were convicted; that after you had served seven years he yielded to your +family's plea and pardoned you; and that in his own mind existed a doubt +that you had killed McSweeny.” + +There was a pause, during which Duncan went on studying the rising +squall, while Captain Dettmar's face worked terribly. + +“Well, the Governor was wrong,” he announced, with a short laugh. “I did +kill McSweeny. I did get the watchman drunk that night. I beat McSweeny +to death in his bunk. I used the iron belaying pin that appeared in the +evidence. He never had a chance. I beat him to a jelly. Do you want the +details?” + +Duncan looked at him in the curious way one looks at any monstrosity, +but made no reply. + +“Oh, I'm not afraid to tell you,” Captain Dettmar blustered on. “There +are no witnesses. Besides, I am a free man now. I am pardoned, and by +God they can never put me back in that hole again. I broke McSweeny's +jaw with the first blow. He was lying on his back asleep. He said, 'My +God, Jim! My God!' It was funny to see his broken jaw wabble as he said +it. Then I smashed him... I say, do you want the rest of the details?” + +“Is that all you have to say?” was the answer. + +“Isn't it enough?” Captain Dettmar retorted. + +“It is enough.” + +“What are you going to do about it?” + +“Put you ashore at Attu-Attu.” + +“And in the meantime?” + +“In the meantime...” Duncan paused. An increase of weight in the wind +rippled his hair. The stars overhead vanished, and the Samoset swung +four points off her course in the careless steersman's hands. “In the +meantime throw your halyards down on deck and look to your wheel. I'll +call the men.” + +The next moment the squall burst upon them. Captain Dettmar, springing +aft, lifted the coiled mainsail halyards from their pins and threw them, +ready to run, on the deck. The three islanders swarmed from the tiny +forecastle, two of them leaping to the halyards and holding by a single +turn, while the third fastened down the engineroom, companion and +swung the ventilators around. Below, Lee Goom and Toyama were lowering +skylight covers and screwing up deadeyes. Duncan pulled shut the cover +of the companion scuttle, and held on, waiting, the first drops of rain +pelting his face, while the Samoset leaped violently ahead, at the same +time heeling first to starboard then to port as the gusty pressures +caught her winged-out sails. + +All waited. But there was no need to lower away on the run. The +power went out of the wind, and the tropic rain poured a deluge over +everything. Then it was, the danger past, and as the Kanakas began to +coil the halyards back on the pins, that Boyd Duncan went below. + +“All right,” he called in cheerily to his wife. “Only a puff.” + +“And Captain Dettmar?” she queried. + +“Has been drinking, that is all. I shall get rid of him at Attu-Attu.” + +But before Duncan climbed into his bunk, he strapped around himself, +against the skin and under his pajama coat, a heavy automatic pistol. + +He fell asleep almost immediately, for his was the gift of perfect +relaxation. He did things tensely, in the way savages do, but the +instant the need passed he relaxed, mind and body. So it was that he +slept, while the rain still poured on deck and the yacht plunged and +rolled in the brief, sharp sea caused by the squall. + +He awoke with a feeling of suffocation and heaviness. The electric fans +had stopped, and the air was thick and stifling. Mentally cursing +all Lorenzos and storage batteries, he heard his wife moving in the +adjoining stateroom and pass out into the main cabin. Evidently heading +for the fresher air on deck, he thought, and decided it was a good +example to imitate. Putting on his slippers and tucking a pillow and a +blanket under his arm, he followed her. As he was about to emerge from +the companionway, the ship's clock in the cabin began to strike and he +stopped to listen. Four bells sounded. It was two in the morning. From +without came the creaking of the gaff-jaw against the mast. The Samoset +rolled and righted on a sea, and in the light breeze her canvas gave +forth a hollow thrum. + +He was just putting his foot out on the damp deck when he heard his +wife scream. It was a startled frightened scream that ended in a splash +overside. He leaped out and ran aft. In the dim starlight he could make +out her head and shoulders disappearing astern in the lazy wake. + +“What was it?” Captain Dettmar, who was at the wheel, asked. + +“Mrs. Duncan,” was Duncan's reply, as he tore the life-buoy from its +hook and flung it aft. “Jibe over to starboard and come up on the wind!” + he commanded. + +And then Boyd Duncan made a mistake. He dived overboard. + +When he came up, he glimpsed the blue-light on the buoy, which had +ignited automatically when it struck the water. He swam for it, and +found Minnie had reached it first. + +“Hello,” he said. “Just trying to keep cool?” + +“Oh, Boyd!” was her answer, and one wet hand reached out and touched +his. + +The blue light, through deterioration or damage, flickered out. As they +lifted on the smooth crest of a wave, Duncan turned to look where the +Samoset made a vague blur in the darkness. No lights showed, but there +was noise of confusion. He could hear Captain Dettmar's shouting above +the cries of the others. + +“I must say he's taking his time,” Duncan grumbled. “Why doesn't he +jibe? There she goes now.” + +They could hear the rattle of the boom tackle blocks as the sail was +eased across. + +“That was the mainsail,” he muttered. “Jibed to port when I told him +starboard.” + +Again they lifted on a wave, and again and again, ere they could make +out the distant green of the Samoset's starboard light. But instead of +remaining stationary, in token that the yacht was coming toward them, it +began moving across their field of vision. Duncan swore. + +“What's the lubber holding over there for!” he demanded. “He's got his +compass. He knows our bearing.” + +But the green light, which was all they could see, and which they could +see only when they were on top of a wave, moved steadily away from them, +withal it was working up to windward, and grew dim and dimmer. Duncan +called out loudly and repeatedly, and each time, in the intervals, they +could hear, very faintly, the voice of Captain Dettmar shouting orders. + +“How can he hear me with such a racket?” Duncan complained. + +“He's doing it so the crew won't hear you,” was Minnie's answer. + +There was something in the quiet way she said it that caught her +husband's attention. + +“What do you mean?” + +“I mean that he is not trying to pick us up,” she went on in the same +composed voice. “He threw me overboard.” + +“You are not making a mistake?” + +“How could I? I was at the main rigging, looking to see if any more +rain threatened. He must have left the wheel and crept behind me. I was +holding on to a stay with one hand. He gripped my hand free from behind +and threw me over. It's too bad you didn't know, or else you would have +staid aboard.” + +Duncan groaned, but said nothing for several minutes. The green light +changed the direction of its course. + +“She's gone about,” he announced. “You are right. He's deliberately +working around us and to windward. Up wind they can never hear me. But +here goes.” + +He called at minute intervals for a long time. The green light +disappeared, being replaced by the red, showing that the yacht had gone +about again. + +“Minnie,” he said finally, “it pains me to tell you, but you married a +fool. Only a fool would have gone overboard as I did.” + +“What chance have we of being picked up... by some other vessel, I +mean?” she asked. + +“About one in ten thousand, or ten thousand million. Not a steamer route +nor trade route crosses this stretch of ocean. And there aren't any +whalers knocking about the South Seas. There might be a stray trading +schooner running across from Tutuwanga. But I happen to know that island +is visited only once a year. A chance in a million is ours.” + +“And we'll play that chance,” she rejoined stoutly. + +“You ARE a joy!” His hand lifted hers to his lips. “And Aunt Elizabeth +always wondered what I saw in you. Of course we'll play that chance. And +we'll win it, too. To happen otherwise would be unthinkable. Here goes.” + +He slipped the heavy pistol from his belt and let it sink into the sea. +The belt, however, he retained. + +“Now you get inside the buoy and get some sleep. Duck under.” + +She ducked obediently, and came up inside the floating circle. He +fastened the straps for her, then, with the pistol belt, buckled himself +across one shoulder to the outside of the buoy. + +“We're good for all day to-morrow,” he said. “Thank God the water's +warm. It won't be a hardship for the first twenty-hour hours, anyway. +And if we're not picked up by nightfall, we've just got to hang on for +another day, that's all.” + +For half an hour they maintained silence, Duncan, his head resting on +the arm that was on the buoy, seemed asleep. + +“Boyd?” Minnie said softly. + +“Thought you were asleep,” he growled. + +“Boyd, if we don't come through this--” + +“Stow that!” he broke in ungallantly. “Of course we're coming through. +There is isn't a doubt of it. Somewhere on this ocean is a ship that's +heading right for us. You wait and see. Just the same I wish my brain +were equipped with wireless. Now I'm going to sleep, if you don't.” + +But for once, sleep baffled him. An hour later he heard Minnie stir and +knew she was awake. + +“Say, do you know what I've been thinking!” she asked. + +“No; what?” + +“That I'll wish you a Merry Christmas.” + +“By George, I never thought of it. Of course it's Christmas Day. We'll +have many more of them, too. And do you know what I've been thinking? +What a confounded shame we're done out of our Christmas dinner. Wait +till I lay hands on Dettmar. I'll take it out of him. And it won't be +with an iron belaying pin either, Just two bunches of naked knuckles, +that's all.” + +Despite his facetiousness, Boyd Duncan had little hope. He knew well +enough the meaning of one chance in a million, and was calmly certain +that his wife and he had entered upon their last few living hours--hours +that were inevitably bound to be black and terrible with tragedy. + +The tropic sun rose in a cloudless sky. Nothing was to be seen. The +Samoset was beyond the sea-rim. As the sun rose higher, Duncan ripped +his pajama trousers in halves and fashioned them into two rude turbans. +Soaked in sea-water they offset the heat-rays. + +“When I think of that dinner, I'm really angry,” he complained, as he +noted an anxious expression threatening to set on his wife's face. “And +I want you to be with me when I settle with Dettmar. I've always been +opposed to women witnessing scenes of blood, but this is different. It +will be a beating.” + +“I hope I don't break my knuckles on him,” he added, after a pause. + +Midday came and went, and they floated on, the center of a narrow +sea-circle. A gentle breath of the dying trade-wind fanned them, and +they rose and fell monotonously on the smooth swells of a perfect summer +sea. Once, a gunie spied them, and for half an hour circled about them +with majestic sweeps. And, once, a huge rayfish, measuring a score of +feet across the tips, passed within a few yards. + +By sunset, Minnie began to rave, softly, babblingly, like a child. +Duncan's face grew haggard as he watched and listened, while in his +mind he revolved plans of how best to end the hours of agony that were +coming. And, so planning, as they rose on a larger swell than usual, +he swept the circle of the sea with his eyes, and saw, what made him cry +out. + +“Minnie!” She did not answer, and he shouted her name again in her ear, +with all the voice he could command. Her eyes opened, in them fluttered +commingled consciousness and delirium. He slapped her hands and wrists +till the sting of the blows roused her. + +“There she is, the chance in a million!” he cried. + +“A steamer at that, heading straight for us! By George, it's a cruiser! +I have it!--the Annapolis, returning with those astronomers from +Tutuwanga.” + +***** + +United States Consul Lingford was a fussy, elderly gentleman, and in +the two years of his service at Attu-Attu had never encountered so +unprecedented a case as that laid before him by Boyd Duncan. The +latter, with his wife, had been landed there by the Annapolis, which had +promptly gone on with its cargo of astronomers to Fiji. + +“It was cold-blooded, deliberate attempt to murder,” said Consul +Lingford. “The law shall take its course. I don't know how precisely +to deal with this Captain Dettmar, but if he comes to Attu-Attu, depend +upon it he shall be dealt with, he--ah--shall be dealt with. In the +meantime, I shall read up the law. And now, won't you and your good lady +stop for lunch!” + +As Duncan accepted the invitation, Minnie, who had been glancing out +of the window at the harbor, suddenly leaned forward and touched her +husband's arm. He followed her gaze, and saw the Samoset, flag at half +mast, rounding up and dropping anchor scarcely a hundred yards away. + +“There's my boat now,” Duncan said to the Consul. “And there's the +launch over the side, and Captain Dettmar dropping into it. If I don't +miss my guess, he's coming to report our deaths to you.” + +The launch landed on the white beach, and leaving Lorenzo tinkering with +the engine, Captain Dettmar strode across the beach and up the path to +the Consulate. + +“Let him make his report,” Duncan said. “We'll just step into this next +room and listen.” + +And through the partly open door, he and his wife heard Captain Dettmar, +with tears in his voice, describe the loss of his owners. + +“I jibed over and went back across the very spot,” he concluded. “There +was not a sign of them. I called and called, but there was never an +answer. I tacked back and forth and wore for two solid hours, then hove +to till daybreak, and cruised back and forth all day, two men at the +mastheads. It is terrible. I am heartbroken. Mr. Duncan was a splendid +man, and I shall never...” + +But he never completed the sentence, for at that moment his splendid +employer strode out upon him, leaving Minnie standing in the doorway. +Captain Dettmar's white face blanched even whiter. + +“I did my best to pick you up, sir,” he began. + +Boyd Duncan's answer was couched in terms of bunched knuckles, two +bunches of them, that landed right and left on Captain Dettmar's face. + +Captain Dettmar staggered backward, recovered, and rushed with swinging +arms at his employer, only to be met with a blow squarely between the +eyes. This time the Captain went down, bearing the typewriter under him +as he crashed to the floor. + +“This is not permissible,” Consul Lingford spluttered. “I beg of you, I +beg of you, to desist.” + +“I'll pay the damages to office furniture,” Duncan answered, and at the +same time landing more bunched knuckles on the eyes and nose of Dettmar. + +Consul Lingford bobbed around in the turmoil like a wet hen, while his +office furniture went to ruin. Once, he caught Duncan by the arm, but +was flung back, gasping, half-across the room. Another time he appealed +to Minnie. + +“Mrs. Duncan, won't you, please, please, restrain your husband?” + +But she, white-faced and trembling, resolutely shook her head and +watched the fray with all her eyes. + +“It is outrageous,” Consul Lingford cried, dodging the hurtling bodies +of the two men. “It is an affront to the Government, to the United +States Government. Nor will it be overlooked, I warn you. Oh, do pray +desist, Mr. Duncan. You will kill the man. I beg of you. I beg, I +beg...” + +But the crash of a tall vase filled with crimson hibiscus blossoms left +him speechless. + +The time came when Captain Dettmar could no longer get up. He got as far +as hands and knees, struggled vainly to rise further, then collapsed. +Duncan stirred the groaning wreck with his foot. + +“He's all right,” he announced. “I've only given him what he has given +many a sailor and worse.” + +“Great heavens, sir!” Consul Lingford exploded, staring horror-stricken +at the man whom he had invited to lunch. + +Duncan giggled involuntarily, then controlled himself. + +“I apologize, Mr. Lingford, I most heartily apologize. I fear I was +slightly carried away by my feelings.” + +Consul Lingford gulped and sawed the air speechlessly with his arms. + +“Slightly, sir? Slightly?” he managed to articulate. + +“Boyd,” Minnie called softly from the doorway. + +He turned and looked. + +“You ARE a joy,” she said. + +“And now, Mr. Lingford, I am done with him,” Duncan said. “I turn over +what is left to you and the law.” + +“That?” Consul Lingford queried, in accent of horror. + +“That,” Boyd Duncan replied, looking ruefully at his battered knuckles. + + + + +WAR + +HE was a young man, not more than twenty-four or five, and he might have +sat his horse with the careless grace of his youth had he not been +so catlike and tense. His black eyes roved everywhere, catching the +movements of twigs and branches where small birds hopped, questing ever +onward through the changing vistas of trees and brush, and returning +always to the clumps of undergrowth on either side. And as he watched, +so did he listen, though he rode on in silence, save for the boom of +heavy guns from far to the west. This had been sounding monotonously +in his ears for hours, and only its cessation could have aroused his +notice. For he had business closer to hand. Across his saddle-bow was +balanced a carbine. + +So tensely was he strung, that a bunch of quail, exploding into flight +from under his horse's nose, startled him to such an extent that +automatically, instantly, he had reined in and fetched the carbine +halfway to his shoulder. He grinned sheepishly, recovered himself, and +rode on. So tense was he, so bent upon the work he had to do, that the +sweat stung his eyes unwiped, and unheeded rolled down his nose and +spattered his saddle pommel. The band of his cavalryman's hat was +fresh-stained with sweat. The roan horse under him was likewise wet. It +was high noon of a breathless day of heat. Even the birds and squirrels +did not dare the sun, but sheltered in shady hiding places among the +trees. + +Man and horse were littered with leaves and dusted with yellow pollen, +for the open was ventured no more than was compulsory. They kept to the +brush and trees, and invariably the man halted and peered out before +crossing a dry glade or naked stretch of upland pasturage. He worked +always to the north, though his way was devious, and it was from the +north that he seemed most to apprehend that for which he was looking. +He was no coward, but his courage was only that of the average civilized +man, and he was looking to live, not die. + +Up a small hillside he followed a cowpath through such dense scrub that +he was forced to dismount and lead his horse. But when the path swung +around to the west, he abandoned it and headed to the north again along +the oak-covered top of the ridge. + +The ridge ended in a steep descent-so steep that he zigzagged back and +forth across the face of the slope, sliding and stumbling among the dead +leaves and matted vines and keeping a watchful eye on the horse above +that threatened to fall down upon him. The sweat ran from him, and the +pollen-dust, settling pungently in mouth and nostrils, increased +his thirst. Try as he would, nevertheless the descent was noisy, and +frequently he stopped, panting in the dry heat and listening for any +warning from beneath. + +At the bottom he came out on a flat, so densely forested that he could +not make out its extent. Here the character of the woods changed, and he +was able to remount. Instead of the twisted hillside oaks, tall straight +trees, big-trunked and prosperous, rose from the damp fat soil. Only +here and there were thickets, easily avoided, while he encountered +winding, park-like glades where the cattle had pastured in the days +before war had run them off. + +His progress was more rapid now, as he came down into the valley, and at +the end of half an hour he halted at an ancient rail fence on the edge +of a clearing. He did not like the openness of it, yet his path lay +across to the fringe of trees that marked the banks of the stream. +It was a mere quarter of a mile across that open, but the thought of +venturing out in it was repugnant. A rifle, a score of them, a thousand, +might lurk in that fringe by the stream. + +Twice he essayed to start, and twice he paused. He was appalled by his +own loneliness. The pulse of war that beat from the West suggested the +companionship of battling thousands; here was naught but silence, and +himself, and possible death-dealing bullets from a myriad ambushes. And +yet his task was to find what he feared to find. He must on, and on, +till somewhere, some time, he encountered another man, or other men, +from the other side, scouting, as he was scouting, to make report, as he +must make report, of having come in touch. + +Changing his mind, he skirted inside the woods for a distance, and again +peeped forth. This time, in the middle of the clearing, he saw a +small farmhouse. There were no signs of life. No smoke curled from the +chimney, not a barnyard fowl clucked and strutted. The kitchen door +stood open, and he gazed so long and hard into the black aperture that +it seemed almost that a farmer's wife must emerge at any moment. + +He licked the pollen and dust from his dry lips, stiffened himself, mind +and body, and rode out into the blazing sunshine. Nothing stirred. He +went on past the house, and approached the wall of trees and bushes by +the river's bank. One thought persisted maddeningly. It was of the crash +into his body of a high-velocity bullet. It made him feel very fragile +and defenseless, and he crouched lower in the saddle. + +Tethering his horse in the edge of the wood, he continued a hundred +yards on foot till he came to the stream. Twenty feet wide it was, +without perceptible current, cool and inviting, and he was very thirsty. +But he waited inside his screen of leafage, his eyes fixed on the screen +on the opposite side. To make the wait endurable, he sat down, his +carbine resting on his knees. The minutes passed, and slowly his +tenseness relaxed. At last he decided there was no danger; but just as +he prepared to part the bushes and bend down to the water, a movement +among the opposite bushes caught his eye. + +It might be a bird. But he waited. Again there was an agitation of the +bushes, and then, so suddenly that it almost startled a cry from him, +the bushes parted and a face peered out. It was a face covered with +several weeks' growth of ginger-colored beard. The eyes were blue and +wide apart, with laughter-wrinkles in the comers that showed despite the +tired and anxious expression of the whole face. + +All this he could see with microscopic clearness, for the distance was +no more than twenty feet. And all this he saw in such brief time, that +he saw it as he lifted his carbine to his shoulder. He glanced along the +sights, and knew that he was gazing upon a man who was as good as dead. +It was impossible to miss at such point blank range. + +But he did not shoot. Slowly he lowered the carbine and watched. A +hand, clutching a water-bottle, became visible and the ginger beard bent +downward to fill the bottle. He could hear the gurgle of the water. Then +arm and bottle and ginger beard disappeared behind the closing bushes. +A long time he waited, when, with thirst unslaked, he crept back to his +horse, rode slowly across the sun-washed clearing, and passed into the +shelter of the woods beyond. + +II + +Another day, hot and breathless. A deserted farmhouse, large, with many +outbuildings and an orchard, standing in a clearing. From the Woods, on +a roan horse, carbine across pommel, rode the young man with the quick +black eyes. He breathed with relief as he gained the house. That a fight +had taken place here earlier in the season was evident. Clips and empty +cartridges, tarnished with verdigris, lay on the ground, which, while +wet, had been torn up by the hoofs of horses. Hard by the kitchen garden +were graves, tagged and numbered. From the oak tree by the kitchen door, +in tattered, weatherbeaten garments, hung the bodies of two men. The +faces, shriveled and defaced, bore no likeness to the faces of men. The +roan horse snorted beneath them, and the rider caressed and soothed it +and tied it farther away. + +Entering the house, he found the interior a wreck. He trod on empty +cartridges as he walked from room to room to reconnoiter from the +windows. Men had camped and slept everywhere, and on the floor of one +room he came upon stains unmistakable where the wounded had been laid +down. + +Again outside, he led the horse around behind the barn and invaded the +orchard. A dozen trees were burdened with ripe apples. He filled his +pockets, eating while he picked. Then a thought came to him, and he +glanced at the sun, calculating the time of his return to camp. He +pulled off his shirt, tying the sleeves and making a bag. This he +proceeded to fill with apples. + +As he was about to mount his horse, the animal suddenly pricked up its +ears. The man, too, listened, and heard, faintly, the thud of hoofs on +soft earth. He crept to the corner of the barn and peered out. A dozen +mounted men, strung out loosely, approaching from the opposite side of +the clearing, were only a matter of a hundred yards or so away. They +rode on to the house. Some dismounted, while others remained in the +saddle as an earnest that their stay would be short. They seemed to +be holding a council, for he could hear them talking excitedly in the +detested tongue of the alien invader. The time passed, but they seemed +unable to reach a decision. He put the carbine away in its boot, +mounted, and waited impatiently, balancing the shirt of apples on the +pommel. + +He heard footsteps approaching, and drove his spurs so fiercely into the +roan as to force a surprised groan from the animal as it leaped forward. +At the corner of the barn he saw the intruder, a mere boy of nineteen or +twenty for all of his uniform jump back to escape being run down. At +the same moment the roan swerved and its rider caught a glimpse of the +aroused men by the house. Some were springing from their horses, and +he could see the rifles going to their shoulders. He passed the kitchen +door and the dried corpses swinging in the shade, compelling his foes to +run around the front of the house. A rifle cracked, and a second, but he +was going fast, leaning forward, low in the saddle, one hand clutching +the shirt of apples, the other guiding the horse. + +The top bar of the fence was four feet high, but he knew his roan and +leaped it at full career to the accompaniment of several scattered +shots. Eight hundred yards straight away were the woods, and the roan +was covering the distance with mighty strides. Every man was now firing. +pumping their guns so rapidly that he no longer heard individual shots. +A bullet went through his hat, but he was unaware, though he did know +when another tore through the apples on the pommel. And he winced and +ducked even lower when a third bullet, fired low, struck a stone between +his horse's legs and ricochetted off through the air, buzzing and +humming like some incredible insect. + +The shots died down as the magazines were emptied, until, quickly, there +was no more shooting. The young man was elated. Through that astonishing +fusillade he had come unscathed. He glanced back. Yes, they had emptied +their magazines. He could see several reloading. Others were running +back behind the house for their horses. As he looked, two already +mounted, came back into view around the corner, riding hard. And at the +same moment, he saw the man with the unmistakable ginger beard kneel +down on the ground, level his gun, and coolly take his time for the long +shot. + +The young man threw his spurs into the horse, crouched very low, and +swerved in his flight in order to distract the other's aim. And still +the shot did not come. With each jump of the horse, the woods sprang +nearer. They were only two hundred yards away and still the shot was +delayed. + +And then he heard it, the last thing he was to hear, for he was dead ere +he hit the ground in the long crashing fall from the saddle. And they, +watching at the house, saw him fall, saw his body bounce when it struck +the earth, and saw the burst of red-cheeked apples that rolled about +him. They laughed at the unexpected eruption of apples, and clapped +their hands in applause of the long shot by the man with the ginger +beard. + + + + +UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS + +“CAN any man--a gentleman, I mean--call a woman a pig?” + +The little man flung this challenge forth to the whole group, then +leaned back in his deck chair, sipping lemonade with an air commingled +of certitude and watchful belligerence. Nobody made answer. They were +used to the little man and his sudden passions and high elevations. + +“I repeat, it was in my presence that he said a certain lady, whom none +of you knows, was a pig. He did not say swine. He grossly said that she +was a pig. And I hold that no man who is a man could possibly make such +a remark about any woman.” + +Dr. Dawson puffed stolidly at his black pipe. Matthews, with knees +hunched up and clasped by his arms, was absorbed in the flight of a +gunie. Sweet, finishing his Scotch and soda, was questing about with his +eyes for a deck steward. + +“I ask you, Mr. Treloar, can any man call any woman a pig?” + +Treloar, who happened to be sitting next to him, was startled by the +abruptness of the attack, and wondered what grounds he had ever given +the little man to believe that he could call a woman a pig. + +“I should say,” he began his hesitant answer, “that it--er--depends on +the--er--the lady.” + +The little man was aghast. + +“You mean...?” he quavered. + +“That I have seen female humans who were as bad as pigs--and worse.” + +There was a long pained silence. The little man seemed withered by the +coarse brutality of the reply. In his face was unutterable hurt and woe. + +“You have told of a man who made a not nice remark and you have +classified him,” Treloar said in cold, even tones. “I shall now tell +you about a woman--I beg your pardon--a lady, and when I have finished +I shall ask you to classify her. Miss Caruthers I shall call her, +principally for the reason that it is not her name. It was on a P. & O. +boat, and it occurred neither more nor less than several years ago. + +“Miss Caruthers was charming. No; that is not the word. She was amazing. +She was a young woman, and a lady. Her father was a certain high +official whose name, if I mentioned it, would be immediately recognized +by all of you. She was with her mother and two maids at the time, going +out to join the old gentleman wherever you like to wish in the East. + +“She, and pardon me for repeating, was amazing. It is the one adequate +word. Even the most minor adjectives applicable to her are bound to be +sheer superlatives. There was nothing she could not do better than any +woman and than most men. Sing, play--bah!--as some rhetorician once +said of old Nap, competition fled from her. Swim! She could have made +a fortune and a name as a public performer. She was one of those rare +women who can strip off all the frills of dress, and in simple swimming +suit be more satisfying beautiful. Dress! She was an artist. + +“But her swimming. Physically, she was the perfect woman--you know +what I mean, not in the gross, muscular way of acrobats, but in all the +delicacy of line and fragility of frame and texture. And combined with +this, strength. How she could do it was the marvel. You know the wonder +of a woman's arm--the fore arm, I mean; the sweet fading away from +rounded biceps and hint of muscle, down through small elbow and firm +soft swell to the wrist, small, unthinkably small and round and strong. +This was hers. And yet, to see her swimming the sharp quick English +overhand stroke, and getting somewhere with it, too, was--well, I +understand anatomy and athletics and such things, and yet it was a +mystery to me how she could do it. + +“She could stay under water for two minutes. I have timed her. No man +on board, except Dennitson, could capture as many coins as she with a +single dive. On the forward main-deck was a big canvas tank with six +feet of sea-water. We used to toss small coins into it. I have seen her +dive from the bridge deck--no mean feat in itself--into that six-feet +of water, and fetch up no less than forty-seven coins, scattered +willy-nilly over the whole bottom of the tank. Dennitson, a quiet young +Englishman, never exceeded her in this, though he made it a point always +to tie her score. + +“She was a sea-woman, true. But she was a land-woman, a +horsewoman--a--she was the universal woman. To see her, all softness of +soft dress, surrounded by half a dozen eager men, languidly careless of +them all or flashing brightness and wit on them and at them and through +them, one would fancy she was good for nothing else in the world. +At such moments I have compelled myself to remember her score of +forty-seven coins from the bottom of the swimming tank. But that was +she, the everlasting, wonder of a woman who did all things well. + +“She fascinated every betrousered human around her. She had me--and I +don't mind confessing it--she bad me to heel along with the rest. Young +puppies and old gray dogs who ought to have known better--oh, they all +came up and crawled around her skirts and whined and fawned when she +whistled. They were all guilty, from young Ardmore, a pink cherub of +nineteen outward bound for some clerkship in the Consular Service, to +old Captain Bentley, grizzled and sea-worn, and as emotional, to look +at, as a Chinese joss. There was a nice middle-aged chap, Perkins, I +believe, who forgot his wife was on board until Miss Caruthers sent him +to the right about and back where he belonged. + +“Men were wax in her hands. She melted them, or softly molded them, or +incinerated them, as she pleased. There wasn't a steward, even, grand +and remote as she was, who, at her bidding, would have hesitated to +souse the Old Man himself with a plate of soup. You have all seen such +women--a sort of world's desire to all men. As a man-conqueror she was +supreme. She was a whip-lash, a sting and a flame, an electric spark. +Oh, believe me, at times there were flashes of will that scorched +through her beauty and seduction and smote a victim into blank and +shivering idiocy and fear. + +“And don't fail to mark, in the light of what is to come, that she was +a prideful woman. Pride of race, pride of caste, pride of sex, pride of +power--she had it all, a pride strange and wilful and terrible. + +“She ran the ship, she ran the voyage, she ran everything, and she ran +Dennitson. That he had outdistanced the pack even the least wise of us +admitted. That she liked him, and that this feeling was growing, there +was not a doubt. I am certain that she looked on him with kinder eyes +than she had ever looked with on man before. We still worshiped, and +were always hanging about waiting to be whistled up, though we knew that +Dennitson was laps and laps ahead of us. What might have happened we +shall never know, for we came to Colombo and something else happened. + +“You know Colombo, and how the native boys dive for coins in the +shark-infested bay. Of course, it is only among the ground sharks and +fish sharks that they venture. It is almost uncanny the way they know +sharks and can sense the presence of a real killer--a tiger shark, for +instance, or a gray nurse strayed up from Australian waters. Let such a +shark appear, and, long before the passengers can guess, every mother's +son of them is out of the water in a wild scramble for safety. + +“It was after tiffin, and Miss Caruthers was holding her usual court +under the deck-awnings. Old Captain Bentley had just been whistled +up, and had granted her what he never granted before... nor +since--permission for the boys to come up on the promenade deck. You +see, Miss Caruthers was a swimmer, and she was interested. She took up +a collection of all our small change, and herself tossed it overside, +singly and in handfuls, arranging the terms of the contests, chiding a +miss, giving extra rewards to clever wins, in short, managing the whole +exhibition. + +“She was especially keen on their jumping. You know, jumping feet-first +from a height, it is very difficult to hold the body perpendicularly +while in the air. The center of gravity of the male body is high, and +the tendency is to overtopple. But the little beggars employed a method +which she declared was new to her and which she desired to learn. +Leaping from the davits of the boat-deck above, they plunged downward, +their faces and shoulders bowed forward, looking at the water. And only +at the last moment did they abruptly straighten up and enter the water +erect and true. + +“It was a pretty sight. Their diving was not so good, though there was +one of them who was excellent at it, as he was in all the other stunts. +Some white man must have taught him, for he made the proper swan dive +and did it as beautifully as I have ever seen it. You know, headfirst +into the water, from a great height, the problem is to enter the water +at the perfect angle. Miss the angle and it means at the least a twisted +back and injury for life. Also, it has meant death for many a bungler. +But this boy could do it--seventy feet I know he cleared in one dive +from the rigging--clenched hands on chest, head thrown back, sailing +more like a bird, upward and out, and out and down, body flat on the air +so that if it struck the surface in that position it would be split in +half like a herring. But the moment before the water is reached, the +head drops forward, the hands go out and lock the arms in an arch in +advance of the head, and the body curves gracefully downward and enters +the water just right. + +“This the boy did, again and again, to the delight of all of us, but +particularly of Miss Caruthers. He could not have been a moment over +twelve or thirteen, yet he was by far the cleverest of the gang. He was +the favorite of his crowd, and its leader. Though there were a number +older than he, they acknowledged his chieftaincy. He was a beautiful +boy, a lithe young god in breathing bronze, eyes wide apart, intelligent +and daring, a bubble, a mote, a beautiful flash and sparkle of life. You +have seen wonderful glorious creatures--animals, anything, a leopard, +a horse-restless, eager, too much alive ever to be still, silken of +muscle, each slightest movement a benediction of grace, every action +wild, untrammeled, and over all spilling out that intense vitality, that +sheen and luster of living light. The boy had it. Life poured out of him +almost in an effulgence. His skin glowed with it. It burned in his eyes. +I swear I could almost hear it crackle from him. Looking at him, it was +as if a whiff of ozone came to one's nostrils--so fresh and young was +he, so resplendent with health, so wildly wild. + +“This was the boy. And it was he who gave the alarm in the midst of the +sport. The boys made a dash of it for the gangway platform, swimming the +fastest strokes they knew, pellmell, floundering and splashing, fright +in their faces, clambering out with jumps and surges, any way to get +out, lending one another a hand to safety, till all were strung along +the gangway and peering down into the water. + +“'What is the matter?' asked Miss Caruthers. + +“'A shark, I fancy,' Captain Bentley answered. 'Lucky little beggars +that he didn't get one of them.' + +“'Are they afraid of sharks?' she asked. + +“'Aren't you?' he asked back.” + +She shuddered, looked overside at the water, and made a move. + +“'Not for the world would I venture where a shark might be,' she said, +and shuddered again. 'They are horrible! Horrible!' + +“The boys came up on the promenade deck, clustering close to the rail +and worshiping Miss Caruthers who had flung them such a wealth of +backsheesh. The performance being over, Captain Bentley motioned to them +to clear out. But she stopped him. + +“'One moment, please, Captain. I have always understood that the natives +are not afraid of sharks.' + +“She beckoned the boy of the swan dive nearer to her, and signed to +him to dive over again. He shook his head, and along with all his crew +behind him laughed as if it were a good joke. + +“'Shark,' he volunteered, pointing to the water. + +“'No,' she said. 'There is no shark.' + +“But he nodded his head positively, and the boys behind him nodded with +equal positiveness. + +“'No, no, no,' she cried. And then to us, 'Who'll lend me a half-crown +and a sovereign!' + +“Immediately the half dozen of us were presenting her with crowns and +sovereigns, and she accepted the two coins from young Ardmore. + +“She held up the half-crown for the boys to see. But there was no eager +rush to the rail preparatory to leaping. They stood there grinning +sheepishly. She offered the coin to each one individually, and each, +as his turn came, rubbed his foot against his calf, shook his head, +and grinned. Then she tossed the half-crown overboard. With wistful, +regretful faces they watched its silver flight through the air, but not +one moved to follow it. + +“'Don't do it with the sovereign,' Dennitson said to her in a low voice. + +“She took no notice, but held up the gold coin before the eyes of the +boy of the swan dive. + +“'Don't,' said Captain Bentley. 'I wouldn't throw a sick cat overside +with a shark around.' + +“But she laughed, bent on her purpose, and continued to dazzle the boy. + +“'Don't tempt him,' Dennitson urged. 'It is a fortune to him, and he +might go over after it.' + +“'Wouldn't YOU?' she flared at him. 'If I threw it?'” + +This last more softly. + +Dennitson shook his head. + +“'Your price is high,' she said. 'For how many sovereigns would you go?' + +“'There are not enough coined to get me overside,' was his answer. + +“She debated a moment, the boy forgotten in her tilt with Dennitson. + +“'For me?' she said very softly. + +“'To save your life--yes. But not otherwise.' + +“She turned back to the boy. Again she held the coin before his eyes, +dazzling him with the vastness of its value. Then she made as to toss +it out, and, involuntarily, he made a half-movement toward the rail, +but was checked by sharp cries of reproof from his companions. There was +anger in their voices as well. + +“'I know it is only fooling,' Dennitson said. 'Carry it as far as you +like, but for heaven's sake don't throw it.' + +“Whether it was that strange wilfulness of hers, or whether she doubted +the boy could be persuaded, there is no telling. It was unexpected to +all of us. Out from the shade of the awning the coin flashed golden +in the blaze of sunshine and fell toward the sea in a glittering arch. +Before a hand could stay him, the boy was over the rail and curving +beautifully downward after the coin. Both were in the air at the same +time. It was a pretty sight. The sovereign cut the water sharply, and at +the very spot, almost at the same instant, with scarcely a splash, the +boy entered. + +“From the quicker-eyed black boys watching, came an exclamation. We were +all at the railing. Don't tell me it is necessary for a shark to turn on +its back. That one did not. In the clear water, from the height we were +above it, we saw everything. The shark was a big brute, and with one +drive he cut the boy squarely in half. + +“There was a murmur or something from among us--who made it I did not +know; it might have been I. And then there was silence. Miss Caruthers +was the first to speak. Her face was deathly white. + +“'I never dreamed,' she said, and laughed a short, hysterical laugh. + +“All her pride was at work to give her control. She turned weakly toward +Dennitson, and then, on from one to another of us. In her eyes was a +terrible sickness, and her lips were trembling. We were brutes--oh, I +know it, now that I look back upon it. But we did nothing. + +“'Mr. Dennitson,' she said, 'Tom, won't you take me below!' + +“He never changed the direction of his gaze, which was the bleakest I +have ever seen in a man's face, nor did he move an eyelid. He took a +cigarette from his case and lighted it. Captain Bentley made a nasty +sound in his throat and spat overboard. That was all; that and the +silence. + +“She turned away and started to walk firmly down the deck. Twenty feet +away, she swayed and thrust a hand against the wall to save herself. And +so she went on, supporting herself against the cabins and walking very +slowly.” Treloar ceased. He turned his head and favored the little man +with a look of cold inquiry. + +“Well,” he said finally. “Classify her.” + +The little man gulped and swallowed. + +“I have nothing to say,” he said. “I have nothing whatever to say.” + + + + +TO KILL A MAN + +THOUGH dim night-lights burned, she moved familiarly through the big +rooms and wide halls, seeking vainly the half-finished book of verse she +had mislaid and only now remembered. When she turned on the lights in +the drawing-room, she disclosed herself clad in a sweeping negligee gown +of soft rose-colored stuff, throat and shoulders smothered in lace. Her +rings were still on her fingers, her massed yellow hair had not yet been +taken down. She was delicately, gracefully beautiful, with slender, +oval face, red lips, a faint color in the cheeks, and blue eyes of the +chameleon sort that at will stare wide with the innocence of childhood, +go hard and gray and brilliantly cold, or flame up in hot wilfulness and +mastery. + +She turned the lights off and passed out and down the hall toward the +morning room. At the entrance she paused and listened. From farther on +had come, not a noise, but an impression of movement. She could have +sworn she had not heard anything, yet something had been different. +The atmosphere of night quietude had been disturbed. She wondered what +servant could be prowling about. Not the butler, who was notorious +for retiring early save on special occasion. Nor could it be her maid, +whom she had permitted to go that evening. + +Passing on to the dining-room, she found the door closed. Why she opened +it and went on in, she did not know, except for the feeling that the +disturbing factor, whatever it might be, was there. The room was in +darkness, and she felt her way to the button and pressed. As the blaze +of light flashed on, she stepped back and cried out. It was a mere “Oh!” + and it was not loud. + + +Facing her, alongside the button, flat against the wall, was a man. In +his hand, pointed toward her, was a revolver. She noticed, even in +the shock of seeing him, that the weapon was black and exceedingly +long-barreled. She knew black and exceedingly long it for what it was, a +Colt's. He was a medium-sized man, roughly clad, brown-eyed, and swarthy +with sunburn. He seemed very cool. There was no wabble to the revolver +and it was directed toward her stomach, not from an outstretched arm, +but from the hip, against which the forearm rested. + +“Oh,” she said. “I beg your pardon. You startled me. What do you want?” + +“I reckon I want to get out,” he answered, with a humorous twitch to +the lips. “I've kind of lost my way in this here shebang, and if you'll +kindly show me the door I'll cause no trouble and sure vamoose.” + +“But what are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice touched with the +sharpness of one used to authority. + +“Plain robbing, Miss, that's all. I came snooping around to see what I +could gather up. I thought you wan't to home, seein' as I saw you pull +out with your old man in an auto. I reckon that must a ben your pa, and +you're Miss Setliffe.” + +Mrs. Setliffe saw his mistake, appreciated the naive compliment, and +decided not to undeceive him. + +“How do you know I am Miss Setliffe?” she asked. + +“This is old Setliffe's house, ain't it?” + +She nodded. + +“I didn't know he had a daughter, but I reckon you must be her. And now, +if it ain't botherin' you too much, I'd sure be obliged if you'd show me +the way out.” + +“But why should I? You are a robber, a burglar.” + +“If I wan't an ornery shorthorn at the business, I'd be accumulatin' +them rings on your fingers instead of being polite,” he retorted. + +“I come to make a raise outa old Setliffe, and not to be robbing +women-folks. If you get outa the way, I reckon I can find my own way +out.” + +Mrs. Setliffe was a keen woman, and she felt that from such a man there +was little to fear. That he was not a typical criminal, she was certain. +From his speech she knew he was not of the cities, and she seemed to +sense the wider, homelier air of large spaces. + +“Suppose I screamed?” she queried curiously. “Suppose I made an outcry +for help? You couldn't shoot me?... a woman?” + +She noted the fleeting bafflement in his brown eyes. He answered slowly +and thoughtfully, as if working out a difficult problem. “I reckon, +then, I'd have to choke you and maul you some bad.” + +“A woman?” + +“I'd sure have to,” he answered, and she saw his mouth set grimly. + +“You're only a soft woman, but you see, Miss, I can't afford to go to +jail. No, Miss, I sure can't. There's a friend of mine waitin' for +me out West. He's in a hole, and I've got to help him out.” The mouth +shaped even more grimly. “I guess I could choke you without hurting you +much to speak of.” + +Her eyes took on a baby stare of innocent incredulity as she watched +him. + +“I never met a burglar before,” she assured him, “and I can't begin to +tell you how interested I am.” + +“I'm not a burglar, Miss. Not a real one,” he hastened to add as she +looked her amused unbelief. “It looks like it, me being here in your +house. But it's the first time I ever tackled such a job. I needed the +money bad. Besides, I kind of look on it like collecting what's coming +to me.” + +“I don't understand,” she smiled encouragingly. “You came here to rob, +and to rob is to take what is not yours.” + +“Yes, and no, in this here particular case. But I reckon I'd better be +going now.” + +He started for the door of the dining-room, but she interposed, and a +very beautiful obstacle she made of herself. His left hand went out +as if to grip her, then hesitated. He was patently awed by her soft +womanhood. + +“There!” she cried triumphantly. “I knew you wouldn't.” + +The man was embarrassed. + +“I ain't never manhandled a woman yet,” he explained, “and it don't come +easy. But I sure will, if you set to screaming.” + +“Won't you stay a few minutes and talk?” she urged. “I'm so interested. +I should like to hear you explain how burglary is collecting what is +coming to you.” + +He looked at her admiringly. + +“I always thought women-folks were scairt of robbers,” he confessed. +“But you don't seem none.” + +She laughed gaily. + +“There are robbers and robbers, you know. I am not afraid of you, +because I am confident you are not the sort of creature that would harm +a woman. Come, talk with me a while. Nobody will disturb us. I am all +alone. My--father caught the night train to New York. The servants are +all asleep. I should like to give you something to eat--women always +prepare midnight suppers for the burglars they catch, at least they +do in the magazine stories. But I don't know where to find the food. +Perhaps you will have something to drink?” + +He hesitated, and did not reply; but she could see the admiration for +her growing in his eyes. + +“You're not afraid?” she queried. “I won't poison you, I promise. I'll +drink with you to show you it is all right.” + +“You sure are a surprise package of all right,” he declared, for the +first time lowering the weapon and letting it hang at his side. “No one +don't need to tell me ever again that women-folks in cities is afraid. +You ain't much--just a little soft pretty thing. But you've sure got the +spunk. And you're trustful on top of it. There ain't many women, or men +either, who'd treat a man with a gun the way you're treating me.” + +She smiled her pleasure in the compliment, and her face, was very +earnest as she said: + +“That is because I like your appearance. You are too decent-looking a +man to be a robber. You oughtn't to do such things. If you are in bad +luck you should go to work. Come, put away that nasty revolver and let +us talk it over. The thing for you to do is to work.” + +“Not in this burg,” he commented bitterly. “I've walked two inches off +the bottom of my legs trying to find a job. Honest, I was a fine large +man once... before I started looking for a job.” + +The merry laughter with which she greeted his sally obviously pleased +him, and she was quick to note and take advantage of it. She moved +directly away from the door and toward the sideboard. + +“Come, you must tell me all about it while I get that drink for you. +What will it be? Whisky?” + +“Yes, ma'am,” he said, as he followed her, though he still carried +the big revolver at his side, and though he glanced reluctantly at the +unguarded open door. + +She filled a glass for him at the sideboard. + +“I promised to drink with you,” she said hesitatingly. “But I don't like +whisky. I... I prefer sherry.” + +She lifted the sherry bottle tentatively for his consent. + +“Sure,” he answered, with a nod. “Whisky's a man's drink. I never like +to see women at it. Wine's more their stuff.” + +She raised her glass to his, her eyes meltingly sympathetic. + +“Here's to finding you a good position--” + +But she broke off at sight of the expression of surprised disgust on his +face. The glass, barely touched, was removed from his wry lips. + +“What is the matter!” she asked anxiously. “Don't you like it? Have I +made a mistake?” + +“It's sure funny whisky. Tastes like it got burned and smoked in the +making.” + +“Oh! How silly of me! I gave you Scotch. Of course you are accustomed to +rye. Let me change it.” + +She was almost solicitiously maternal, as she replaced the glass with +another and sought and found the proper bottle. + +“Better?” she asked. + +“Yes, ma'am. No smoke in it. It's sure the real good stuff. I ain't had +a drink in a week. Kind of slick, that; oily, you know; not made in a +chemical factory.” + +“You are a drinking man?” It was half a question, half a challenge. + +“No, ma'am, not to speak of. I HAVE rared up and ripsnorted at spells, +but most unfrequent. But there is times when a good stiff jolt lands on +the right spot kerchunk, and this is sure one of them. And now, thanking +you for your kindness, ma'am, I'll just be a pulling along.” + +But Mrs. Setliffe did not want to lose her burglar. She was too poised a +woman to possess much romance, but there was a thrill about the present +situation that delighted her. Besides, she knew there was no danger. The +man, despite his jaw and the steady brown eyes, was eminently tractable. +Also, farther back in her consciousness glimmered the thought of an +audience of admiring friends. It was too bad not to have that audience. + +“You haven't explained how burglary, in your case, is merely collecting +what is your own,” she said. “Come, sit down, and tell me about it here +at the table.” + +She maneuvered for her own seat, and placed him across the corner from +her. His alertness had not deserted him, as she noted, and his eyes +roved sharply about, returning always with smoldering admiration to +hers, but never resting long. And she noted likewise that while she +spoke he was intent on listening for other sounds than those of her +voice. Nor had he relinquished the revolver, which lay at the corner of +the table between them, the butt close to his right hand. + +But he was in a new habitat which he did not know. This man from the +West, cunning in woodcraft and plainscraft, with eyes and ears open, +tense and suspicious, did not know that under the table, close to her +foot, was the push button of an electric bell. He had never heard of +such a contrivance, and his keenness and wariness went for naught. + +“It's like this, Miss,” he began, in response to her urging. “Old +Setliffe done me up in a little deal once. It was raw, but it worked. +Anything will work full and legal when it's got few hundred million +behind it. I'm not squealin', and I ain't taking a slam at your pa. +He don't know me from Adam, and I reckon he don't know he done me outa +anything. He's too big, thinking and dealing in millions, to ever hear +of a small potato like me. He's an operator. He's got all kinds of +experts thinking and planning and working for him, some of them, I hear, +getting more cash salary than the President of the United States. I'm +only one of thousands that have been done up by your pa, that's all. + +“You see, ma'am, I had a little hole in the ground--a dinky, hydraulic, +one-horse outfit of a mine. And when the Setliffe crowd shook down +Idaho, and reorganized the smelter trust, and roped in the rest of the +landscape, and put through the big hydraulic scheme at Twin Pines, why +I sure got squeezed. I never had a run for my money. I was scratched +off the card before the first heat. And so, to-night, being broke and my +friend needing me bad, I just dropped around to make a raise outa your +pa. Seeing as I needed it, it kinda was coming to me.” + +“Granting all that you say is so,” she said, “nevertheless it does not +make house-breaking any the less house-breaking. You couldn't make such +a defense in a court of law.” + +“I know that,” he confessed meekly. “What's right ain't always legal. +And that's why I am so uncomfortable a-settin' here and talking with +you. Not that I ain't enjoying your company--I sure do enjoy it--but I +just can't afford to be caught. I know what they'd do to me in this here +city. There was a young fellow that got fifty years only last week for +holding a man up on the street for two dollars and eighty-five cents. I +read about it in the paper. When times is hard and they ain't no work, +men get desperate. And then the other men who've got something to be +robbed of get desperate, too, and they just sure soak it to the other +fellows. If I got caught, I reckon I wouldn't get a mite less than ten +years. That's why I'm hankering to be on my way.” + +“No; wait.” She lifted a detaining hand, at the same time removing her +foot from the bell, which she had been pressing intermittently. “You +haven't told me your name yet.” + +He hesitated. + +“Call me Dave.” + +“Then... Dave,” she laughed with pretty confusion. “Something must be +done for you. You are a young man, and you are just at the beginning +of a bad start. If you begin by attempting to collect what you think is +coming to you, later on you will be collecting what you are perfectly +sure isn't coming to you. And you know what the end will be. Instead of +this, we must find something honorable for you to do.” + +“I need the money, and I need it now,” he replied doggedly. “It's not +for myself, but for that friend I told you about. He's in a peck of +trouble, and he's got to get his lift now or not at all.” + +“I can find you a position,” she said quickly. “And--yes, the very +thing!--I'll lend you the money you want to send to your friend. This +you can pay back out of your salary.” + +“About three hundred would do,” he said slowly. “Three hundred would +pull him through. I'd work my fingers off for a year for that, and my +keep, and a few cents to buy Bull Durham with.” + +“Ah! You smoke! I never thought of it.” + +Her hand went out over the revolver toward his hand, as she pointed to +the tell-tale yellow stain on his fingers. At the same time her eyes +measured the nearness of her own hand and of his to the weapon. She +ached to grip it in one swift movement. She was sure she could do +it, and yet she was not sure; and so it was that she refrained as she +withdrew her hand. + +“Won't you smoke?” she invited. + +“I'm 'most dying to.” + +“Then do so. I don't mind. I really like it--cigarettes, I mean.” + +With his left band he dipped into his side pocket, brought out a +loose wheat-straw paper and shifted it to his right hand close by the +revolver. Again he dipped, transferring to the paper a pinch of brown, +flaky tobacco. Then he proceeded, both hands just over the revolver, to +roll the cigarette. + +“From the way you hover close to that nasty weapon, you seem to be +afraid of me,” she challenged. + +“Not exactly afraid of you, ma'am, but, under the circumstances, just a +mite timid.” + +“But I've not been afraid of you.” + +“You've got nothing to lose.” + +“My life,” she retorted. + +“That's right,” he acknowledged promptly, “and you ain't been scairt of +me. Mebbe I am over anxious.” + +“I wouldn't cause you any harm.” + +Even as she spoke, her slipper felt for the bell and pressed it. At the +same time her eyes were earnest with a plea of honesty. + +“You are a judge of men. I know it. And of women. Surely, when I am +trying to persuade you from a criminal life and to get you honest work +to do....?” + +He was immediately contrite. + +“I sure beg your pardon, ma'am,” he said. “I reckon my nervousness ain't +complimentary.” + +As he spoke, he drew his right hand from the table, and after lighting +the cigarette, dropped it by his side. + +“Thank you for your confidence,” she breathed softly, resolutely keeping +her eyes from measuring the distance to the revolver, and keeping her +foot pressed firmly on the bell. + +“About that three hundred,” he began. “I can telegraph it West to-night. +And I'll agree to work a year for it and my keep.” + +“You will earn more than that. I can promise seventy-five dollars a +month at the least. Do you know horses?” + +His face lighted up and his eyes sparkled. + +“Then go to work for me--or for my father, rather, though I engage all +the servants. I need a second coachman--” + +“And wear a uniform?” he interrupted sharply, the sneer of the free-born +West in his voice and on his lips. + +She smiled tolerantly. + +“Evidently that won't do. Let me think. Yes. Can you break and handle +colts?” + +He nodded. + +“We have a stock farm, and there's room for just such a man as you. Will +you take it?” + +“Will I, ma'am?” His voice was rich with gratitude and enthusiasm. “Show +me to it. I'll dig right in to-morrow. And I can sure promise you one +thing, ma'am. You'll never be sorry for lending Hughie Luke a hand in +his trouble--” + +“I thought you said to call you Dave,” she chided forgivingly. + +“I did, ma'am. I did. And I sure beg your pardon. It was just plain +bluff. My real name is Hughie Luke. And if you'll give me the address +of that stock farm of yours, and the railroad fare, I head for it first +thing in the morning.” + +Throughout the conversation she had never relaxed her attempts on the +bell. She had pressed it in every alarming way--three shorts and a long, +two and a long, and five. She had tried long series of shorts, and, +once, she had held the button down for a solid three minutes. And she +had been divided between objurgation of the stupid, heavy-sleeping +butler and doubt if the bell were in order. + +“I am so glad,” she said; “so glad that you are willing. There won't be +much to arrange. But you will first have to trust me while I go upstairs +for my purse.” + +She saw the doubt flicker momentarily in his eyes, and added hastily, +“But you see I am trusting you with the three hundred dollars.” + +“I believe you, ma'am,” he came back gallantly. “Though I just can't +help this nervousness.” + +“Shall I go and get it?” + +But before she could receive consent, a slight muffled jar from the +distance came to her ear. She knew it for the swing-door of the butler's +pantry. But so slight was it--more a faint vibration than a sound--that +she would not have heard had not her ears been keyed and listening for +it. Yet the man had heard. He was startled in his composed way. + +“What was that?” he demanded. + +For answer, her left hand flashed out to the revolver and brought it +back. She had had the start of him, and she needed it, for the next +instant his hand leaped up from his side, clutching emptiness where the +revolver had been. + +“Sit down!” she commanded sharply, in a voice new to him. “Don't move. +Keep your hands on the table.” + +She had taken a lesson from him. Instead of holding the heavy weapon +extended, the butt of it and her forearm rested on the table, the muzzle +pointed, not at his head, but his chest. And he, looking coolly and +obeying her commands, knew there was no chance of the kick-up of the +recoil producing a miss. Also, he saw that the revolver did not wabble, +nor the hand shake, and he was thoroughly conversant with the size of +hole the soft-nosed bullets could make. He had eyes, not for her, but +for the hammer, which had risen under the pressure of her forefinger on +the trigger. + +“I reckon I'd best warn you that that there trigger-pull is filed +dreadful fine. Don't press too hard, or I'll have a hole in me the size +of a walnut.” + +She slacked the hammer partly down. + +“That's better,” he commented. “You'd best put it down all the way. You +see how easy it works. If you want to, a quick light pull will jiffy her +up and back and make a pretty mess all over your nice floor.” + +A door opened behind him, and he heard somebody enter the room. But he +did not turn his bead. He was looking at her, and he found it the face +of another woman--hard, cold, pitiless yet brilliant in its beauty. The +eyes, too, were hard, though blazing with a cold light. + +“Thomas,” she commanded, “go to the telephone and call the police. Why +were you so long in answering?” + +“I came as soon as I heard the bell, madam,” was the answer. + +The robber never took his eyes from hers, nor did she from his, but +at mention of the bell she noticed that his eyes were puzzled for the +moment. + +“Beg your pardon,” said the butler from behind, “but wouldn't it be +better for me to get a weapon and arouse the servants?” + +“No; ring for the police. I can hold this man. Go and do it--quickly.” + +The butler slippered out of the room, and the man and the woman sat on, +gazing into each other's eyes. To her it was an experience keen with +enjoyment, and in her mind was the gossip of her crowd, and she saw +notes in the society weeklies of the beautiful young Mrs. Setliffe +capturing an armed robber single-handed. It would create a sensation, +she was sure. + +“When you get that sentence you mentioned,” she said coldly, “you will +have time to meditate upon what a fool you have been, taking other +persons' property and threatening women with revolvers. You will have +time to learn your lesson thoroughly. Now tell the truth. You haven't +any friend in trouble. All that you told me was lies.” + +He did not reply. Though his eyes were upon her, they seemed blank. In +truth, for the instant she was veiled to him, and what he saw was the +wide sunwashed spaces of the West, where men and women were bigger than +the rotten denizens, as he had encountered them, of the thrice rotten +cities of the East. + +“Go on. Why don't you speak? Why don't you lie some more? Why don't you +beg to be let off?” + +“I might,” he answered, licking his dry lips. “I might ask to be let off +if...” + +“If what?” she demanded peremptorily, as he paused. + +“I was trying to think of a word you reminded me of. As I was saying, I +might if you was a decent woman.” + +Her face paled. + +“Be careful,” she warned. + +“You don't dast kill me,” he sneered. “The world's a pretty low down +place to have a thing like you prowling around in it, but it ain't so +plumb low down, I reckon, as to let you put a hole in me. You're sure +bad, but the trouble with you is that you're weak in your badness. It +ain't much to kill a man, but you ain't got it in you. There's where you +lose out.” + +“Be careful of what you say,” she repeated. “Or else, I warn you, it +will go hard with you. It can be seen to whether your sentence is light +or heavy.” + +“Something's the matter with God,” he remarked irrelevantly, “to be +letting you around loose. It's clean beyond me what he's up to, playing +such-like tricks on poor humanity. Now if I was God--” + +His further opinion was interrupted by the entrance of the butler. + +“Something is wrong with the telephone, madam,” he announced. “The wires +are crossed or something, because I can't get Central.” + +“Go and call one of the servants,” she ordered. “Send him out for an +officer, and then return here.” + +Again the pair was left alone. + +“Will you kindly answer one question, ma'am?” the man said. “That +servant fellow said something about a bell. I watched you like a cat, +and you sure rung no bell.” + +“It was under the table, you poor fool. I pressed it with my foot.” + +“Thank you, ma'am. I reckoned I'd seen your kind before, and now I sure +know I have. I spoke to you true and trusting, and all the time you was +lying like hell to me.” + +She laughed mockingly. + +“Go on. Say what you wish. It is very interesting.” + +“You made eyes at me, looking soft and kind, playing up all the time the +fact that you wore skirts instead of pants--and all the time with your +foot on the bell under the table. Well, there's some consolation. I'd +sooner be poor Hughie Luke, doing his ten years, than be in your skin. +Ma'am, hell is full of women like you.” + +There was silence for a space, in which the man, never taking his eyes +from her, studying her, was making up his mind. + +“Go on,” she urged. “Say something.” + +“Yes, ma'am, I'll say something. I'll sure say something. Do you know +what I'm going to do? I'm going to get right up from this chair and walk +out that door. I'd take the gun from you, only you might turn foolish +and let it go off. You can have the gun. It's a good one. As I was +saying, I am going right out that door. And you ain't going to pull that +gun off either. It takes guts to shoot a man, and you sure ain't got +them. Now get ready and see if you can pull that trigger. I ain't going +to harm you. I'm going out that door, and I'm starting.” + +Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he pushed back the chair and slowly stood +erect. The hammer rose halfway. She watched it. So did he. + +“Pull harder,” he advised. “It ain't half up yet. Go on and pull it and +kill a man. That's what I said, kill a man, spatter his brains out on +the floor, or slap a hole into him the size of your fist. That's what +killing a man means.” + +The hammer lowered jerkily but gently. The man turned his back and +walked slowly to the door. She swung the revolver around so that it bore +on his back. Twice again the hammer came up halfway and was reluctantly +eased down. + +At the door the man turned for a moment before passing on. A sneer was +on his lips. He spoke to her in a low voice, almost drawling, but in +it was the quintessence of all loathing, as he called her a name +unspeakable and vile. + + + + +THE MEXICAN + +NOBODY knew his history--they of the Junta least of all. He was their +“little mystery,” their “big patriot,” and in his way he worked as +hard for the coming Mexican Revolution as did they. They were tardy in +recognizing this, for not one of the Junta liked him. The day he first +drifted into their crowded, busy rooms, they all suspected him of being +a spy--one of the bought tools of the Diaz secret service. Too many of +the comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the United +States, and others of them, in irons, were even then being taken across +the border to be lined up against adobe walls and shot. + +At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably. Boy he was, +not more than eighteen and not over large for his years. He announced +that he was Felipe Rivera, and that it was his wish to work for the +Revolution. That was all--not a wasted word, no further explanation. He +stood waiting. There was no smile on his lips, no geniality in his eyes. +Big dashing Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder. Here was something +forbidding, terrible, inscrutable. There was something venomous and +snakelike in the boy's black eyes. They burned like cold fire, as with +a vast, concentrated bitterness. He flashed them from the faces of +the conspirators to the typewriter which little Mrs. Sethby was +industriously operating. His eyes rested on hers but an instant--she +had chanced to look up--and she, too, sensed the nameless something that +made her pause. She was compelled to read back in order to regain the +swing of the letter she was writing. + +Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos, and +questioningly they looked back and to each other. The indecision of +doubt brooded in their eyes. This slender boy was the Unknown, vested +with all the menace of the Unknown. He was unrecognizable, something +quite beyond the ken of honest, ordinary revolutionists whose fiercest +hatred for Diaz and his tyranny after all was only that of honest and +ordinary patriots. Here was something else, they knew not what. But +Vera, always the most impulsive, the quickest to act, stepped into the +breach. + +“Very well,” he said coldly. “You say you want to work for the +Revolution. Take off your coat. Hang it over there. I will show you, +come--where are the buckets and cloths. The floor is dirty. You will +begin by scrubbing it, and by scrubbing the floors of the other rooms. +The spittoons need to be cleaned. Then there are the windows.” + +“Is it for the Revolution?” the boy asked. + +“It is for the Revolution,” Vera answered. + +Rivera looked cold suspicion at all of them, then proceeded to take off +his coat. + +“It is well,” he said. + +And nothing more. Day after day he came to his work--sweeping, +scrubbing, cleaning. He emptied the ashes from the stoves, brought up +the coal and kindling, and lighted the fires before the most energetic +one of them was at his desk. + +“Can I sleep here?” he asked once. + +Ah, ha! So that was it--the hand of Diaz showing through! To sleep in +the rooms of the Junta meant access to their secrets, to the lists of +names, to the addresses of comrades down on Mexican soil. The request +was denied, and Rivera never spoke of it again. He slept they knew not +where, and ate they knew not where nor how. Once, Arrellano offered him +a couple of dollars. Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head. +When Vera joined in and tried to press it upon him, he said: + +“I am working for the Revolution.” + +It takes money to raise a modern revolution, and always the Junta was +pressed. The members starved and toiled, and the longest day was none +too long, and yet there were times when it appeared as if the Revolution +stood or fell on no more than the matter of a few dollars. Once, the +first time, when the rent of the house was two months behind and the +landlord was threatening dispossession, it was Felipe Rivera, the +scrub-boy in the poor, cheap clothes, worn and threadbare, who laid +sixty dollars in gold on May Sethby's desk. There were other times. +Three hundred letters, clicked out on the busy typewriters (appeals for +assistance, for sanctions from the organized labor groups, requests for +square news deals to the editors of newspapers, protests against the +high-handed treatment of revolutionists by the United States courts), +lay unmailed, awaiting postage. Vera's watch had disappeared--the +old-fashioned gold repeater that had been his father's. Likewise had +gone the plain gold band from May Setbby's third finger. Things were +desperate. Ramos and Arrellano pulled their long mustaches in despair. +The letters must go off, and the Post Office allowed no credit to +purchasers of stamps. Then it was that Rivera put on his hat and +went out. When he came back he laid a thousand two-cent stamps on May +Sethby's desk. + +“I wonder if it is the cursed gold of Diaz?” said Vera to the comrades. + +They elevated their brows and could not decide. And Felipe Rivera, the +scrubber for the Revolution, continued, as occasion arose, to lay down +gold and silver for the Junta's use. + +And still they could not bring themselves to like him. They did not know +him. His ways were not theirs. He gave no confidences. He repelled all +probing. Youth that he was, they could never nerve themselves to dare to +question him. + +“A great and lonely spirit, perhaps, I do not know, I do not know,” + Arrellano said helplessly. + +“He is not human,” said Ramos. + +“His soul has been seared,” said May Sethby. “Light and laughter have +been burned out of him. He is like one dead, and yet he is fearfully +alive.” + +“He has been through hell,” said Vera. “No man could look like that who +has not been through hell--and he is only a boy.” + +Yet they could not like him. He never talked, never inquired, never +suggested. He would stand listening, expressionless, a thing dead, save +for his eyes, coldly burning, while their talk of the Revolution ran +high and warm. From face to face and speaker to speaker his eyes +would turn, boring like gimlets of incandescent ice, disconcerting and +perturbing. + +“He is no spy,” Vera confided to May Sethby. “He is a patriot--mark me, +the greatest patriot of us all. I know it, I feel it, here in my heart +and head I feel it. But him I know not at all.” + +“He has a bad temper,” said May Sethby. + +“I know,” said Vera, with a shudder. “He has looked at me with those +eyes of his. They do not love; they threaten; they are savage as a wild +tiger's. I know, if I should prove unfaithful to the Cause, that he +would kill me. He has no heart. He is pitiless as steel, keen and cold +as frost. He is like moonshine in a winter night when a man freezes to +death on some lonely mountain top. I am not afraid of Diaz and all his +killers; but this boy, of him am I afraid. I tell you true. I am afraid. +He is the breath of death.” + +Yet Vera it was who persuaded the others to give the first trust +to Rivera. The line of communication between Los Angeles and Lower +California had broken down. Three of the comrades had dug their own +graves and been shot into them. Two more were United States prisoners +in Los Angeles. Juan Alvarado, the Federal commander, was a monster. All +their plans did he checkmate. They could no longer gain access to the +active revolutionists, and the incipient ones, in Lower California. + +Young Rivera was given his instructions and dispatched south. When he +returned, the line of communication was reestablished, and Juan Alvarado +was dead. He had been found in bed, a knife hilt-deep in his breast. +This had exceeded Rivera's instructions, but they of the Junta knew the +times of his movements. They did not ask him. He said nothing. But they +looked at one another and conjectured. + +“I have told you,” said Vera. “Diaz has more to fear from this youth +than from any man. He is implacable. He is the hand of God.” + +The bad temper, mentioned by May Sethby, and sensed by them all, +was evidenced by physical proofs. Now he appeared with a cut lip, +a blackened cheek, or a swollen ear. It was patent that he brawled, +somewhere in that outside world where he ate and slept, gained money, +and moved in ways unknown to them. As the time passed, he had come to +set type for the little revolutionary sheet they published weekly. There +were occasions when he was unable to set type, when his knuckles were +bruised and battered, when his thumbs were injured and helpless, when +one arm or the other hung wearily at his side while his face was drawn +with unspoken pain. + +“A wastrel,” said Arrellano. + +“A frequenter of low places,” said Ramos. + +“But where does he get the money?” Vera demanded. “Only to-day, just +now, have I learned that he paid the bill for white paper--one hundred +and forty dollars.” + +“There are his absences,” said May Sethby. “He never explains them.” + +“We should set a spy upon him,” Ramos propounded. + +“I should not care to be that spy,” said Vera. “I fear you would never +see me again, save to bury me. He has a terrible passion. Not even God +would he permit to stand between him and the way of his passion.” + +“I feel like a child before him,” Ramos confessed. + +“To me he is power--he is the primitive, the wild wolf, the striking +rattlesnake, the stinging centipede,” said Arrellano. + +“He is the Revolution incarnate,” said Vera. “He is the flame and the +spirit of it, the insatiable cry for vengeance that makes no cry but +that slays noiselessly. He is a destroying angel in moving through the +still watches of the night.” + +“I could weep over him,” said May Sethby. “He knows nobody. He hates +all people. Us he tolerates, for we are the way of his desire. He is +alone.... lonely.” Her voice broke in a half sob and there was dimness +in her eyes. + +Rivera's ways and times were truly mysterious. There were periods when +they did not see him for a week at a time. Once, he was away a month. +These occasions were always capped by his return, when, without +advertisement or speech, he laid gold coins on May Sethby's desk. Again, +for days and weeks, he spent all his time with the Junta. And yet again, +for irregular periods, he would disappear through the heart of each day, +from early morning until late afternoon. At such times he came early and +remained late. Arrellano had found him at midnight, setting type with +fresh swollen knuckles, or mayhap it was his lip, new-split, that still +bled. + +II + +The time of the crisis approached. Whether or not the Revolution would +be depended upon the Junta, and the Junta was hard-pressed. The need +for money was greater than ever before, while money was harder to get. +Patriots had given their last cent and now could give no more. Section +gang laborers-fugitive peons from Mexico--were contributing half +their scanty wages. But more than that was needed. The heart-breaking, +conspiring, undermining toil of years approached fruition. The time +was ripe. The Revolution hung on the balance. One shove more, one last +heroic effort, and it would tremble across the scales to victory. They +knew their Mexico. Once started, the Revolution would take care of +itself. The whole Diaz machine would go down like a house of cards. The +border was ready to rise. One Yankee, with a hundred I.W.W. men, waited +the word to cross over the border and begin the conquest of Lower +California. But he needed guns. And clear across to the Atlantic, +the Junta in touch with them all and all of them needing guns, mere +adventurers, soldiers of fortune, bandits, disgruntled American union +men, socialists, anarchists, rough-necks, Mexican exiles, peons escaped +from bondage, whipped miners from the bull-pens of Coeur d'Alene and +Colorado who desired only the more vindictively to fight--all the +flotsam and jetsam of wild spirits from the madly complicated modern +world. And it was guns and ammunition, ammunition and guns--the +unceasing and eternal cry. + +Fling this heterogeneous, bankrupt, vindictive mass across the border, +and the Revolution was on. The custom house, the northern ports of +entry, would be captured. Diaz could not resist. He dared not throw +the weight of his armies against them, for he must hold the south. And +through the south the flame would spread despite. The people would rise. +The defenses of city after city would crumple up. State after state +would totter down. And at last, from every side, the victorious armies +of the Revolution would close in on the City of Mexico itself, Diaz's +last stronghold. + +But the money. They had the men, impatient and urgent, who would use the +guns. They knew the traders who would sell and deliver the guns. But to +culture the Revolution thus far had exhausted the Junta. The last dollar +had been spent, the last resource and the last starving patriot milked +dry, and the great adventure still trembled on the scales. Guns and +ammunition! The ragged battalions must be armed. But how? Ramos lamented +his confiscated estates. Arrellano wailed the spendthriftness of his +youth. May Sethby wondered if it would have been different had they of +the Junta been more economical in the past. + +“To think that the freedom of Mexico should stand or fall on a few +paltry thousands of dollars,” said Paulino Vera. + +Despair was in all their faces. Jose Amarillo, their last hope, a recent +convert, who had promised money, had been apprehended at his hacienda in +Chihuahua and shot against his own stable wall. The news had just come +through. + +Rivera, on his knees, scrubbing, looked up, with suspended brush, his +bare arms flecked with soapy, dirty water. + +“Will five thousand do it?” he asked. + +They looked their amazement. Vera nodded and swallowed. He could not +speak, but he was on the instant invested with a vast faith. + +“Order the guns,” Rivera said, and thereupon was guilty of the longest +flow of words they had ever heard him utter. “The time is short. In +three weeks I shall bring you the five thousand. It is well. The weather +will be warmer for those who fight. Also, it is the best I can do.” + +Vera fought his faith. It was incredible. Too many fond hopes had been +shattered since he had begun to play the revolution game. He believed +this threadbare scrubber of the Revolution, and yet he dared not +believe. + +“You are crazy,” he said. + +“In three weeks,” said Rivera. “Order the guns.” + +He got up, rolled down his sleeves, and put on his coat. + +“Order the guns,” he said. + +“I am going now.” + +III + +After hurrying and scurrying, much telephoning and bad language, a night +session was held in Kelly's office. Kelly was rushed with business; +also, he was unlucky. He had brought Danny Ward out from New York, +arranged the fight for him with Billy Carthey, the date was three +weeks away, and for two days now, carefully concealed from the sporting +writers, Carthey had been lying up, badly injured. There was no one to +take his place. Kelly had been burning the wires East to every eligible +lightweight, but they were tied up with dates and contracts. And now +hope had revived, though faintly. + +“You've got a hell of a nerve,” Kelly addressed Rivera, after one look, +as soon as they got together. + +Hate that was malignant was in Rivera's eyes, but his face remained +impassive. + +“I can lick Ward,” was all he said. + +“How do you know? Ever see him fight?” + +Rivera shook his head. + +“He can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed.” + +Rivera shrugged his shoulders. + +“Haven't you got anything to say?” the fight promoter snarled. + +“I can lick him.” + +“Who'd you ever fight, anyway!” Michael Kelly demanded. Michael was the +promotor's brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms where he made +goodly sums on the fight game. + +Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare. + +The promoter's secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, sneered +audibly. + +“Well, you know Roberts,” Kelly broke the hostile silence. “He ought to +be here. I've sent for him. Sit down and wait, though f rom the looks of +you, you haven't got a chance. I can't throw the public down with a bum +fight. Ringside seats are selling at fifteen dollars, you know that.” + +When Roberts arrived, it was patent that he was mildly drunk. He was a +tall, lean, slack-jointed individual, and his walk, like his talk, was a +smooth and languid drawl. + +Kelly went straight to the point. + +“Look here, Roberts, you've been bragging you discovered this little +Mexican. You know Carthey's broke his arm. Well, this little yellow +streak has the gall to blow in to-day and say he'll take Carthey's +place. What about it?” + +“It's all right, Kelly,” came the slow response. “He can put up a +fight.” + +“I suppose you'll be sayin' next that he can lick Ward,” Kelly snapped. + +Roberts considered judicially. + +“No, I won't say that. Ward's a top-notcher and a ring general. But he +can't hashhouse Rivera in short order. I know Rivera. Nobody can get +his goat. He ain't got a goat that I could ever discover. And he's a +two-handed fighter. He can throw in the sleep-makers from any position.” + +“Never mind that. What kind of a show can he put up? You've been +conditioning and training fighters all your life. I take off my hat to +your judgment. Can he give the public a run for its money?” + +“He sure can, and he'll worry Ward a mighty heap on top of it. You +don't know that boy. I do. I discovered him. He ain't got a goat. He's a +devil. He's a wizzy-wooz if anybody should ask you. He'll make Ward sit +up with a show of local talent that'll make the rest of you sit up. I +won't say he'll lick Ward, but he'll put up such a show that you'll all +know he's a comer.” + +“All right.” Kelly turned to his secretary. “Ring up Ward. I warned +him to show up if I thought it worth while. He's right across at the +Yellowstone, throwin' chests and doing the popular.” + +Kelly turned back to the conditioner. “Have a drink?” + +Roberts sipped his highball and unburdened himself. + +“Never told you how I discovered the little cuss. It was a couple of +years ago he showed up out at the quarters. I was getting Prayne ready +for his fight with Delaney. Prayne's wicked. He ain't got a tickle of +mercy in his make-up. I chopped up his pardner's something cruel, and +I couldn't find a willing boy that'd work with him. I'd noticed this +little starved Mexican kid hanging around, and I was desperate. So +I grabbed him, shoved on the gloves and put him in. He was tougher'n +rawhide, but weak. And he didn't know the first letter in the alphabet +of boxing. Prayne chopped him to ribbons. But he hung on for two +sickening rounds, when he fainted. Starvation, that was all. Battered! +You couldn't have recognized him. I gave him half a dollar and a square +meal. You oughta seen him wolf it down. He hadn't had the end of a bite +for a couple of days. That's the end of him, thinks I. But next day he +showed up, stiff an' sore, ready for another half and a square meal. And +he done better as time went by. Just a born fighter, and tough beyond +belief. He hasn't a heart. He's a piece of ice. And he never talked +eleven words in a string since I know him. He saws wood and does his +work.” + +“I've seen 'm,” the secretary said. “He's worked a lot for you.” + +“All the big little fellows has tried out on him,” Roberts answered. +“And he's learned from 'em. I've seen some of them he could lick. But +his heart wasn't in it. I reckoned he never liked the game. He seemed to +act that way.” + +“He's been fighting some before the little clubs the last few months,” + Kelly said. + +“Sure. But I don't know what struck 'm. All of a sudden his heart got +into it. He just went out like a streak and cleaned up all the little +local fellows. Seemed to want the money, and he's won a bit, though his +clothes don't look it. He's peculiar. Nobody knows his business. Nobody +knows how he spends his time. Even when he's on the job, he plumb up and +disappears most of each day soon as his work is done. Sometimes he just +blows away for weeks at a time. But he don't take advice. There's a +fortune in it for the fellow that gets the job of managin' him, only he +won't consider it. And you watch him hold out for the cash money when +you get down to terms.” + +It was at this stage that Danny Ward arrived. Quite a party it was. +His manager and trainer were with him, and he breezed in like a gusty +draught of geniality, good-nature, and all-conqueringness. Greetings +flew about, a joke here, a retort there, a smile or a laugh for +everybody. Yet it was his way, and only partly sincere. He was a good +actor, and he had found geniality a most valuable asset in the game +of getting on in the world. But down underneath he was the deliberate, +cold-blooded fighter and business man. The rest was a mask. Those who +knew him or trafficked with him said that when it came to brass tacks +he was Danny-on-the-Spot. He was invariably present at all business +discussions, and it was urged by some that his manager was a blind whose +only function was to serve as Danny's mouth-piece. + +Rivera's way was different. Indian blood, as well as Spanish, was in +his veins, and he sat back in a corner, silent, immobile, only his black +eyes passing from face to face and noting everything. + +“So that's the guy,” Danny said, running an appraising eye over his +proposed antagonist. “How de do, old chap.” + +Rivera's eyes burned venomously, but he made no sign of acknowledgment. +He disliked all Gringos, but this Gringo he hated with an immediacy that +was unusual even in him. + +“Gawd!” Danny protested facetiously to the promoter. “You ain't +expectin' me to fight a deef mute.” When the laughter subsided, he made +another hit. “Los Angeles must be on the dink when this is the best you +can scare up. What kindergarten did you get 'm from?” + +“He's a good little boy, Danny, take it from me,” Roberts defended. “Not +as easy as he looks.” + +“And half the house is sold already,” Kelly pleaded. “You'll have to +take 'm on, Danny. It is the best we can do.” + +Danny ran another careless and unflattering glance over Rivera and +sighed. + +“I gotta be easy with 'm, I guess. If only he don't blow up.” + +Roberts snorted. + +“You gotta be careful,” Danny's manager warned. “No taking chances with +a dub that's likely to sneak a lucky one across.” + +“Oh, I'll be careful all right, all right,” Danny smiled. “I'll get in +at the start an' nurse 'im along for the dear public's sake. What d' ye +say to fifteen rounds, Kelly--an' then the hay for him?” + +“That'll do,” was the answer. “As long as you make it realistic.” + +“Then let's get down to biz.” Danny paused and calculated. “Of course, +sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts, same as with Carthey. But +the split'll be different. Eighty will just about suit me.” And to his +manager, “That right?” + +The manager nodded. + +“Here, you, did you get that?” Kelly asked Rivera. + +Rivera shook his head. + +“Well, it is this way,” Kelly exposited. “The purse'll be sixty-five per +cent of the gate receipts. You're a dub, and an unknown. You and Danny +split, twenty per cent goin' to you, an' eighty to Danny. That's fair, +isn't it, Roberts?” + +“Very fair, Rivera,” Roberts agreed. + +“You see, you ain't got a reputation yet.” + +“What will sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts be?” Rivera +demanded. + +“Oh, maybe five thousand, maybe as high as eight thousand,” Danny broke +in to explain. “Something like that. Your share'll come to something +like a thousand or sixteen hundred. Pretty good for takin' a licking +from a guy with my reputation. What d' ye say?” + +Then Rivera took their breaths away. “Winner takes all,” he said with +finality. + +A dead silence prevailed. + +“It's like candy from a baby,” Danny's manager proclaimed. + +Danny shook his head. + +“I've been in the game too long,” he explained. + +“I'm not casting reflections on the referee, or the present company. +I'm not sayin' nothing about book-makers an' frame-ups that sometimes +happen. But what I do say is that it's poor business for a fighter like +me. I play safe. There's no tellin'. Mebbe I break my arm, eh? Or some +guy slips me a bunch of dope?” He shook his head solemnly. “Win or lose, +eighty is my split. What d' ye say, Mexican?” + +Rivera shook his head. + +Danny exploded. He was getting down to brass tacks now. + +“Why, you dirty little greaser! I've a mind to knock your block off +right now.” + +Roberts drawled his body to interposition between hostilities. + +“Winner takes all,” Rivera repeated sullenly. + +“Why do you stand out that way?” Danny asked. + +“I can lick you,” was the straight answer. + +Danny half started to take off his coat. But, as his manager knew, it +was a grand stand play. The coat did not come off, and Danny allowed +himself to be placated by the group. Everybody sympathized with him. +Rivera stood alone. + +“Look here, you little fool,” Kelly took up the argument. “You're +nobody. We know what you've been doing the last few months--putting away +little local fighters. But Danny is class. His next fight after this +will be for the championship. And you're unknown. Nobody ever heard of +you out of Los Angeles.” + +“They will,” Rivera answered with a shrug, “after this fight.” + +“You think for a second you can lick me?” Danny blurted in. + +Rivera nodded. + +“Oh, come; listen to reason,” Kelly pleaded. “Think of the advertising.” + +“I want the money,” was Rivera's answer. + +“You couldn't win from me in a thousand years,” Danny assured him. + +“Then what are you holdin' out for?” Rivera countered. “If the money's +that easy, why don't you go after it?” + +“I will, so help me!” Danny cried with abrupt conviction. “I'll beat you +to death in the ring, my boy--you monkeyin' with me this way. Make +out the articles, Kelly. Winner take all. Play it up in the sportin' +columns. Tell 'em it's a grudge fight. I'll show this fresh kid a few.” + +Kelly's secretary had begun to write, when Danny interrupted. + +“Hold on!” He turned to Rivera. + +“Weights?” + +“Ringside,” came the answer. + +“Not on your life, Fresh Kid. If winner takes all, we weigh in at ten +A.M.” + +“And winner takes all?” Rivera queried. + +Danny nodded. That settled it. He would enter the ring in his full +ripeness of strength. + +“Weigh in at ten,” Rivera said. + +The secretary's pen went on scratching. + +“It means five pounds,” Roberts complained to Rivera. + +“You've given too much away. You've thrown the fight right there. +Danny'll lick you sure. He'll be as strong as a bull. You're a fool. You +ain't got the chance of a dewdrop in hell.” + +Rivera's answer was a calculated look of hatred. Even this Gringo he +despised, and him had he found the whitest Gringo of them all. + +IV + +Barely noticed was Rivera as he entered the ring. Only a very slight and +very scattering ripple of half-hearted hand-clapping greeted him. The +house did not believe in him. He was the lamb led to slaughter at the +hands of the great Danny. Besides, the house was disappointed. It had +expected a rushing battle between Danny Ward and Billy Carthey, and +here it must put up with this poor little tyro. Still further, it had +manifested its disapproval of the change by betting two, and even three, +to one on Danny. And where a betting audience's money is, there is its +heart. + +The Mexican boy sat down in his corner and waited. The slow minutes +lagged by. Danny was making him wait. It was an old trick, but ever it +worked on the young, new fighters. They grew frightened, sitting thus +and facing their own apprehensions and a callous, tobacco-smoking +audience. But for once the trick failed. Roberts was right. Rivera had +no goat. He, who was more delicately coordinated, more finely nerved and +strung than any of them, had no nerves of this sort. The atmosphere of +foredoomed defeat in his own corner had no effect on him. His handlers +were Gringos and strangers. Also they were scrubs--the dirty driftage +of the fight game, without honor, without efficiency. And they were +chilled, as well, with certitude that theirs was the losing corner. + +“Now you gotta be careful,” Spider Hagerty warned him. Spider was his +chief second. “Make it last as long as you can--them's my instructions +from Kelly. If you don't, the papers'll call it another bum fight and +give the game a bigger black eye in Los Angeles.” + +All of which was not encouraging. But Rivera took no notice. He despised +prize fighting. It was the hated game of the hated Gringo. He had taken +up with it, as a chopping block for others in the training quarters, +solely because he was starving. The fact that he was marvelously made +for it had meant nothing. He hated it. Not until he had come in to the +Junta, had he fought for money, and he had found the money easy. Not +first among the sons of men had he been to find himself successful at a +despised vocation. + +He did not analyze. He merely knew that he must win this fight. There +could be no other outcome. For behind him, nerving him to this belief, +were profounder forces than any the crowded house dreamed. Danny Ward +fought for money, and for the easy ways of life that money would bring. +But the things Rivera fought for burned in his brain--blazing and +terrible visions, that, with eyes wide open, sitting lonely in the +corner of the ring and waiting for his tricky antagonist, he saw as +clearly as he had lived them. + +He saw the white-walled, water-power factories of Rio Blanco. He saw the +six thousand workers, starved and wan, and the little children, seven +and eight years of age, who toiled long shifts for ten cents a day. +He saw the perambulating corpses, the ghastly death's heads of men who +labored in the dye-rooms. He remembered that he had heard his father +call the dye-rooms the “suicide-holes,” where a year was death. He +saw the little patio, and his mother cooking and moiling at crude +housekeeping and finding time to caress and love him. And his father he +saw, large, big-moustached and deep-chested, kindly above all men, +who loved all men and whose heart was so large that there was love to +overflowing still left for the mother and the little muchacho playing +in the corner of the patio. In those days his name had not been Felipe +Rivera. It had been Fernandez, his father's and mother's name. Him had +they called Juan. Later, he had changed it himself, for he had found +the name of Fernandez hated by prefects of police, jefes politicos, and +rurales. + +Big, hearty Joaquin Fernandez! A large place he occupied in Rivera's +visions. He had not understood at the time, but looking back he could +understand. He could see him setting type in the little printery, or +scribbling endless hasty, nervous lines on the much-cluttered desk. And +he could see the strange evenings, when workmen, coming secretly in the +dark like men who did ill deeds, met with his father and talked long +hours where he, the muchacho, lay not always asleep in the corner. + +As from a remote distance he could hear Spider Hagerty saying to him: +“No layin' down at the start. Them's instructions. Take a beatin' and +earn your dough.” + +Ten minutes had passed, and he still sat in his corner. There were no +signs of Danny, who was evidently playing the trick to the limit. + +But more visions burned before the eye of Rivera's memory. The strike, +or, rather, the lockout, because the workers of Rio Blanco had helped +their striking brothers of Puebla. The hunger, the expeditions in the +hills for berries, the roots and herbs that all ate and that twisted and +pained the stomachs of all of them. And then, the nightmare; the waste +of ground before the company's store; the thousands of starving workers; +General Rosalio Martinez and the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz, and the +death-spitting rifles that seemed never to cease spitting, while the +workers' wrongs were washed and washed again in their own blood. And +that night! He saw the flat cars, piled high with the bodies of the +slain, consigned to Vera Cruz, food for the sharks of the bay. Again +he crawled over the grisly heaps, seeking and finding, stripped +and mangled, his father and his mother. His mother he especially +remembered--only her face projecting, her body burdened by the weight +of dozens of bodies. Again the rifles of the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz +cracked, and again he dropped to the ground and slunk away like some +hunted coyote of the hills. + +To his ears came a great roar, as of the sea, and he saw Danny Ward, +leading his retinue of trainers and seconds, coming down the center +aisle. The house was in wild uproar for the popular hero who was bound +to win. Everybody proclaimed him. Everybody was for him. Even Rivera's +own seconds warmed to something akin to cheerfulness when Danny ducked +jauntily through the ropes and entered the ring. His face continually +spread to an unending succession of smiles, and when Danny smiled he +smiled in every feature, even to the laughter-wrinkles of the corners of +the eyes and into the depths of the eyes themselves. Never was there so +genial a fighter. His face was a running advertisement of good feeling, +of good fellowship. He knew everybody. He joked, and laughed, and +greeted his friends through the ropes. Those farther away, unable to +suppress their admiration, cried loudly: “Oh, you Danny!” It was a +joyous ovation of affection that lasted a full five minutes. + +Rivera was disregarded. For all that the audience noticed, he did not +exist. Spider Lagerty's bloated face bent down close to his. + +“No gettin' scared,” the Spider warned. + +“An' remember instructions. You gotta last. No layin' down. If you lay +down, we got instructions to beat you up in the dressing rooms. Savve? +You just gotta fight.” + +The house began to applaud. Danny was crossing the ring to him. Danny +bent over, caught Rivera's right hand in both his own and shook it with +impulsive heartiness. Danny's smile-wreathed face was close to his. The +audience yelled its appreciation of Danny's display of sporting spirit. +He was greeting his opponent with the fondness of a brother. Danny's +lips moved, and the audience, interpreting the unheard words to be +those of a kindly-natured sport, yelled again. Only Rivera heard the low +words. + +“You little Mexican rat,” hissed from between Danny's gaily smiling +lips, “I'll fetch the yellow outa you.” + +Rivera made no move. He did not rise. He merely hated with his eyes. + +“Get up, you dog!” some man yelled through the ropes from behind. + +The crowd began to hiss and boo him for his unsportsmanlike conduct, +but he sat unmoved. Another great outburst of applause was Danny's as he +walked back across the ring. + +When Danny stripped, there was ohs! and ahs! of delight. His body was +perfect, alive with easy suppleness and health and strength. The skin +was white as a woman's, and as smooth. All grace, and resilience, +and power resided therein. He had proved it in scores of battles. His +photographs were in all the physical culture magazines. + +A groan went up as Spider Hagerty peeled Rivera's sweater over his head. +His body seemed leaner, because of the swarthiness of the skin. He had +muscles, but they made no display like his opponent's. What the audience +neglected to see was the deep chest. Nor could it guess the toughness of +the fiber of the flesh, the instantaneousness of the cell explosions +of the muscles, the fineness of the nerves that wired every part of +him into a splendid fighting mechanism. All the audience saw was a +brown-skinned boy of eighteen with what seemed the body of a boy. With +Danny it was different. Danny was a man of twenty-four, and his body +was a man's body. The contrast was still more striking as they stood +together in the center of the ring receiving the referee's last +instructions. + +Rivera noticed Roberts sitting directly behind the newspaper men. He was +drunker than usual, and his speech was correspondingly slower. + +“Take it easy, Rivera,” Roberts drawled. + +“He can't kill you, remember that. He'll rush you at the go-off, but +don't get rattled. You just and stall, and clinch. He can't hurt cover +up, much. Just make believe to yourself that he's choppin' out on you at +the trainin' quarters.” + +Rivera made no sign that he had heard. + +“Sullen little devil,” Roberts muttered to the man next to him. “He +always was that way.” + +But Rivera forgot to look his usual hatred. A vision of countless rifles +blinded his eyes. Every face in the audience, far as he could see, to +the high dollar-seats, was transformed into a rifle. And he saw the long +Mexican border arid and sun-washed and aching, and along it he saw the +ragged bands that delayed only for the guns. + +Back in his corner he waited, standing up. His seconds had crawled out +through the ropes, taking the canvas stool with them. Diagonally across +the squared ring, Danny faced him. The gong struck, and the battle was +on. The audience howled its delight. Never had it seen a battle open +more convincingly. The papers were right. It was a grudge fight. +Three-quarters of the distance Danny covered in the rush to get +together, his intention to eat up the Mexican lad plainly advertised. He +assailed with not one blow, nor two, nor a dozen. He was a gyroscope +of blows, a whirlwind of destruction. Rivera was nowhere. He was +overwhelmed, buried beneath avalanches of punches delivered from every +angle and position by a past master in the art. He was overborne, swept +back against the ropes, separated by the referee, and swept back against +the ropes again. + +It was not a fight. It was a slaughter, a massacre. Any audience, save +a prize fighting one, would have exhausted its emotions in that first +minute. Danny was certainly showing what he could do--a splendid +exhibition. Such was the certainty of the audience, as well as its +excitement and favoritism, that it failed to take notice that the +Mexican still stayed on his feet. It forgot Rivera. It rarely saw him, +so closely was he enveloped in Danny's man-eating attack. A minute of +this went by, and two minutes. Then, in a separation, it caught a clear +glimpse of the Mexican. His lip was cut, his nose was bleeding. As he +turned and staggered into a clinch, the welts of oozing blood, from his +contacts with the ropes, showed in red bars across his back. But what +the audience did not notice was that his chest was not heaving and that +his eyes were coldly burning as ever. Too many aspiring champions, in +the cruel welter of the training camps, had practiced this man-eating +attack on him. He had learned to live through for a compensation of from +half a dollar a go up to fifteen dollars a week--a hard school, and he +was schooled hard. + +Then happened the amazing thing. The whirling, blurring mix-up ceased +suddenly. Rivera stood alone. Danny, the redoubtable Danny, lay on his +back. His body quivered as consciousness strove to return to it. He had +not staggered and sunk down, nor had he gone over in a long slumping +fall. The right hook of Rivera had dropped him in midair with the +abruptness of death. The referee shoved Rivera back with one hand, and +stood over the fallen gladiator counting the seconds. It is the custom +of prize-fighting audiences to cheer a clean knock-down blow. But this +audience did not cheer. The thing had been too unexpected. It watched +the toll of the seconds in tense silence, and through this silence the +voice of Roberts rose exultantly: + +“I told you he was a two-handed fighter!” + +By the fifth second, Danny was rolling over on his face, and when seven +was counted, he rested on one knee, ready to rise after the count of +nine and before the count of ten. If his knee still touched the floor +at “ten,” he was considered “down,” and also “out.” The instant his +knee left the floor, he was considered “up,” and in that instant it was +Rivera's right to try and put him down again. Rivera took no chances. +The moment that knee left the floor he would strike again. He circled +around, but the referee circled in between, and Rivera knew that the +seconds he counted were very slow. All Gringos were against him, even +the referee. + +At “nine” the referee gave Rivera a sharp thrust back. It was unfair, +but it enabled Danny to rise, the smile back on his lips. Doubled partly +over, with arms wrapped about face and abdomen, he cleverly stumbled +into a clinch. By all the rules of the game the referee should have +broken it, but he did not, and Danny clung on like a surf-battered +barnacle and moment by moment recuperated. The last minute of the round +was going fast. If he could live to the end, he would have a full minute +in his corner to revive. And live to the end he did, smiling through all +desperateness and extremity. + +“The smile that won't come off!” somebody yelled, and the audience +laughed loudly in its relief. + +“The kick that Greaser's got is something God-awful,” Danny gasped in +his corner to his adviser while his handlers worked frantically over +him. + +The second and third rounds were tame. Danny, a tricky and consummate +ring general, stalled and blocked and held on, devoting himself to +recovering from that dazing first-round blow. In the fourth round he was +himself again. Jarred and shaken, nevertheless his good condition had +enabled him to regain his vigor. But he tried no man-eating tactics. +The Mexican had proved a tartar. Instead, he brought to bear his best +fighting powers. In tricks and skill and experience he was the master, +and though he could land nothing vital, he proceeded scientifically to +chop and wear down his opponent. He landed three blows to Rivera's one, +but they were punishing blows only, and not deadly. It was the sum of +many of them that constituted deadliness. He was respectful of this +two-handed dub with the amazing short-arm kicks in both his fists. + +In defense, Rivera developed a disconcerting straight-left. Again +and again, attack after attack he straight-lefted away from him with +accumulated damage to Danny's mouth and nose. But Danny was protean. +That was why he was the coming champion. He could change from style to +style of fighting at will. He now devoted himself to infighting. In +this he was particularly wicked, and it enabled him to avoid the other's +straight-left. Here he set the house wild repeatedly, capping it with +a marvelous lockbreak and lift of an inside upper-cut that raised the +Mexican in the air and dropped him to the mat. Rivera rested on one +knee, making the most of the count, and in the soul of him he knew the +referee was counting short seconds on him. + +Again, in the seventh, Danny achieved the diabolical inside uppercut. +He succeeded only in staggering Rivera, but, in the ensuing moment of +defenseless helplessness, he smashed him with another blow through the +ropes. Rivera's body bounced on the heads of the newspaper men below, +and they boosted him back to the edge of the platform outside the ropes. +Here he rested on one knee, while the referee raced off the seconds. +Inside the ropes, through which he must duck to enter the ring, Danny +waited for him. Nor did the referee intervene or thrust Danny back. + +The house was beside itself with delight. + +“Kill'm, Danny, kill'm!” was the cry. + +Scores of voices took it up until it was like a war-chant of wolves. + +Danny did his best, but Rivera, at the count of eight, instead of nine, +came unexpectedly through the ropes and safely into a clinch. Now the +referee worked, tearing him away so that he could be hit, giving Danny +every advantage that an unfair referee can give. + +But Rivera lived, and the daze cleared from his brain. It was all of a +piece. They were the hated Gringos and they were all unfair. And in the +worst of it visions continued to flash and sparkle in his brain--long +lines of railroad track that simmered across the desert; rurales and +American constables, prisons and calabooses; tramps at water tanks--all +the squalid and painful panorama of his odyssey after Rio Blanca and the +strike. And, resplendent and glorious, he saw the great, red Revolution +sweeping across his land. The guns were there before him. Every hated +face was a gun. It was for the guns he fought. He was the guns. He was +the Revolution. He fought for all Mexico. + +The audience began to grow incensed with Rivera. Why didn't he take the +licking that was appointed him? Of course he was going to be licked, but +why should he be so obstinate about it? Very few were interested in him, +and they were the certain, definite percentage of a gambling crowd that +plays long shots. Believing Danny to be the winner, nevertheless they +had put their money on the Mexican at four to ten and one to three. More +than a trifle was up on the point of how many rounds Rivera could last. +Wild money had appeared at the ringside proclaiming that he could not +last seven rounds, or even six. The winners of this, now that their cash +risk was happily settled, had joined in cheering on the favorite. + +Rivera refused to be licked. Through the eighth round his opponent +strove vainly to repeat the uppercut. In the ninth, Rivera stunned the +house again. In the midst of a clinch he broke the lock with a quick, +lithe movement, and in the narrow space between their bodies his right +lifted from the waist. Danny went to the floor and took the safety of +the count. The crowd was appalled. He was being bested at his own game. +His famous right-uppercut had been worked back on him. Rivera made +no attempt to catch him as he arose at “nine.” The referee was openly +blocking that play, though he stood clear when the situation was +reversed and it was Rivera who desired to rise. + +Twice in the tenth, Rivera put through the right-uppercut, lifted from +waist to opponent's chin. Danny grew desperate. The smile never left his +face, but he went back to his man-eating rushes. Whirlwind as he would, +he could not damage Rivera, while Rivera through the blur and whirl, +dropped him to the mat three times in succession. Danny did not +recuperate so quickly now, and by the eleventh round he was in a serious +way. But from then till the fourteenth he put up the gamest exhibition +of his career. He stalled and blocked, fought parsimoniously, and strove +to gather strength. Also, he fought as foully as a successful fighter +knows how. Every trick and device he employed, butting in the clinches +with the seeming of accident, pinioning Rivera's glove between arm and +body, heeling his glove on Rivera's mouth to clog his breathing. Often, +in the clinches, through his cut and smiling lips he snarled insults +unspeakable and vile in Rivera's ear. Everybody, from the referee to the +house, was with Danny and was helping Danny. And they knew what he had +in mind. Bested by this surprise-box of an unknown, he was pinning +all on a single punch. He offered himself for punishment, fished, and +feinted, and drew, for that one opening that would enable him to whip +a blow through with all his strength and turn the tide. As another and +greater fighter had done before him, he might do a right and left, to +solar plexus and across the jaw. He could do it, for he was noted for +the strength of punch that remained in his arms as long as he could keep +his feet. + +Rivera's seconds were not half-caring for him in the intervals between +rounds. Their towels made a showing, but drove little air into his +panting lungs. Spider Hagerty talked advice to him, but Rivera knew +it was wrong advice. Everybody was against him. He was surrounded by +treachery. In the fourteenth round he put Danny down again, and himself +stood resting, hands dropped at side, while the referee counted. In +the other corner Rivera had been noting suspicious whisperings. He saw +Michael Kelly make his way to Roberts and bend and whisper. Rivera's +ears were a cat's, desert-trained, and he caught snatches of what was +said. He wanted to hear more, and when his opponent arose he maneuvered +the fight into a clinch over against the ropes. + +“Got to,” he could hear Michael, while Roberts nodded. “Danny's got to +win--I stand to lose a mint--I've got a ton of money covered--my own. +If he lasts the fifteenth I'm bust--the boy'll mind you. Put something +across.” + +And thereafter Rivera saw no more visions. They were trying to job him. +Once again he dropped Danny and stood resting, his hands at his slide. +Roberts stood up. + +“That settled him,” he said. + +“Go to your corner.” + +He spoke with authority, as he had often spoken to Rivera at the +training quarters. But Rivera looked hatred at him and waited for Danny +to rise. Back in his corner in the minute interval, Kelly, the promoter, +came and talked to Rivera. + +“Throw it, damn you,” he rasped in, a harsh low voice. “You gotta lay +down, Rivera. Stick with me and I'll make your future. I'll let you lick +Danny next time. But here's where you lay down.” + +Rivera showed with his eyes that he heard, but he made neither sign of +assent nor dissent. + +“Why don't you speak?” Kelly demanded angrily. + +“You lose, anyway,” Spider Hagerty supplemented. “The referee'll take it +away from you. Listen to Kelly, and lay down.” + +“Lay down, kid,” Kelly pleaded, “and I'll help you to the championship.” + +Rivera did not answer. + +“I will, so help me, kid.” + +At the strike of the gong Rivera sensed something impending. The house +did not. Whatever it was it was there inside the ring with him and very +close. Danny's earlier surety seemed returned to him. The confidence of +his advance frightened Rivera. Some trick was about to be worked. Danny +rushed, but Rivera refused the encounter. He side-stepped away into +safety. What the other wanted was a clinch. It was in some way necessary +to the trick. Rivera backed and circled away, yet he knew, sooner or +later, the clinch and the trick would come. Desperately he resolved +to draw it. He made as if to effect the clinch with Danny's next rush. +Instead, at the last instant, just as their bodies should have come +together, Rivera darted nimbly back. And in the same instant Danny's +corner raised a cry of foul. Rivera had fooled them. The referee paused +irresolutely. The decision that trembled on his lips was never uttered, +for a shrill, boy's voice from the gallery piped, “Raw work!” + +Danny cursed Rivera openly, and forced him, while Rivera danced away. +Also, Rivera made up his mind to strike no more blows at the body. In +this he threw away half his chance of winning, but he knew if he was to +win at all it was with the outfighting that remained to him. Given the +least opportunity, they would lie a foul on him. Danny threw all caution +to the winds. For two rounds he tore after and into the boy who dared +not meet him at close quarters. Rivera was struck again and again; +he took blows by the dozens to avoid the perilous clinch. During this +supreme final rally of Danny's the audience rose to its feet and went +mad. It did not understand. All it could see was that its favorite was +winning, after all. + +“Why don't you fight?” it demanded wrathfully of Rivera. + +“You're yellow! You're yellow!” “Open up, you cur! Open up!” “Kill'm, +Danny! Kill 'm!” “You sure got 'm! Kill 'm!” + +In all the house, bar none, Rivera was the only cold man. By temperament +and blood he was the hottest-passioned there; but he had gone through +such vastly greater heats that this collective passion of ten thousand +throats, rising surge on surge, was to his brain no more than the velvet +cool of a summer twilight. + +Into the seventeenth round Danny carried his rally. Rivera, under a +heavy blow, drooped and sagged. His hands dropped helplessly as he +reeled backward. Danny thought it was his chance. The boy was at, his +mercy. Thus Rivera, feigning, caught him off his guard, lashing out a +clean drive to the mouth. Danny went down. When he arose, Rivera felled +him with a down-chop of the right on neck and jaw. Three times he +repeated this. It was impossible for any referee to call these blows +foul. + +“Oh, Bill! Bill!” Kelly pleaded to the referee. + +“I can't,” that official lamented back. “He won't give me a chance.” + +Danny, battered and heroic, still kept coming up. Kelly and others near +to the ring began to cry out to the police to stop it, though Danny's +corner refused to throw in the towel. Rivera saw the fat police captain +starting awkwardly to climb through the ropes, and was not sure what it +meant. There were so many ways of cheating in this game of the Gringos. +Danny, on his feet, tottered groggily and helplessly before him. The +referee and the captain were both reaching for Rivera when he struck the +last blow. There was no need to stop the fight, for Danny did not rise. + +“Count!” Rivera cried hoarsely to the referee. + +And when the count was finished, Danny's seconds gathered him up and +carried him to his corner. + +“Who wins?” Rivera demanded. + +Reluctantly, the referee caught his gloved hand and held it aloft. + +There were no congratulations for Rivera. He walked to his corner +unattended, where his seconds had not yet placed his stool. He leaned +backward on the ropes and looked his hatred at them, swept it on and +about him till the whole ten thousand Gringos were included. His knees +trembled under him, and he was sobbing from exhaustion. Before his eyes +the hated faces swayed back and forth in the giddiness of nausea. Then +he remembered they were the guns. The guns were his. The Revolution +could go on. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Night-Born, by Jack London + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1029 *** diff --git a/1029-h/1029-h.htm b/1029-h/1029-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1073085 --- /dev/null +++ b/1029-h/1029-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7087 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Night-born, by Jack London + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1029 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE NIGHT-BORN + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Jack London + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE NIGHT-BORN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> WINGED BLACKMAIL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> WAR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> TO KILL A MAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE MEXICAN </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + THE NIGHT-BORN + </h2> + <p> + It was in the old Alta-Inyo Club—a warm night for San Francisco—and + through the open windows, hushed and far, came the brawl of the streets. + The talk had led on from the Graft Prosecution and the latest signs that + the town was to be run wide open, down through all the grotesque + sordidness and rottenness of man-hate and man-meanness, until the name of + O'Brien was mentioned—O'Brien, the promising young pugilist who had + been killed in the prize-ring the night before. At once the air had seemed + to freshen. O'Brien had been a clean-living young man with ideals. He + neither drank, smoked, nor swore, and his had been the body of a beautiful + young god. He had even carried his prayer-book to the ringside. They found + it in his coat pocket in the dressing-room... afterward. + </p> + <p> + Here was Youth, clean and wholesome, unsullied—the thing of glory + and wonder for men to conjure with..... after it has been lost to them and + they have turned middle-aged. And so well did we conjure, that Romance + came and for an hour led us far from the man-city and its snarling roar. + Bardwell, in a way, started it by quoting from Thoreau; but it was old + Trefethan, bald-headed and dewlapped, who took up the quotation and for + the hour to come was romance incarnate. At first we wondered how many + Scotches he had consumed since dinner, but very soon all that was + forgotten. + </p> + <p> + “It was in 1898—I was thirty-five then,” he said. “Yes, I know you + are adding it up. You're right. I'm forty-seven now; look ten years more; + and the doctors say—damn the doctors anyway!” + </p> + <p> + He lifted the long glass to his lips and sipped it slowly to soothe away + his irritation. + </p> + <p> + “But I was young... once. I was young twelve years ago, and I had hair on + top of my head, and my stomach was lean as a runner's, and the longest day + was none too long for me. I was a husky back there in '98. You remember + me, Milner. You knew me then. Wasn't I a pretty good bit of all right?” + </p> + <p> + Milner nodded and agreed. Like Trefethan, he was another mining engineer + who had cleaned up a fortune in the Klondike. + </p> + <p> + “You certainly were, old man,” Milner said. “I'll never forget when you + cleaned out those lumberjacks in the M. & M. that night that little + newspaper man started the row. Slavin was in the country at the time,”—this + to us—“and his manager wanted to get up a match with Trefethan.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, look at me now,” Trefethan commanded angrily. “That's what the + Goldstead did to me—God knows how many millions, but nothing left in + my soul..... nor in my veins. The good red blood is gone. I am a + jellyfish, a huge, gross mass of oscillating protoplasm, a—a...” + </p> + <p> + But language failed him, and he drew solace from the long glass. + </p> + <p> + “Women looked at me then; and turned their heads to look a second time. + Strange that I never married. But the girl. That's what I started to tell + you about. I met her a thousand miles from anywhere, and then some. And + she quoted to me those very words of Thoreau that Bardwell quoted a moment + ago—the ones about the day-born gods and the night-born.” + </p> + <p> + “It was after I had made my locations on Goldstead—and didn't know + what a treasure-pot that that trip creek was going to prove—that I + made that trip east over the Rockies, angling across to the Great Up North + there the Rockies are something more than a back-bone. They are a + boundary, a dividing line, a wall impregnable and unscalable. There is no + intercourse across them, though, on occasion, from the early days, + wandering trappers have crossed them, though more were lost by the way + than ever came through. And that was precisely why I tackled the job. It + was a traverse any man would be proud to make. I am prouder of it right + now than anything else I have ever done. + </p> + <p> + “It is an unknown land. Great stretches of it have never been explored. + There are big valleys there where the white man has never set foot, and + Indian tribes as primitive as ten thousand years... almost, for they have + had some contact with the whites. Parties of them come out once in a while + to trade, and that is all. Even the Hudson Bay Company failed to find them + and farm them. + </p> + <p> + “And now the girl. I was coming up a stream—you'd call it a river in + California—uncharted—and unnamed. It was a noble valley, now + shut in by high canyon walls, and again opening out into beautiful + stretches, wide and long, with pasture shoulder-high in the bottoms, + meadows dotted with flowers, and with clumps of timberspruce—virgin + and magnificent. The dogs were packing on their backs, and were + sore-footed and played out; while I was looking for any bunch of Indians + to get sleds and drivers from and go on with the first snow. It was late + fall, but the way those flowers persisted surprised me. I was supposed to + be in sub-arctic America, and high up among the buttresses of the Rockies, + and yet there was that everlasting spread of flowers. Some day the white + settlers will be in there and growing wheat down all that valley. + </p> + <p> + “And then I lifted a smoke, and heard the barking of the dogs—Indian + dogs—and came into camp. There must have been five hundred of them, + proper Indians at that, and I could see by the jerking-frames that the + fall hunting had been good. And then I met her—Lucy. That was her + name. Sign language—that was all we could talk with, till they led + me to a big fly—you know, half a tent, open on the one side where a + campfire burned. It was all of moose-skins, this fly—moose-skins, + smoke-cured, hand-rubbed, and golden-brown. Under it everything was neat + and orderly as no Indian camp ever was. The bed was laid on fresh spruce + boughs. There were furs galore, and on top of all was a robe of swanskins—white + swan-skins—I have never seen anything like that robe. And on top of + it, sitting cross-legged, was Lucy. She was nut-brown. I have called her a + girl. But she was not. She was a woman, a nut-brown woman, an Amazon, a + full-blooded, full-bodied woman, and royal ripe. And her eyes were blue. + </p> + <p> + “That's what took me off my feet—her eyes—blue, not China + blue, but deep blue, like the sea and sky all melted into one, and very + wise. More than that, they had laughter in them—warm laughter, + sun-warm and human, very human, and... shall I say feminine? They were. + They were a woman's eyes, a proper woman's eyes. You know what that means. + Can I say more? Also, in those blue eyes were, at the same time, a wild + unrest, a wistful yearning, and a repose, an absolute repose, a sort of + all-wise and philosophical calm.” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan broke off abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “You fellows think I am screwed. I'm not. This is only my fifth since + dinner. I am dead sober. I am solemn. I sit here now side by side with my + sacred youth. It is not I—'old' Trefethan—that talks; it is my + youth, and it is my youth that says those were the most wonderful eyes I + have ever seen—so very calm, so very restless; so very wise, so very + curious; so very old, so very young; so satisfied and yet yearning so + wistfully. Boys, I can't describe them. When I have told you about her, + you may know better for yourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “She did not stand up. But she put out her hand.” + </p> + <p> + “'Stranger,' she said, 'I'm real glad to see you.' + </p> + <p> + “I leave it to you—that sharp, frontier, Western tang of speech. + Picture my sensations. It was a woman, a white woman, but that tang! It + was amazing that it should be a white woman, here, beyond the last + boundary of the world—but the tang. I tell you, it hurt. It was like + the stab of a flatted note. And yet, let me tell you, that woman was a + poet. You shall see.” + </p> + <p> + “She dismissed the Indians. And, by Jove, they went. They took her orders + and followed her blind. She was hi-yu skookam chief. She told the bucks to + make a camp for me and to take care of my dogs. And they did, too. And + they knew enough not to get away with as much as a moccasin-lace of my + outfit. She was a regular She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, and I want to tell you + it chilled me to the marrow, sent those little thrills Marathoning up and + down my spinal column, meeting a white woman out there at the head of a + tribe of savages a thousand miles the other side of No Man's Land. + </p> + <p> + “'Stranger,” she said, 'I reckon you're sure the first white that ever set + foot in this valley. Set down an' talk a spell, and then we'll have a bite + to eat. Which way might you be comin'?' + </p> + <p> + “There it was, that tang again. But from now to the end of the yarn I want + you to forget it. I tell you I forgot it, sitting there on the edge of + that swan-skin robe and listening and looking at the most wonderful woman + that ever stepped out of the pages of Thoreau or of any other man's book. + </p> + <p> + “I stayed on there a week. It was on her invitation. She promised to fit + me out with dogs and sleds and with Indians that would put me across the + best pass of the Rockies in five hundred miles. Her fly was pitched apart + from the others, on the high bank by the river, and a couple of Indian + girls did her cooking for her and the camp work. And so we talked and + talked, while the first snow fell and continued to fall and make a surface + for my sleds. And this was her story. + </p> + <p> + “She was frontier-born, of poor settlers, and you know what that means—work, + work, always work, work in plenty and without end. + </p> + <p> + “'I never seen the glory of the world,' she said. 'I had no time. I knew + it was right out there, anywhere, all around the cabin, but there was + always the bread to set, the scrubbin' and the washin' and the work that + was never done. I used to be plumb sick at times, jes' to get out into it + all, especially in the spring when the songs of the birds drove me most + clean crazy. I wanted to run out through the long pasture grass, wetting + my legs with the dew of it, and to climb the rail fence, and keep on + through the timber and up and up over the divide so as to get a look + around. Oh, I had all kinds of hankerings—to follow up the canyon + beds and slosh around from pool to pool, making friends with the + water-dogs and the speckly trout; to peep on the sly and watch the + squirrels and rabbits and small furry things and see what they was doing + and learn the secrets of their ways. Seemed to me, if I had time, I could + crawl among the flowers, and, if I was good and quiet, catch them + whispering with themselves, telling all kinds of wise things that mere + humans never know.'” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan paused to see that his glass had been refilled. + </p> + <p> + “Another time she said: 'I wanted to run nights like a wild thing, just to + run through the moonshine and under the stars, to run white and naked in + the darkness that I knew must feel like cool velvet, and to run and run + and keep on running. One evening, plumb tuckered out—it had been a + dreadful hard hot day, and the bread wouldn't raise and the churning had + gone wrong, and I was all irritated and jerky—well, that evening I + made mention to dad of this wanting to run of mine. He looked at me + curious-some and a bit scared. And then he gave me two pills to take. Said + to go to bed and get a good sleep and I'd be all hunky-dory in the + morning. So I never mentioned my hankerings to him, or any one any more.' + </p> + <p> + “The mountain home broke up—starved out, I imagine—and the + family came to Seattle to live. There she worked in a factory—long + hours, you know, and all the rest, deadly work. And after a year of that + she became waitress in a cheap restaurant—hash-slinger, she called + it. She said to me once, 'Romance I guess was what I wanted. But there + wan't no romance floating around in dishpans and washtubs, or in factories + and hash-joints.' + </p> + <p> + “When she was eighteen she married—a man who was going up to Juneau + to start a restaurant. He had a few dollars saved, and appeared + prosperous. She didn't love him—she was emphatic about that, but she + was all tired out, and she wanted to get away from the unending drudgery. + Besides, Juneau was in Alaska, and her yearning took the form of a desire + to see that wonderland. But little she saw of it. He started the + restaurant, a little cheap one, and she quickly learned what he had + married her for..... to save paying wages. She came pretty close to + running the joint and doing all the work from waiting to dishwashing. She + cooked most of the time as well. And she had four years of it. + </p> + <p> + “Can't you picture her, this wild woods creature, quick with every old + primitive instinct, yearning for the free open, and mowed up in a vile + little hash-joint and toiling and moiling for four mortal years? + </p> + <p> + “'There was no meaning in anything,' she said. 'What was it all about! Why + was I born! Was that all the meaning of life—just to work and work + and be always tired!—to go to bed tired and to wake up tired, with + every day like every other day unless it was harder?' She had heard talk + of immortal life from the gospel sharps, she said, but she could not + reckon that what she was doin' was a likely preparation for her + immortality. + </p> + <p> + “But she still had her dreams, though more rarely. She had read a few + books—what, it is pretty hard to imagine, Seaside Library novels + most likely; yet they had been food for fancy. 'Sometimes,' she said, + 'when I was that dizzy from the heat of the cooking that if I didn't take + a breath of fresh air I'd faint, I'd stick my head out of the kitchen + window, and close my eyes and see most wonderful things. All of a sudden + I'd be traveling down a country road, and everything clean and quiet, no + dust, no dirt; just streams ripplin' down sweet meadows, and lambs + playing, breezes blowing the breath of flowers, and soft sunshine over + everything; and lovely cows lazying knee-deep in quiet pools, and young + girls bathing in a curve of stream all white and slim and natural—and + I'd know I was in Arcady. I'd read about that country once, in a book. And + maybe knights, all flashing in the sun, would come riding around a bend in + the road, or a lady on a milk-white mare, and in the distance I could see + the towers of a castle rising, or I just knew, on the next turn, that I'd + come upon some palace, all white and airy and fairy-like, with fountains + playing, and flowers all over everything, and peacocks on the lawn..... + and then I'd open my eyes, and the heat of the cooking range would strike + on me, and I'd hear Jake sayin'—he was my husband—I'd hear + Jake sayin', “Why ain't you served them beans? Think I can wait here all + day!” Romance!—I reckon the nearest I ever come to it was when a + drunken Armenian cook got the snakes and tried to cut my throat with a + potato knife and I got my arm burned on the stove before I could lay him + out with the potato stomper. + </p> + <p> + “'I wanted easy ways, and lovely things, and Romance and all that; but it + just seemed I had no luck nohow and was only and expressly born for + cooking and dishwashing. There was a wild crowd in Juneau them days, but I + looked at the other women, and their way of life didn't excite me. I + reckon I wanted to be clean. I don't know why; I just wanted to, I guess; + and I reckoned I might as well die dishwashing as die their way.” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan halted in his tale for a moment, completing to himself some + thread of thought. + </p> + <p> + “And this is the woman I met up there in the Arctic, running a tribe of + wild Indians and a few thousand square miles of hunting territory. And it + happened, simply enough, though, for that matter, she might have lived and + died among the pots and pans. But 'Came the whisper, came the vision.' + That was all she needed, and she got it. + </p> + <p> + “'I woke up one day,' she said. 'Just happened on it in a scrap of + newspaper. I remember every word of it, and I can give it to you.' And + then she quoted Thoreau's Cry of the Human: + </p> + <p> + “'The young pines springing up, in the corn field from year to year are to + me a refreshing fact. We talk of civilizing the Indian, but that is not + the name for his improvement. By the wary independence and aloofness of + his dim forest life he preserves his intercourse with his native gods and + is admitted from time to time to a rare and peculiar society with nature. + He has glances of starry recognition, to which our saloons are strangers. + The steady illumination of his qenius, dim only because distant, is like + the faint but satisfying light of the stars compared with the dazzling but + ineffectual and short-lived blaze of candles. The Society Islanders had + their day-born gods, but they were not supposed to be of equal antiquity + with the..... night-born gods.' + </p> + <p> + “That's what she did, repeated it word for word, and I forgot the tang, + for it was solemn, a declaration of religion—pagan, if you will; and + clothed in the living garmenture of herself. + </p> + <p> + “'And the rest of it was torn away,' she added, a great emptiness in her + voice. 'It was only a scrap of newspaper. But that Thoreau was a wise man. + I wish I knew more about him.' She stopped a moment, and I swear her face + was ineffably holy as she said, 'I could have made him a good wife.' + </p> + <p> + “And then she went on. 'I knew right away, as soon as I read that, what + was the matter with me. I was a night-born. I, who had lived all my life + with the day-born, was a night-born. That was why I had never been + satisfied with cooking and dishwashing; that was why I had hankered to run + naked in the moonlight. And I knew that this dirty little Juneau + hash-joint was no place for me. And right there and then I said, “I quit.” + I packed up my few rags of clothes, and started. Jake saw me and tried to + stop me. + </p> + <p> + “'What you doing?” he says. + </p> + <p> + “'Divorcin' you and me,' I says. 'I'm headin' for tall timber and where I + belong.'” + </p> + <p> + “'No you don't,' he says, reaching for me to stop me. 'The cooking has got + on your head. You listen to me talk before you up and do anything brash.' + </p> + <p> + “But I pulled a gun-a little Colt's forty-four—and says, 'This does + my talkin' for me.' + </p> + <p> + “And I left.” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan emptied his glass and called for another. + </p> + <p> + “Boys, do you know what that girl did? She was twenty-two. She had spent + her life over the dish-pan and she knew no more about the world than I do + of the fourth dimension, or the fifth. All roads led to her desire. No; + she didn't head for the dance-halls. On the Alaskan Pan-handle it is + preferable to travel by water. She went down to the beach. An Indian canoe + was starting for Dyea—you know the kind, carved out of a single + tree, narrow and deep and sixty feet long. She gave them a couple of + dollars and got on board. + </p> + <p> + “'Romance?' she told me. 'It was Romance from the jump. There were three + families altogether in that canoe, and that crowded there wasn't room to + turn around, with dogs and Indian babies sprawling over everything, and + everybody dipping a paddle and making that canoe go.' And all around the + great solemn mountains, and tangled drifts of clouds and sunshine. And oh, + the silence! the great wonderful silence! And, once, the smoke of a + hunter's camp, away off in the distance, trailing among the trees. It was + like a picnic, a grand picnic, and I could see my dreams coming true, and + I was ready for something to happen 'most any time. And it did. + </p> + <p> + “'And that first camp, on the island! And the boys spearing fish in the + mouth of the creek, and the big deer one of the bucks shot just around the + point. And there were flowers everywhere, and in back from the beach the + grass was thick and lush and neck-high. And some of the girls went through + this with me, and we climbed the hillside behind and picked berries and + roots that tasted sour and were good to eat. And we came upon a big bear + in the berries making his supper, and he said “Oof!” and ran away as + scared as we were. And then the camp, and the camp smoke, and the smell of + fresh venison cooking. It was beautiful. I was with the night-born at + last, and I knew that was where I belonged. And for the first time in my + life, it seemed to me, I went to bed happy that night, looking out under a + corner of the canvas at the stars cut off black by a big shoulder of + mountain, and listening to the night-noises, and knowing that the same + thing would go on next day and forever and ever, for I wasn't going back. + And I never did go back.' + </p> + <p> + “'Romance! I got it next day. We had to cross a big arm of the ocean—twelve + or fifteen miles, at least; and it came on to blow when we were in the + middle. That night I was along on shore, with one wolf-dog, and I was the + only one left alive.' + </p> + <p> + “Picture it yourself,” Trefethan broke off to say. “The canoe was wrecked + and lost, and everybody pounded to death on the rocks except her. She went + ashore hanging on to a dog's tail, escaping the rocks and washing up on a + tiny beach, the only one in miles. + </p> + <p> + “'Lucky for me it was the mainland,' she said. 'So I headed right away + back, through the woods and over the mountains and straight on anywhere. + Seemed I was looking for something and knew I'd find it. I wasn't afraid. + I was night-born, and the big timber couldn't kill me. And on the second + day I found it. I came upon a small clearing and a tumbledown cabin. + Nobody had been there for years and years. The roof had fallen in. Rotted + blankets lay in the bunks, and pots and pans were on the stove. But that + was not the most curious thing. Outside, along the edge of the trees, you + can't guess what I found. The skeletons of eight horses, each tied to a + tree. They had starved to death, I reckon, and left only little piles of + bones scattered some here and there. And each horse had had a load on its + back. There the loads lay, in among the bones—painted canvas sacks, + and inside moosehide sacks, and inside the moosehide sacks—what do + you think?'” + </p> + <p> + She stopped, reached under a corner of the bed among the spruce boughs, + and pulled out a leather sack. She untied the mouth and ran out into my + hand as pretty a stream of gold as I have ever seen—coarse gold, + placer gold, some large dust, but mostly nuggets, and it was so fresh and + rough that it scarcely showed signs of water-wash. + </p> + <p> + “'You say you're a mining engineer,' she said, 'and you know this country. + Can you name a pay-creek that has the color of that gold!' + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't! There wasn't a trace of silver. It was almost pure, and I + told her so. + </p> + <p> + “'You bet,' she said. 'I sell that for nineteen dollars an ounce. You + can't get over seventeen for Eldorado gold, and Minook gold don't fetch + quite eighteen. Well, that was what I found among the bones—eight + horse-loads of it, one hundred and fifty pounds to the load.' + </p> + <p> + “'A quarter of a million dollars!' I cried out. + </p> + <p> + “'That's what I reckoned it roughly,' she answered. 'Talk about Romance! + And me a slaving the way I had all the years, when as soon as I ventured + out, inside three days, this was what happened. And what became of the men + that mined all that gold? Often and often I wonder about it. They left + their horses, loaded and tied, and just disappeared off the face of the + earth, leaving neither hide nor hair behind them. I never heard tell of + them. Nobody knows anything about them. Well, being the night-born, I + reckon I was their rightful heir.'” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan stopped to light a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what that girl did? She cached the gold, saving out thirty + pounds, which she carried back to the coast. Then she signaled a passing + canoe, made her way to Pat Healy's trading post at Dyea, outfitted, and + went over Chilcoot Pass. That was in '88—eight years before the + Klondike strike, and the Yukon was a howling wilderness. She was afraid of + the bucks, but she took two young squaws with her, crossed the lakes, and + went down the river and to all the early camps on the Lower Yukon. She + wandered several years over that country and then on in to where I met + her. Liked the looks of it, she said, seeing, in her own words, 'a big + bull caribou knee-deep in purple iris on the valley-bottom.' She hooked up + with the Indians, doctored them, gained their confidence, and gradually + took them in charge. She had only left that country once, and then, with a + bunch of the young bucks, she went over Chilcoot, cleaned up her + gold-cache, and brought it back with her. + </p> + <p> + “'And here I be, stranger,' she concluded her yarn, 'and here's the most + precious thing I own.' + </p> + <p> + “She pulled out a little pouch of buckskin, worn on her neck like a + locket, and opened it. And inside, wrapped in oiled silk, yellowed with + age and worn and thumbed, was the original scrap of newspaper containing + the quotation from Thoreau. + </p> + <p> + “'And are you happy... satisfied?' I asked her. 'With a quarter of a + million you wouldn't have to work down in the States. You must miss a + lot.' + </p> + <p> + “'Not much,' she answered. 'I wouldn't swop places with any woman down in + the States. These are my people; this is where I belong. But there are + times—and in her eyes smoldered up that hungry yearning I've + mentioned—'there are times when I wish most awful bad for that + Thoreau man to happen along.' + </p> + <p> + “'Why?' I asked. + </p> + <p> + “'So as I could marry him. I do get mighty lonesome at spells. I'm just a + woman—a real woman. I've heard tell of the other kind of women that + gallivanted off like me and did queer things—the sort that become + soldiers in armies, and sailors on ships. But those women are queer + themselves. They're more like men than women; they look like men and they + don't have ordinary women's needs. They don't want love, nor little + children in their arms and around their knees. I'm not that sort. I leave + it to you, stranger. Do I look like a man?' + </p> + <p> + “She didn't. She was a woman, a beautiful, nut-brown woman, with a sturdy, + health-rounded woman's body and with wonderful deep-blue woman's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “'Ain't I woman?' she demanded. 'I am. I'm 'most all woman, and then some. + And the funny thing is, though I'm night-born in everything else, I'm not + when it comes to mating. I reckon that kind likes its own kind best. + That's the way it is with me, anyway, and has been all these years.' + </p> + <p> + “'You mean to tell me—' I began. + </p> + <p> + “'Never,' she said, and her eyes looked into mine with the straightness of + truth. 'I had one husband, only—him I call the Ox; and I reckon he's + still down in Juneau running the hash-joint. Look him up, if you ever get + back, and you'll find he's rightly named.' + </p> + <p> + “And look him up I did, two years afterward. He was all she said—solid + and stolid, the Ox—shuffling around and waiting on the tables. + </p> + <p> + “'You need a wife to help you,' I said. + </p> + <p> + “'I had one once,' was his answer. + </p> + <p> + “'Widower?' + </p> + <p> + “'Yep. She went loco. She always said the heat of the cooking would get + her, and it did. Pulled a gun on me one day and ran away with some + Siwashes in a canoe. Caught a blow up the coast and all hands drowned.'” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan devoted himself to his glass and remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “But the girl?” Milner reminded him. + </p> + <p> + “You left your story just as it was getting interesting, tender. Did it?” + </p> + <p> + “It did,” Trefethan replied. “As she said herself, she was savage in + everything except mating, and then she wanted her own kind. She was very + nice about it, but she was straight to the point. She wanted to marry me. + </p> + <p> + “'Stranger,' she said, 'I want you bad. You like this sort of life or you + wouldn't be here trying to cross the Rockies in fall weather. It's a + likely spot. You'll find few likelier. Why not settle down! I'll make you + a good wife.' + </p> + <p> + “And then it was up to me. And she waited. I don't mind confessing that I + was sorely tempted. I was half in love with her as it was. You know I have + never married. And I don't mind adding, looking back over my life, that + she is the only woman that ever affected me that way. But it was too + preposterous, the whole thing, and I lied like a gentleman. I told her I + was already married. + </p> + <p> + “'Is your wife waiting for you?' she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I said yes. + </p> + <p> + “'And she loves you?' + </p> + <p> + “I said yes. + </p> + <p> + “And that was all. She never pressed her point... except once, and then + she showed a bit of fire. + </p> + <p> + “'All I've got to do,' she said, 'is to give the word, and you don't get + away from here. If I give the word, you stay on... But I ain't going to + give it. I wouldn't want you if you didn't want to be wanted... and if you + didn't want me.' + </p> + <p> + “She went ahead and outfitted me and started me on my way. + </p> + <p> + “'It's a darned shame, stranger,” she said, at parting. 'I like your + looks, and I like you. If you ever change your mind, come back.' + </p> + <p> + “Now there was one thing I wanted to do, and that was to kiss her + good-bye, but I didn't know how to go about it nor how she would take it.—I + tell you I was half in love with her. But she settled it herself. + </p> + <p> + “'Kiss me,' she said. 'Just something to go on and remember.' + </p> + <p> + “And we kissed, there in the snow, in that valley by the Rockies, and I + left her standing by the trail and went on after my dogs. I was six weeks + in crossing over the pass and coming down to the first post on Great Slave + Lake.” + </p> + <p> + The brawl of the streets came up to us like a distant surf. A steward, + moving noiselessly, brought fresh siphons. And in the silence Trefethan's + voice fell like a funeral bell: + </p> + <p> + “It would have been better had I stayed. Look at me.” + </p> + <p> + We saw his grizzled mustache, the bald spot on his head, the puff-sacks + under his eyes, the sagging cheeks, the heavy dewlap, the general + tiredness and staleness and fatness, all the collapse and ruin of a man + who had once been strong but who had lived too easily and too well. + </p> + <p> + “It's not too late, old man,” Bardwell said, almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “By God! I wish I weren't a coward!” was Trefethan's answering cry. “I + could go back to her. She's there, now. I could shape up and live many a + long year... with her... up there. To remain here is to commit suicide. + But I am an old man—forty-seven—look at me. The trouble is,” + he lifted his glass and glanced at it, “the trouble is that suicide of + this sort is so easy. I am soft and tender. The thought of the long day's + travel with the dogs appalls me; the thought of the keen frost in the + morning and of the frozen sled-lashings frightens me—” + </p> + <p> + Automatically the glass was creeping toward his lips. With a swift surge + of anger he made as if to crash it down upon the floor. Next came + hesitancy and second thought. The glass moved upward to his lips and + paused. He laughed harshly and bitterly, but his words were solemn: + </p> + <p> + “Well, here's to the Night-Born. She WAS a wonder.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED + </h2> + <p> + I TELL this for a fact. It happened in the bull-ring at Quito. I sat in + the box with John Harned, and with Maria Valenzuela, and with Luis + Cervallos. I saw it happen. I saw it all from first to last. I was on the + steamer Ecuadore from Panama to Guayaquil. Maria Valenzuela is my cousin. + I have known her always. She is very beautiful. I am a Spaniard—an + Ecuadoriano, true, but I am descended from Pedro Patino, who was one of + Pizarro's captains. They were brave men. They were heroes. Did not Pizarro + lead three hundred and fifty Spanish cavaliers and four thousand Indians + into the far Cordilleras in search of treasure? And did not all the four + thousand Indians and three hundred of the brave cavaliers die on that vain + quest? But Pedro Patino did not die. He it was that lived to found the + family of the Patino. I am Ecuadoriano, true, but I am Spanish. I am + Manuel de Jesus Patino. I own many haciendas, and ten thousand Indians are + my slaves, though the law says they are free men who work by freedom of + contract. The law is a funny thing. We Ecuadorianos laugh at it. It is our + law. We make it for ourselves. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. Remember that + name. It will be written some day in history. There are revolutions in + Ecuador. We call them elections. It is a good joke is it not?—what + you call a pun? + </p> + <p> + John Harned was an American. I met him first at the Tivoli hotel in + Panama. He had much money—this I have heard. He was going to Lima, + but he met Maria Valenzuela in the Tivoli hotel. Maria Valenzuela is my + cousin, and she is beautiful. It is true, she is the most beautiful woman + in Ecuador. But also is she most beautiful in every country—in + Paris, in Madrid, in New York, in Vienna. Always do all men look at her, + and John Harned looked long at her at Panama. He loved her, that I know + for a fact. She was Ecuadoriano, true—but she was of all countries; + she was of all the world. She spoke many languages. She sang—ah! + like an artiste. Her smile—wonderful, divine. Her eyes—ah! + have I not seen men look in her eyes? They were what you English call + amazing. They were promises of paradise. Men drowned themselves in her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Maria Valenzuela was rich—richer than I, who am accounted very rich + in Ecuador. But John Harned did not care for her money. He had a heart—a + funny heart. He was a fool. He did not go to Lima. He left the steamer at + Guayaquil and followed her to Quito. She was coming home from Europe and + other places. I do not see what she found in him, but she liked him. This + I know for a fact, else he would not have followed her to Quito. She asked + him to come. Well do I remember the occasion. She said: + </p> + <p> + “Come to Quito and I will show you the bullfight—brave, clever, + magnificent!” + </p> + <p> + But he said: “I go to Lima, not Quito. Such is my passage engaged on the + steamer.” + </p> + <p> + “You travel for pleasure—no?” said Maria Valenzuela; and she looked + at him as only Maria Valenzuela could look, her eyes warm with the + promise. + </p> + <p> + And he came. No; he did not come for the bull-fight. He came because of + what he had seen in her eyes. Women like Maria Valenzuela are born once in + a hundred years. They are of no country and no time. They are what you + call goddesses. Men fall down at their feet. They play with men and run + them through their pretty fingers like sand. Cleopatra was such a woman + they say; and so was Circe. She turned men into swine. Ha! ha! It is true—no? + </p> + <p> + It all came about because Maria Valenzuela said: + </p> + <p> + “You English people are—what shall I say?—savage—no? You + prize-fight. Two men each hit the other with their fists till their eyes + are blinded and their noses are broken. Hideous! And the other men who + look on cry out loudly and are made glad. It is barbarous—no?” + </p> + <p> + “But they are men,” said John Harned; “and they prize-fight out of desire. + No one makes them prize-fight. They do it because they desire it more than + anything else in the world.” + </p> + <p> + Maria Valenzuela—there was scorn in her smile as she said: “They + kill each other often—is it not so? I have read it in the papers.” + </p> + <p> + “But the bull,” said John Harned. + </p> + <p> + “The bull is killed many times in the bull-fight, and the bull does not + come into the the ring out of desire. It is not fair to the bull. He is + compelled to fight. But the man in the prize-fight—no; he is not + compelled.” + </p> + <p> + “He is the more brute therefore,” said Maria Valenzuela. + </p> + <p> + “He is savage. He is primitive. He is animal. He strikes with his paws + like a bear from a cave, and he is ferocious. But the bull-fight—ah! + You have not seen the bullfight—no? The toreador is clever. He must + have skill. He is modern. He is romantic. He is only a man, soft and + tender, and he faces the wild bull in conflict. And he kills with a sword, + a slender sword, with one thrust, so, to the heart of the great beast. It + is delicious. It makes the heart beat to behold—the small man, the + great beast, the wide level sand, the thousands that look on without + breath; the great beast rushes to the attack, the small man stands like a + statue; he does not move, he is unafraid, and in his hand is the slender + sword flashing like silver in the sun; nearer and nearer rushes the great + beast with its sharp horns, the man does not move, and then—so—the + sword flashes, the thrust is made, to the heart, to the hilt, the bull + falls to the sand and is dead, and the man is unhurt. It is brave. It is + magnificent! Ah!—I could love the toreador. But the man of the + prize-fight—he is the brute, the human beast, the savage primitive, + the maniac that receives many blows in his stupid face and rejoices. Come + to Quito and I will show you the brave sport of men, the toreador and the + bull.” + </p> + <p> + But John Harned did not go to Quito for the bull-fight. He went because of + Maria Valenzuela. He was a large man, more broad of shoulder than we + Ecuadorianos, more tall, more heavy of limb and bone. True, he was larger + of his own race. His eyes were blue, though I have seen them gray, and, + sometimes, like cold steel. His features were large, too—not + delicate like ours, and his jaw was very strong to look at. Also, his face + was smooth-shaven like a priest's. Why should a man feel shame for the + hair on his face? Did not God put it there? Yes, I believe in God—I + am not a pagan like many of you English. God is good. He made me an + Ecuadoriano with ten thousand slaves. And when I die I shall go to God. + Yes, the priests are right. + </p> + <p> + But John Harned. He was a quiet man. He talked always in a low voice, and + he never moved his hands when he talked. One would have thought his heart + was a piece of ice; yet did he have a streak of warm in his blood, for he + followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito. Also, and for all that he talked low + without moving his hands, he was an animal, as you shall see—the + beast primitive, the stupid, ferocious savage of the long ago that dressed + in wild skins and lived in the caves along with the bears and wolves. + </p> + <p> + Luis Cervallos is my friend, the best of Ecuadorianos. He owns three cacao + plantations at Naranjito and Chobo. At Milagro is his big sugar + plantation. He has large haciendas at Ambato and Latacunga, and down the + coast is he interested in oil-wells. Also has he spent much money in + planting rubber along the Guayas. He is modern, like the Yankee; and, like + the Yankee, full of business. He has much money, but it is in many + ventures, and ever he needs more money for new ventures and for the old + ones. He has been everywhere and seen everything. When he was a very young + man he was in the Yankee military academy what you call West Point. There + was trouble. He was made to resign. He does not like Americans. But he did + like Maria Valenzuela, who was of his own country. Also, he needed her + money for his ventures and for his gold mine in Eastern Ecuador where the + painted Indians live. I was his friend. It was my desire that he should + marry Maria Valenzuela. Further, much of my money had I invested in his + ventures, more so in his gold mine which was very rich but which first + required the expense of much money before it would yield forth its riches. + If Luis Cervallos married Maria Valenzuela I should have more money very + immediately. + </p> + <p> + But John Harned followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito, and it was quickly + clear to us—to Luis Cervallos and me that she looked upon John + Harned with great kindness. It is said that a woman will have her will, + but this is a case not in point, for Maria Valenzuela did not have her + will—at least not with John Harned. Perhaps it would all have + happened as it did, even if Luis Cervallos and I had not sat in the box + that day at the bull-ring in Quito. But this I know: we DID sit in the box + that day. And I shall tell you what happened. + </p> + <p> + The four of us were in the one box, guests of Luis Cervallos. I was next + to the Presidente's box. On the other side was the box of General Jose + Eliceo Salazar. With him were Joaquin Endara and Urcisino Castillo, both + generals, and Colonel Jacinto Fierro and Captain Baltazar de Echeverria. + Only Luis Cervallos had the position and the influence to get that box + next to the Presidente. I know for a fact that the Presidente himself + expressed the desire to the management that Luis Cervallos should have + that box. + </p> + <p> + The band finished playing the national hymn of Ecuador. The procession of + the toreadors was over. The Presidente nodded to begin. The bugles blew, + and the bull dashed in—you know the way, excited, bewildered, the + darts in its shoulder burning like fire, itself seeking madly whatever + enemy to destroy. The toreadors hid behind their shelters and waited. + Suddenly they appeared forth, the capadores, five of them, from every + side, their colored capes flinging wide. The bull paused at sight of such + a generosity of enemies, unable in his own mind to know which to attack. + Then advanced one of the capadors alone to meet the bull. The bull was + very angry. With its fore-legs it pawed the sand of the arena till the + dust rose all about it. Then it charged, with lowered head, straight for + the lone capador. + </p> + <p> + It is always of interest, the first charge of the first bull. After a time + it is natural that one should grow tired, trifle, that the keenness should + lose its edge. But that first charge of the first bull! John Harned was + seeing it for the first time, and he could not escape the excitement—the + sight of the man, armed only with a piece of cloth, and of the bull + rushing upon him across the sand with sharp horns, widespreading. + </p> + <p> + “See!” cried Maria Valenzuela. “Is it not superb?” + </p> + <p> + John Harned nodded, but did not look at her. His eyes were sparkling, and + they were only for the bull-ring. The capador stepped to the side, with a + twirl of the cape eluding the bull and spreading the cape on his own + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think?” asked Maria Venzuela. “Is it not a—what-you-call—sporting + proposition—no?” + </p> + <p> + “It is certainly,” said John Harned. “It is very clever.” + </p> + <p> + She clapped her hands with delight. They were little hands. The audience + applauded. The bull turned and came back. Again the capadore eluded him, + throwing the cape on his shoulders, and again the audience applauded. + Three times did this happen. The capadore was very excellent. Then he + retired, and the other capadore played with the bull. After that they + placed the banderillos in the bull, in the shoulders, on each side of the + back-bone, two at a time. Then stepped forward Ordonez, the chief matador, + with the long sword and the scarlet cape. The bugles blew for the death. + He is not so good as Matestini. Still he is good, and with one thrust he + drove the sword to the heart, and the bull doubled his legs under him and + lay down and died. It was a pretty thrust, clean and sure; and there was + much applause, and many of the common people threw their hats into the + ring. Maria Valenzuela clapped her hands with the rest, and John Harned, + whose cold heart was not touched by the event, looked at her with + curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “You like it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Always,” she said, still clapping her hands. + </p> + <p> + “From a little girl,” said Luis Cervallos. “I remember her first fight. + She was four years old. She sat with her mother, and just like now she + clapped her hands. She is a proper Spanish woman. + </p> + <p> + “You have seen it,” said Maria Valenzuela to John Harned, as they fastened + the mules to the dead bull and dragged it out. “You have seen the + bull-fight and you like it—no? What do you think? + </p> + <p> + “I think the bull had no chance,” he said. “The bull was doomed from the + first. The issue was not in doubt. Every one knew, before the bull entered + the ring, that it was to die. To be a sporting proposition, the issue must + be in doubt. It was one stupid bull who had never fought a man against + five wise men who had fought many bulls. It would be possibly a little bit + fair if it were one man against one bull.” + </p> + <p> + “Or one man against five bulls,” said Maria Valenzuela; and we all + laughed, and Luis Ceryallos laughed loudest. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said John Harned, “against five bulls, and the man, like the bulls, + never in the bull ring before—a man like yourself, Senor Crevallos.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet we Spanish like the bull-fight,” said Luis Cervallos; and I swear the + devil was whispering then in his ear, telling him to do that which I shall + relate. + </p> + <p> + “Then must it be a cultivated taste,” John Harned made answer. “We kill + bulls by the thousand every day in Chicago, yet no one cares to pay + admittance to see.” + </p> + <p> + “That is butchery,” said I; “but this—ah, this is an art. It is + delicate. It is fine. It is rare.” + </p> + <p> + “Not always,” said Luis Cervallos. “I have seen clumsy matadors, and I + tell you it is not nice.” + </p> + <p> + He shuddered, and his face betrayed such what-you-call disgust, that I + knew, then, that the devil was whispering and that he was beginning to + play a part. + </p> + <p> + “Senor Harned may be right,” said Luis Cervallos. “It may not be fair to + the bull. For is it not known to all of us that for twenty-four hours the + bull is given no water, and that immediately before the fight he is + permitted to drink his fill?” + </p> + <p> + “And he comes into the ring heavy with water?” said John Harned quickly; + and I saw that his eyes were very gray and very sharp and very cold. + </p> + <p> + “It is necessary for the sport,” said Luis Cervallos. “Would you have the + bull so strong that he would kill the toreadors?” + </p> + <p> + “I would that he had a fighting chance,” said John Harned, facing the ring + to see the second bull come in. + </p> + <p> + It was not a good bull. It was frightened. It ran around the ring in + search of a way to get out. The capadors stepped forth and flared their + capes, but he refused to charge upon them. + </p> + <p> + “It is a stupid bull,” said Maria Valenzuela. + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon,” said John Harned; “but it would seem to me a wise bull. He + knows he must not fight man. See! He smells death there in the ring.” + </p> + <p> + True. The bull, pausing where the last one had died, was smelling the wet + sand and snorting. Again he ran around the ring, with raised head, looking + at the faces of the thousands that hissed him, that threw orange-peel at + him and called him names. But the smell of blood decided him, and he + charged a capador, so without warning that the man just escaped. He + dropped his cape and dodged into the shelter. The bull struck the wall of + the ring with a crash. And John Harned said, in a quiet voice, as though + he talked to himself: + </p> + <p> + “I will give one thousand sucres to the lazar-house of Quito if a bull + kills a man this day.” + </p> + <p> + “You like bulls?” said Maria Valenzuela with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “I like such men less,” said John Harned. “A toreador is not a brave man. + He surely cannot be a brave man. See, the bull's tongue is already out. He + is tired and he has not yet begun.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the water,” said Luis Cervallos. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is the water,” said John Harned. “Would it not be safer to + hamstring the bull before he comes on?” + </p> + <p> + Maria Valenzuela was made angry by this sneer in John Harned's words. But + Luis Cervallos smiled so that only I could see him, and then it broke upon + my mind surely the game he was playing. He and I were to be banderilleros. + The big American bull was there in the box with us. We were to stick the + darts in him till he became angry, and then there might be no marriage + with Maria Valenzuela. It was a good sport. And the spirit of + bull-fighters was in our blood. + </p> + <p> + The bull was now angry and excited. The capadors had great game with him. + He was very quick, and sometimes he turned with such sharpness that his + hind legs lost their footing and he plowed the sand with his quarter. But + he charged always the flung capes and committed no harm. + </p> + <p> + “He has no chance,” said John Harned. “He is fighting wind.” + </p> + <p> + “He thinks the cape is his enemy,” explained Maria Valenzuela. “See how + cleverly the capador deceives him.” + </p> + <p> + “It is his nature to be deceived,” said John Harned. “Wherefore he is + doomed to fight wind. The toreadors know it, you know it, I know it—we + all know from the first that he will fight wind. He only does not know it. + It is his stupid beast-nature. He has no chance.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very simple,” said Luis Cervallos. “The bull shuts his eyes when he + charges. Therefore—” + </p> + <p> + “The man steps, out of the way and the bull rushes by,” Harned + interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Luis Cervallos; “that is it. The bull shuts his eyes, and the + man knows it.” + </p> + <p> + “But cows do not shut their eyes,” said John Harned. “I know a cow at home + that is a Jersey and gives milk, that would whip the whole gang of them.” + </p> + <p> + “But the toreadors do not fight cows,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “They are afraid to fight cows,” said John Harned. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Luis Cervallos, “they are afraid to fight cows. There would be + no sport in killing toreadors.” + </p> + <p> + “There would be some sport,” said John Harned, “if a toreador were killed + once in a while. When I become an old man, and mayhap a cripple, and + should I need to make a living and be unable to do hard work, then would I + become a bull-fighter. It is a light vocation for elderly gentlemen and + pensioners.” + </p> + <p> + “But see!” said Maria Valenzuela, as the bull charged bravely and the + capador eluded it with a fling of his cape. “It requires skill so to avoid + the beast.” + </p> + <p> + “True,” said John Harned. “But believe me, it requires a thousand times + more skill to avoid the many and quick punches of a prize-fighter who + keeps his eyes open and strikes with intelligence. Furthermore, this bull + does not want to fight. Behold, he runs away.” + </p> + <p> + It was not a good bull, for again it ran around the ring, seeking to find + a way out. + </p> + <p> + “Yet these bulls are sometimes the most dangerous,” said Luis Cervallos. + “It can never be known what they will do next. They are wise. They are + half cow. The bull-fighters never like them.—See! He has turned!” + </p> + <p> + Once again, baffled and made angry by the walls of the ring that would not + let him out, the bull was attacking his enemies valiantly. + </p> + <p> + “His tongue is hanging out,” said John Harned. “First, they fill him with + water. Then they tire him out, one man and then another, persuading him to + exhaust himself by fighting wind. While some tire him, others rest. But + the bull they never let rest. Afterward, when he is quite tired and no + longer quick, the matador sticks the sword into him.” + </p> + <p> + The time had now come for the banderillos. Three times one of the fighters + endeavored to place the darts, and three times did he fail. He but stung + the bull and maddened it. The banderillos must go in, you know, two at a + time, into the shoulders, on each side the backbone and close to it. If + but one be placed, it is a failure. The crowd hissed and called for + Ordonez. And then Ordonez did a great thing. Four times he stood forth, + and four times, at the first attempt, he stuck in the banderillos, so that + eight of them, well placed, stood out of the back of the bull at one time. + The crowd went mad, and a rain of hats and money fell on the sand of the + ring. + </p> + <p> + And just then the bull charged unexpectedly one of the capadors. The man + slipped and lost his head. The bull caught him—fortunately, between + his wide horns. And while the audience watched, breathless and silent, + John Harned stood up and yelled with gladness. Alone, in that hush of all + of us, John Harned yelled. And he yelled for the bull. As you see + yourself, John Harned wanted the man killed. His was a brutal heart. This + bad conduct made those angry that sat in the box of General Salazar, and + they cried out against John Harned. And Urcisino Castillo told him to his + face that he was a dog of a Gringo and other things. Only it was in + Spanish, and John Harned did not understand. He stood and yelled, perhaps + for the time of ten seconds, when the bull was enticed into charging the + other capadors and the man arose unhurt. + </p> + <p> + “The bull has no chance,” John Harned said with sadness as he sat down. + “The man was uninjured. They fooled the bull away from him.” Then he + turned to Maria Valenzuela and said: “I beg your pardon. I was excited.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled and in reproof tapped his arm with her fan. + </p> + <p> + “It is your first bull-fight,” she said. “After you have seen more you + will not cry for the death of the man. You Americans, you see, are more + brutal than we. It is because of your prize-fighting. We come only to see + the bull killed.” + </p> + <p> + “But I would the bull had some chance,” he answered. “Doubtless, in time, + I shall cease to be annoyed by the men who take advantage of the bull.” + </p> + <p> + The bugles blew for the death of the bull. Ordonez stood forth with the + sword and the scarlet cloth. But the bull had changed again, and did not + want to fight. Ordonez stamped his foot in the sand, and cried out, and + waved the scarlet cloth. Then the bull charged, but without heart. There + was no weight to the charge. It was a poor thrust. The sword struck a bone + and bent. Ordonez took a fresh sword. The bull, again stung to fight, + charged once more. Five times Ordonez essayed the thrust, and each time + the sword went but part way in or struck bone. The sixth time, the sword + went in to the hilt. But it was a bad thrust. The sword missed the heart + and stuck out half a yard through the ribs on the opposite side. The + audience hissed the matador. I glanced at John Harned. He sat silent, + without movement; but I could see his teeth were set, and his hands were + clenched tight on the railing of the box. + </p> + <p> + All fight was now out of the bull, and, though it was no vital thrust, he + trotted lamely what of the sword that stuck through him, in one side and + out the other. He ran away from the matador and the capadors, and circled + the edge of the ring, looking up at the many faces. + </p> + <p> + “He is saying: 'For God's sake let me out of this; I don't want to + fight,'” said John Harned. + </p> + <p> + That was all. He said no more, but sat and watched, though sometimes he + looked sideways at Maria Valenzuela to see how she took it. She was angry + with the matador. He was awkward, and she had desired a clever exhibition. + </p> + <p> + The bull was now very tired, and weak from loss of blood, though far from + dying. He walked slowly around the wall of the ring, seeking a way out. He + would not charge. He had had enough. But he must be killed. There is a + place, in the neck of a bull behind the horns, where the cord of the spine + is unprotected and where a short stab will immediately kill. Ordonez + stepped in front of the bull and lowered his scarlet cloth to the ground. + The bull would not charge. He stood still and smelled the cloth, lowering + his head to do so. Ordonez stabbed between the horns at the spot in the + neck. The bull jerked his head up. The stab had missed. Then the bull + watched the sword. When Ordonez moved the cloth on the ground, the bull + forgot the sword and lowered his head to smell the cloth. Again Ordonez + stabbed, and again he failed. He tried many times. It was stupid. And John + Harned said nothing. At last a stab went home, and the bull fell to the + sand, dead immediately, and the mules were made fast and he was dragged + out. + </p> + <p> + “The Gringos say it is a cruel sport—no?” said Luis Cervallos. “That + it is not humane. That it is bad for the bull. No?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said John Harned. “The bull does not count for much. It is bad for + those that look on. It is degrading to those that look on. It teaches them + to delight in animal suffering. It is cowardly for five men to fight one + stupid bull. Therefore those that look on learn to be cowards. The bull + dies, but those that look on live and the lesson is learned. The bravery + of men is not nourished by scenes of cowardice.” + </p> + <p> + Maria Valenzuela said nothing. Neither did she look at him. But she heard + every word and her cheeks were white with anger. She looked out across the + ring and fanned herself, but I saw that her hand trembled. Nor did John + Harned look at her. He went on as though she were not there. He, too, was + angry, coldly angry. + </p> + <p> + “It is the cowardly sport of a cowardly people,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Luis Cervallos softly, “you think you understand us.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand now the Spanish Inquisition,” said John Harned. “It must + have been more delightful than bull-fighting.” + </p> + <p> + Luis Cervallos smiled but said nothing. He glanced at Maria Valenzuela, + and knew that the bull-fight in the box was won. Never would she have + further to do with the Gringo who spoke such words. But neither Luis + Cervallos nor I was prepared for the outcome of the day. I fear we do not + understand the Gringos. How were we to know that John Harned, who was so + coldly angry, should go suddenly mad! But mad he did go, as you shall see. + The bull did not count for much—he said so himself. Then why should + the horse count for so much? That I cannot understand. The mind of John + Harned lacked logic. That is the only explanation. + </p> + <p> + “It is not usual to have horses in the bull-ring at Quito,” said Luis + Cervallos, looking up from the program. “In Spain they always have them. + But to-day, by special permission we shall have them. When the next bull + comes on there will be horses and picadors-you know, the men who carry + lances and ride the horses.” + </p> + <p> + “The bull is doomed from the first,” said John Harned. “Are the horses + then likewise doomed!” + </p> + <p> + “They are blindfolded so that they may not see the bull,” said Luis + Cervallos. “I have seen many horses killed. It is a brave sight.” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen the bull slaughtered,” said John Harned “I will now see the + horse slaughtered, so that I may understand more fully the fine points of + this noble sport.” + </p> + <p> + “They are old horses,” said Luis Cervallos, “that are not good for + anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said John Harned. + </p> + <p> + The third bull came on, and soon against it were both capadors and + picadors. One picador took his stand directly below us. I agree, it was a + thin and aged horse he rode, a bag of bones covered with mangy hide. + </p> + <p> + “It is a marvel that the poor brute can hold up the weight of the rider,” + said John Harned. “And now that the horse fights the bull, what weapons + has it?” + </p> + <p> + “The horse does not fight the bull,” said Luis Cervallos. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said John Harned, “then is the horse there to be gored? That must be + why it is blindfolded, so that it shall not see the bull coming to gore + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite so,” said I. “The lance of the picador is to keep the bull from + goring the horse.” + </p> + <p> + “Then are horses rarely gored?” asked John Harned. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Luis Cervallos. “I have seen, at Seville, eighteen horses + killed in one day, and the people clamored for more horses.” + </p> + <p> + “Were they blindfolded like this horse?” asked John Harned. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Luis Cervallos. + </p> + <p> + After that we talked no more, but watched the fight. And John Harned was + going mad all the time, and we did not know. The bull refused to charge + the horse. And the horse stood still, and because it could not see it did + not know that the capadors were trying to make the bull charge upon it. + The capadors teased the bull their capes, and when it charged them they + ran toward the horse and into their shelters. At last the bull was angry, + and it saw the horse before it. + </p> + <p> + “The horse does not know, the horse does not know,” John Harned whispered + to himself, unaware that he voiced his thought aloud. + </p> + <p> + The bull charged, and of course the horse knew nothing till the picador + failed and the horse found himself impaled on the bull's horns from + beneath. The bull was magnificently strong. The sight of its strength was + splendid to see. It lifted the horse clear into the air; and as the horse + fell to its side on on the ground the picador landed on his feet and + escaped, while the capadors lured the bull away. The horse was emptied of + its essential organs. Yet did it rise to its feet screaming. It was the + scream of the horse that did it, that made John Harned completely mad; for + he, too, started to rise to his feet, I heard him curse low and deep. He + never took his eyes from the horse, which, screaming, strove to run, but + fell down instead and rolled on its back so that all its four legs were + kicking in the air. Then the bull charged it and gored it again and again + until it was dead. + </p> + <p> + John Harned was now on his feet. His eyes were no longer cold like steel. + They were blue flames. He looked at Maria Valenzuela, and she looked at + him, and in his face was a great loathing. The moment of his madness was + upon him. Everybody was looking, now that the horse was dead; and John + Harned was a large man and easy to be seen. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” said Luis Cervallos, “or you will make a fool of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + John Harned replied nothing. He struck out his fist. He smote Luis + Cervallos in the face so that he fell like a dead man across the chairs + and did not rise again. He saw nothing of what followed. But I saw much. + Urcisino Castillo, leaning forward from the next box, with his cane struck + John Harned full across the face. And John Harned smote him with his fist + so that in falling he overthrew General Salazar. John Harned was now in + what-you-call Berserker rage—no? The beast primitive in him was + loose and roaring—the beast primitive of the holes and caves of the + long ago. + </p> + <p> + “You came for a bull-fight,” I heard him say, “And by God I'll show you a + man-fight!” + </p> + <p> + It was a fight. The soldiers guarding the Presidente's box leaped across, + but from one of them he took a rifle and beat them on their heads with it. + From the other box Colonel Jacinto Fierro was shooting at him with a + revolver. The first shot killed a soldier. This I know for a fact. I saw + it. But the second shot struck John Harned in the side. Whereupon he + swore, and with a lunge drove the bayonet of his rifle into Colonel + Jacinto Fierro's body. It was horrible to behold. The Americans and the + English are a brutal race. They sneer at our bull-fighting, yet do they + delight in the shedding of blood. More men were killed that day because of + John Harned than were ever killed in all the history of the bull-ring of + Quito, yes, and of Guayaquil and all Ecuador. + </p> + <p> + It was the scream of the horse that did it, yet why did not John Harned go + mad when the bull was killed? A beast is a beast, be it bull or horse. + John Harned was mad. There is no other explanation. He was blood-mad, a + beast himself. I leave it to your judgment. Which is worse—the + goring of the horse by the bull, or the goring of Colonel Jacinto Fierro + by the bayonet in the hands of John Harned! And John Harned gored others + with that bayonet. He was full of devils. He fought with many bullets in + him, and he was hard to kill. And Maria Valenzuela was a brave woman. + Unlike the other women, she did not cry out nor faint. She sat still in + her box, gazing out across the bull-ring. Her face was white and she + fanned herself, but she never looked around. + </p> + <p> + From all sides came the soldiers and officers and the common people + bravely to subdue the mad Gringo. It is true—the cry went up from + the crowd to kill all the Gringos. It is an old cry in Latin-American + countries, what of the dislike for the Gringos and their uncouth ways. It + is true, the cry went up. But the brave Ecuadorianos killed only John + Harned, and first he killed seven of them. Besides, there were many hurt. + I have seen many bull-fights, but never have I seen anything so abominable + as the scene in the boxes when the fight was over. It was like a field of + battle. The dead lay around everywhere, while the wounded sobbed and + groaned and some of them died. One man, whom John Harned had thrust + through the belly with the bayonet, clutched at himself with both his + hands and screamed. I tell you for a fact it was more terrible than the + screaming of a thousand horses. + </p> + <p> + No, Maria Valenzuela did not marry Luis Cervallos. I am sorry for that. He + was my friend, and much of my money was invested in his ventures. It was + five weeks before the surgeons took the bandages from his face. And there + is a scar there to this day, on the cheek, under the eye. Yet John Harned + struck him but once and struck him only with his naked fist. Maria + Valenzuela is in Austria now. It is said she is to marry an Arch-Duke or + some high nobleman. I do not know. I think she liked John Harned before he + followed her to Quito to see the bull-fight. But why the horse? That is + what I desire to know. Why should he watch the bull and say that it did + not count, and then go immediately and most horribly mad because a horse + screamed? There is no understanding the Gringos. They are barbarians. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG + </h2> + <p> + HE was a very quiet, self-possessed sort of man, sitting a moment on top + of the wall to sound the damp darkness for warnings of the dangers it + might conceal. But the plummet of his hearing brought nothing to him save + the moaning of wind through invisible trees and the rustling of leaves on + swaying branches. A heavy fog drifted and drove before the wind, and + though he could not see this fog, the wet of it blew upon his face, and + the wall on which he sat was wet. + </p> + <p> + Without noise he had climbed to the top of the wall from the outside, and + without noise he dropped to the ground on the inside. From his pocket he + drew an electric night-stick, but he did not use it. Dark as the way was, + he was not anxious for light. Carrying the night-stick in his hand, his + finger on the button, he advanced through the darkness. The ground was + velvety and springy to his feet, being carpeted with dead pine-needles and + leaves and mold which evidently had been undisturbed for years. Leaves and + branches brushed against his body, but so dark was it that he could not + avoid them. Soon he walked with his hand stretched out gropingly before + him, and more than once the hand fetched up against the solid trunks of + massive trees. All about him he knew were these trees; he sensed the loom + of them everywhere; and he experienced a strange feeling of microscopic + smallness in the midst of great bulks leaning toward him to crush him. + Beyond, he knew, was the house, and he expected to find some trail or + winding path that would lead easily to it. + </p> + <p> + Once, he found himself trapped. On every side he groped against trees and + branches, or blundered into thickets of underbrush, until there seemed no + way out. Then he turned on his light, circumspectly, directing its rays to + the ground at his feet. Slowly and carefully he moved it about him, the + white brightness showing in sharp detail all the obstacles to his + progress. He saw, an opening between huge-trunked trees, and advanced + through it, putting out the light and treading on dry footing as yet + protected from the drip of the fog by the dense foliage overhead. His + sense of direction was good, and he knew he was going toward the house. + </p> + <p> + And then the thing happened—the thing unthinkable and unexpected. + His descending foot came down upon something that was soft and alive, and + that arose with a snort under the weight of his body. He sprang clear, and + crouched for another spring, anywhere, tense and expectant, keyed for the + onslaught of the unknown. He waited a moment, wondering what manner of + animal it was that had arisen from under his foot and that now made no + sound nor movement and that must be crouching and waiting just as tensely + and expectantly as he. The strain became unbearable. Holding the + night-stick before him, he pressed the button, saw, and screamed aloud in + terror. He was prepared for anything, from a frightened calf or fawn to a + belligerent lion, but he was not prepared for what he saw. In that instant + his tiny searchlight, sharp and white, had shown him what a thousand years + would not enable him to forget—a man, huge and blond, yellow-haired + and yellow-bearded, naked except for soft-tanned moccasins and what seemed + a goat-skin about his middle. Arms and legs were bare, as were his + shoulders and most of his chest. The skin was smooth and hairless, but + browned by sun and wind, while under it heavy muscles were knotted like + fat snakes. Still, this alone, unexpected as it well was, was not what had + made the man scream out. What had caused his terror was the unspeakable + ferocity of the face, the wild-animal glare of the blue eyes scarcely + dazzled by the light, the pine-needles matted and clinging in the beard + and hair, and the whole formidable body crouched and in the act of + springing at him. Practically in the instant he saw all this, and while + his scream still rang, the thing leaped, he flung his night-stick full at + it, and threw himself to the ground. He felt its feet and shins strike + against his ribs, and he bounded up and away while the thing itself hurled + onward in a heavy crashing fall into the underbrush. + </p> + <p> + As the noise of the fall ceased, the man stopped and on hands and knees + waited. He could hear the thing moving about, searching for him, and he + was afraid to advertise his location by attempting further flight. He knew + that inevitably he would crackle the underbrush and be pursued. Once he + drew out his revolver, then changed his mind. He had recovered his + composure and hoped to get away without noise. Several times he heard the + thing beating up the thickets for him, and there were moments when it, + too, remained still and listened. This gave an idea to the man. One of his + hands was resting on a chunk of dead wood. Carefully, first feeling about + him in the darkness to know that the full swing of his arm was clear, he + raised the chunk of wood and threw it. It was not a large piece, and it + went far, landing noisily in a bush. He heard the thing bound into the + bush, and at the same time himself crawled steadily away. And on hands and + knees, slowly and cautiously, he crawled on, till his knees were wet on + the soggy mold, When he listened he heard naught but the moaning wind and + the drip-drip of the fog from the branches. Never abating his caution, he + stood erect and went on to the stone wall, over which he climbed and + dropped down to the road outside. + </p> + <p> + Feeling his way in a clump of bushes, he drew out a bicycle and prepared + to mount. He was in the act of driving the gear around with his foot for + the purpose of getting the opposite pedal in position, when he heard the + thud of a heavy body that landed lightly and evidently on its feet. He did + not wait for more, but ran, with hands on the handles of his bicycle, + until he was able to vault astride the saddle, catch the pedals, and start + a spurt. Behind he could hear the quick thud-thud of feet on the dust of + the road, but he drew away from it and lost it. Unfortunately, he had + started away from the direction of town and was heading higher up into the + hills. He knew that on this particular road there were no cross roads. The + only way back was past that terror, and he could not steel himself to face + it. At the end of half an hour, finding himself on an ever increasing + grade, he dismounted. For still greater safety, leaving the wheel by the + roadside, he climbed through a fence into what he decided was a hillside + pasture, spread a newspaper on the ground, and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Gosh!” he said aloud, mopping the sweat and fog from his face. + </p> + <p> + And “Gosh!” he said once again, while rolling a cigarette and as he + pondered the problem of getting back. + </p> + <p> + But he made no attempt to go back. He was resolved not to face that road + in the dark, and with head bowed on knees, he dozed, waiting for daylight. + </p> + <p> + How long afterward he did not know, he was awakened by the yapping bark of + a young coyote. As he looked about and located it on the brow of the hill + behind him, he noted the change that had come over the face of the night. + The fog was gone; the stars and moon were out; even the wind had died + down. It had transformed into a balmy California summer night. He tried to + doze again, but the yap of the coyote disturbed him. Half asleep, he heard + a wild and eery chant. Looking about him, he noticed that the coyote had + ceased its noise and was running away along the crest of the hill, and + behind it, in full pursuit, no longer chanting, ran the naked creature he + had encountered in the garden. It was a young coyote, and it was being + overtaken when the chase passed from view. The man trembled as with a + chill as he started to his feet, clambered over the fence, and mounted his + wheel. But it was his chance and he knew it. The terror was no longer + between him and Mill Valley. + </p> + <p> + He sped at a breakneck rate down the hill, but in the turn at the bottom, + in the deep shadows, he encountered a chuck-hole and pitched headlong over + the handle bar. + </p> + <p> + “It's sure not my night,” he muttered, as he examined the broken fork of + the machine. + </p> + <p> + Shouldering the useless wheel, he trudged on. In time he came to the stone + wall, and, half disbelieving his experience, he sought in the road for + tracks, and found them—moccasin tracks, large ones, deep-bitten into + the dust at the toes. It was while bending over them, examining, that + again he heard the eery chant. He had seen the thing pursue the coyote, + and he knew he had no chance on a straight run. He did not attempt it, + contenting himself with hiding in the shadows on the off side of the road. + </p> + <p> + And again he saw the thing that was like a naked man, running swiftly and + lightly and singing as it ran. Opposite him it paused, and his heart stood + still. But instead of coming toward his hiding-place, it leaped into the + air, caught the branch of a roadside tree, and swung swiftly upward, from + limb to limb, like an ape. It swung across the wall, and a dozen feet + above the top, into the branches of another tree, and dropped out of sight + to the ground. The man waited a few wondering minutes, then started on. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + Dave Slotter leaned belligerently against the desk that barred the way to + the private office of James Ward, senior partner of the firm of Ward, + Knowles & Co. Dave was angry. Every one in the outer office had looked + him over suspiciously, and the man who faced him was excessively + suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “You just tell Mr. Ward it's important,” he urged. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you he is dictating and cannot be disturbed,” was the answer. + “Come to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow will be too late. You just trot along and tell Mr. Ward it's a + matter of life and death.” + </p> + <p> + The secretary hesitated and Dave seized the advantage. + </p> + <p> + “You just tell him I was across the bay in Mill Valley last night, and + that I want to put him wise to something.” + </p> + <p> + “What name?” was the query. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the name. He don't know me.” + </p> + <p> + When Dave was shown into the private office, he was still in the + belligerent frame of mind, but when he saw a large fair man whirl in a + revolving chair from dictating to a stenographer to face him, Dave's + demeanor abruptly changed. He did not know why it changed, and he was + secretly angry with himself. + </p> + <p> + “You are Mr. Ward?” Dave asked with a fatuousness that still further + irritated him. He had never intended it at all. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” came the answer. + </p> + <p> + “And who are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Harry Bancroft,” Dave lied. “You don't know me, and my name don't + matter.” + </p> + <p> + “You sent in word that you were in Mill Valley last night?” + </p> + <p> + “You live there, don't you?” Dave countered, looking suspiciously at the + stenographer. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What do you mean to see me about? I am very busy.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to see you alone, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ward gave him a quick, penetrating look, hesitated, then made up his + mind. + </p> + <p> + “That will do for a few minutes, Miss Potter.” + </p> + <p> + The girl arose, gathered her notes together, and passed out. Dave looked + at Mr. James Ward wonderingly, until that gentleman broke his train of + inchoate thought. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “I was over in Mill Valley last night,” Dave began confusedly. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard that before. What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + And Dave proceeded in the face of a growing conviction that was + unbelievable. “I was at your house, or in the grounds, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “What were you doing there?” + </p> + <p> + “I came to break in,” Dave answered in all frankness. + </p> + <p> + “I heard you lived all alone with a Chinaman for cook, and it looked good + to me. Only I didn't break in. Something happened that prevented. That's + why I'm here. I come to warn you. I found a wild man loose in your grounds—a + regular devil. He could pull a guy like me to pieces. He gave me the run + of my life. He don't wear any clothes to speak of, he climbs trees like a + monkey, and he runs like a deer. I saw him chasing a coyote, and the last + I saw of it, by God, he was gaining on it.” + </p> + <p> + Dave paused and looked for the effect that would follow his words. But no + effect came. James Ward was quietly curious, and that was all. + </p> + <p> + “Very remarkable, very remarkable,” he murmured. “A wild man, you say. Why + have you come to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “To warn you of your danger. I'm something of a hard proposition myself, + but I don't believe in killing people... that is, unnecessarily. I + realized that you was in danger. I thought I'd warn you. Honest, that's + the game. Of course, if you wanted to give me anything for my trouble, I'd + take it. That was in my mind, too. But I don't care whether you give me + anything or not. I've warned you any way, and done my duty.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ward meditated and drummed on the surface of his desk. Dave noticed + they were large, powerful hands, withal well-cared for despite their dark + sunburn. Also, he noted what had already caught his eye before—a + tiny strip of flesh-colored courtplaster on the forehead over one eye. And + still the thought that forced itself into his mind was unbelievable. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ward took a wallet from his inside coat pocket, drew out a greenback, + and passed it to Dave, who noted as he pocketed it that it was for twenty + dollars. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Mr. Ward, indicating that the interview was at an end. + </p> + <p> + “I shall have the matter investigated. A wild man running loose IS + dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + But so quiet a man was Mr. Ward, that Dave's courage returned. Besides, a + new theory had suggested itself. The wild man was evidently Mr. Ward's + brother, a lunatic privately confined. Dave had heard of such things. + Perhaps Mr. Ward wanted it kept quiet. That was why he had given him the + twenty dollars. + </p> + <p> + “Say,” Dave began, “now I come to think of it that wild man looked a lot + like you—” + </p> + <p> + That was as far as Dave got, for at that moment he witnessed a + transformation and found himself gazing into the same unspeakably + ferocious blue eyes of the night before, at the same clutching talon-like + hands, and at the same formidable bulk in the act of springing upon him. + But this time Dave had no night-stick to throw, and he was caught by the + biceps of both arms in a grip so terrific that it made him groan with + pain. He saw the large white teeth exposed, for all the world as a dog's + about to bite. Mr. Ward's beard brushed his face as the teeth went in for + the grip on his throat. But the bite was not given. Instead, Dave felt the + other's body stiffen as with an iron restraint, and then he was flung + aside, without effort but with such force that only the wall stopped his + momentum and dropped him gasping to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by coming here and trying to blackmail me?” Mr. Ward was + snarling at him. “Here, give me back that money.” + </p> + <p> + Dave passed the bill back without a word. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you came here with good intentions. I know you now. Let me see + and hear no more of you, or I'll put you in prison where you belong. Do + you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” Dave gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Then go.” + </p> + <p> + And Dave went, without further word, both his biceps aching intolerably + from the bruise of that tremendous grip. As his hand rested on the door + knob, he was stopped. + </p> + <p> + “You were lucky,” Mr. Ward was saying, and Dave noted that his face and + eyes were cruel and gloating and proud. + </p> + <p> + “You were lucky. Had I wanted, I could have torn your muscles out of your + arms and thrown them in the waste basket there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Dave; and absolute conviction vibrated in his voice. + </p> + <p> + He opened the door and passed out. The secretary looked at him + interrogatively. + </p> + <p> + “Gosh!” was all Dave vouchsafed, and with this utterance passed out of the + offices and the story. + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + James G. Ward was forty years of age, a successful business man, and very + unhappy. For forty years he had vainly tried to solve a problem that was + really himself and that with increasing years became more and more a + woeful affliction. In himself he was two men, and, chronologically + speaking, these men were several thousand years or so apart. He had + studied the question of dual personality probably more profoundly than any + half dozen of the leading specialists in that intricate and mysterious + psychological field. In himself he was a different case from any that had + been recorded. Even the most fanciful flights of the fiction-writers had + not quite hit upon him. He was not a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, nor was he + like the unfortunate young man in Kipling's “Greatest Story in the World.” + His two personalities were so mixed that they were practically aware of + themselves and of each other all the time. + </p> + <p> + His other self he had located as a savage and a barbarian living under the + primitive conditions of several thousand years before. But which self was + he, and which was the other, he could never tell. For he was both selves, + and both selves all the time. Very rarely indeed did it happen that one + self did not know what the other was doing. Another thing was that he had + no visions nor memories of the past in which that early self had lived. + That early self lived in the present; but while it lived in the present, + it was under the compulsion to live the way of life that must have been in + that distant past. + </p> + <p> + In his childhood he had been a problem to his father and mother, and to + the family doctors, though never had they come within a thousand miles of + hitting upon the clue to his erratic, conduct. Thus, they could not + understand his excessive somnolence in the forenoon, nor his excessive + activity at night. When they found him wandering along the hallways at + night, or climbing over giddy roofs, or running in the hills, they decided + he was a somnambulist. In reality he was wide-eyed awake and merely under + the nightroaming compulsion of his early self. Questioned by an obtuse + medico, he once told the truth and suffered the ignominy of having the + revelation contemptuously labeled and dismissed as “dreams.” + </p> + <p> + The point was, that as twilight and evening came on he became wakeful. The + four walls of a room were an irk and a restraint. He heard a thousand + voices whispering to him through the darkness. The night called to him, + for he was, for that period of the twenty-four hours, essentially a + night-prowler. But nobody understood, and never again did he attempt to + explain. They classified him as a sleep-walker and took precautions + accordingly—precautions that very often were futile. As his + childhood advanced, he grew more cunning, so that the major portion of all + his nights were spent in the open at realizing his other self. As a + result, he slept in the forenoons. Morning studies and schools were + impossible, and it was discovered that only in the afternoons, under + private teachers, could he be taught anything. Thus was his modern self + educated and developed. + </p> + <p> + But a problem, as a child, he ever remained. He was known as a little + demon, of insensate cruelty and viciousness. The family medicos privately + adjudged him a mental monstrosity and degenerate. Such few boy companions + as he had, hailed him as a wonder, though they were all afraid of him. He + could outclimb, outswim, outrun, outdevil any of them; while none dared + fight with him. He was too terribly strong, madly furious. + </p> + <p> + When nine years of age he ran away to the hills, where he flourished, + night-prowling, for seven weeks before he was discovered and brought home. + The marvel was how he had managed to subsist and keep in condition during + that time. They did not know, and he never told them, of the rabbits he + had killed, of the quail, young and old, he had captured and devoured, of + the farmers' chicken-roosts he had raided, nor of the cave-lair he had + made and carpeted with dry leaves and grasses and in which he had slept in + warmth and comfort through the forenoons of many days. + </p> + <p> + At college he was notorious for his sleepiness and stupidity during the + morning lectures and for his brilliance in the afternoon. By collateral + reading and by borrowing the notebook of his fellow students he managed to + scrape through the detestable morning courses, while his afternoon courses + were triumphs. In football he proved a giant and a terror, and, in almost + every form of track athletics, save for strange Berserker rages that were + sometimes displayed, he could be depended upon to win. But his fellows + were afraid to box with him, and he signalized his last wrestling bout by + sinking his teeth into the shoulder of his opponent. + </p> + <p> + After college, his father, in despair, sent him among the cow-punchers of + a Wyoming ranch. Three months later the doughty cowmen confessed he was + too much for them and telegraphed his father to come and take the wild man + away. Also, when the father arrived to take him away, the cowmen allowed + that they would vastly prefer chumming with howling cannibals, gibbering + lunatics, cavorting gorillas, grizzly bears, and man-eating tigers than + with this particular Young college product with hair parted in the middle. + </p> + <p> + There was one exception to the lack of memory of the life of his early + self, and that was language. By some quirk of atavism, a certain portion + of that early self's language had come down to him as a racial memory. In + moments of happiness, exaltation, or battle, he was prone to burst out in + wild barbaric songs or chants. It was by this means that he located in + time and space that strayed half of him who should have been dead and dust + for thousands of years. He sang, once, and deliberately, several of the + ancient chants in the presence of Professor Wertz, who gave courses in old + Saxon and who was a philogist of repute and passion. At the first one, the + professor pricked up his ears and demanded to know what mongrel tongue or + hog-German it was. When the second chant was rendered, the professor was + highly excited. James Ward then concluded the performance by giving a song + that always irresistibly rushed to his lips when he was engaged in fierce + struggling or fighting. Then it was that Professor Wertz proclaimed it no + hog-German, but early German, or early Teuton, of a date that must far + precede anything that had ever been discovered and handed down by the + scholars. So early was it that it was beyond him; yet it was filled with + haunting reminiscences of word-forms he knew and which his trained + intuition told him were true and real. He demanded the source of the + songs, and asked to borrow the precious book that contained them. Also, he + demanded to know why young Ward had always posed as being profoundly + ignorant of the German language. And Ward could neither explain his + ignorance nor lend the book. Whereupon, after pleadings and entreaties + that extended through weeks, Professor Wert took a dislike to the young + man, believed him a liar, and classified him as a man of monstrous + selfishness for not giving him a glimpse of this wonderful screed that was + older than the oldest any philologist had ever known or dreamed. + </p> + <p> + But little good did it do this much-mixed young man to know that half of + him was late American and the other half early Teuton. Nevertheless, the + late American in him was no weakling, and he (if he were a he and had a + shred of existence outside of these two) compelled an adjustment or + compromise between his one self that was a nightprowling savage that kept + his other self sleepy of mornings, and that other self that was cultured + and refined and that wanted to be normal and live and love and prosecute + business like other people. The afternoons and early evenings he gave to + the one, the nights to the other; the forenoons and parts of the nights + were devoted to sleep for the twain. But in the mornings he slept in bed + like a civilized man. In the night time he slept like a wild animal, as he + had slept Dave Slotter stepped on him in the woods. + </p> + <p> + Persuading his father to advance the capital, he went into business and + keen and successful business he made of it, devoting his afternoons + whole-souled to it, while his partner devoted the mornings. The early + evenings he spent socially, but, as the hour grew to nine or ten, an + irresistible restlessness overcame him and he disappeared from the haunts + of men until the next afternoon. Friends and acquaintances thought that he + spent much of his time in sport. And they were right, though they never + would have dreamed of the nature of the sport, even if they had seen him + running coyotes in night-chases over the hills of Mill Valley. Neither + were the schooner captains believed when they reported seeing, on cold + winter mornings, a man swimming in the tide-rips of Raccoon Straits or in + the swift currents between Goat island and Angel Island miles from shore. + </p> + <p> + In the bungalow at Mill Valley he lived alone, save for Lee Sing, the + Chinese cook and factotum, who knew much about the strangeness of his + master, who was paid well for saying nothing, and who never did say + anything. After the satisfaction of his nights, a morning's sleep, and a + breakfast of Lee Sing's, James Ward crossed the bay to San Francisco on a + midday ferryboat and went to the club and on to his office, as normal and + conventional a man of business as could be found in the city. But as the + evening lengthened, the night called to him. There came a quickening of + all his perceptions and a restlessness. His hearing was suddenly acute; + the myriad night-noises told him a luring and familiar story; and, if + alone, he would begin to pace up and down the narrow room like any caged + animal from the wild. + </p> + <p> + Once, he ventured to fall in love. He never permitted himself that + diversion again. He was afraid. And for many a day the young lady, scared + at least out of a portion of her young ladyhood, bore on her arms and + shoulders and wrists divers black-and-blue bruises—tokens of + caresses which he had bestowed in all fond gentleness but too late at + night. There was the mistake. Had he ventured love-making in the + afternoon, all would have been well, for it would have been as the quiet + gentleman that he would have made love—but at night it was the + uncouth, wife-stealing savage of the dark German forests. Out of his + wisdom, he decided that afternoon love-making could be prosecuted + successfully; but out of the same wisdom he was convinced that marriage as + would prove a ghastly failure. He found it appalling to imagine being + married and encountering his wife after dark. + </p> + <p> + So he had eschewed all love-making, regulated his dual life, cleaned up a + million in business, fought shy of match-making mamas and bright-eyed and + eager young ladies of various ages, met Lilian Gersdale and made it a + rigid observance never to see her later than eight o'clock in the evening, + run of nights after his coyotes, and slept in forest lairs—and + through it all had kept his secret safe save Lee Sing... and now, Dave + Slotter. It was the latter's discovery of both his selves that frightened + him. In spite of the counter fright he had given the burglar, the latter + might talk. And even if he did not, sooner or later he would be found out + by some one else. + </p> + <p> + Thus it was that James Ward made a fresh and heroic effort to control the + Teutonic barbarian that was half of him. So well did he make it a point to + see Lilian in the afternoons, that the time came when she accepted him for + better or worse, and when he prayed privily and fervently that it was not + for worse. During this period no prize-fighter ever trained more harshly + and faithfully for a contest than he trained to subdue the wild savage in + him. Among other things, he strove to exhaust himself during the day, so + that sleep would render him deaf to the call of the night. He took a + vacation from the office and went on long hunting trips, following the + deer through the most inaccessible and rugged country he could find—and + always in the daytime. Night found him indoors and tired. At home he + installed a score of exercise machines, and where other men might go + through a particular movement ten times, he went hundreds. Also, as a + compromise, he built a sleeping porch on the second story. Here he at + least breathed the blessed night air. Double screens prevented him from + escaping into the woods, and each night Lee Sing locked him in and each + morning let him out. + </p> + <p> + The time came, in the month of August, when he engaged additional servants + to assist Lee Sing and dared a house party in his Mill Valley bungalow. + Lilian, her mother and brother, and half a dozen mutual friends, were the + guests. For two days and nights all went well. And on the third night, + playing bridge till eleven o'clock, he had reason to be proud of himself. + His restlessness fully hid, but as luck would have it, Lilian Gersdale was + his opponent on his right. She was a frail delicate flower of a woman, and + in his night-mood her very frailty incensed him. Not that he loved her + less, but that he felt almost irresistibly impelled to reach out and paw + and maul her. Especially was this true when she was engaged in playing a + winning hand against him. + </p> + <p> + He had one of the deer-hounds brought in and, when it seemed he must fly + to pieces with the tension, a caressing hand laid on the animal brought + him relief. These contacts with the hairy coat gave him instant easement + and enabled him to play out the evening. Nor did anyone guess the while + terrible struggle their host was making, the while he laughed so + carelessly and played so keenly and deliberately. + </p> + <p> + When they separated for the night, he saw to it that he parted from Lilian + in the presence or the others. Once on his sleeping porch and safely + locked in, he doubled and tripled and even quadrupled his exercises until, + exhausted, he lay down on the couch to woo sleep and to ponder two + problems that especially troubled him. One was this matter of exercise. It + was a paradox. The more he exercised in this excessive fashion, the + stronger he became. While it was true that he thus quite tired out his + night-running Teutonic self, it seemed that he was merely setting back the + fatal day when his strength would be too much for him and overpower him, + and then it would be a strength more terrible than he had yet known. The + other problem was that of his marriage and of the stratagems he must + employ in order to avoid his wife after dark. And thus, fruitlessly + pondering, he fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + Now, where the huge grizzly bear came from that night was long a mystery, + while the people of the Springs Brothers' Circus, showing at Sausalito, + searched long and vainly for “Big Ben, the Biggest Grizzly in Captivity.” + But Big Ben escaped, and, out of the mazes of half a thousand bungalows + and country estates, selected the grounds of James J. Ward for visitation. + The self first Mr. Ward knew was when he found him on his feet, quivering + and tense, a surge of battle in his breast and on his lips the old + war-chant. From without came a wild baying and bellowing of the hounds. + And sharp as a knife-thrust through the pandemonium came the agony of a + stricken dog—his dog, he knew. + </p> + <p> + Not stopping for slippers, pajama-clad, he burst through the door Lee Sing + had so carefully locked, and sped down the stairs and out into the night. + As his naked feet struck the graveled driveway, he stopped abruptly, + reached under the steps to a hiding-place he knew well, and pulled forth a + huge knotty club—his old companion on many a mad night adventure on + the hills. The frantic hullabaloo of the dogs was coming nearer, and, + swinging the club, he sprang straight into the thickets to meet it. + </p> + <p> + The aroused household assembled on the wide veranda. Somebody turned on + the electric lights, but they could see nothing but one another's + frightened faces. Beyond the brightly illuminated driveway the trees + formed a wall of impenetrable blackness. Yet somewhere in that blackness a + terrible struggle was going on. There was an infernal outcry of animals, a + great snarling and growling, the sound of blows being struck and a + smashing and crashing of underbrush by heavy bodies. + </p> + <p> + The tide of battle swept out from among the trees and upon the driveway + just beneath the onlookers. Then they saw. Mrs. Gersdale cried out and + clung fainting to her son. Lilian, clutching the railing so spasmodically + that a bruising hurt was left in her finger-ends for days, gazed + horror-stricken at a yellow-haired, wild-eyed giant whom she recognized as + the man who was to be her husband. He was swinging a great club, and + fighting furiously and calmly with a shaggy monster that was bigger than + any bear she had ever seen. One rip of the beast's claws had dragged away + Ward's pajama-coat and streaked his flesh with blood. + </p> + <p> + While most of Lilian Gersdale's fright was for the man beloved, there was + a large portion of it due to the man himself. Never had she dreamed so + formidable and magnificent a savage lurked under the starched shirt and + conventional garb of her betrothed. And never had she had any conception + of how a man battled. Such a battle was certainly not modern; nor was she + there beholding a modern man, though she did not know it. For this was not + Mr. James J. Ward, the San Francisco business man, but one, unnamed and + unknown, a crude, rude savage creature who, by some freak of chance, lived + again after thrice a thousand years. + </p> + <p> + The hounds, ever maintaining their mad uproar, circled about the fight, or + dashed in and out, distracting the bear. When the animal turned to meet + such flanking assaults, the man leaped in and the club came down. Angered + afresh by every such blow, the bear would rush, and the man, leaping and + skipping, avoiding the dogs, went backwards or circled to one side or the + other. Whereupon the dogs, taking advantage of the opening, would again + spring in and draw the animal's wrath to them. + </p> + <p> + The end came suddenly. Whirling, the grizzly caught a hound with a wide + sweeping cuff that sent the brute, its ribs caved in and its back broken, + hurtling twenty feet. Then the human brute went mad. A foaming rage + flecked the lips that parted with a wild inarticulate cry, as it sprang + in, swung the club mightily in both hands, and brought it down full on the + head of the uprearing grizzly. Not even the skull of a grizzly could + withstand the crushing force of such a blow, and the animal went down to + meet the worrying of the hounds. And through their scurrying leaped the + man, squarely upon the body, where, in the white electric light, resting + on his club, he chanted a triumph in an unknown tongue—a song so + ancient that Professor Wertz would have given ten years of his life for + it. + </p> + <p> + His guests rushed to possess him and acclaim him, but James Ward, suddenly + looking out of the eyes of the early Teuton, saw the fair frail Twentieth + Century girl he loved, and felt something snap in his brain. He staggered + weakly toward her, dropped the club, and nearly fell. Something had gone + wrong with him. Inside his brain was an intolerable agony. It seemed as if + the soul of him were flying asunder. Following the excited gaze of the + others, he glanced back and saw the carcass of the bear. The sight filled + him with fear. He uttered a cry and would have fled, had they not + restrained him and led him into the bungalow. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + James J. Ward is still at the head of the firm of Ward, Knowles & Co. + But he no longer lives in the country; nor does he run of nights after the + coyotes under the moon. The early Teuton in him died the night of the Mill + Valley fight with the bear. James J. Ward is now wholly James J. Ward, and + he shares no part of his being with any vagabond anachronism from the + younger world. And so wholly is James J. Ward modern, that he knows in all + its bitter fullness the curse of civilized fear. He is now afraid of the + dark, and night in the forest is to him a thing of abysmal terror. His + city house is of the spick and span order, and he evinces a great interest + in burglarproof devices. His home is a tangle of electric wires, and after + bed-time a guest can scarcely breathe without setting off an alarm. Also, + he had invented a combination keyless door-lock that travelers may carry + in their vest pockets and apply immediately and successfully under all + circumstances. But his wife does not deem him a coward. She knows better. + And, like any hero, he is content to rest on his laurels. His bravery is + never questioned by those friends who are aware of the Mill Valley + episode. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT + </h2> + <p> + CARTER WATSON, a current magazine under his arm, strolled slowly along, + gazing about him curiously. Twenty years had elapsed since he had been on + this particular street, and the changes were great and stupefying. This + Western city of three hundred thousand souls had contained but thirty + thousand, when, as a boy, he had been wont to ramble along its streets. In + those days the street he was now on had been a quiet residence street in + the respectable workingclass quarter. On this late afternoon he found that + it had been submerged by a vast and vicious tenderloin. Chinese and + Japanese shops and dens abounded, all confusedly intermingled with low + white resorts and boozing dens. This quiet street of his youth had become + the toughest quarter of the city. + </p> + <p> + He looked at his watch. It was half-past five. It was the slack time of + the day in such a region, as he well knew, yet he was curious to see. In + all his score of years of wandering and studying social conditions over + the world, he had carried with him the memory of his old town as a sweet + and wholesome place. The metamorphosis he now beheld was startling. He + certainly must continue his stroll and glimpse the infamy to which his + town had descended. + </p> + <p> + Another thing: Carter Watson had a keen social and civic consciousness. + Independently wealthy, he had been loath to dissipate his energies in the + pink teas and freak dinners of society, while actresses, race-horses, and + kindred diversions had left him cold. He had the ethical bee in his bonnet + and was a reformer of no mean pretension, though his work had been mainly + in the line of contributions to the heavier reviews and quarterlies and to + the publication over his name of brightly, cleverly written books on the + working classes and the slum-dwellers. Among the twenty-seven to his + credit occurred titles such as, “If Christ Came to New Orleans,” “The + Worked-out Worker,” “Tenement Reform in Berlin,” “The Rural Slums of + England,” “The people of the East Side,” “Reform Versus Revolution,” “The + University Settlement as a Hot Bed of Radicalism” and “The Cave Man of + Civilization.” + </p> + <p> + But Carter Watson was neither morbid nor fanatic. He did not lose his head + over the horrors he encountered, studied, and exposed. No hair brained + enthusiasm branded him. His humor saved him, as did his wide experience + and his conservative philosophic temperament. Nor did he have any patience + with lightning change reform theories. As he saw it, society would grow + better only through the painfully slow and arduously painful processes of + evolution. There were no short cuts, no sudden regenerations. The + betterment of mankind must be worked out in agony and misery just as all + past social betterments had been worked out. + </p> + <p> + But on this late summer afternoon, Carter Watson was curious. As he moved + along he paused before a gaudy drinking place. The sign above read, “The + Vendome.” There were two entrances. One evidently led to the bar. This he + did not explore. The other was a narrow hallway. Passing through this he + found himself in a huge room, filled with chair-encircled tables and quite + deserted. In the dim light he made out a piano in the distance. Making a + mental note that he would come back some time and study the class of + persons that must sit and drink at those multitudinous tables, he + proceeded to circumnavigate the room. + </p> + <p> + Now, at the rear, a short hallway led off to a small kitchen, and here, at + a table, alone, sat Patsy Horan, proprietor of the Vendome, consuming a + hasty supper ere the evening rush of business. Also, Patsy Horan was angry + with the world. He had got out of the wrong side of bed that morning, and + nothing had gone right all day. Had his barkeepers been asked, they would + have described his mental condition as a grouch. But Carter Watson did not + know this. As he passed the little hallway, Patsy Horan's sullen eyes + lighted on the magazine he carried under his arm. Patsy did not know + Carter Watson, nor did he know that what he carried under his arm was a + magazine. Patsy, out of the depths of his grouch, decided that this + stranger was one of those pests who marred and scarred the walls of his + back rooms by tacking up or pasting up advertisements. The color on the + front cover of the magazine convinced him that it was such an + advertisement. Thus the trouble began. Knife and fork in hand, Patsy + leaped for Carter Watson. + </p> + <p> + “Out wid yeh!” Patsy bellowed. “I know yer game!” + </p> + <p> + Carter Watson was startled. The man had come upon him like the eruption of + a jack-in-the-box. + </p> + <p> + “A defacin' me walls,” cried Patsy, at the same time emitting a string of + vivid and vile, rather than virile, epithets of opprobrium. + </p> + <p> + “If I have given any offense I did not mean to—” + </p> + <p> + But that was as far as the visitor got. Patsy interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Get out wid yeh; yeh talk too much wid yer mouth,” quoted Patsy, + emphasizing his remarks with flourishes of the knife and fork. + </p> + <p> + Carter Watson caught a quick vision of that eating-fork inserted + uncomfortably between his ribs, knew that it would be rash to talk further + with his mouth, and promptly turned to go. The sight of his meekly + retreating back must have further enraged Patsy Horan, for that worthy, + dropping the table implements, sprang upon him. + </p> + <p> + Patsy weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. So did Watson. In this they + were equal. But Patsy was a rushing, rough-and-tumble saloon-fighter, + while Watson was a boxer. In this the latter had the advantage, for Patsy + came in wide open, swinging his right in a perilous sweep. All Watson had + to do was to straight-left him and escape. But Watson had another + advantage. His boxing, and his experience in the slums and ghettos of the + world, had taught him restraint. + </p> + <p> + He pivoted on his feet, and, instead of striking, ducked the other's + swinging blow and went into a clinch. But Patsy, charging like a bull, had + the momentum of his rush, while Watson, whirling to meet him, had no + momentum. As a result, the pair of them went down, with all their three + hundred and sixty pounds of weight, in a long crashing fall, Watson + underneath. He lay with his head touching the rear wall of the large room. + The street was a hundred and fifty feet away, and he did some quick + thinking. His first thought was to avoid trouble. He had no wish to get + into the papers of this, his childhood town, where many of his relatives + and family friends still lived. + </p> + <p> + So it was that he locked his arms around the man on top of him, held him + close, and waited for the help to come that must come in response to the + crash of the fall. The help came—that is, six men ran in from the + bar and formed about in a semi-circle. + </p> + <p> + “Take him off, fellows,” Watson said. “I haven't struck him, and I don't + want any fight.” + </p> + <p> + But the semi-circle remained silent. Watson held on and waited. Patsy, + after various vain efforts to inflict damage, made an overture. + </p> + <p> + “Leggo o' me an' I'll get off o' yeh,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Watson let go, but when Patsy scrambled to his feet he stood over his + recumbent foe, ready to strike. + </p> + <p> + “Get up,” Patsy commanded. + </p> + <p> + His voice was stern and implacable, like the voice of God calling to + judgment, and Watson knew there was no mercy there. + </p> + <p> + “Stand back and I'll get up,” he countered. + </p> + <p> + “If yer a gentleman, get up,” quoth Patsy, his pale blue eyes aflame with + wrath, his fist ready for a crushing blow. + </p> + <p> + At the same moment he drew his foot back to kick the other in the face. + Watson blocked the kick with his crossed arms and sprang to his feet so + quickly that he was in a clinch with his antagonist before the latter + could strike. Holding him, Watson spoke to the onlookers: + </p> + <p> + “Take him away from me, fellows. You see I am not striking him. I don't + want to fight. I want to get out of here.” + </p> + <p> + The circle did not move nor speak. Its silence was ominous and sent a + chill to Watson's heart. + </p> + <p> + Patsy made an effort to throw him, which culminated in his putting Patsy + on his back. Tearing loose from him, Watson sprang to his feet and made + for the door. But the circle of men was interposed a wall. He noticed the + white, pasty faces, the kind that never see the sun, and knew that the men + who barred his way were the nightprowlers and preying beasts of the city + jungle. By them he was thrust back upon the pursuing, bull-rushing Patsy. + </p> + <p> + Again it was a clinch, in which, in momentary safety, Watson appealed to + the gang. And again his words fell on deaf ears. Then it was that he knew + of many similar knew fear. For he had known of many similar situations, in + low dens like this, when solitary men were man-handled, their ribs and + features caved in, themselves beaten and kicked to death. And he knew, + further, that if he were to escape he must neither strike his assailant + nor any of the men who opposed him. + </p> + <p> + Yet in him was righteous indignation. Under no circumstances could seven + to one be fair. Also, he was angry, and there stirred in him the fighting + beast that is in all men. But he remembered his wife and children, his + unfinished book, the ten thousand rolling acres of the up-country ranch he + loved so well. He even saw in flashing visions the blue of the sky, the + golden sun pouring down on his flower-spangled meadows, the lazy cattle + knee-deep in the brooks, and the flash of trout in the riffles. Life was + good-too good for him to risk it for a moment's sway of the beast. In + short, Carter Watson was cool and scared. + </p> + <p> + His opponent, locked by his masterly clinch, was striving to throw him. + Again Watson put him on the floor, broke away, and was thrust back by the + pasty-faced circle to duck Patsy's swinging right and effect another + clinch. This happened many times. And Watson grew even cooler, while the + baffled Patsy, unable to inflict punishment, raged wildly and more wildly. + He took to batting with his head in the clinches. The first time, he + landed his forehead flush on Watson's nose. After that, the latter, in the + clinches, buried his face in Patsy's breast. But the enraged Patsy batted + on, striking his own eye and nose and cheek on the top of the other's + head. The more he was thus injured, the more and the harder did Patsy bat. + </p> + <p> + This one-sided contest continued for twelve or fifteen minutes. Watson + never struck a blow, and strove only to escape. Sometimes, in the free + moments, circling about among the tables as he tried to win the door, the + pasty-faced men gripped his coat-tails and flung him back at the swinging + right of the on-rushing Patsy. Time upon time, and times without end, he + clinched and put Patsy on his back, each time first whirling him around + and putting him down in the direction of the door and gaining toward that + goal by the length of the fall. + </p> + <p> + In the end, hatless, disheveled, with streaming nose and one eye closed, + Watson won to the sidewalk and into the arms of a policeman. + </p> + <p> + “Arrest that man,” Watson panted. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Patsy,” said the policeman. “What's the mix-up?” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Charley,” was the answer. “This guy comes in—” + </p> + <p> + “Arrest that man, officer,” Watson repeated. + </p> + <p> + “G'wan! Beat it!” said Patsy. + </p> + <p> + “Beat it!” added the policeman. “If you don't, I'll pull you in.” + </p> + <p> + “Not unless you arrest that man. He has committed a violent and unprovoked + assault on me.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it so, Patsy?” was the officer's query. + </p> + <p> + “Nah. Lemme tell you, Charley, an' I got the witnesses to prove it, so + help me God. I was settin' in me kitchen eatin' a bowl of soup, when this + guy comes in an' gets gay wid me. I never seen him in me born days before. + He was drunk—” + </p> + <p> + “Look at me, officer,” protested the indignant sociologist. “Am I drunk?” + </p> + <p> + The officer looked at him with sullen, menacing eyes and nodded to Patsy + to continue. + </p> + <p> + “This guy gets gay wid me. 'I'm Tim McGrath,' says he, 'an' I can do the + like to you,' says he. 'Put up yer hands.' I smiles, an' wid that, biff + biff, he lands me twice an' spills me soup. Look at me eye. I'm fair + murdered.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do, officer?” Watson demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, beat it,” was the answer, “or I'll pull you sure.” + </p> + <p> + The civic righteousness of Carter Watson flamed up. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Officer, I protest—” + </p> + <p> + But at that moment the policeman grabbed his arm with a savage jerk that + nearly overthrew him. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, you're pulled.” + </p> + <p> + “Arrest him, too,” Watson demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Nix on that play,” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + “What did you assault him for, him a peacefully eatin' his soup?” + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + Carter Watson was genuinely angry. Not only had he been wantonly + assaulted, badly battered, and arrested, but the morning papers without + exception came out with lurid accounts of his drunken brawl with the + proprietor of the notorious Vendome. Not one accurate or truthful line was + published. Patsy Horan and his satellites described the battle in detail. + The one incontestable thing was that Carter Watson had been drunk. Thrice + he had been thrown out of the place and into the gutter, and thrice he had + come back, breathing blood and fire and announcing that he was going to + clean out the place. “EMINENT SOCIOLOGIST JAGGED AND JUGGED,” was the + first head-line he read, on the front page, accompanied by a large + portrait of himself. Other headlines were: “CARTER WATSON ASPIRED TO + CHAMPIONSHIP HONORS”; “CARTER WATSON GETS HIS”; “NOTED SOCIOLOGIST + ATTEMPTS TO CLEAN OUT A TENDERLOIN CAFE”; and “CARTER WATSON KNOCKED OUT + BY PATSY HORAN IN THREE ROUNDS.” + </p> + <p> + At the police court, next morning, under bail, appeared Carter Watson to + answer the complaint of the People Versus Carter Watson, for the latter's + assault and battery on one Patsy Horan. But first, the Prosecuting + Attorney, who was paid to prosecute all offenders against the People, drew + him aside and talked with him privately. + </p> + <p> + “Why not let it drop!” said the Prosecuting Attorney. “I tell you what you + do, Mr. Watson: Shake hands with Mr. Horan and make it up, and we'll drop + the case right here. A word to the Judge, and the case against you will be + dismissed.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don't want it dismissed,” was the answer. “Your office being what + it is, you should be prosecuting me instead of asking me to make up with + this—this fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll prosecute you all right,” retorted the Prosecuting Attorney. + </p> + <p> + “Also you will have to prosecute this Patsy Horan,” Watson advised; “for I + shall now have him arrested for assault and battery.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd better shake and make up,” the Prosecuting Attorney repeated, and + this time there was almost a threat in his voice. + </p> + <p> + The trials of both men were set for a week later, on the same morning, in + Police Judge Witberg's court. + </p> + <p> + “You have no chance,” Watson was told by an old friend of his boyhood, the + retired manager of the biggest paper in the city. “Everybody knows you + were beaten up by this man. His reputation is most unsavory. But it won't + help you in the least. Both cases will be dismissed. This will be because + you are you. Any ordinary man would be convicted.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do not understand,” objected the perplexed sociologist. “Without + warning I was attacked by this man; and badly beaten. I did not strike a + blow. I—” + </p> + <p> + “That has nothing to do with it,” the other cut him off. + </p> + <p> + “Then what is there that has anything to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you. You are now up against the local police and political + machine. Who are you? You are not even a legal resident in this town. You + live up in the country. You haven't a vote of your own here. Much less do + you swing any votes. This dive proprietor swings a string of votes in his + precincts—a mighty long string.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me that this Judge Witberg will violate the + sacredness of his office and oath by letting this brute off?” Watson + demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Watch him,” was the grim reply. “Oh, he'll do it nicely enough. He will + give an extra-legal, extra-judicial decision, abounding in every word in + the dictionary that stands for fairness and right.” + </p> + <p> + “But there are the newspapers,” Watson cried. + </p> + <p> + “They are not fighting the administration at present. They'll give it to + you hard. You see what they have already done to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then these snips of boys on the police detail won't write the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “They will write something so near like the truth that the public will + believe it. They write their stories under instruction, you know. They + have their orders to twist and color, and there won't be much left of you + when they get done. Better drop the whole thing right now. You are in + bad.” + </p> + <p> + “But the trials are set.” + </p> + <p> + “Give the word and they'll drop them now. A man can't fight a machine + unless he has a machine behind him.” + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + But Carter Watson was stubborn. He was convinced that the machine would + beat him, but all his days he had sought social experience, and this was + certainly something new. + </p> + <p> + The morning of the trial the Prosecuting Attorney made another attempt to + patch up the affair. + </p> + <p> + “If you feel that way, I should like to get a lawyer to prosecute the + case,” said Watson. + </p> + <p> + “No, you don't,” said the Prosecuting Attorney. “I am paid by the People + to prosecute, and prosecute I will. But let me tell you. You have no + chance. We shall lump both cases into one, and you watch out.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Witberg looked good to Watson. A fairly young man, short, + comfortably stout, smooth-shaven and with an intelligent face, he seemed a + very nice man indeed. This good impression was added to by the smiling + lips and the wrinkles of laughter in the corners of his black eyes. + Looking at him and studying him, Watson felt almost sure that his old + friend's prognostication was wrong. + </p> + <p> + But Watson was soon to learn. Patsy Horan and two of his satellites + testified to a most colossal aggregation of perjuries. Watson could not + have believed it possible without having experienced it. They denied the + existence of the other four men. And of the two that testified, one + claimed to have been in the kitchen, a witness to Watson's unprovoked + assault on Patsy, while the other, remaining in the bar, had witnessed + Watson's second and third rushes into the place as he attempted to + annihilate the unoffending Patsy. The vile language ascribed to Watson was + so voluminously and unspeakably vile, that he felt they were injuring + their own case. It was so impossible that he should utter such things. But + when they described the brutal blows he had rained on poor Patsy's face, + and the chair he demolished when he vainly attempted to kick Patsy, Watson + waxed secretly hilarious and at the same time sad. The trial was a farce, + but such lowness of life was depressing to contemplate when he considered + the long upward climb humanity must make. + </p> + <p> + Watson could not recognize himself, nor could his worst enemy have + recognized him, in the swashbuckling, rough-housing picture that was + painted of him. But, as in all cases of complicated perjury, rifts and + contradictions in the various stories appeared. The Judge somehow failed + to notice them, while the Prosecuting Attorney and Patsy's attorney shied + off from them gracefully. Watson had not bothered to get a lawyer for + himself, and he was now glad that he had not. + </p> + <p> + Still, he retained a semblance of faith in Judge Witberg when he went + himself on the stand and started to tell his story. + </p> + <p> + “I was strolling casually along the street, your Honor,” Watson began, but + was interrupted by the Judge. + </p> + <p> + “We are not here to consider your previous actions,” bellowed Judge + Witberg. “Who struck the first blow?” + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor,” Watson pleaded, “I have no witnesses of the actual fray, and + the truth of my story can only be brought out by telling the story fully—” + </p> + <p> + Again he was interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “We do not care to publish any magazines here,” Judge Witberg roared, + looking at him so fiercely and malevolently that Watson could scarcely + bring himself to believe that this was same man he had studied a few + minutes previously. + </p> + <p> + “Who struck the first blow?” Patsy's attorney asked. + </p> + <p> + The Prosecuting Attorney interposed, demanding to know which of the two + cases lumped together was, and by what right Patsy's lawyer, at that stage + of the proceedings, should take the witness. Patsy's attorney fought back. + Judge Witberg interfered, professing no knowledge of any two cases being + lumped together. All this had to be explained. Battle royal raged, + terminating in both attorneys apologizing to the Court and to each other. + And so it went, and to Watson it had the seeming of a group of pickpockets + ruffling and bustling an honest man as they took his purse. The machine + was working, that was all. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you enter this place of unsavory reputations?” was asked him. + </p> + <p> + “It has been my custom for many years, as a student of economics and + sociology, to acquaint myself—” + </p> + <p> + But this was as far as Watson got. + </p> + <p> + “We want none of your ologies here,” snarled Judge Witberg. “It is a plain + question. Answer it plainly. Is it true or not true that you were drunk? + That is the gist of the question.” + </p> + <p> + When Watson attempted to tell how Patsy had injured his face in his + attempts to bat with his head, Watson was openly scouted and flouted, and + Judge Witberg again took him in hand. + </p> + <p> + “Are you aware of the solemnity of the oath you took to testify to nothing + but the truth on this witness stand?” the Judge demanded. “This is a fairy + story you are telling. It is not reasonable that a man would so injure + himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft and + sensitive parts of his face against your head. You are a sensible man. It + is unreasonable, is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “Men are unreasonable when they are angry,” Watson answered meekly. + </p> + <p> + Then it was that Judge Witberg was deeply outraged and righteously + wrathful. + </p> + <p> + “What right have you to say that?” he cried. “It is gratuitous. It has no + bearing on the case. You are here as a witness, sir, of events that have + transpired. The Court does not wish to hear any expressions of opinion + from you at all.” + </p> + <p> + “I but answered your question, your Honor,” Watson protested humbly. + </p> + <p> + “You did nothing of the sort,” was the next blast. “And let me warn you, + sir, let me warn you, that you are laying yourself liable to contempt by + such insolence. And I will have you know that we know how to observe the + law and the rules of courtesy down here in this little courtroom. I am + ashamed of you.” + </p> + <p> + And, while the next punctilious legal wrangle between the attorneys + interrupted his tale of what happened in the Vendome, Carter Watson, + without bitterness, amused and at the same time sad, saw rise before him + the machine, large and small, that dominated his country, the unpunished + and shameless grafts of a thousand cities perpetrated by the spidery and + vermin-like creatures of the machines. Here it was before him, a courtroom + and a judge, bowed down in subservience by the machine to a dive-keeper + who swung a string of votes. Petty and sordid as it was, it was one face + of the many-faced machine that loomed colossally, in every city and state, + in a thousand guises overshadowing the land. + </p> + <p> + A familiar phrase rang in his ears: “It is to laugh.” At the height of the + wrangle, he giggled, once, aloud, and earned a sullen frown from Judge + Witberg. Worse, a myriad times, he decided, were these bullying lawyers + and this bullying judge then the bucko mates in first quality hell-ships, + who not only did their own bullying but protected themselves as well. + These petty rapscallions, on the other hand, sought protection behind the + majesty of the law. They struck, but no one was permitted to strike back, + for behind them were the prison cells and the clubs of the stupid + policemen—paid and professional fighters and beaters-up of men. Yet + he was not bitter. The grossness and the sliminess of it was forgotten in + the simple grotesqueness of it, and he had the saving sense of humor. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, hectored and heckled though he was, he managed in the end to + give a simple, straightforward version of the affair, and, despite a + belligerent cross-examination, his story was not shaken in any particular. + Quite different it was from the perjuries that had shouted aloud from the + perjuries of Patsy and his two witnesses. + </p> + <p> + Both Patsy's attorney and the Prosecuting Attorney rested their cases, + letting everything go before the Court without argument. Watson protested + against this, but was silenced when the Prosecuting Attorney told him that + Public Prosecutor and knew his business. + </p> + <p> + “Patrick Horan has testified that he was in danger of his life and that he + was compelled to defend himself,” Judge Witberg's verdict began. “Mr. + Watson has testified to the same thing. Each has sworn that the other + struck the first blow; each has sworn that the other made an unprovoked + assault on him. It is an axiom of the law that the defendant should be + given the benefit of the doubt. A very reasonable doubt exists. Therefore, + in the case of the People Versus Carter Watson the benefit of the doubt is + given to said Carter Watson and he is herewith ordered discharged from + custody. The same reasoning applies to the case of the People Versus + Patrick Horan. He is given the benefit of the doubt and discharged from + custody. My recommendation is that both defendants shake hands and make + up.” + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon papers the first headline that caught Watson's eye was: + “CARTER WATSON ACQUITTED.” In the second paper it was: “CARTER WATSON + ESCAPES A FINE.” But what capped everything was the one beginning: “CARTER + WATSON A GOOD FELLOW.” In the text he read how Judge Witberg had advised + both fighters to shake hands, which they promptly did. Further, he read: + </p> + <p> + “'Let's have a nip on it,' said Patsy Horan. + </p> + <p> + “'Sure,' said Carter Watson. + </p> + <p> + “And, arm in arm, they ambled for the nearest saloon.” + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + Now, from the whole adventure, Watson carried away no bitterness. It was a + social experience of a new order, and it led to the writing of another + book, which he entitled, “POLICE COURT PROCEDURE: A Tentative Analysis.” + </p> + <p> + One summer morning a year later, on his ranch, he left his horse and + himself clambered on through a miniature canyon to inspect some rock ferns + he had planted the previous winter. Emerging from the upper end of the + canyon, he came out on one of his flower-spangled meadows, a delightful + isolated spot, screened from the world by low hills and clumps of trees. + And here he found a man, evidently on a stroll from the summer hotel down + at the little town a mile away. They met face to face and the recognition + was mutual. It was Judge Witberg. Also, it was a clear case of trespass, + for Watson had trespass signs upon his boundaries, though he never + enforced them. + </p> + <p> + Judge Witberg held out his hand, which Watson refused to see. + </p> + <p> + “Politics is a dirty trade, isn't it, Judge?” he remarked. “Oh, yes, I see + your hand, but I don't care to take it. The papers said I shook hands with + Patsy Horan after the trial. You know I did not, but let me tell you that + I'd a thousand times rather shake hands with him and his vile following of + curs, than with you.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Witberg was painfully flustered, and as he hemmed and hawed and + essayed to speak, Watson, looking at him, was struck by a sudden whim, and + he determined on a grim and facetious antic. + </p> + <p> + “I should scarcely expect any animus from a man of your acquirements and + knowledge of the world,” the Judge was saying. + </p> + <p> + “Animus?” Watson replied. “Certainly not. I haven't such a thing in my + nature. And to prove it, let me show you something curious, something you + have never seen before.” Casting about him, Watson picked up a rough stone + the size of his fist. “See this. Watch me.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, Carter Watson tapped himself a sharp blow on the cheek. The + stone laid the flesh open to the bone and the blood spurted forth. + </p> + <p> + “The stone was too sharp,” he announced to the astounded police judge, who + thought he had gone mad. + </p> + <p> + “I must bruise it a trifle. There is nothing like being realistic in such + matters.” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon Carter Watson found a smooth stone and with it pounded his cheek + nicely several times. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” he cooed. “That will turn beautifully green and black in a few + hours. It will be most convincing.” + </p> + <p> + “You are insane,” Judge Witberg quavered. + </p> + <p> + “Don't use such vile language to me,” said Watson. “You see my bruised and + bleeding face? You did that, with that right hand of yours. You hit me + twice—biff, biff. It is a brutal and unprovoked assault. I am in + danger of my life. I must protect myself.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Witberg backed away in alarm before the menacing fists of the other. + </p> + <p> + “If you strike me I'll have you arrested,” Judge Witberg threatened. + </p> + <p> + “That is what I told Patsy,” was the answer. “And do you know what he did + when I told him that?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “That!” + </p> + <p> + And at the same moment Watson's right fist landed flush on Judge Witberg's + nose, putting that legal gentleman over on his back on the grass. + </p> + <p> + “Get up!” commanded Watson. “If you are a gentleman, get up—that's + what Patsy told me, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Witberg declined to rise, and was dragged to his feet by the + coat-collar, only to have one eye blacked and be put on his back again. + After that it was a red Indian massacre. Judge Witberg was humanely and + scientifically beaten up. His checks were boxed, his cars cuffed, and his + face was rubbed in the turf. And all the time Watson exposited the way + Patsy Horan had done it. Occasionally, and very carefully, the facetious + sociologist administered a real bruising blow. Once, dragging the poor + Judge to his feet, he deliberately bumped his own nose on the gentleman's + head. The nose promptly bled. + </p> + <p> + “See that!” cried Watson, stepping back and deftly shedding his blood all + down his own shirt front. “You did it. With your fist you did it. It is + awful. I am fair murdered. I must again defend myself.” + </p> + <p> + And once more Judge Witberg impacted his features on a fist and was sent + to grass. + </p> + <p> + “I will have you arrested,” he sobbed as he lay. + </p> + <p> + “That's what Patsy said.” + </p> + <p> + “A brutal—-sniff, sniff,—and unprovoked—sniff, sniff—assault.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what Patsy said.” + </p> + <p> + “I will surely have you arrested.” + </p> + <p> + “Speaking slangily, not if I can beat you to it.” + </p> + <p> + And with that, Carter Watson departed down the canyon, mounted his horse, + and rode to town. + </p> + <p> + An hour later, as Judge Witberg limped up the grounds to his hotel, he was + arrested by a village constable on a charge of assault and battery + preferred by Carter Watson. + </p> + <p> + V + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor,” Watson said next day to the village Justice, a well to do + farmer and graduate, thirty years before, from a cow college, “since this + Sol Witberg has seen fit to charge me with battery, following upon my + charge of battery against him, I would suggest that both cases be lumped + together. The testimony and the facts are the same in both cases.” + </p> + <p> + To this the Justice agreed, and the double case proceeded. Watson, as + prosecuting witness, first took the stand and told his story. + </p> + <p> + “I was picking flowers,” he testified. “Picking flowers on my own land, + never dreaming of danger. Suddenly this man rushed upon me from behind the + trees. 'I am the Dodo,' he says, 'and I can do you to a frazzle. Put up + your hands.' I smiled, but with that, biff, biff, he struck me, knocking + me down and spilling my flowers. The language he used was frightful. It + was an unprovoked and brutal assault. Look at my cheek. Look at my nose—I + could not understand it. He must have been drunk. Before I recovered from + my surprise he had administered this beating. I was in danger of my life + and was compelled to defend himself. That is all, Your Honor, though I + must say, in conclusion, that I cannot get over my perplexity. Why did he + say he was the Dodo? Why did he so wantonly attack me?” + </p> + <p> + And thus was Sol Witberg given a liberal education in the art of perjury. + Often, from his high seat, he had listened indulgently to police court + perjuries in cooked-up cases; but for the first time perjury was directed + against him, and he no longer sat above the court, with the bailiffs, the + Policemen's clubs, and the prison cells behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor,” he cried, “never have I heard such a pack of lies told by so + bare-faced a liar—!” + </p> + <p> + Watson here sprang to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor, I protest. It is for your Honor to decide truth or falsehood. + The witness is on the stand to testify to actual events that have + transpired. His personal opinion upon things in general, and upon me, has + no bearing on the case whatever.” + </p> + <p> + The Justice scratched his head and waxed phlegmatically indignant. + </p> + <p> + “The point is well taken,” he decided. “I am surprised at you, Mr. + Witberg, claiming to be a judge and skilled in the practice of the law, + and yet being guilty of such unlawyerlike conduct. Your manner, sir, and + your methods, remind me of a shyster. This is a simple case of assault and + battery. We are here to determine who struck the first blow, and we are + not interested in your estimates of Mr. Watson's personal character. + Proceed with your story.” + </p> + <p> + Sol Witberg would have bitten his bruised and swollen lip in chagrin, had + it not hurt so much. But he contained himself and told a simple, + straightforward, truthful story. + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor,” Watson said, “I would suggest that you ask him what he was + doing on my premises.” + </p> + <p> + “A very good question. What were you doing, sir, on Mr. Watson's + premises?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not know they were his premises.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a trespass, your Honor,” Watson cried. “The warnings are posted + conspicuously.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw no warnings,” said Sol Witberg. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen them myself,” snapped the Justice. “They are very + conspicuous. And I would warn you, sir, that if you palter with the truth + in such little matters you may darken your more important statements with + suspicion. Why did you strike Mr. Watson?” + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor, as I have testified, I did not strike a blow.” + </p> + <p> + The Justice looked at Carter Watson's bruised and swollen visage, and + turned to glare at Sol Witberg. + </p> + <p> + “Look at that man's cheek!” he thundered. “If you did not strike a blow + how comes it that he is so disfigured and injured?” + </p> + <p> + “As I testified—” + </p> + <p> + “Be careful,” the Justice warned. + </p> + <p> + “I will be careful, sir. I will say nothing but the truth. He struck + himself with a rock. He struck himself with two different rocks.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it stand to reason that a man, any man not a lunatic, would so + injure himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft and + sensitive parts of his face with a stone?” Carter Watson demanded + </p> + <p> + “It sounds like a fairy story,” was the Justice's comment. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Witberg, had you been drinking?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you never drink?” + </p> + <p> + “On occasion.” + </p> + <p> + The Justice meditated on this answer with an air of astute profundity. + </p> + <p> + Watson took advantage of the opportunity to wink at Sol Witberg, but that + much-abused gentleman saw nothing humorous in the situation. + </p> + <p> + “A very peculiar case, a very peculiar case,” the Justice announced, as he + began his verdict. “The evidence of the two parties is flatly + contradictory. There are no witnesses outside the two principals. Each + claims the other committed the assault, and I have no legal way of + determining the truth. But I have my private opinion, Mr. Witberg, and I + would recommend that henceforth you keep off of Mr. Watson's premises and + keep away from this section of the country—” + </p> + <p> + “This is an outrage!” Sol Witberg blurted out. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, sir!” was the Justice's thundered command. “If you interrupt + the Court in this manner again, I shall fine you for contempt. And I warn + you I shall fine you heavily—you, a judge yourself, who should be + conversant with the courtesy and dignity of courts. I shall now give my + verdict: + </p> + <p> + “It is a rule of law that the defendant shall be given the benefit of the + doubt. As I have said, and I repeat, there is no legal way for me to + determine who struck the first blow. Therefore, and much to my regret,”—here + he paused and glared at Sol Witberg—“in each of these cases I am + compelled to give the defendant the benefit of the doubt. Gentlemen, you + are both dismissed.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us have a nip on it,” Watson said to Witberg, as they left the + courtroom; but that outraged person refused to lock arms and amble to the + nearest saloon. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WINGED BLACKMAIL + </h2> + <p> + PETER WINN lay back comfortably in a library chair, with closed eyes, deep + in the cogitation of a scheme of campaign destined in the near future to + make a certain coterie of hostile financiers sit up. The central idea had + come to him the night before, and he was now reveling in the planning of + the remoter, minor details. By obtaining control of a certain up-country + bank, two general stores, and several logging camps, he could come into + control of a certain dinky jerkwater line which shall here be nameless, + but which, in his hands, would prove the key to a vastly larger situation + involving more main-line mileage almost than there were spikes in the + aforesaid dinky jerkwater. It was so simple that he had almost laughed + aloud when it came to him. No wonder those astute and ancient enemies of + his had passed it by. + </p> + <p> + The library door opened, and a slender, middle-aged man, weak-eyed and eye + glassed, entered. In his hands was an envelope and an open letter. As + Peter Winn's secretary it was his task to weed out, sort, and classify his + employer's mail. + </p> + <p> + “This came in the morning post,” he ventured apologetically and with the + hint of a titter. “Of course it doesn't amount to anything, but I thought + you would like to see it.” + </p> + <p> + “Read it,” Peter Winn commanded, without opening his eyes. + </p> + <p> + The secretary cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + “It is dated July seventeenth, but is without address. Postmark San + Francisco. It is also quite illiterate. The spelling is atrocious. Here it + is: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Peter Winn, SIR: I send you respectfully by express a pigeon worth + good money. She's a loo-loo—” + </p> + <p> + “What is a loo-loo?” Peter Winn interrupted. + </p> + <p> + The secretary tittered. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure I don't know, except that it must be a superlative of some sort. + The letter continues: + </p> + <p> + “Please freight it with a couple of thousand-dollar bills and let it go. + If you do I wont never annoy you no more. If you dont you will be sorry. + </p> + <p> + “That is all. It is unsigned. I thought it would amuse you.” + </p> + <p> + “Has the pigeon come?” Peter Winn demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure I never thought to enquire.” + </p> + <p> + “Then do so.” + </p> + <p> + In five minutes the secretary was back. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. It came this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Then bring it in.” + </p> + <p> + The secretary was inclined to take the affair as a practical joke, but + Peter Winn, after an examination of the pigeon, thought otherwise. + </p> + <p> + “Look at it,” he said, stroking and handling it. “See the length of the + body and that elongated neck. A proper carrier. I doubt if I've ever seen + a finer specimen. Powerfully winged and muscled. As our unknown + correspondent remarked, she is a loo-loo. It's a temptation to keep her.” + </p> + <p> + The secretary tittered. + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Surely you will not let it go back to the writer of that + letter.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Winn shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I'll answer. No man can threaten me, even anonymously or in foolery.” + </p> + <p> + On a slip of paper he wrote the succinct message, “Go to hell,” signed it, + and placed it in the carrying apparatus with which the bird had been + thoughtfully supplied. + </p> + <p> + “Now we'll let her loose. Where's my son? I'd like him to see the flight.” + </p> + <p> + “He's down in the workshop. He slept there last night, and had his + breakfast sent down this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “He'll break his neck yet,” Peter Winn remarked, half-fiercely, + half-proudly, as he led the way to the veranda. + </p> + <p> + Standing at the head of the broad steps, he tossed the pretty creature + outward and upward. She caught herself with a quick beat of wings, + fluttered about undecidedly for a space, then rose in the air. + </p> + <p> + Again, high up, there seemed indecision; then, apparently getting her + bearings, she headed east, over the oak-trees that dotted the park-like + grounds. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful, beautiful,” Peter Winn murmured. “I almost wish I had her + back.” + </p> + <p> + But Peter Winn was a very busy man, with such large plans in his head and + with so many reins in his hands that he quickly forgot the incident. Three + nights later the left wing of his country house was blown up. It was not a + heavy explosion, and nobody was hurt, though the wing itself was ruined. + Most of the windows of the rest of the house were broken, and there was a + deal of general damage. By the first ferry boat of the morning half a + dozen San Francisco detectives arrived, and several hours later the + secretary, in high excitement, erupted on Peter Winn. + </p> + <p> + “It's come!” the secretary gasped, the sweat beading his forehead and his + eyes bulging behind their glasses. + </p> + <p> + “What has come?” Peter demanded. “It—the—the loo-loo bird.” + </p> + <p> + Then the financier understood. + </p> + <p> + “Have you gone over the mail yet?” + </p> + <p> + “I was just going over it, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Then continue, and see if you can find another letter from our mysterious + friend, the pigeon fancier.” + </p> + <p> + The letter came to light. It read: + </p> + <p> + Mr. Peter Winn, HONORABLE SIR: Now dont be a fool. If youd came through, + your shack would not have blew up—I beg to inform you respectfully, + am sending same pigeon. Take good care of same, thank you. Put five one + thousand dollar bills on her and let her go. Dont feed her. Dont try to + follow bird. She is wise to the way now and makes better time. If you dont + come through, watch out. + </p> + <p> + Peter Winn was genuinely angry. This time he indited no message for the + pigeon to carry. Instead, he called in the detectives, and, under their + advice, weighted the pigeon heavily with shot. Her previous flight having + been eastward toward the bay, the fastest motor-boat in Tiburon was + commissioned to take up the chase if it led out over the water. + </p> + <p> + But too much shot had been put on the carrier, and she was exhausted + before the shore was reached. Then the mistake was made of putting too + little shot on her, and she rose high in the air, got her bearings and + started eastward across San Francisco Bay. She flew straight over Angel + Island, and here the motor-boat lost her, for it had to go around the + island. + </p> + <p> + That night, armed guards patrolled the grounds. But there was no + explosion. Yet, in the early morning Peter Winn learned by telephone that + his sister's home in Alameda had been burned to the ground. + </p> + <p> + Two days later the pigeon was back again, coming this time by freight in + what had seemed a barrel of potatoes. Also came another letter: + </p> + <p> + Mr. Peter Winn, RESPECTABLE SIR: It was me that fixed yr sisters house. + You have raised hell, aint you. Send ten thousand now. Going up all the + time. Dont put any more handicap weights on that bird. You sure cant + follow her, and its cruelty to animals. + </p> + <p> + Peter Winn was ready to acknowledge himself beaten. The detectives were + powerless, and Peter did not know where next the man would strike—perhaps + at the lives of those near and dear to him. He even telephoned to San + Francisco for ten thousand dollars in bills of large denomination. But + Peter had a son, Peter Winn, Junior, with the same firm-set jaw as his + fathers, and the same knitted, brooding determination in his eyes. He was + only twenty-six, but he was all man, a secret terror and delight to the + financier, who alternated between pride in his son's aeroplane feats and + fear for an untimely and terrible end. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on, father, don't send that money,” said Peter Winn, Junior. “Number + Eight is ready, and I know I've at last got that reefing down fine. It + will work, and it will revolutionize flying. Speed—that's what's + needed, and so are the large sustaining surfaces for getting started and + for altitude. I've got them both. Once I'm up I reef down. There it is. + The smaller the sustaining surface, the higher the speed. That was the law + discovered by Langley. And I've applied it. I can rise when the air is + calm and full of holes, and I can rise when its boiling, and by my control + of my plane areas I can come pretty close to making any speed I want. + Especially with that new Sangster-Endholm engine.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll come pretty close to breaking your neck one of these days,” was + his father's encouraging remark. + </p> + <p> + “Dad, I'll tell you what I'll come pretty close to-ninety miles an hour—Yes, + and a hundred. Now listen! I was going to make a trial tomorrow. But it + won't take two hours to start today. I'll tackle it this afternoon. Keep + that money. Give me the pigeon and I'll follow her to her loft where ever + it is. Hold on, let me talk to the mechanics.” + </p> + <p> + He called up the workshop, and in crisp, terse sentences gave his orders + in a way that went to the older man's heart. Truly, his one son was a chip + off the old block, and Peter Winn had no meek notions concerning the + intrinsic value of said old block. + </p> + <p> + Timed to the minute, the young man, two hours later, was ready for the + start. In a holster at his hip, for instant use, cocked and with the + safety on, was a large-caliber automatic pistol. With a final inspection + and overhauling he took his seat in the aeroplane. He started the engine, + and with a wild burr of gas explosions the beautiful fabric darted down + the launching ways and lifted into the air. Circling, as he rose, to the + west, he wheeled about and jockeyed and maneuvered for the real start of + the race. + </p> + <p> + This start depended on the pigeon. Peter Winn held it. Nor was it weighted + with shot this time. Instead, half a yard of bright ribbon was firmly + attached to its leg—this the more easily to enable its flight being + followed. Peter Winn released it, and it arose easily enough despite the + slight drag of the ribbon. There was no uncertainty about its movements. + This was the third time it had made particular homing passage, and it knew + the course. + </p> + <p> + At an altitude of several hundred feet it straightened out and went due + east. The aeroplane swerved into a straight course from its last curve and + followed. The race was on. Peter Winn, looking up, saw that the pigeon was + outdistancing the machine. Then he saw something else. The aeroplane + suddenly and instantly became smaller. It had reefed. Its high-speed + plane-design was now revealed. Instead of the generous spread of surface + with which it had taken the air, it was now a lean and hawklike monoplane + balanced on long and exceedingly narrow wings. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + When young Winn reefed down so suddenly, he received a surprise. It was + his first trial of the new device, and while he was prepared for increased + speed he was not prepared for such an astonishing increase. It was better + than he dreamed, and, before he knew it, he was hard upon the pigeon. That + little creature, frightened by this, the most monstrous hawk it had ever + seen, immediately darted upward, after the manner of pigeons that strive + always to rise above a hawk. + </p> + <p> + In great curves the monoplane followed upward, higher and higher into the + blue. It was difficult, from underneath to see the pigeon, and young Winn + dared not lose it from his sight. He even shook out his reefs in order to + rise more quickly. Up, up they went, until the pigeon, true to its + instinct, dropped and struck at what it thought to be the back of its + pursuing enemy. Once was enough, for, evidently finding no life in the + smooth cloth surface of the machine, it ceased soaring and straightened + out on its eastward course. + </p> + <p> + A carrier pigeon on a passage can achieve a high rate of speed, and Winn + reefed again. And again, to his satisfaction, he found that he was beating + the pigeon. But this time he quickly shook out a portion of his reefed + sustaining surface and slowed down in time. From then on he knew he had + the chase safely in hand, and from then on a chant rose to his lips which + he continued to sing at intervals, and unconsciously, for the rest of the + passage. It was: “Going some; going some; what did I tell you!—going + some.” + </p> + <p> + Even so, it was not all plain sailing. The air is an unstable medium at + best, and quite without warning, at an acute angle, he entered an aerial + tide which he recognized as the gulf stream of wind that poured through + the drafty-mouthed Golden Gate. His right wing caught it first—a + sudden, sharp puff that lifted and tilted the monoplane and threatened to + capsize it. But he rode with a sensitive “loose curb,” and quickly, but + not too quickly, he shifted the angles of his wing-tips, depressed the + front horizontal rudder, and swung over the rear vertical rudder to meet + the tilting thrust of the wind. As the machine came back to an even keel, + and he knew that he was now wholly in the invisible stream, he readjusted + the wing-tips, rapidly away from him during the several moments of his + discomfiture. + </p> + <p> + The pigeon drove straight on for the Alameda County shore, and it was near + this shore that Winn had another experience. He fell into an air-hole. He + had fallen into air-holes before, in previous flights, but this was a far + larger one than he had ever encountered. With his eyes strained on the + ribbon attached to the pigeon, by that fluttering bit of color he marked + his fall. Down he went, at the pit of his stomach that old sink sensation + which he had known as a boy he first negotiated quick-starting elevators. + But Winn, among other secrets of aviation, had learned that to go up it + was sometimes necessary first to go down. The air had refused to hold him. + Instead of struggling futilely and perilously against this lack of + sustension, he yielded to it. With steady head and hand, he depressed the + forward horizontal rudder—just recklessly enough and not a fraction + more—and the monoplane dived head foremost and sharply down the + void. It was falling with the keenness of a knife-blade. Every instant the + speed accelerated frightfully. Thus he accumulated the momentum that would + save him. But few instants were required, when, abruptly shifting the + double horizontal rudders forward and astern, he shot upward on the tense + and straining plane and out of the pit. + </p> + <p> + At an altitude of five hundred feet, the pigeon drove on over the town of + Berkeley and lifted its flight to the Contra Costa hills. Young Winn noted + the campus and buildings of the University of California—his + university—as he rose after the pigeon. + </p> + <p> + Once more, on these Contra Costa hills, he early came to grief. The pigeon + was now flying low, and where a grove of eucalyptus presented a solid + front to the wind, the bird was suddenly sent fluttering wildly upward for + a distance of a hundred feet. Winn knew what it meant. It had been caught + in an air-surf that beat upward hundreds of feet where the fresh west wind + smote the upstanding wall of the grove. He reefed hastily to the + uttermost, and at the same time depressed the angle of his flight to meet + that upward surge. Nevertheless, the monoplane was tossed fully three + hundred feet before the danger was left astern. + </p> + <p> + Two or more ranges of hills the pigeon crossed, and then Winn saw it + dropping down to a landing where a small cabin stood in a hillside + clearing. He blessed that clearing. Not only was it good for alighting, + but, on account of the steepness of the slope, it was just the thing for + rising again into the air. + </p> + <p> + A man, reading a newspaper, had just started up at the sight of the + returning pigeon, when he heard the burr of Winn's engine and saw the huge + monoplane, with all surfaces set, drop down upon him, stop suddenly on an + air-cushion manufactured on the spur of the moment by a shift of the + horizontal rudders, glide a few yards, strike ground, and come to rest not + a score of feet away from him. But when he saw a young man, calmly sitting + in the machine and leveling a pistol at him, the man turned to run. Before + he could make the corner of the cabin, a bullet through the leg brought + him down in a sprawling fall. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want!” he demanded sullenly, as the other stood over him. + </p> + <p> + “I want to take you for a ride in my new machine,” Winn answered. “Believe + me, she is a loo-loo.” + </p> + <p> + The man did not argue long, for this strange visitor had most convincing + ways. Under Winn's instructions, covered all the time by the pistol, the + man improvised a tourniquet and applied it to his wounded leg. Winn helped + him to a seat in the machine, then went to the pigeon-loft and took + possession of the bird with the ribbon still fast to its leg. + </p> + <p> + A very tractable prisoner, the man proved. Once up in the air, he sat + close, in an ecstasy of fear. An adept at winged blackmail, he had no + aptitude for wings himself, and when he gazed down at the flying land and + water far beneath him, he did not feel moved to attack his captor, now + defenseless, both hands occupied with flight. + </p> + <p> + Instead, the only way the man felt moved was to sit closer. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Peter Winn, Senior, scanning the heavens with powerful glasses, saw the + monoplane leap into view and grow large over the rugged backbone of Angel + Island. Several minutes later he cried out to the waiting detectives that + the machine carried a passenger. Dropping swiftly and piling up an abrupt + air-cushion, the monoplane landed. + </p> + <p> + “That reefing device is a winner!” young Winn cried, as he climbed out. + “Did you see me at the start? I almost ran over the pigeon. Going some, + dad! Going some! What did I tell you? Going some!” + </p> + <p> + “But who is that with you?” his father demanded. + </p> + <p> + The young man looked back at his prisoner and remembered. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that's the pigeon-fancier,” he said. “I guess the officers can take + care of him.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Winn gripped his son's hand in grim silence, and fondled the pigeon + which his son had passed to him. Again he fondled the pretty creature. + Then he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Exhibit A, for the People,” he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES + </h2> + <p> + ARRANGEMENTS quite extensive had been made for the celebration of + Christmas on the yacht Samoset. Not having been in any civilized port for + months, the stock of provisions boasted few delicacies; yet Minnie Duncan + had managed to devise real feasts for cabin and forecastle. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Boyd,” she told her husband. “Here are the menus. For the cabin, + raw bonita native style, turtle soup, omelette a la Samoset—” + </p> + <p> + “What the dickens?” Boyd Duncan interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you must know, I found a tin of mushrooms and a package of + egg-powder which had fallen down behind the locker, and there are other + things as well that will go into it. But don't interrupt. Boiled yam, + fried taro, alligator pear salad—there, you've got me all mixed, + Then I found a last delectable half-pound of dried squid. There will be + baked beans Mexican, if I can hammer it into Toyama's head; also, baked + papaia with Marquesan honey, and, lastly, a wonderful pie the secret of + which Toyama refuses to divulge.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if it is possible to concoct a punch or a cocktail out of trade + rum?” Duncan muttered gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I forgot! Come with me.” + </p> + <p> + His wife caught his hand and led him through the small connecting door to + her tiny stateroom. Still holding his hand, she fished in the depths of a + hat-locker and brought forth a pint bottle of champagne. + </p> + <p> + “The dinner is complete!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “Wait.” + </p> + <p> + She fished again, and was rewarded with a silver-mounted whisky flask. She + held it to the light of a port-hole, and the liquor showed a quarter of + the distance from the bottom. + </p> + <p> + “I've been saving it for weeks,” she explained. “And there's enough for + you and Captain Dettmar.” + </p> + <p> + “Two mighty small drinks,” Duncan complained. + </p> + <p> + “There would have been more, but I gave a drink to Lorenzo when he was + sick.” + </p> + <p> + Duncan growled, “Might have given him rum,” facetiously. + </p> + <p> + “The nasty stuff! For a sick man? Don't be greedy, Boyd. And I'm glad + there isn't any more, for Captain Dettmar's sake. Drinking always makes + him irritable. And now for the men's dinner. Soda crackers, sweet cakes, + candy—” + </p> + <p> + “Substantial, I must say.” + </p> + <p> + “Do hush. Rice, and curry, yam, taro, bonita, of course, a big cake Toyama + is making, young pig—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say,” he protested. + </p> + <p> + “It is all right, Boyd. We'll be in Attu-Attu in three days. Besides, it's + my pig. That old chief what-ever-his-name distinctly presented it to me. + You saw him yourself. And then two tins of bullamacow. That's their + dinner. And now about the presents. Shall we wait until tomorrow, or give + them this evening?” + </p> + <p> + “Christmas Eve, by all means,” was the man's judgment. “We'll call all + hands at eight bells; I'll give them a tot of rum all around, and then you + give the presents. Come on up on deck. It's stifling down here. I hope + Lorenzo has better luck with the dynamo; without the fans there won't be + much sleeping to-night if we're driven below.” + </p> + <p> + They passed through the small main-cabin, climbed a steep companion + ladder, and emerged on deck. The sun was setting, and the promise was for + a clear tropic night. The Samoset, with fore- and main-sail winged out on + either side, was slipping a lazy four-knots through the smooth sea. + Through the engine-room skylight came a sound of hammering. They strolled + aft to where Captain Dettmar, one foot on the rail, was oiling the gear of + the patent log. At the wheel stood a tall South Sea Islander, clad in + white undershirt and scarlet hip-cloth. + </p> + <p> + Boyd Duncan was an original. At least that was the belief of his friends. + Of comfortable fortune, with no need to do anything but take his comfort, + he elected to travel about the world in outlandish and most uncomfortable + ways. Incidentally, he had ideas about coral-reefs, disagreed profoundly + with Darwin on that subject, had voiced his opinion in several monographs + and one book, and was now back at his hobby, cruising the South Seas in a + tiny, thirty-ton yacht and studying reef-formations. + </p> + <p> + His wife, Minnie Duncan, was also declared an original, inasmuch as she + joyfully shared his vagabond wanderings. Among other things, in the six + exciting years of their marriage she had climbed Chimborazo with him, made + a three-thousand-mile winter journey with dogs and sleds in Alaska, ridden + a horse from Canada to Mexico, cruised the Mediterranean in a ten-ton + yawl, and canoed from Germany to the Black Sea across the heart of Europe. + They were a royal pair of wanderlusters, he, big and broad-shouldered, she + a small, brunette, and happy woman, whose one hundred and fifteen pounds + were all grit and endurance, and withal, pleasing to look upon. + </p> + <p> + The Samoset had been a trading schooner, when Duncan bought her in San + Francisco and made alterations. Her interior was wholly rebuilt, so that + the hold became main-cabin and staterooms, while abaft amidships were + installed engines, a dynamo, an ice machine, storage batteries, and, far + in the stern, gasoline tanks. Necessarily, she carried a small crew. Boyd, + Minnie, and Captain Dettmar were the only whites on board, though Lorenzo, + the small and greasy engineer, laid a part claim to white, being a + Portuguese half-caste. A Japanese served as cook, and a Chinese as cabin + boy. Four white sailors had constituted the original crew for'ard, but one + by one they had yielded to the charms of palm-waving South Sea isles and + been replaced by islanders. Thus, one of the dusky sailors hailed from + Easter Island, a second from the Carolines, a third from the Paumotus, + while the fourth was a gigantic Samoan. At sea, Boyd Duncan, himself a + navigator, stood a mate's watch with Captain Dettmar, and both of them + took a wheel or lookout occasionally. On a pinch, Minnie herself could + take a wheel, and it was on pinches that she proved herself more + dependable at steering than did the native sailors. + </p> + <p> + At eight bells, all hands assembled at the wheel, and Boyd Duncan appeared + with a black bottle and a mug. The rum he served out himself, half a mug + of it to each man. They gulped the stuff down with many facial expressions + of delight, followed by loud lip-smackings of approval, though the liquor + was raw enough and corrosive enough to burn their mucous membranes. All + drank except Lee Goom, the abstemious cabin boy. This rite accomplished, + they waited for the next, the present-giving. Generously molded on + Polynesian lines, huge-bodied and heavy-muscled, they were nevertheless + like so many children, laughing merrily at little things, their eager + black eyes flashing in the lantern light as their big bodies swayed to the + heave and roll of the ship. + </p> + <p> + Calling each by name, Minnie gave the presents out, accompanying each + presentation with some happy remark that added to the glee. There were + trade watches, clasp knives, amazing assortments of fish-hooks in + packages, plug tobacco, matches, and gorgeous strips of cotton for + loincloths all around. That Boyd Duncan was liked by them was evidenced by + the roars of laughter with which they greeted his slightest joking + allusion. + </p> + <p> + Captain Dettmar, white-faced, smiling only when his employer chanced to + glance at him, leaned against the wheel-box, looking on. Twice, he left + the group and went below, remaining there but a minute each time. Later, + in the main cabin, when Lorenzo, Lee Goom and Toyama received their + presents, he disappeared into his stateroom twice again. For of all times, + the devil that slumbered in Captain Dettmar's soul chose this particular + time of good cheer to awaken. Perhaps it was not entirely the devil's + fault, for Captain Dettmar, privily cherishing a quart of whisky for many + weeks, had selected Christmas Eve for broaching it. + </p> + <p> + It was still early in the evening—two bells had just gone—when + Duncan and his wife stood by the cabin companionway, gazing to windward + and canvassing the possibility of spreading their beds on deck. A small, + dark blot of cloud, slowly forming on the horizon, carried the threat of a + rain-squall, and it was this they were discussing when Captain Dettmar, + coming from aft and about to go below, glanced at them with sudden + suspicion. He paused, his face working spasmodically. Then he spoke: + </p> + <p> + “You are talking about me.” + </p> + <p> + His voice was hoarse, and there was an excited vibration in it. Minnie + Duncan started, then glanced at her husband's immobile face, took the cue, + and remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “I say you were talking about me,” Captain Dettmar repeated, this time + with almost a snarl. + </p> + <p> + He did not lurch nor betray the liquor on him in any way save by the + convulsive working of his face. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie, you'd better go down,” Duncan said gently. “Tell Lee Goom we'll + sleep below. It won't be long before that squall is drenching things.” + </p> + <p> + She took the hint and left, delaying just long enough to give one anxious + glance at the dim faces of the two men. + </p> + <p> + Duncan puffed at his cigar and waited till his wife's voice, in talk with + the cabin-boy, came up through the open skylight. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” Duncan demanded in a low voice, but sharply. + </p> + <p> + “I said you were talking about me. I say it again. Oh, I haven't been + blind. Day after day I've seen the two of you talking about me. Why don't + you come out and say it to my face! I know you know. And I know your + mind's made up to discharge me at Attu-Attu.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry you are making such a mess of everything,” was Duncan's quiet + reply. + </p> + <p> + But Captain Dettmar's mind was set on trouble. + </p> + <p> + “You know you are going to discharge me. You think you are too good to + associate with the likes of me—you and your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Kindly keep her out of this,” Duncan warned. “What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to know what you are going to do!” + </p> + <p> + “Discharge you, after this, at Attu-Attu.” + </p> + <p> + “You intended to, all along.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary. It is your present conduct that compels me.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't give me that sort of talk.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't retain a captain who calls me a liar.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Dettmar for the moment was taken aback. His face and lips worked, + but he could say nothing. Duncan coolly pulled at his cigar and glanced + aft at the rising cloud of squall. + </p> + <p> + “Lee Goom brought the mail aboard at Tahiti,” Captain Dettmar began. + </p> + <p> + “We were hove short then and leaving. You didn't look at your letters + until we were outside, and then it was too late. That's why you didn't + discharge me at Tahiti. Oh, I know. I saw the long envelope when Lee Goom + came over the side. It was from the Governor of California, printed on the + corner for any one to see. You'd been working behind my back. Some + beachcomber in Honolulu had whispered to you, and you'd written to the + Governor to find out. And that was his answer Lee Goom carried out to you. + Why didn't you come to me like a man! No, you must play underhand with me, + knowing that this billet was the one chance for me to get on my feet + again. And as soon as you read the Governor's letter your mind was made up + to get rid of me. I've seen it on your face ever since for all these + months.. I've seen the two of you, polite as hell to me all the time, and + getting away in corners and talking about me and that affair in 'Frisco.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you done?” Duncan asked, his voice low, and tense. “Quite done?” + </p> + <p> + Captain Dettmar made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll tell you a few things. It was precisely because of that affair + in 'Frisco that I did not discharge you in Tahiti. God knows you gave me + sufficient provocation. I thought that if ever a man needed a chance to + rehabilitate himself, you were that man. Had there been no black mark + against you, I would have discharged you when I learned how you were + robbing me.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Dettmar showed surprise, started to interrupt, then changed his + mind. + </p> + <p> + “There was that matter of the deck-calking, the bronze rudder-irons, the + overhauling of the engine, the new spinnaker boom, the new davits, and the + repairs to the whale-boat. You OKd the shipyard bill. It was four thousand + one hundred and twenty-two francs. By the regular shipyard charges it + ought not to have been a centime over twenty-five hundred francs-” + </p> + <p> + “If you take the word of those alongshore sharks against mine—' the + other began thickly. + </p> + <p> + “Save yourself the trouble of further lying,” Duncan went on coldly. “I + looked it up. I got Flaubin before the Governor himself, and the old + rascal confessed to sixteen hundred overcharge. Said you'd stuck him up + for it. Twelve hundred went to you, and his share was four hundred and the + job. Don't interrupt. I've got his affidavit below. Then was when I would + have put you ashore, except for the cloud you were under. You had to have + this one chance or go clean to hell. I gave you the chance. And what have + you got to say about it?” + </p> + <p> + “What did the Governor say?” Captain Dettmar demanded truculently. + </p> + <p> + “Which governor?” + </p> + <p> + “Of California. Did he lie to you like all the rest?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you what he said. He said that you had been convicted on + circumstantial evidence; that was why you had got life imprisonment + instead of hanging; that you had always stoutly maintained your innocence; + that you were the black sheep of the Maryland Dettmars; that they moved + heaven and earth for your pardon; that your prison conduct was most + exemplary; that he was prosecuting attorney at the time you were + convicted; that after you had served seven years he yielded to your + family's plea and pardoned you; and that in his own mind existed a doubt + that you had killed McSweeny.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause, during which Duncan went on studying the rising squall, + while Captain Dettmar's face worked terribly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the Governor was wrong,” he announced, with a short laugh. “I did + kill McSweeny. I did get the watchman drunk that night. I beat McSweeny to + death in his bunk. I used the iron belaying pin that appeared in the + evidence. He never had a chance. I beat him to a jelly. Do you want the + details?” + </p> + <p> + Duncan looked at him in the curious way one looks at any monstrosity, but + made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm not afraid to tell you,” Captain Dettmar blustered on. “There are + no witnesses. Besides, I am a free man now. I am pardoned, and by God they + can never put me back in that hole again. I broke McSweeny's jaw with the + first blow. He was lying on his back asleep. He said, 'My God, Jim! My + God!' It was funny to see his broken jaw wabble as he said it. Then I + smashed him... I say, do you want the rest of the details?” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all you have to say?” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it enough?” Captain Dettmar retorted. + </p> + <p> + “It is enough.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Put you ashore at Attu-Attu.” + </p> + <p> + “And in the meantime?” + </p> + <p> + “In the meantime...” Duncan paused. An increase of weight in the wind + rippled his hair. The stars overhead vanished, and the Samoset swung four + points off her course in the careless steersman's hands. “In the meantime + throw your halyards down on deck and look to your wheel. I'll call the + men.” + </p> + <p> + The next moment the squall burst upon them. Captain Dettmar, springing + aft, lifted the coiled mainsail halyards from their pins and threw them, + ready to run, on the deck. The three islanders swarmed from the tiny + forecastle, two of them leaping to the halyards and holding by a single + turn, while the third fastened down the engineroom, companion and swung + the ventilators around. Below, Lee Goom and Toyama were lowering skylight + covers and screwing up deadeyes. Duncan pulled shut the cover of the + companion scuttle, and held on, waiting, the first drops of rain pelting + his face, while the Samoset leaped violently ahead, at the same time + heeling first to starboard then to port as the gusty pressures caught her + winged-out sails. + </p> + <p> + All waited. But there was no need to lower away on the run. The power went + out of the wind, and the tropic rain poured a deluge over everything. Then + it was, the danger past, and as the Kanakas began to coil the halyards + back on the pins, that Boyd Duncan went below. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he called in cheerily to his wife. “Only a puff.” + </p> + <p> + “And Captain Dettmar?” she queried. + </p> + <p> + “Has been drinking, that is all. I shall get rid of him at Attu-Attu.” + </p> + <p> + But before Duncan climbed into his bunk, he strapped around himself, + against the skin and under his pajama coat, a heavy automatic pistol. + </p> + <p> + He fell asleep almost immediately, for his was the gift of perfect + relaxation. He did things tensely, in the way savages do, but the instant + the need passed he relaxed, mind and body. So it was that he slept, while + the rain still poured on deck and the yacht plunged and rolled in the + brief, sharp sea caused by the squall. + </p> + <p> + He awoke with a feeling of suffocation and heaviness. The electric fans + had stopped, and the air was thick and stifling. Mentally cursing all + Lorenzos and storage batteries, he heard his wife moving in the adjoining + stateroom and pass out into the main cabin. Evidently heading for the + fresher air on deck, he thought, and decided it was a good example to + imitate. Putting on his slippers and tucking a pillow and a blanket under + his arm, he followed her. As he was about to emerge from the companionway, + the ship's clock in the cabin began to strike and he stopped to listen. + Four bells sounded. It was two in the morning. From without came the + creaking of the gaff-jaw against the mast. The Samoset rolled and righted + on a sea, and in the light breeze her canvas gave forth a hollow thrum. + </p> + <p> + He was just putting his foot out on the damp deck when he heard his wife + scream. It was a startled frightened scream that ended in a splash + overside. He leaped out and ran aft. In the dim starlight he could make + out her head and shoulders disappearing astern in the lazy wake. + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” Captain Dettmar, who was at the wheel, asked. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Duncan,” was Duncan's reply, as he tore the life-buoy from its hook + and flung it aft. “Jibe over to starboard and come up on the wind!” he + commanded. + </p> + <p> + And then Boyd Duncan made a mistake. He dived overboard. + </p> + <p> + When he came up, he glimpsed the blue-light on the buoy, which had ignited + automatically when it struck the water. He swam for it, and found Minnie + had reached it first. + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” he said. “Just trying to keep cool?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Boyd!” was her answer, and one wet hand reached out and touched his. + </p> + <p> + The blue light, through deterioration or damage, flickered out. As they + lifted on the smooth crest of a wave, Duncan turned to look where the + Samoset made a vague blur in the darkness. No lights showed, but there was + noise of confusion. He could hear Captain Dettmar's shouting above the + cries of the others. + </p> + <p> + “I must say he's taking his time,” Duncan grumbled. “Why doesn't he jibe? + There she goes now.” + </p> + <p> + They could hear the rattle of the boom tackle blocks as the sail was eased + across. + </p> + <p> + “That was the mainsail,” he muttered. “Jibed to port when I told him + starboard.” + </p> + <p> + Again they lifted on a wave, and again and again, ere they could make out + the distant green of the Samoset's starboard light. But instead of + remaining stationary, in token that the yacht was coming toward them, it + began moving across their field of vision. Duncan swore. + </p> + <p> + “What's the lubber holding over there for!” he demanded. “He's got his + compass. He knows our bearing.” + </p> + <p> + But the green light, which was all they could see, and which they could + see only when they were on top of a wave, moved steadily away from them, + withal it was working up to windward, and grew dim and dimmer. Duncan + called out loudly and repeatedly, and each time, in the intervals, they + could hear, very faintly, the voice of Captain Dettmar shouting orders. + </p> + <p> + “How can he hear me with such a racket?” Duncan complained. + </p> + <p> + “He's doing it so the crew won't hear you,” was Minnie's answer. + </p> + <p> + There was something in the quiet way she said it that caught her husband's + attention. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that he is not trying to pick us up,” she went on in the same + composed voice. “He threw me overboard.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not making a mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “How could I? I was at the main rigging, looking to see if any more rain + threatened. He must have left the wheel and crept behind me. I was holding + on to a stay with one hand. He gripped my hand free from behind and threw + me over. It's too bad you didn't know, or else you would have staid + aboard.” + </p> + <p> + Duncan groaned, but said nothing for several minutes. The green light + changed the direction of its course. + </p> + <p> + “She's gone about,” he announced. “You are right. He's deliberately + working around us and to windward. Up wind they can never hear me. But + here goes.” + </p> + <p> + He called at minute intervals for a long time. The green light + disappeared, being replaced by the red, showing that the yacht had gone + about again. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie,” he said finally, “it pains me to tell you, but you married a + fool. Only a fool would have gone overboard as I did.” + </p> + <p> + “What chance have we of being picked up... by some other vessel, I mean?” + she asked. + </p> + <p> + “About one in ten thousand, or ten thousand million. Not a steamer route + nor trade route crosses this stretch of ocean. And there aren't any + whalers knocking about the South Seas. There might be a stray trading + schooner running across from Tutuwanga. But I happen to know that island + is visited only once a year. A chance in a million is ours.” + </p> + <p> + “And we'll play that chance,” she rejoined stoutly. + </p> + <p> + “You ARE a joy!” His hand lifted hers to his lips. “And Aunt Elizabeth + always wondered what I saw in you. Of course we'll play that chance. And + we'll win it, too. To happen otherwise would be unthinkable. Here goes.” + </p> + <p> + He slipped the heavy pistol from his belt and let it sink into the sea. + The belt, however, he retained. + </p> + <p> + “Now you get inside the buoy and get some sleep. Duck under.” + </p> + <p> + She ducked obediently, and came up inside the floating circle. He fastened + the straps for her, then, with the pistol belt, buckled himself across one + shoulder to the outside of the buoy. + </p> + <p> + “We're good for all day to-morrow,” he said. “Thank God the water's warm. + It won't be a hardship for the first twenty-hour hours, anyway. And if + we're not picked up by nightfall, we've just got to hang on for another + day, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + For half an hour they maintained silence, Duncan, his head resting on the + arm that was on the buoy, seemed asleep. + </p> + <p> + “Boyd?” Minnie said softly. + </p> + <p> + “Thought you were asleep,” he growled. + </p> + <p> + “Boyd, if we don't come through this—” + </p> + <p> + “Stow that!” he broke in ungallantly. “Of course we're coming through. + There is isn't a doubt of it. Somewhere on this ocean is a ship that's + heading right for us. You wait and see. Just the same I wish my brain were + equipped with wireless. Now I'm going to sleep, if you don't.” + </p> + <p> + But for once, sleep baffled him. An hour later he heard Minnie stir and + knew she was awake. + </p> + <p> + “Say, do you know what I've been thinking!” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No; what?” + </p> + <p> + “That I'll wish you a Merry Christmas.” + </p> + <p> + “By George, I never thought of it. Of course it's Christmas Day. We'll + have many more of them, too. And do you know what I've been thinking? What + a confounded shame we're done out of our Christmas dinner. Wait till I lay + hands on Dettmar. I'll take it out of him. And it won't be with an iron + belaying pin either, Just two bunches of naked knuckles, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + Despite his facetiousness, Boyd Duncan had little hope. He knew well + enough the meaning of one chance in a million, and was calmly certain that + his wife and he had entered upon their last few living hours—hours + that were inevitably bound to be black and terrible with tragedy. + </p> + <p> + The tropic sun rose in a cloudless sky. Nothing was to be seen. The + Samoset was beyond the sea-rim. As the sun rose higher, Duncan ripped his + pajama trousers in halves and fashioned them into two rude turbans. Soaked + in sea-water they offset the heat-rays. + </p> + <p> + “When I think of that dinner, I'm really angry,” he complained, as he + noted an anxious expression threatening to set on his wife's face. “And I + want you to be with me when I settle with Dettmar. I've always been + opposed to women witnessing scenes of blood, but this is different. It + will be a beating.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope I don't break my knuckles on him,” he added, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + Midday came and went, and they floated on, the center of a narrow + sea-circle. A gentle breath of the dying trade-wind fanned them, and they + rose and fell monotonously on the smooth swells of a perfect summer sea. + Once, a gunie spied them, and for half an hour circled about them with + majestic sweeps. And, once, a huge rayfish, measuring a score of feet + across the tips, passed within a few yards. + </p> + <p> + By sunset, Minnie began to rave, softly, babblingly, like a child. + Duncan's face grew haggard as he watched and listened, while in his mind + he revolved plans of how best to end the hours of agony that were coming. + And, so planning, as they rose on a larger swell than usual, he swept the + circle of the sea with his eyes, and saw, what made him cry out. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie!” She did not answer, and he shouted her name again in her ear, + with all the voice he could command. Her eyes opened, in them fluttered + commingled consciousness and delirium. He slapped her hands and wrists + till the sting of the blows roused her. + </p> + <p> + “There she is, the chance in a million!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “A steamer at that, heading straight for us! By George, it's a cruiser! I + have it!—the Annapolis, returning with those astronomers from + Tutuwanga.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + United States Consul Lingford was a fussy, elderly gentleman, and in the + two years of his service at Attu-Attu had never encountered so + unprecedented a case as that laid before him by Boyd Duncan. The latter, + with his wife, had been landed there by the Annapolis, which had promptly + gone on with its cargo of astronomers to Fiji. + </p> + <p> + “It was cold-blooded, deliberate attempt to murder,” said Consul Lingford. + “The law shall take its course. I don't know how precisely to deal with + this Captain Dettmar, but if he comes to Attu-Attu, depend upon it he + shall be dealt with, he—ah—shall be dealt with. In the + meantime, I shall read up the law. And now, won't you and your good lady + stop for lunch!” + </p> + <p> + As Duncan accepted the invitation, Minnie, who had been glancing out of + the window at the harbor, suddenly leaned forward and touched her + husband's arm. He followed her gaze, and saw the Samoset, flag at half + mast, rounding up and dropping anchor scarcely a hundred yards away. + </p> + <p> + “There's my boat now,” Duncan said to the Consul. “And there's the launch + over the side, and Captain Dettmar dropping into it. If I don't miss my + guess, he's coming to report our deaths to you.” + </p> + <p> + The launch landed on the white beach, and leaving Lorenzo tinkering with + the engine, Captain Dettmar strode across the beach and up the path to the + Consulate. + </p> + <p> + “Let him make his report,” Duncan said. “We'll just step into this next + room and listen.” + </p> + <p> + And through the partly open door, he and his wife heard Captain Dettmar, + with tears in his voice, describe the loss of his owners. + </p> + <p> + “I jibed over and went back across the very spot,” he concluded. “There + was not a sign of them. I called and called, but there was never an + answer. I tacked back and forth and wore for two solid hours, then hove to + till daybreak, and cruised back and forth all day, two men at the + mastheads. It is terrible. I am heartbroken. Mr. Duncan was a splendid + man, and I shall never...” + </p> + <p> + But he never completed the sentence, for at that moment his splendid + employer strode out upon him, leaving Minnie standing in the doorway. + Captain Dettmar's white face blanched even whiter. + </p> + <p> + “I did my best to pick you up, sir,” he began. + </p> + <p> + Boyd Duncan's answer was couched in terms of bunched knuckles, two bunches + of them, that landed right and left on Captain Dettmar's face. + </p> + <p> + Captain Dettmar staggered backward, recovered, and rushed with swinging + arms at his employer, only to be met with a blow squarely between the + eyes. This time the Captain went down, bearing the typewriter under him as + he crashed to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “This is not permissible,” Consul Lingford spluttered. “I beg of you, I + beg of you, to desist.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll pay the damages to office furniture,” Duncan answered, and at the + same time landing more bunched knuckles on the eyes and nose of Dettmar. + </p> + <p> + Consul Lingford bobbed around in the turmoil like a wet hen, while his + office furniture went to ruin. Once, he caught Duncan by the arm, but was + flung back, gasping, half-across the room. Another time he appealed to + Minnie. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Duncan, won't you, please, please, restrain your husband?” + </p> + <p> + But she, white-faced and trembling, resolutely shook her head and watched + the fray with all her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It is outrageous,” Consul Lingford cried, dodging the hurtling bodies of + the two men. “It is an affront to the Government, to the United States + Government. Nor will it be overlooked, I warn you. Oh, do pray desist, Mr. + Duncan. You will kill the man. I beg of you. I beg, I beg...” + </p> + <p> + But the crash of a tall vase filled with crimson hibiscus blossoms left + him speechless. + </p> + <p> + The time came when Captain Dettmar could no longer get up. He got as far + as hands and knees, struggled vainly to rise further, then collapsed. + Duncan stirred the groaning wreck with his foot. + </p> + <p> + “He's all right,” he announced. “I've only given him what he has given + many a sailor and worse.” + </p> + <p> + “Great heavens, sir!” Consul Lingford exploded, staring horror-stricken at + the man whom he had invited to lunch. + </p> + <p> + Duncan giggled involuntarily, then controlled himself. + </p> + <p> + “I apologize, Mr. Lingford, I most heartily apologize. I fear I was + slightly carried away by my feelings.” + </p> + <p> + Consul Lingford gulped and sawed the air speechlessly with his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Slightly, sir? Slightly?” he managed to articulate. + </p> + <p> + “Boyd,” Minnie called softly from the doorway. + </p> + <p> + He turned and looked. + </p> + <p> + “You ARE a joy,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “And now, Mr. Lingford, I am done with him,” Duncan said. “I turn over + what is left to you and the law.” + </p> + <p> + “That?” Consul Lingford queried, in accent of horror. + </p> + <p> + “That,” Boyd Duncan replied, looking ruefully at his battered knuckles. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WAR + </h2> + <p> + HE was a young man, not more than twenty-four or five, and he might have + sat his horse with the careless grace of his youth had he not been so + catlike and tense. His black eyes roved everywhere, catching the movements + of twigs and branches where small birds hopped, questing ever onward + through the changing vistas of trees and brush, and returning always to + the clumps of undergrowth on either side. And as he watched, so did he + listen, though he rode on in silence, save for the boom of heavy guns from + far to the west. This had been sounding monotonously in his ears for + hours, and only its cessation could have aroused his notice. For he had + business closer to hand. Across his saddle-bow was balanced a carbine. + </p> + <p> + So tensely was he strung, that a bunch of quail, exploding into flight + from under his horse's nose, startled him to such an extent that + automatically, instantly, he had reined in and fetched the carbine halfway + to his shoulder. He grinned sheepishly, recovered himself, and rode on. So + tense was he, so bent upon the work he had to do, that the sweat stung his + eyes unwiped, and unheeded rolled down his nose and spattered his saddle + pommel. The band of his cavalryman's hat was fresh-stained with sweat. The + roan horse under him was likewise wet. It was high noon of a breathless + day of heat. Even the birds and squirrels did not dare the sun, but + sheltered in shady hiding places among the trees. + </p> + <p> + Man and horse were littered with leaves and dusted with yellow pollen, for + the open was ventured no more than was compulsory. They kept to the brush + and trees, and invariably the man halted and peered out before crossing a + dry glade or naked stretch of upland pasturage. He worked always to the + north, though his way was devious, and it was from the north that he + seemed most to apprehend that for which he was looking. He was no coward, + but his courage was only that of the average civilized man, and he was + looking to live, not die. + </p> + <p> + Up a small hillside he followed a cowpath through such dense scrub that he + was forced to dismount and lead his horse. But when the path swung around + to the west, he abandoned it and headed to the north again along the + oak-covered top of the ridge. + </p> + <p> + The ridge ended in a steep descent-so steep that he zigzagged back and + forth across the face of the slope, sliding and stumbling among the dead + leaves and matted vines and keeping a watchful eye on the horse above that + threatened to fall down upon him. The sweat ran from him, and the + pollen-dust, settling pungently in mouth and nostrils, increased his + thirst. Try as he would, nevertheless the descent was noisy, and + frequently he stopped, panting in the dry heat and listening for any + warning from beneath. + </p> + <p> + At the bottom he came out on a flat, so densely forested that he could not + make out its extent. Here the character of the woods changed, and he was + able to remount. Instead of the twisted hillside oaks, tall straight + trees, big-trunked and prosperous, rose from the damp fat soil. Only here + and there were thickets, easily avoided, while he encountered winding, + park-like glades where the cattle had pastured in the days before war had + run them off. + </p> + <p> + His progress was more rapid now, as he came down into the valley, and at + the end of half an hour he halted at an ancient rail fence on the edge of + a clearing. He did not like the openness of it, yet his path lay across to + the fringe of trees that marked the banks of the stream. It was a mere + quarter of a mile across that open, but the thought of venturing out in it + was repugnant. A rifle, a score of them, a thousand, might lurk in that + fringe by the stream. + </p> + <p> + Twice he essayed to start, and twice he paused. He was appalled by his own + loneliness. The pulse of war that beat from the West suggested the + companionship of battling thousands; here was naught but silence, and + himself, and possible death-dealing bullets from a myriad ambushes. And + yet his task was to find what he feared to find. He must on, and on, till + somewhere, some time, he encountered another man, or other men, from the + other side, scouting, as he was scouting, to make report, as he must make + report, of having come in touch. + </p> + <p> + Changing his mind, he skirted inside the woods for a distance, and again + peeped forth. This time, in the middle of the clearing, he saw a small + farmhouse. There were no signs of life. No smoke curled from the chimney, + not a barnyard fowl clucked and strutted. The kitchen door stood open, and + he gazed so long and hard into the black aperture that it seemed almost + that a farmer's wife must emerge at any moment. + </p> + <p> + He licked the pollen and dust from his dry lips, stiffened himself, mind + and body, and rode out into the blazing sunshine. Nothing stirred. He went + on past the house, and approached the wall of trees and bushes by the + river's bank. One thought persisted maddeningly. It was of the crash into + his body of a high-velocity bullet. It made him feel very fragile and + defenseless, and he crouched lower in the saddle. + </p> + <p> + Tethering his horse in the edge of the wood, he continued a hundred yards + on foot till he came to the stream. Twenty feet wide it was, without + perceptible current, cool and inviting, and he was very thirsty. But he + waited inside his screen of leafage, his eyes fixed on the screen on the + opposite side. To make the wait endurable, he sat down, his carbine + resting on his knees. The minutes passed, and slowly his tenseness + relaxed. At last he decided there was no danger; but just as he prepared + to part the bushes and bend down to the water, a movement among the + opposite bushes caught his eye. + </p> + <p> + It might be a bird. But he waited. Again there was an agitation of the + bushes, and then, so suddenly that it almost startled a cry from him, the + bushes parted and a face peered out. It was a face covered with several + weeks' growth of ginger-colored beard. The eyes were blue and wide apart, + with laughter-wrinkles in the comers that showed despite the tired and + anxious expression of the whole face. + </p> + <p> + All this he could see with microscopic clearness, for the distance was no + more than twenty feet. And all this he saw in such brief time, that he saw + it as he lifted his carbine to his shoulder. He glanced along the sights, + and knew that he was gazing upon a man who was as good as dead. It was + impossible to miss at such point blank range. + </p> + <p> + But he did not shoot. Slowly he lowered the carbine and watched. A hand, + clutching a water-bottle, became visible and the ginger beard bent + downward to fill the bottle. He could hear the gurgle of the water. Then + arm and bottle and ginger beard disappeared behind the closing bushes. A + long time he waited, when, with thirst unslaked, he crept back to his + horse, rode slowly across the sun-washed clearing, and passed into the + shelter of the woods beyond. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + Another day, hot and breathless. A deserted farmhouse, large, with many + outbuildings and an orchard, standing in a clearing. From the Woods, on a + roan horse, carbine across pommel, rode the young man with the quick black + eyes. He breathed with relief as he gained the house. That a fight had + taken place here earlier in the season was evident. Clips and empty + cartridges, tarnished with verdigris, lay on the ground, which, while wet, + had been torn up by the hoofs of horses. Hard by the kitchen garden were + graves, tagged and numbered. From the oak tree by the kitchen door, in + tattered, weatherbeaten garments, hung the bodies of two men. The faces, + shriveled and defaced, bore no likeness to the faces of men. The roan + horse snorted beneath them, and the rider caressed and soothed it and tied + it farther away. + </p> + <p> + Entering the house, he found the interior a wreck. He trod on empty + cartridges as he walked from room to room to reconnoiter from the windows. + Men had camped and slept everywhere, and on the floor of one room he came + upon stains unmistakable where the wounded had been laid down. + </p> + <p> + Again outside, he led the horse around behind the barn and invaded the + orchard. A dozen trees were burdened with ripe apples. He filled his + pockets, eating while he picked. Then a thought came to him, and he + glanced at the sun, calculating the time of his return to camp. He pulled + off his shirt, tying the sleeves and making a bag. This he proceeded to + fill with apples. + </p> + <p> + As he was about to mount his horse, the animal suddenly pricked up its + ears. The man, too, listened, and heard, faintly, the thud of hoofs on + soft earth. He crept to the corner of the barn and peered out. A dozen + mounted men, strung out loosely, approaching from the opposite side of the + clearing, were only a matter of a hundred yards or so away. They rode on + to the house. Some dismounted, while others remained in the saddle as an + earnest that their stay would be short. They seemed to be holding a + council, for he could hear them talking excitedly in the detested tongue + of the alien invader. The time passed, but they seemed unable to reach a + decision. He put the carbine away in its boot, mounted, and waited + impatiently, balancing the shirt of apples on the pommel. + </p> + <p> + He heard footsteps approaching, and drove his spurs so fiercely into the + roan as to force a surprised groan from the animal as it leaped forward. + At the corner of the barn he saw the intruder, a mere boy of nineteen or + twenty for all of his uniform jump back to escape being run down. At the + same moment the roan swerved and its rider caught a glimpse of the aroused + men by the house. Some were springing from their horses, and he could see + the rifles going to their shoulders. He passed the kitchen door and the + dried corpses swinging in the shade, compelling his foes to run around the + front of the house. A rifle cracked, and a second, but he was going fast, + leaning forward, low in the saddle, one hand clutching the shirt of + apples, the other guiding the horse. + </p> + <p> + The top bar of the fence was four feet high, but he knew his roan and + leaped it at full career to the accompaniment of several scattered shots. + Eight hundred yards straight away were the woods, and the roan was + covering the distance with mighty strides. Every man was now firing. + pumping their guns so rapidly that he no longer heard individual shots. A + bullet went through his hat, but he was unaware, though he did know when + another tore through the apples on the pommel. And he winced and ducked + even lower when a third bullet, fired low, struck a stone between his + horse's legs and ricochetted off through the air, buzzing and humming like + some incredible insect. + </p> + <p> + The shots died down as the magazines were emptied, until, quickly, there + was no more shooting. The young man was elated. Through that astonishing + fusillade he had come unscathed. He glanced back. Yes, they had emptied + their magazines. He could see several reloading. Others were running back + behind the house for their horses. As he looked, two already mounted, came + back into view around the corner, riding hard. And at the same moment, he + saw the man with the unmistakable ginger beard kneel down on the ground, + level his gun, and coolly take his time for the long shot. + </p> + <p> + The young man threw his spurs into the horse, crouched very low, and + swerved in his flight in order to distract the other's aim. And still the + shot did not come. With each jump of the horse, the woods sprang nearer. + They were only two hundred yards away and still the shot was delayed. + </p> + <p> + And then he heard it, the last thing he was to hear, for he was dead ere + he hit the ground in the long crashing fall from the saddle. And they, + watching at the house, saw him fall, saw his body bounce when it struck + the earth, and saw the burst of red-cheeked apples that rolled about him. + They laughed at the unexpected eruption of apples, and clapped their hands + in applause of the long shot by the man with the ginger beard. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS + </h2> + <h3> + “CAN any man—a gentleman, I mean—call a woman a pig?” + </h3> + <p> + The little man flung this challenge forth to the whole group, then leaned + back in his deck chair, sipping lemonade with an air commingled of + certitude and watchful belligerence. Nobody made answer. They were used to + the little man and his sudden passions and high elevations. + </p> + <p> + “I repeat, it was in my presence that he said a certain lady, whom none of + you knows, was a pig. He did not say swine. He grossly said that she was a + pig. And I hold that no man who is a man could possibly make such a remark + about any woman.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Dawson puffed stolidly at his black pipe. Matthews, with knees hunched + up and clasped by his arms, was absorbed in the flight of a gunie. Sweet, + finishing his Scotch and soda, was questing about with his eyes for a deck + steward. + </p> + <p> + “I ask you, Mr. Treloar, can any man call any woman a pig?” + </p> + <p> + Treloar, who happened to be sitting next to him, was startled by the + abruptness of the attack, and wondered what grounds he had ever given the + little man to believe that he could call a woman a pig. + </p> + <p> + “I should say,” he began his hesitant answer, “that it—er—depends + on the—er—the lady.” + </p> + <p> + The little man was aghast. + </p> + <p> + “You mean...?” he quavered. + </p> + <p> + “That I have seen female humans who were as bad as pigs—and worse.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long pained silence. The little man seemed withered by the + coarse brutality of the reply. In his face was unutterable hurt and woe. + </p> + <p> + “You have told of a man who made a not nice remark and you have classified + him,” Treloar said in cold, even tones. “I shall now tell you about a + woman—I beg your pardon—a lady, and when I have finished I + shall ask you to classify her. Miss Caruthers I shall call her, + principally for the reason that it is not her name. It was on a P. & + O. boat, and it occurred neither more nor less than several years ago. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Caruthers was charming. No; that is not the word. She was amazing. + She was a young woman, and a lady. Her father was a certain high official + whose name, if I mentioned it, would be immediately recognized by all of + you. She was with her mother and two maids at the time, going out to join + the old gentleman wherever you like to wish in the East. + </p> + <p> + “She, and pardon me for repeating, was amazing. It is the one adequate + word. Even the most minor adjectives applicable to her are bound to be + sheer superlatives. There was nothing she could not do better than any + woman and than most men. Sing, play—bah!—as some rhetorician + once said of old Nap, competition fled from her. Swim! She could have made + a fortune and a name as a public performer. She was one of those rare + women who can strip off all the frills of dress, and in simple swimming + suit be more satisfying beautiful. Dress! She was an artist. + </p> + <p> + “But her swimming. Physically, she was the perfect woman—you know + what I mean, not in the gross, muscular way of acrobats, but in all the + delicacy of line and fragility of frame and texture. And combined with + this, strength. How she could do it was the marvel. You know the wonder of + a woman's arm—the fore arm, I mean; the sweet fading away from + rounded biceps and hint of muscle, down through small elbow and firm soft + swell to the wrist, small, unthinkably small and round and strong. This + was hers. And yet, to see her swimming the sharp quick English overhand + stroke, and getting somewhere with it, too, was—well, I understand + anatomy and athletics and such things, and yet it was a mystery to me how + she could do it. + </p> + <p> + “She could stay under water for two minutes. I have timed her. No man on + board, except Dennitson, could capture as many coins as she with a single + dive. On the forward main-deck was a big canvas tank with six feet of + sea-water. We used to toss small coins into it. I have seen her dive from + the bridge deck—no mean feat in itself—into that six-feet of + water, and fetch up no less than forty-seven coins, scattered willy-nilly + over the whole bottom of the tank. Dennitson, a quiet young Englishman, never + exceeded her in this, though he made it a point always to tie her score. + </p> + <p> + “She was a sea-woman, true. But she was a land-woman, a horsewoman—a—she + was the universal woman. To see her, all softness of soft dress, + surrounded by half a dozen eager men, languidly careless of them all or + flashing brightness and wit on them and at them and through them, one + would fancy she was good for nothing else in the world. At such moments I + have compelled myself to remember her score of forty-seven coins from the + bottom of the swimming tank. But that was she, the everlasting, wonder of + a woman who did all things well. + </p> + <p> + “She fascinated every betrousered human around her. She had me—and I + don't mind confessing it—she bad me to heel along with the rest. + Young puppies and old gray dogs who ought to have known better—oh, + they all came up and crawled around her skirts and whined and fawned when + she whistled. They were all guilty, from young Ardmore, a pink cherub of + nineteen outward bound for some clerkship in the Consular Service, to old + Captain Bentley, grizzled and sea-worn, and as emotional, to look at, as a + Chinese joss. There was a nice middle-aged chap, Perkins, I believe, who + forgot his wife was on board until Miss Caruthers sent him to the right + about and back where he belonged. + </p> + <p> + “Men were wax in her hands. She melted them, or softly molded them, or + incinerated them, as she pleased. There wasn't a steward, even, grand and + remote as she was, who, at her bidding, would have hesitated to souse the + Old Man himself with a plate of soup. You have all seen such women—a + sort of world's desire to all men. As a man-conqueror she was supreme. She + was a whip-lash, a sting and a flame, an electric spark. Oh, believe me, + at times there were flashes of will that scorched through her beauty and + seduction and smote a victim into blank and shivering idiocy and fear. + </p> + <p> + “And don't fail to mark, in the light of what is to come, that she was a + prideful woman. Pride of race, pride of caste, pride of sex, pride of + power—she had it all, a pride strange and wilful and terrible. + </p> + <p> + “She ran the ship, she ran the voyage, she ran everything, and she ran + Dennitson. That he had outdistanced the pack even the least wise of us + admitted. That she liked him, and that this feeling was growing, there was + not a doubt. I am certain that she looked on him with kinder eyes than she + had ever looked with on man before. We still worshiped, and were always + hanging about waiting to be whistled up, though we knew that Dennitson was + laps and laps ahead of us. What might have happened we shall never know, + for we came to Colombo and something else happened. + </p> + <p> + “You know Colombo, and how the native boys dive for coins in the + shark-infested bay. Of course, it is only among the ground sharks and fish + sharks that they venture. It is almost uncanny the way they know sharks + and can sense the presence of a real killer—a tiger shark, for + instance, or a gray nurse strayed up from Australian waters. Let such a + shark appear, and, long before the passengers can guess, every mother's + son of them is out of the water in a wild scramble for safety. + </p> + <p> + “It was after tiffin, and Miss Caruthers was holding her usual court under + the deck-awnings. Old Captain Bentley had just been whistled up, and had + granted her what he never granted before... nor since—permission for + the boys to come up on the promenade deck. You see, Miss Caruthers was a + swimmer, and she was interested. She took up a collection of all our small + change, and herself tossed it overside, singly and in handfuls, arranging + the terms of the contests, chiding a miss, giving extra rewards to clever + wins, in short, managing the whole exhibition. + </p> + <p> + “She was especially keen on their jumping. You know, jumping feet-first + from a height, it is very difficult to hold the body perpendicularly while + in the air. The center of gravity of the male body is high, and the + tendency is to overtopple. But the little beggars employed a method which + she declared was new to her and which she desired to learn. Leaping from + the davits of the boat-deck above, they plunged downward, their faces and + shoulders bowed forward, looking at the water. And only at the last moment + did they abruptly straighten up and enter the water erect and true. + </p> + <p> + “It was a pretty sight. Their diving was not so good, though there was one + of them who was excellent at it, as he was in all the other stunts. Some + white man must have taught him, for he made the proper swan dive and did + it as beautifully as I have ever seen it. You know, headfirst into the + water, from a great height, the problem is to enter the water at the + perfect angle. Miss the angle and it means at the least a twisted back and + injury for life. Also, it has meant death for many a bungler. But this boy + could do it—seventy feet I know he cleared in one dive from the + rigging—clenched hands on chest, head thrown back, sailing more like + a bird, upward and out, and out and down, body flat on the air so that if + it struck the surface in that position it would be split in half like a + herring. But the moment before the water is reached, the head drops + forward, the hands go out and lock the arms in an arch in advance of the + head, and the body curves gracefully downward and enters the water just + right. + </p> + <p> + “This the boy did, again and again, to the delight of all of us, but + particularly of Miss Caruthers. He could not have been a moment over + twelve or thirteen, yet he was by far the cleverest of the gang. He was + the favorite of his crowd, and its leader. Though there were a number + older than he, they acknowledged his chieftaincy. He was a beautiful boy, + a lithe young god in breathing bronze, eyes wide apart, intelligent and + daring, a bubble, a mote, a beautiful flash and sparkle of life. You have + seen wonderful glorious creatures—animals, anything, a leopard, a + horse-restless, eager, too much alive ever to be still, silken of muscle, + each slightest movement a benediction of grace, every action wild, + untrammeled, and over all spilling out that intense vitality, that sheen + and luster of living light. The boy had it. Life poured out of him almost + in an effulgence. His skin glowed with it. It burned in his eyes. I swear + I could almost hear it crackle from him. Looking at him, it was as if a + whiff of ozone came to one's nostrils—so fresh and young was he, so + resplendent with health, so wildly wild. + </p> + <p> + “This was the boy. And it was he who gave the alarm in the midst of the + sport. The boys made a dash of it for the gangway platform, swimming the + fastest strokes they knew, pellmell, floundering and splashing, fright in + their faces, clambering out with jumps and surges, any way to get out, + lending one another a hand to safety, till all were strung along the + gangway and peering down into the water. + </p> + <p> + “'What is the matter?' asked Miss Caruthers. + </p> + <p> + “'A shark, I fancy,' Captain Bentley answered. 'Lucky little beggars that + he didn't get one of them.' + </p> + <p> + “'Are they afraid of sharks?' she asked. + </p> + <p> + “'Aren't you?' he asked back.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered, looked overside at the water, and made a move. + </p> + <p> + “'Not for the world would I venture where a shark might be,' she said, and + shuddered again. 'They are horrible! Horrible!' + </p> + <p> + “The boys came up on the promenade deck, clustering close to the rail and + worshiping Miss Caruthers who had flung them such a wealth of backsheesh. + The performance being over, Captain Bentley motioned to them to clear out. + But she stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “'One moment, please, Captain. I have always understood that the natives + are not afraid of sharks.' + </p> + <p> + “She beckoned the boy of the swan dive nearer to her, and signed to him to + dive over again. He shook his head, and along with all his crew behind him + laughed as if it were a good joke. + </p> + <p> + “'Shark,' he volunteered, pointing to the water. + </p> + <p> + “'No,' she said. 'There is no shark.' + </p> + <p> + “But he nodded his head positively, and the boys behind him nodded with + equal positiveness. + </p> + <p> + “'No, no, no,' she cried. And then to us, 'Who'll lend me a half-crown and + a sovereign!' + </p> + <p> + “Immediately the half dozen of us were presenting her with crowns and + sovereigns, and she accepted the two coins from young Ardmore. + </p> + <p> + “She held up the half-crown for the boys to see. But there was no eager + rush to the rail preparatory to leaping. They stood there grinning + sheepishly. She offered the coin to each one individually, and each, as + his turn came, rubbed his foot against his calf, shook his head, and + grinned. Then she tossed the half-crown overboard. With wistful, regretful + faces they watched its silver flight through the air, but not one moved to + follow it. + </p> + <p> + “'Don't do it with the sovereign,' Dennitson said to her in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “She took no notice, but held up the gold coin before the eyes of the boy + of the swan dive. + </p> + <p> + “'Don't,' said Captain Bentley. 'I wouldn't throw a sick cat overside with + a shark around.' + </p> + <p> + “But she laughed, bent on her purpose, and continued to dazzle the boy. + </p> + <p> + “'Don't tempt him,' Dennitson urged. 'It is a fortune to him, and he might + go over after it.' + </p> + <p> + “'Wouldn't YOU?' she flared at him. 'If I threw it?'” + </p> + <p> + This last more softly. + </p> + <p> + Dennitson shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “'Your price is high,' she said. 'For how many sovereigns would you go?' + </p> + <p> + “'There are not enough coined to get me overside,' was his answer. + </p> + <p> + “She debated a moment, the boy forgotten in her tilt with Dennitson. + </p> + <p> + “'For me?' she said very softly. + </p> + <p> + “'To save your life—yes. But not otherwise.' + </p> + <p> + “She turned back to the boy. Again she held the coin before his eyes, + dazzling him with the vastness of its value. Then she made as to toss it + out, and, involuntarily, he made a half-movement toward the rail, but was + checked by sharp cries of reproof from his companions. There was anger in + their voices as well. + </p> + <p> + “'I know it is only fooling,' Dennitson said. 'Carry it as far as you + like, but for heaven's sake don't throw it.' + </p> + <p> + “Whether it was that strange wilfulness of hers, or whether she doubted + the boy could be persuaded, there is no telling. It was unexpected to all + of us. Out from the shade of the awning the coin flashed golden in the + blaze of sunshine and fell toward the sea in a glittering arch. Before a + hand could stay him, the boy was over the rail and curving beautifully + downward after the coin. Both were in the air at the same time. It was a + pretty sight. The sovereign cut the water sharply, and at the very spot, + almost at the same instant, with scarcely a splash, the boy entered. + </p> + <p> + “From the quicker-eyed black boys watching, came an exclamation. We were + all at the railing. Don't tell me it is necessary for a shark to turn on + its back. That one did not. In the clear water, from the height we were + above it, we saw everything. The shark was a big brute, and with one drive + he cut the boy squarely in half. + </p> + <p> + “There was a murmur or something from among us—who made it I did not + know; it might have been I. And then there was silence. Miss Caruthers was + the first to speak. Her face was deathly white. + </p> + <p> + “'I never dreamed,' she said, and laughed a short, hysterical laugh. + </p> + <p> + “All her pride was at work to give her control. She turned weakly toward + Dennitson, and then, on from one to another of us. In her eyes was a + terrible sickness, and her lips were trembling. We were brutes—oh, I + know it, now that I look back upon it. But we did nothing. + </p> + <p> + “'Mr. Dennitson,' she said, 'Tom, won't you take me below!' + </p> + <p> + “He never changed the direction of his gaze, which was the bleakest I have + ever seen in a man's face, nor did he move an eyelid. He took a cigarette + from his case and lighted it. Captain Bentley made a nasty sound in his + throat and spat overboard. That was all; that and the silence. + </p> + <p> + “She turned away and started to walk firmly down the deck. Twenty feet + away, she swayed and thrust a hand against the wall to save herself. And + so she went on, supporting herself against the cabins and walking very + slowly.” Treloar ceased. He turned his head and favored the little man + with a look of cold inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said finally. “Classify her.” + </p> + <p> + The little man gulped and swallowed. + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing to say,” he said. “I have nothing whatever to say.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO KILL A MAN + </h2> + <p> + THOUGH dim night-lights burned, she moved familiarly through the big rooms + and wide halls, seeking vainly the half-finished book of verse she had + mislaid and only now remembered. When she turned on the lights in the + drawing-room, she disclosed herself clad in a sweeping negligee gown of + soft rose-colored stuff, throat and shoulders smothered in lace. Her rings + were still on her fingers, her massed yellow hair had not yet been taken + down. She was delicately, gracefully beautiful, with slender, oval face, + red lips, a faint color in the cheeks, and blue eyes of the chameleon sort + that at will stare wide with the innocence of childhood, go hard and gray + and brilliantly cold, or flame up in hot wilfulness and mastery. + </p> + <p> + She turned the lights off and passed out and down the hall toward the + morning room. At the entrance she paused and listened. From farther on had + come, not a noise, but an impression of movement. She could have sworn she + had not heard anything, yet something had been different. The atmosphere + of night quietude had been disturbed. She wondered what servant could be + prowling about. Not the butler, who was notorious for retiring early save + on special occasion. Nor could it be her maid, whom she had permitted to + go that evening. + </p> + <p> + Passing on to the dining-room, she found the door closed. Why she opened + it and went on in, she did not know, except for the feeling that the + disturbing factor, whatever it might be, was there. The room was in + darkness, and she felt her way to the button and pressed. As the blaze of + light flashed on, she stepped back and cried out. It was a mere “Oh!” and + it was not loud. + </p> + <p> + Facing her, alongside the button, flat against the wall, was a man. In his + hand, pointed toward her, was a revolver. She noticed, even in the shock + of seeing him, that the weapon was black and exceedingly long-barreled. + She knew black and exceedingly long it for what it was, a Colt's. He was a + medium-sized man, roughly clad, brown-eyed, and swarthy with sunburn. He + seemed very cool. There was no wabble to the revolver and it was directed + toward her stomach, not from an outstretched arm, but from the hip, + against which the forearm rested. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said. “I beg your pardon. You startled me. What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I want to get out,” he answered, with a humorous twitch to the + lips. “I've kind of lost my way in this here shebang, and if you'll kindly + show me the door I'll cause no trouble and sure vamoose.” + </p> + <p> + “But what are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice touched with the + sharpness of one used to authority. + </p> + <p> + “Plain robbing, Miss, that's all. I came snooping around to see what I + could gather up. I thought you wan't to home, seein' as I saw you pull out + with your old man in an auto. I reckon that must a ben your pa, and you're + Miss Setliffe.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Setliffe saw his mistake, appreciated the naive compliment, and + decided not to undeceive him. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know I am Miss Setliffe?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “This is old Setliffe's house, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know he had a daughter, but I reckon you must be her. And now, + if it ain't botherin' you too much, I'd sure be obliged if you'd show me + the way out.” + </p> + <p> + “But why should I? You are a robber, a burglar.” + </p> + <p> + “If I wan't an ornery shorthorn at the business, I'd be accumulatin' them + rings on your fingers instead of being polite,” he retorted. + </p> + <p> + “I come to make a raise outa old Setliffe, and not to be robbing + women-folks. If you get outa the way, I reckon I can find my own way out.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Setliffe was a keen woman, and she felt that from such a man there + was little to fear. That he was not a typical criminal, she was certain. + From his speech she knew he was not of the cities, and she seemed to sense + the wider, homelier air of large spaces. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I screamed?” she queried curiously. “Suppose I made an outcry for + help? You couldn't shoot me?... a woman?” + </p> + <p> + She noted the fleeting bafflement in his brown eyes. He answered slowly + and thoughtfully, as if working out a difficult problem. “I reckon, then, + I'd have to choke you and maul you some bad.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd sure have to,” he answered, and she saw his mouth set grimly. + </p> + <p> + “You're only a soft woman, but you see, Miss, I can't afford to go to + jail. No, Miss, I sure can't. There's a friend of mine waitin' for me out + West. He's in a hole, and I've got to help him out.” The mouth shaped even + more grimly. “I guess I could choke you without hurting you much to speak + of.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes took on a baby stare of innocent incredulity as she watched him. + </p> + <p> + “I never met a burglar before,” she assured him, “and I can't begin to + tell you how interested I am.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not a burglar, Miss. Not a real one,” he hastened to add as she + looked her amused unbelief. “It looks like it, me being here in your + house. But it's the first time I ever tackled such a job. I needed the + money bad. Besides, I kind of look on it like collecting what's coming to + me.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand,” she smiled encouragingly. “You came here to rob, and + to rob is to take what is not yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and no, in this here particular case. But I reckon I'd better be + going now.” + </p> + <p> + He started for the door of the dining-room, but she interposed, and a very + beautiful obstacle she made of herself. His left hand went out as if to + grip her, then hesitated. He was patently awed by her soft womanhood. + </p> + <p> + “There!” she cried triumphantly. “I knew you wouldn't.” + </p> + <p> + The man was embarrassed. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't never manhandled a woman yet,” he explained, “and it don't come + easy. But I sure will, if you set to screaming.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't you stay a few minutes and talk?” she urged. “I'm so interested. I + should like to hear you explain how burglary is collecting what is coming + to you.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her admiringly. + </p> + <p> + “I always thought women-folks were scairt of robbers,” he confessed. “But + you don't seem none.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed gaily. + </p> + <p> + “There are robbers and robbers, you know. I am not afraid of you, because + I am confident you are not the sort of creature that would harm a woman. + Come, talk with me a while. Nobody will disturb us. I am all alone. My—father + caught the night train to New York. The servants are all asleep. I should + like to give you something to eat—women always prepare midnight + suppers for the burglars they catch, at least they do in the magazine + stories. But I don't know where to find the food. Perhaps you will have + something to drink?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, and did not reply; but she could see the admiration for her + growing in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You're not afraid?” she queried. “I won't poison you, I promise. I'll + drink with you to show you it is all right.” + </p> + <p> + “You sure are a surprise package of all right,” he declared, for the first + time lowering the weapon and letting it hang at his side. “No one don't + need to tell me ever again that women-folks in cities is afraid. You ain't + much—just a little soft pretty thing. But you've sure got the spunk. + And you're trustful on top of it. There ain't many women, or men either, + who'd treat a man with a gun the way you're treating me.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled her pleasure in the compliment, and her face, was very earnest + as she said: + </p> + <p> + “That is because I like your appearance. You are too decent-looking a man + to be a robber. You oughtn't to do such things. If you are in bad luck you + should go to work. Come, put away that nasty revolver and let us talk it + over. The thing for you to do is to work.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in this burg,” he commented bitterly. “I've walked two inches off the + bottom of my legs trying to find a job. Honest, I was a fine large man + once... before I started looking for a job.” + </p> + <p> + The merry laughter with which she greeted his sally obviously pleased him, + and she was quick to note and take advantage of it. She moved directly + away from the door and toward the sideboard. + </p> + <p> + “Come, you must tell me all about it while I get that drink for you. What + will it be? Whisky?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” he said, as he followed her, though he still carried the big + revolver at his side, and though he glanced reluctantly at the unguarded + open door. + </p> + <p> + She filled a glass for him at the sideboard. + </p> + <p> + “I promised to drink with you,” she said hesitatingly. “But I don't like + whisky. I... I prefer sherry.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted the sherry bottle tentatively for his consent. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” he answered, with a nod. “Whisky's a man's drink. I never like to + see women at it. Wine's more their stuff.” + </p> + <p> + She raised her glass to his, her eyes meltingly sympathetic. + </p> + <p> + “Here's to finding you a good position—” + </p> + <p> + But she broke off at sight of the expression of surprised disgust on his + face. The glass, barely touched, was removed from his wry lips. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter!” she asked anxiously. “Don't you like it? Have I made + a mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “It's sure funny whisky. Tastes like it got burned and smoked in the + making.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! How silly of me! I gave you Scotch. Of course you are accustomed to + rye. Let me change it.” + </p> + <p> + She was almost solicitiously maternal, as she replaced the glass with + another and sought and found the proper bottle. + </p> + <p> + “Better?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am. No smoke in it. It's sure the real good stuff. I ain't had a + drink in a week. Kind of slick, that; oily, you know; not made in a + chemical factory.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a drinking man?” It was half a question, half a challenge. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'am, not to speak of. I HAVE rared up and ripsnorted at spells, but + most unfrequent. But there is times when a good stiff jolt lands on the + right spot kerchunk, and this is sure one of them. And now, thanking you + for your kindness, ma'am, I'll just be a pulling along.” + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Setliffe did not want to lose her burglar. She was too poised a + woman to possess much romance, but there was a thrill about the present + situation that delighted her. Besides, she knew there was no danger. The + man, despite his jaw and the steady brown eyes, was eminently tractable. + Also, farther back in her consciousness glimmered the thought of an + audience of admiring friends. It was too bad not to have that audience. + </p> + <p> + “You haven't explained how burglary, in your case, is merely collecting + what is your own,” she said. “Come, sit down, and tell me about it here at + the table.” + </p> + <p> + She maneuvered for her own seat, and placed him across the corner from + her. His alertness had not deserted him, as she noted, and his eyes roved + sharply about, returning always with smoldering admiration to hers, but + never resting long. And she noted likewise that while she spoke he was + intent on listening for other sounds than those of her voice. Nor had he + relinquished the revolver, which lay at the corner of the table between + them, the butt close to his right hand. + </p> + <p> + But he was in a new habitat which he did not know. This man from the West, + cunning in woodcraft and plainscraft, with eyes and ears open, tense and + suspicious, did not know that under the table, close to her foot, was the + push button of an electric bell. He had never heard of such a contrivance, + and his keenness and wariness went for naught. + </p> + <p> + “It's like this, Miss,” he began, in response to her urging. “Old Setliffe + done me up in a little deal once. It was raw, but it worked. Anything will + work full and legal when it's got few hundred million behind it. I'm not + squealin', and I ain't taking a slam at your pa. He don't know me from + Adam, and I reckon he don't know he done me outa anything. He's too big, + thinking and dealing in millions, to ever hear of a small potato like me. + He's an operator. He's got all kinds of experts thinking and planning and + working for him, some of them, I hear, getting more cash salary than the + President of the United States. I'm only one of thousands that have been + done up by your pa, that's all. + </p> + <p> + “You see, ma'am, I had a little hole in the ground—a dinky, + hydraulic, one-horse outfit of a mine. And when the Setliffe crowd shook + down Idaho, and reorganized the smelter trust, and roped in the rest of + the landscape, and put through the big hydraulic scheme at Twin Pines, why + I sure got squeezed. I never had a run for my money. I was scratched off + the card before the first heat. And so, to-night, being broke and my + friend needing me bad, I just dropped around to make a raise outa your pa. + Seeing as I needed it, it kinda was coming to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Granting all that you say is so,” she said, “nevertheless it does not + make house-breaking any the less house-breaking. You couldn't make such a + defense in a court of law.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that,” he confessed meekly. “What's right ain't always legal. And + that's why I am so uncomfortable a-settin' here and talking with you. Not + that I ain't enjoying your company—I sure do enjoy it—but I + just can't afford to be caught. I know what they'd do to me in this here + city. There was a young fellow that got fifty years only last week for + holding a man up on the street for two dollars and eighty-five cents. I + read about it in the paper. When times is hard and they ain't no work, men + get desperate. And then the other men who've got something to be robbed of + get desperate, too, and they just sure soak it to the other fellows. If I + got caught, I reckon I wouldn't get a mite less than ten years. That's why + I'm hankering to be on my way.” + </p> + <p> + “No; wait.” She lifted a detaining hand, at the same time removing her + foot from the bell, which she had been pressing intermittently. “You + haven't told me your name yet.” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Call me Dave.” + </p> + <p> + “Then... Dave,” she laughed with pretty confusion. “Something must be done + for you. You are a young man, and you are just at the beginning of a bad + start. If you begin by attempting to collect what you think is coming to + you, later on you will be collecting what you are perfectly sure isn't + coming to you. And you know what the end will be. Instead of this, we must + find something honorable for you to do.” + </p> + <p> + “I need the money, and I need it now,” he replied doggedly. “It's not for + myself, but for that friend I told you about. He's in a peck of trouble, + and he's got to get his lift now or not at all.” + </p> + <p> + “I can find you a position,” she said quickly. “And—yes, the very + thing!—I'll lend you the money you want to send to your friend. This + you can pay back out of your salary.” + </p> + <p> + “About three hundred would do,” he said slowly. “Three hundred would pull + him through. I'd work my fingers off for a year for that, and my keep, and + a few cents to buy Bull Durham with.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! You smoke! I never thought of it.” + </p> + <p> + Her hand went out over the revolver toward his hand, as she pointed to the + tell-tale yellow stain on his fingers. At the same time her eyes measured + the nearness of her own hand and of his to the weapon. She ached to grip + it in one swift movement. She was sure she could do it, and yet she was + not sure; and so it was that she refrained as she withdrew her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you smoke?” she invited. + </p> + <p> + “I'm 'most dying to.” + </p> + <p> + “Then do so. I don't mind. I really like it—cigarettes, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + With his left band he dipped into his side pocket, brought out a loose + wheat-straw paper and shifted it to his right hand close by the revolver. + Again he dipped, transferring to the paper a pinch of brown, flaky + tobacco. Then he proceeded, both hands just over the revolver, to roll the + cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “From the way you hover close to that nasty weapon, you seem to be afraid + of me,” she challenged. + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly afraid of you, ma'am, but, under the circumstances, just a + mite timid.” + </p> + <p> + “But I've not been afraid of you.” + </p> + <p> + “You've got nothing to lose.” + </p> + <p> + “My life,” she retorted. + </p> + <p> + “That's right,” he acknowledged promptly, “and you ain't been scairt of + me. Mebbe I am over anxious.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't cause you any harm.” + </p> + <p> + Even as she spoke, her slipper felt for the bell and pressed it. At the + same time her eyes were earnest with a plea of honesty. + </p> + <p> + “You are a judge of men. I know it. And of women. Surely, when I am trying + to persuade you from a criminal life and to get you honest work to + do....?” + </p> + <p> + He was immediately contrite. + </p> + <p> + “I sure beg your pardon, ma'am,” he said. “I reckon my nervousness ain't + complimentary.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he drew his right hand from the table, and after lighting the + cigarette, dropped it by his side. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for your confidence,” she breathed softly, resolutely keeping + her eyes from measuring the distance to the revolver, and keeping her foot + pressed firmly on the bell. + </p> + <p> + “About that three hundred,” he began. “I can telegraph it West to-night. + And I'll agree to work a year for it and my keep.” + </p> + <p> + “You will earn more than that. I can promise seventy-five dollars a month + at the least. Do you know horses?” + </p> + <p> + His face lighted up and his eyes sparkled. + </p> + <p> + “Then go to work for me—or for my father, rather, though I engage + all the servants. I need a second coachman—” + </p> + <p> + “And wear a uniform?” he interrupted sharply, the sneer of the free-born + West in his voice and on his lips. + </p> + <p> + She smiled tolerantly. + </p> + <p> + “Evidently that won't do. Let me think. Yes. Can you break and handle + colts?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “We have a stock farm, and there's room for just such a man as you. Will + you take it?” + </p> + <p> + “Will I, ma'am?” His voice was rich with gratitude and enthusiasm. “Show + me to it. I'll dig right in to-morrow. And I can sure promise you one + thing, ma'am. You'll never be sorry for lending Hughie Luke a hand in his + trouble—” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said to call you Dave,” she chided forgivingly. + </p> + <p> + “I did, ma'am. I did. And I sure beg your pardon. It was just plain bluff. + My real name is Hughie Luke. And if you'll give me the address of that + stock farm of yours, and the railroad fare, I head for it first thing in + the morning.” + </p> + <p> + Throughout the conversation she had never relaxed her attempts on the + bell. She had pressed it in every alarming way—three shorts and a + long, two and a long, and five. She had tried long series of shorts, and, + once, she had held the button down for a solid three minutes. And she had + been divided between objurgation of the stupid, heavy-sleeping butler and + doubt if the bell were in order. + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad,” she said; “so glad that you are willing. There won't be + much to arrange. But you will first have to trust me while I go upstairs + for my purse.” + </p> + <p> + She saw the doubt flicker momentarily in his eyes, and added hastily, “But + you see I am trusting you with the three hundred dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you, ma'am,” he came back gallantly. “Though I just can't help + this nervousness.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go and get it?” + </p> + <p> + But before she could receive consent, a slight muffled jar from the + distance came to her ear. She knew it for the swing-door of the butler's + pantry. But so slight was it—more a faint vibration than a sound—that + she would not have heard had not her ears been keyed and listening for it. + Yet the man had heard. He was startled in his composed way. + </p> + <p> + “What was that?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + For answer, her left hand flashed out to the revolver and brought it back. + She had had the start of him, and she needed it, for the next instant his + hand leaped up from his side, clutching emptiness where the revolver had + been. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” she commanded sharply, in a voice new to him. “Don't move. + Keep your hands on the table.” + </p> + <p> + She had taken a lesson from him. Instead of holding the heavy weapon + extended, the butt of it and her forearm rested on the table, the muzzle + pointed, not at his head, but his chest. And he, looking coolly and + obeying her commands, knew there was no chance of the kick-up of the + recoil producing a miss. Also, he saw that the revolver did not wabble, + nor the hand shake, and he was thoroughly conversant with the size of hole + the soft-nosed bullets could make. He had eyes, not for her, but for the + hammer, which had risen under the pressure of her forefinger on the + trigger. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I'd best warn you that that there trigger-pull is filed dreadful + fine. Don't press too hard, or I'll have a hole in me the size of a + walnut.” + </p> + <p> + She slacked the hammer partly down. + </p> + <p> + “That's better,” he commented. “You'd best put it down all the way. You + see how easy it works. If you want to, a quick light pull will jiffy her + up and back and make a pretty mess all over your nice floor.” + </p> + <p> + A door opened behind him, and he heard somebody enter the room. But he did + not turn his bead. He was looking at her, and he found it the face of + another woman—hard, cold, pitiless yet brilliant in its beauty. The + eyes, too, were hard, though blazing with a cold light. + </p> + <p> + “Thomas,” she commanded, “go to the telephone and call the police. Why + were you so long in answering?” + </p> + <p> + “I came as soon as I heard the bell, madam,” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + The robber never took his eyes from hers, nor did she from his, but at + mention of the bell she noticed that his eyes were puzzled for the moment. + </p> + <p> + “Beg your pardon,” said the butler from behind, “but wouldn't it be better + for me to get a weapon and arouse the servants?” + </p> + <p> + “No; ring for the police. I can hold this man. Go and do it—quickly.” + </p> + <p> + The butler slippered out of the room, and the man and the woman sat on, + gazing into each other's eyes. To her it was an experience keen with + enjoyment, and in her mind was the gossip of her crowd, and she saw notes + in the society weeklies of the beautiful young Mrs. Setliffe capturing an + armed robber single-handed. It would create a sensation, she was sure. + </p> + <p> + “When you get that sentence you mentioned,” she said coldly, “you will + have time to meditate upon what a fool you have been, taking other + persons' property and threatening women with revolvers. You will have time + to learn your lesson thoroughly. Now tell the truth. You haven't any + friend in trouble. All that you told me was lies.” + </p> + <p> + He did not reply. Though his eyes were upon her, they seemed blank. In + truth, for the instant she was veiled to him, and what he saw was the wide + sunwashed spaces of the West, where men and women were bigger than the + rotten denizens, as he had encountered them, of the thrice rotten cities + of the East. + </p> + <p> + “Go on. Why don't you speak? Why don't you lie some more? Why don't you + beg to be let off?” + </p> + <p> + “I might,” he answered, licking his dry lips. “I might ask to be let off + if...” + </p> + <p> + “If what?” she demanded peremptorily, as he paused. + </p> + <p> + “I was trying to think of a word you reminded me of. As I was saying, I + might if you was a decent woman.” + </p> + <p> + Her face paled. + </p> + <p> + “Be careful,” she warned. + </p> + <p> + “You don't dast kill me,” he sneered. “The world's a pretty low down place + to have a thing like you prowling around in it, but it ain't so plumb low + down, I reckon, as to let you put a hole in me. You're sure bad, but the + trouble with you is that you're weak in your badness. It ain't much to + kill a man, but you ain't got it in you. There's where you lose out.” + </p> + <p> + “Be careful of what you say,” she repeated. “Or else, I warn you, it will + go hard with you. It can be seen to whether your sentence is light or + heavy.” + </p> + <p> + “Something's the matter with God,” he remarked irrelevantly, “to be + letting you around loose. It's clean beyond me what he's up to, playing + such-like tricks on poor humanity. Now if I was God—” + </p> + <p> + His further opinion was interrupted by the entrance of the butler. + </p> + <p> + “Something is wrong with the telephone, madam,” he announced. “The wires + are crossed or something, because I can't get Central.” + </p> + <p> + “Go and call one of the servants,” she ordered. “Send him out for an + officer, and then return here.” + </p> + <p> + Again the pair was left alone. + </p> + <p> + “Will you kindly answer one question, ma'am?” the man said. “That servant + fellow said something about a bell. I watched you like a cat, and you sure + rung no bell.” + </p> + <p> + “It was under the table, you poor fool. I pressed it with my foot.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, ma'am. I reckoned I'd seen your kind before, and now I sure + know I have. I spoke to you true and trusting, and all the time you was + lying like hell to me.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed mockingly. + </p> + <p> + “Go on. Say what you wish. It is very interesting.” + </p> + <p> + “You made eyes at me, looking soft and kind, playing up all the time the + fact that you wore skirts instead of pants—and all the time with + your foot on the bell under the table. Well, there's some consolation. I'd + sooner be poor Hughie Luke, doing his ten years, than be in your skin. + Ma'am, hell is full of women like you.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a space, in which the man, never taking his eyes + from her, studying her, was making up his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” she urged. “Say something.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am, I'll say something. I'll sure say something. Do you know what + I'm going to do? I'm going to get right up from this chair and walk out + that door. I'd take the gun from you, only you might turn foolish and let + it go off. You can have the gun. It's a good one. As I was saying, I am + going right out that door. And you ain't going to pull that gun off + either. It takes guts to shoot a man, and you sure ain't got them. Now get + ready and see if you can pull that trigger. I ain't going to harm you. I'm + going out that door, and I'm starting.” + </p> + <p> + Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he pushed back the chair and slowly stood + erect. The hammer rose halfway. She watched it. So did he. + </p> + <p> + “Pull harder,” he advised. “It ain't half up yet. Go on and pull it and + kill a man. That's what I said, kill a man, spatter his brains out on the + floor, or slap a hole into him the size of your fist. That's what killing + a man means.” + </p> + <p> + The hammer lowered jerkily but gently. The man turned his back and walked + slowly to the door. She swung the revolver around so that it bore on his + back. Twice again the hammer came up halfway and was reluctantly eased + down. + </p> + <p> + At the door the man turned for a moment before passing on. A sneer was on + his lips. He spoke to her in a low voice, almost drawling, but in it was + the quintessence of all loathing, as he called her a name unspeakable and + vile. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MEXICAN + </h2> + <p> + NOBODY knew his history—they of the Junta least of all. He was their + “little mystery,” their “big patriot,” and in his way he worked as hard + for the coming Mexican Revolution as did they. They were tardy in + recognizing this, for not one of the Junta liked him. The day he first + drifted into their crowded, busy rooms, they all suspected him of being a + spy—one of the bought tools of the Diaz secret service. Too many of + the comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the United + States, and others of them, in irons, were even then being taken across + the border to be lined up against adobe walls and shot. + </p> + <p> + At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably. Boy he was, not + more than eighteen and not over large for his years. He announced that he + was Felipe Rivera, and that it was his wish to work for the Revolution. + That was all—not a wasted word, no further explanation. He stood + waiting. There was no smile on his lips, no geniality in his eyes. Big + dashing Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder. Here was something + forbidding, terrible, inscrutable. There was something venomous and + snakelike in the boy's black eyes. They burned like cold fire, as with a + vast, concentrated bitterness. He flashed them from the faces of the + conspirators to the typewriter which little Mrs. Sethby was industriously + operating. His eyes rested on hers but an instant—she had chanced to + look up—and she, too, sensed the nameless something that made her + pause. She was compelled to read back in order to regain the swing of the + letter she was writing. + </p> + <p> + Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos, and + questioningly they looked back and to each other. The indecision of doubt + brooded in their eyes. This slender boy was the Unknown, vested with all + the menace of the Unknown. He was unrecognizable, something quite beyond + the ken of honest, ordinary revolutionists whose fiercest hatred for Diaz + and his tyranny after all was only that of honest and ordinary patriots. + Here was something else, they knew not what. But Vera, always the most + impulsive, the quickest to act, stepped into the breach. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said coldly. “You say you want to work for the Revolution. + Take off your coat. Hang it over there. I will show you, come—where + are the buckets and cloths. The floor is dirty. You will begin by + scrubbing it, and by scrubbing the floors of the other rooms. The + spittoons need to be cleaned. Then there are the windows.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it for the Revolution?” the boy asked. + </p> + <p> + “It is for the Revolution,” Vera answered. + </p> + <p> + Rivera looked cold suspicion at all of them, then proceeded to take off + his coat. + </p> + <p> + “It is well,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And nothing more. Day after day he came to his work—sweeping, + scrubbing, cleaning. He emptied the ashes from the stoves, brought up the + coal and kindling, and lighted the fires before the most energetic one of + them was at his desk. + </p> + <p> + “Can I sleep here?” he asked once. + </p> + <p> + Ah, ha! So that was it—the hand of Diaz showing through! To sleep in + the rooms of the Junta meant access to their secrets, to the lists of + names, to the addresses of comrades down on Mexican soil. The request was + denied, and Rivera never spoke of it again. He slept they knew not where, + and ate they knew not where nor how. Once, Arrellano offered him a couple + of dollars. Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head. When Vera + joined in and tried to press it upon him, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I am working for the Revolution.” + </p> + <p> + It takes money to raise a modern revolution, and always the Junta was + pressed. The members starved and toiled, and the longest day was none too + long, and yet there were times when it appeared as if the Revolution stood + or fell on no more than the matter of a few dollars. Once, the first time, + when the rent of the house was two months behind and the landlord was + threatening dispossession, it was Felipe Rivera, the scrub-boy in the + poor, cheap clothes, worn and threadbare, who laid sixty dollars in gold + on May Sethby's desk. There were other times. Three hundred letters, + clicked out on the busy typewriters (appeals for assistance, for sanctions + from the organized labor groups, requests for square news deals to the + editors of newspapers, protests against the high-handed treatment of + revolutionists by the United States courts), lay unmailed, awaiting + postage. Vera's watch had disappeared—the old-fashioned gold + repeater that had been his father's. Likewise had gone the plain gold band + from May Setbby's third finger. Things were desperate. Ramos and Arrellano + pulled their long mustaches in despair. The letters must go off, and the + Post Office allowed no credit to purchasers of stamps. Then it was that + Rivera put on his hat and went out. When he came back he laid a thousand + two-cent stamps on May Sethby's desk. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if it is the cursed gold of Diaz?” said Vera to the comrades. + </p> + <p> + They elevated their brows and could not decide. And Felipe Rivera, the + scrubber for the Revolution, continued, as occasion arose, to lay down + gold and silver for the Junta's use. + </p> + <p> + And still they could not bring themselves to like him. They did not know + him. His ways were not theirs. He gave no confidences. He repelled all + probing. Youth that he was, they could never nerve themselves to dare to + question him. + </p> + <p> + “A great and lonely spirit, perhaps, I do not know, I do not know,” + Arrellano said helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “He is not human,” said Ramos. + </p> + <p> + “His soul has been seared,” said May Sethby. “Light and laughter have been + burned out of him. He is like one dead, and yet he is fearfully alive.” + </p> + <p> + “He has been through hell,” said Vera. “No man could look like that who + has not been through hell—and he is only a boy.” + </p> + <p> + Yet they could not like him. He never talked, never inquired, never + suggested. He would stand listening, expressionless, a thing dead, save + for his eyes, coldly burning, while their talk of the Revolution ran high + and warm. From face to face and speaker to speaker his eyes would turn, + boring like gimlets of incandescent ice, disconcerting and perturbing. + </p> + <p> + “He is no spy,” Vera confided to May Sethby. “He is a patriot—mark + me, the greatest patriot of us all. I know it, I feel it, here in my heart + and head I feel it. But him I know not at all.” + </p> + <p> + “He has a bad temper,” said May Sethby. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Vera, with a shudder. “He has looked at me with those eyes + of his. They do not love; they threaten; they are savage as a wild + tiger's. I know, if I should prove unfaithful to the Cause, that he would + kill me. He has no heart. He is pitiless as steel, keen and cold as frost. + He is like moonshine in a winter night when a man freezes to death on some + lonely mountain top. I am not afraid of Diaz and all his killers; but this + boy, of him am I afraid. I tell you true. I am afraid. He is the breath of + death.” + </p> + <p> + Yet Vera it was who persuaded the others to give the first trust to + Rivera. The line of communication between Los Angeles and Lower California + had broken down. Three of the comrades had dug their own graves and been + shot into them. Two more were United States prisoners in Los Angeles. Juan + Alvarado, the Federal commander, was a monster. All their plans did he + checkmate. They could no longer gain access to the active revolutionists, + and the incipient ones, in Lower California. + </p> + <p> + Young Rivera was given his instructions and dispatched south. When he + returned, the line of communication was reestablished, and Juan Alvarado + was dead. He had been found in bed, a knife hilt-deep in his breast. This + had exceeded Rivera's instructions, but they of the Junta knew the times + of his movements. They did not ask him. He said nothing. But they looked + at one another and conjectured. + </p> + <p> + “I have told you,” said Vera. “Diaz has more to fear from this youth than + from any man. He is implacable. He is the hand of God.” + </p> + <p> + The bad temper, mentioned by May Sethby, and sensed by them all, was + evidenced by physical proofs. Now he appeared with a cut lip, a blackened + cheek, or a swollen ear. It was patent that he brawled, somewhere in that + outside world where he ate and slept, gained money, and moved in ways + unknown to them. As the time passed, he had come to set type for the + little revolutionary sheet they published weekly. There were occasions + when he was unable to set type, when his knuckles were bruised and + battered, when his thumbs were injured and helpless, when one arm or the + other hung wearily at his side while his face was drawn with unspoken + pain. + </p> + <p> + “A wastrel,” said Arrellano. + </p> + <p> + “A frequenter of low places,” said Ramos. + </p> + <p> + “But where does he get the money?” Vera demanded. “Only to-day, just now, + have I learned that he paid the bill for white paper—one hundred and + forty dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “There are his absences,” said May Sethby. “He never explains them.” + </p> + <p> + “We should set a spy upon him,” Ramos propounded. + </p> + <p> + “I should not care to be that spy,” said Vera. “I fear you would never see + me again, save to bury me. He has a terrible passion. Not even God would + he permit to stand between him and the way of his passion.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel like a child before him,” Ramos confessed. + </p> + <p> + “To me he is power—he is the primitive, the wild wolf, the striking + rattlesnake, the stinging centipede,” said Arrellano. + </p> + <p> + “He is the Revolution incarnate,” said Vera. “He is the flame and the + spirit of it, the insatiable cry for vengeance that makes no cry but that + slays noiselessly. He is a destroying angel in moving through the still + watches of the night.” + </p> + <p> + “I could weep over him,” said May Sethby. “He knows nobody. He hates all + people. Us he tolerates, for we are the way of his desire. He is alone.... + lonely.” Her voice broke in a half sob and there was dimness in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Rivera's ways and times were truly mysterious. There were periods when + they did not see him for a week at a time. Once, he was away a month. + These occasions were always capped by his return, when, without + advertisement or speech, he laid gold coins on May Sethby's desk. Again, + for days and weeks, he spent all his time with the Junta. And yet again, + for irregular periods, he would disappear through the heart of each day, + from early morning until late afternoon. At such times he came early and + remained late. Arrellano had found him at midnight, setting type with + fresh swollen knuckles, or mayhap it was his lip, new-split, that still + bled. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + The time of the crisis approached. Whether or not the Revolution would be + depended upon the Junta, and the Junta was hard-pressed. The need for + money was greater than ever before, while money was harder to get. + Patriots had given their last cent and now could give no more. Section + gang laborers-fugitive peons from Mexico—were contributing half + their scanty wages. But more than that was needed. The heart-breaking, + conspiring, undermining toil of years approached fruition. The time was + ripe. The Revolution hung on the balance. One shove more, one last heroic + effort, and it would tremble across the scales to victory. They knew their + Mexico. Once started, the Revolution would take care of itself. The whole + Diaz machine would go down like a house of cards. The border was ready to + rise. One Yankee, with a hundred I.W.W. men, waited the word to cross over + the border and begin the conquest of Lower California. But he needed guns. + And clear across to the Atlantic, the Junta in touch with them all and all + of them needing guns, mere adventurers, soldiers of fortune, bandits, + disgruntled American union men, socialists, anarchists, rough-necks, + Mexican exiles, peons escaped from bondage, whipped miners from the + bull-pens of Coeur d'Alene and Colorado who desired only the more + vindictively to fight—all the flotsam and jetsam of wild spirits + from the madly complicated modern world. And it was guns and ammunition, + ammunition and guns—the unceasing and eternal cry. + </p> + <p> + Fling this heterogeneous, bankrupt, vindictive mass across the border, and + the Revolution was on. The custom house, the northern ports of entry, + would be captured. Diaz could not resist. He dared not throw the weight of + his armies against them, for he must hold the south. And through the south + the flame would spread despite. The people would rise. The defenses of + city after city would crumple up. State after state would totter down. And + at last, from every side, the victorious armies of the Revolution would + close in on the City of Mexico itself, Diaz's last stronghold. + </p> + <p> + But the money. They had the men, impatient and urgent, who would use the + guns. They knew the traders who would sell and deliver the guns. But to + culture the Revolution thus far had exhausted the Junta. The last dollar + had been spent, the last resource and the last starving patriot milked + dry, and the great adventure still trembled on the scales. Guns and + ammunition! The ragged battalions must be armed. But how? Ramos lamented + his confiscated estates. Arrellano wailed the spendthriftness of his + youth. May Sethby wondered if it would have been different had they of the + Junta been more economical in the past. + </p> + <p> + “To think that the freedom of Mexico should stand or fall on a few paltry + thousands of dollars,” said Paulino Vera. + </p> + <p> + Despair was in all their faces. Jose Amarillo, their last hope, a recent + convert, who had promised money, had been apprehended at his hacienda in + Chihuahua and shot against his own stable wall. The news had just come + through. + </p> + <p> + Rivera, on his knees, scrubbing, looked up, with suspended brush, his bare + arms flecked with soapy, dirty water. + </p> + <p> + “Will five thousand do it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + They looked their amazement. Vera nodded and swallowed. He could not + speak, but he was on the instant invested with a vast faith. + </p> + <p> + “Order the guns,” Rivera said, and thereupon was guilty of the longest + flow of words they had ever heard him utter. “The time is short. In three + weeks I shall bring you the five thousand. It is well. The weather will be + warmer for those who fight. Also, it is the best I can do.” + </p> + <p> + Vera fought his faith. It was incredible. Too many fond hopes had been + shattered since he had begun to play the revolution game. He believed this + threadbare scrubber of the Revolution, and yet he dared not believe. + </p> + <p> + “You are crazy,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “In three weeks,” said Rivera. “Order the guns.” + </p> + <p> + He got up, rolled down his sleeves, and put on his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Order the guns,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I am going now.” + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + After hurrying and scurrying, much telephoning and bad language, a night + session was held in Kelly's office. Kelly was rushed with business; also, + he was unlucky. He had brought Danny Ward out from New York, arranged the + fight for him with Billy Carthey, the date was three weeks away, and for + two days now, carefully concealed from the sporting writers, Carthey had + been lying up, badly injured. There was no one to take his place. Kelly + had been burning the wires East to every eligible lightweight, but they + were tied up with dates and contracts. And now hope had revived, though + faintly. + </p> + <p> + “You've got a hell of a nerve,” Kelly addressed Rivera, after one look, as + soon as they got together. + </p> + <p> + Hate that was malignant was in Rivera's eyes, but his face remained + impassive. + </p> + <p> + “I can lick Ward,” was all he said. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know? Ever see him fight?” + </p> + <p> + Rivera shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “He can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you got anything to say?” the fight promoter snarled. + </p> + <p> + “I can lick him.” + </p> + <p> + “Who'd you ever fight, anyway!” Michael Kelly demanded. Michael was the + promotor's brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms where he made + goodly sums on the fight game. + </p> + <p> + Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare. + </p> + <p> + The promoter's secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, sneered + audibly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know Roberts,” Kelly broke the hostile silence. “He ought to be + here. I've sent for him. Sit down and wait, though f rom the looks of you, + you haven't got a chance. I can't throw the public down with a bum fight. + Ringside seats are selling at fifteen dollars, you know that.” + </p> + <p> + When Roberts arrived, it was patent that he was mildly drunk. He was a + tall, lean, slack-jointed individual, and his walk, like his talk, was a + smooth and languid drawl. + </p> + <p> + Kelly went straight to the point. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Roberts, you've been bragging you discovered this little + Mexican. You know Carthey's broke his arm. Well, this little yellow streak + has the gall to blow in to-day and say he'll take Carthey's place. What + about it?” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, Kelly,” came the slow response. “He can put up a fight.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you'll be sayin' next that he can lick Ward,” Kelly snapped. + </p> + <p> + Roberts considered judicially. + </p> + <p> + “No, I won't say that. Ward's a top-notcher and a ring general. But he + can't hashhouse Rivera in short order. I know Rivera. Nobody can get his + goat. He ain't got a goat that I could ever discover. And he's a + two-handed fighter. He can throw in the sleep-makers from any position.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that. What kind of a show can he put up? You've been + conditioning and training fighters all your life. I take off my hat to + your judgment. Can he give the public a run for its money?” + </p> + <p> + “He sure can, and he'll worry Ward a mighty heap on top of it. You don't + know that boy. I do. I discovered him. He ain't got a goat. He's a devil. + He's a wizzy-wooz if anybody should ask you. He'll make Ward sit up with a + show of local talent that'll make the rest of you sit up. I won't say + he'll lick Ward, but he'll put up such a show that you'll all know he's a + comer.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” Kelly turned to his secretary. “Ring up Ward. I warned him to + show up if I thought it worth while. He's right across at the Yellowstone, + throwin' chests and doing the popular.” + </p> + <p> + Kelly turned back to the conditioner. “Have a drink?” + </p> + <p> + Roberts sipped his highball and unburdened himself. + </p> + <p> + “Never told you how I discovered the little cuss. It was a couple of years + ago he showed up out at the quarters. I was getting Prayne ready for his + fight with Delaney. Prayne's wicked. He ain't got a tickle of mercy in his + make-up. I chopped up his pardner's something cruel, and I couldn't find a + willing boy that'd work with him. I'd noticed this little starved Mexican + kid hanging around, and I was desperate. So I grabbed him, shoved on the + gloves and put him in. He was tougher'n rawhide, but weak. And he didn't + know the first letter in the alphabet of boxing. Prayne chopped him to + ribbons. But he hung on for two sickening rounds, when he fainted. + Starvation, that was all. Battered! You couldn't have recognized him. I + gave him half a dollar and a square meal. You oughta seen him wolf it + down. He hadn't had the end of a bite for a couple of days. That's the end + of him, thinks I. But next day he showed up, stiff an' sore, ready for + another half and a square meal. And he done better as time went by. Just a + born fighter, and tough beyond belief. He hasn't a heart. He's a piece of + ice. And he never talked eleven words in a string since I know him. He + saws wood and does his work.” + </p> + <p> + “I've seen 'm,” the secretary said. “He's worked a lot for you.” + </p> + <p> + “All the big little fellows has tried out on him,” Roberts answered. “And + he's learned from 'em. I've seen some of them he could lick. But his heart + wasn't in it. I reckoned he never liked the game. He seemed to act that + way.” + </p> + <p> + “He's been fighting some before the little clubs the last few months,” + Kelly said. + </p> + <p> + “Sure. But I don't know what struck 'm. All of a sudden his heart got into + it. He just went out like a streak and cleaned up all the little local + fellows. Seemed to want the money, and he's won a bit, though his clothes + don't look it. He's peculiar. Nobody knows his business. Nobody knows how + he spends his time. Even when he's on the job, he plumb up and disappears + most of each day soon as his work is done. Sometimes he just blows away + for weeks at a time. But he don't take advice. There's a fortune in it for + the fellow that gets the job of managin' him, only he won't consider it. + And you watch him hold out for the cash money when you get down to terms.” + </p> + <p> + It was at this stage that Danny Ward arrived. Quite a party it was. His + manager and trainer were with him, and he breezed in like a gusty draught + of geniality, good-nature, and all-conqueringness. Greetings flew about, a + joke here, a retort there, a smile or a laugh for everybody. Yet it was + his way, and only partly sincere. He was a good actor, and he had found + geniality a most valuable asset in the game of getting on in the world. + But down underneath he was the deliberate, cold-blooded fighter and + business man. The rest was a mask. Those who knew him or trafficked with + him said that when it came to brass tacks he was Danny-on-the-Spot. He was + invariably present at all business discussions, and it was urged by some + that his manager was a blind whose only function was to serve as Danny's + mouth-piece. + </p> + <p> + Rivera's way was different. Indian blood, as well as Spanish, was in his + veins, and he sat back in a corner, silent, immobile, only his black eyes + passing from face to face and noting everything. + </p> + <p> + “So that's the guy,” Danny said, running an appraising eye over his + proposed antagonist. “How de do, old chap.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera's eyes burned venomously, but he made no sign of acknowledgment. He + disliked all Gringos, but this Gringo he hated with an immediacy that was + unusual even in him. + </p> + <p> + “Gawd!” Danny protested facetiously to the promoter. “You ain't expectin' + me to fight a deef mute.” When the laughter subsided, he made another hit. + “Los Angeles must be on the dink when this is the best you can scare up. + What kindergarten did you get 'm from?” + </p> + <p> + “He's a good little boy, Danny, take it from me,” Roberts defended. “Not + as easy as he looks.” + </p> + <p> + “And half the house is sold already,” Kelly pleaded. “You'll have to take + 'm on, Danny. It is the best we can do.” + </p> + <p> + Danny ran another careless and unflattering glance over Rivera and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I gotta be easy with 'm, I guess. If only he don't blow up.” + </p> + <p> + Roberts snorted. + </p> + <p> + “You gotta be careful,” Danny's manager warned. “No taking chances with a + dub that's likely to sneak a lucky one across.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll be careful all right, all right,” Danny smiled. “I'll get in at + the start an' nurse 'im along for the dear public's sake. What d' ye say + to fifteen rounds, Kelly—an' then the hay for him?” + </p> + <p> + “That'll do,” was the answer. “As long as you make it realistic.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let's get down to biz.” Danny paused and calculated. “Of course, + sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts, same as with Carthey. But the + split'll be different. Eighty will just about suit me.” And to his + manager, “That right?” + </p> + <p> + The manager nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Here, you, did you get that?” Kelly asked Rivera. + </p> + <p> + Rivera shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is this way,” Kelly exposited. “The purse'll be sixty-five per + cent of the gate receipts. You're a dub, and an unknown. You and Danny + split, twenty per cent goin' to you, an' eighty to Danny. That's fair, + isn't it, Roberts?” + </p> + <p> + “Very fair, Rivera,” Roberts agreed. + </p> + <p> + “You see, you ain't got a reputation yet.” + </p> + <p> + “What will sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts be?” Rivera demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, maybe five thousand, maybe as high as eight thousand,” Danny broke in + to explain. “Something like that. Your share'll come to something like a + thousand or sixteen hundred. Pretty good for takin' a licking from a guy + with my reputation. What d' ye say?” + </p> + <p> + Then Rivera took their breaths away. “Winner takes all,” he said with + finality. + </p> + <p> + A dead silence prevailed. + </p> + <p> + “It's like candy from a baby,” Danny's manager proclaimed. + </p> + <p> + Danny shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I've been in the game too long,” he explained. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not casting reflections on the referee, or the present company. I'm + not sayin' nothing about book-makers an' frame-ups that sometimes happen. + But what I do say is that it's poor business for a fighter like me. I play + safe. There's no tellin'. Mebbe I break my arm, eh? Or some guy slips me a + bunch of dope?” He shook his head solemnly. “Win or lose, eighty is my + split. What d' ye say, Mexican?” + </p> + <p> + Rivera shook his head. + </p> + <p> + Danny exploded. He was getting down to brass tacks now. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you dirty little greaser! I've a mind to knock your block off right + now.” + </p> + <p> + Roberts drawled his body to interposition between hostilities. + </p> + <p> + “Winner takes all,” Rivera repeated sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you stand out that way?” Danny asked. + </p> + <p> + “I can lick you,” was the straight answer. + </p> + <p> + Danny half started to take off his coat. But, as his manager knew, it was + a grand stand play. The coat did not come off, and Danny allowed himself + to be placated by the group. Everybody sympathized with him. Rivera stood + alone. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, you little fool,” Kelly took up the argument. “You're nobody. + We know what you've been doing the last few months—putting away + little local fighters. But Danny is class. His next fight after this will + be for the championship. And you're unknown. Nobody ever heard of you out + of Los Angeles.” + </p> + <p> + “They will,” Rivera answered with a shrug, “after this fight.” + </p> + <p> + “You think for a second you can lick me?” Danny blurted in. + </p> + <p> + Rivera nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come; listen to reason,” Kelly pleaded. “Think of the advertising.” + </p> + <p> + “I want the money,” was Rivera's answer. + </p> + <p> + “You couldn't win from me in a thousand years,” Danny assured him. + </p> + <p> + “Then what are you holdin' out for?” Rivera countered. “If the money's + that easy, why don't you go after it?” + </p> + <p> + “I will, so help me!” Danny cried with abrupt conviction. “I'll beat you + to death in the ring, my boy—you monkeyin' with me this way. Make + out the articles, Kelly. Winner take all. Play it up in the sportin' + columns. Tell 'em it's a grudge fight. I'll show this fresh kid a few.” + </p> + <p> + Kelly's secretary had begun to write, when Danny interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on!” He turned to Rivera. + </p> + <p> + “Weights?” + </p> + <p> + “Ringside,” came the answer. + </p> + <p> + “Not on your life, Fresh Kid. If winner takes all, we weigh in at ten + A.M.” + </p> + <p> + “And winner takes all?” Rivera queried. + </p> + <p> + Danny nodded. That settled it. He would enter the ring in his full + ripeness of strength. + </p> + <p> + “Weigh in at ten,” Rivera said. + </p> + <p> + The secretary's pen went on scratching. + </p> + <p> + “It means five pounds,” Roberts complained to Rivera. + </p> + <p> + “You've given too much away. You've thrown the fight right there. Danny'll + lick you sure. He'll be as strong as a bull. You're a fool. You ain't got + the chance of a dewdrop in hell.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera's answer was a calculated look of hatred. Even this Gringo he + despised, and him had he found the whitest Gringo of them all. + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + Barely noticed was Rivera as he entered the ring. Only a very slight and + very scattering ripple of half-hearted hand-clapping greeted him. The + house did not believe in him. He was the lamb led to slaughter at the + hands of the great Danny. Besides, the house was disappointed. It had + expected a rushing battle between Danny Ward and Billy Carthey, and here + it must put up with this poor little tyro. Still further, it had + manifested its disapproval of the change by betting two, and even three, + to one on Danny. And where a betting audience's money is, there is its + heart. + </p> + <p> + The Mexican boy sat down in his corner and waited. The slow minutes lagged + by. Danny was making him wait. It was an old trick, but ever it worked on + the young, new fighters. They grew frightened, sitting thus and facing + their own apprehensions and a callous, tobacco-smoking audience. But for + once the trick failed. Roberts was right. Rivera had no goat. He, who was + more delicately coordinated, more finely nerved and strung than any of + them, had no nerves of this sort. The atmosphere of foredoomed defeat in + his own corner had no effect on him. His handlers were Gringos and + strangers. Also they were scrubs—the dirty driftage of the fight + game, without honor, without efficiency. And they were chilled, as well, + with certitude that theirs was the losing corner. + </p> + <p> + “Now you gotta be careful,” Spider Hagerty warned him. Spider was his + chief second. “Make it last as long as you can—them's my + instructions from Kelly. If you don't, the papers'll call it another bum + fight and give the game a bigger black eye in Los Angeles.” + </p> + <p> + All of which was not encouraging. But Rivera took no notice. He despised + prize fighting. It was the hated game of the hated Gringo. He had taken up + with it, as a chopping block for others in the training quarters, solely + because he was starving. The fact that he was marvelously made for it had + meant nothing. He hated it. Not until he had come in to the Junta, had he + fought for money, and he had found the money easy. Not first among the + sons of men had he been to find himself successful at a despised vocation. + </p> + <p> + He did not analyze. He merely knew that he must win this fight. There + could be no other outcome. For behind him, nerving him to this belief, + were profounder forces than any the crowded house dreamed. Danny Ward + fought for money, and for the easy ways of life that money would bring. + But the things Rivera fought for burned in his brain—blazing and + terrible visions, that, with eyes wide open, sitting lonely in the corner + of the ring and waiting for his tricky antagonist, he saw as clearly as he + had lived them. + </p> + <p> + He saw the white-walled, water-power factories of Rio Blanco. He saw the + six thousand workers, starved and wan, and the little children, seven and + eight years of age, who toiled long shifts for ten cents a day. He saw the + perambulating corpses, the ghastly death's heads of men who labored in the + dye-rooms. He remembered that he had heard his father call the dye-rooms + the “suicide-holes,” where a year was death. He saw the little patio, and + his mother cooking and moiling at crude housekeeping and finding time to + caress and love him. And his father he saw, large, big-moustached and + deep-chested, kindly above all men, who loved all men and whose heart was + so large that there was love to overflowing still left for the mother and + the little muchacho playing in the corner of the patio. In those days his + name had not been Felipe Rivera. It had been Fernandez, his father's and + mother's name. Him had they called Juan. Later, he had changed it himself, + for he had found the name of Fernandez hated by prefects of police, jefes + politicos, and rurales. + </p> + <p> + Big, hearty Joaquin Fernandez! A large place he occupied in Rivera's + visions. He had not understood at the time, but looking back he could + understand. He could see him setting type in the little printery, or + scribbling endless hasty, nervous lines on the much-cluttered desk. And he + could see the strange evenings, when workmen, coming secretly in the dark + like men who did ill deeds, met with his father and talked long hours + where he, the muchacho, lay not always asleep in the corner. + </p> + <p> + As from a remote distance he could hear Spider Hagerty saying to him: “No + layin' down at the start. Them's instructions. Take a beatin' and earn + your dough.” + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes had passed, and he still sat in his corner. There were no + signs of Danny, who was evidently playing the trick to the limit. + </p> + <p> + But more visions burned before the eye of Rivera's memory. The strike, or, + rather, the lockout, because the workers of Rio Blanco had helped their + striking brothers of Puebla. The hunger, the expeditions in the hills for + berries, the roots and herbs that all ate and that twisted and pained the + stomachs of all of them. And then, the nightmare; the waste of ground + before the company's store; the thousands of starving workers; General + Rosalio Martinez and the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz, and the death-spitting + rifles that seemed never to cease spitting, while the workers' wrongs were + washed and washed again in their own blood. And that night! He saw the + flat cars, piled high with the bodies of the slain, consigned to Vera + Cruz, food for the sharks of the bay. Again he crawled over the grisly + heaps, seeking and finding, stripped and mangled, his father and his + mother. His mother he especially remembered—only her face + projecting, her body burdened by the weight of dozens of bodies. Again the + rifles of the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz cracked, and again he dropped to + the ground and slunk away like some hunted coyote of the hills. + </p> + <p> + To his ears came a great roar, as of the sea, and he saw Danny Ward, + leading his retinue of trainers and seconds, coming down the center aisle. + The house was in wild uproar for the popular hero who was bound to win. + Everybody proclaimed him. Everybody was for him. Even Rivera's own seconds + warmed to something akin to cheerfulness when Danny ducked jauntily + through the ropes and entered the ring. His face continually spread to an + unending succession of smiles, and when Danny smiled he smiled in every + feature, even to the laughter-wrinkles of the corners of the eyes and into + the depths of the eyes themselves. Never was there so genial a fighter. + His face was a running advertisement of good feeling, of good fellowship. + He knew everybody. He joked, and laughed, and greeted his friends through + the ropes. Those farther away, unable to suppress their admiration, cried + loudly: “Oh, you Danny!” It was a joyous ovation of affection that lasted + a full five minutes. + </p> + <p> + Rivera was disregarded. For all that the audience noticed, he did not + exist. Spider Lagerty's bloated face bent down close to his. + </p> + <p> + “No gettin' scared,” the Spider warned. + </p> + <p> + “An' remember instructions. You gotta last. No layin' down. If you lay + down, we got instructions to beat you up in the dressing rooms. Savve? You + just gotta fight.” + </p> + <p> + The house began to applaud. Danny was crossing the ring to him. Danny bent + over, caught Rivera's right hand in both his own and shook it with + impulsive heartiness. Danny's smile-wreathed face was close to his. The + audience yelled its appreciation of Danny's display of sporting spirit. He + was greeting his opponent with the fondness of a brother. Danny's lips + moved, and the audience, interpreting the unheard words to be those of a + kindly-natured sport, yelled again. Only Rivera heard the low words. + </p> + <p> + “You little Mexican rat,” hissed from between Danny's gaily smiling lips, + “I'll fetch the yellow outa you.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera made no move. He did not rise. He merely hated with his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Get up, you dog!” some man yelled through the ropes from behind. + </p> + <p> + The crowd began to hiss and boo him for his unsportsmanlike conduct, but + he sat unmoved. Another great outburst of applause was Danny's as he + walked back across the ring. + </p> + <p> + When Danny stripped, there was ohs! and ahs! of delight. His body was + perfect, alive with easy suppleness and health and strength. The skin was + white as a woman's, and as smooth. All grace, and resilience, and power + resided therein. He had proved it in scores of battles. His photographs + were in all the physical culture magazines. + </p> + <p> + A groan went up as Spider Hagerty peeled Rivera's sweater over his head. + His body seemed leaner, because of the swarthiness of the skin. He had + muscles, but they made no display like his opponent's. What the audience + neglected to see was the deep chest. Nor could it guess the toughness of + the fiber of the flesh, the instantaneousness of the cell explosions of + the muscles, the fineness of the nerves that wired every part of him into + a splendid fighting mechanism. All the audience saw was a brown-skinned + boy of eighteen with what seemed the body of a boy. With Danny it was + different. Danny was a man of twenty-four, and his body was a man's body. + The contrast was still more striking as they stood together in the center + of the ring receiving the referee's last instructions. + </p> + <p> + Rivera noticed Roberts sitting directly behind the newspaper men. He was + drunker than usual, and his speech was correspondingly slower. + </p> + <p> + “Take it easy, Rivera,” Roberts drawled. + </p> + <p> + “He can't kill you, remember that. He'll rush you at the go-off, but don't + get rattled. You just and stall, and clinch. He can't hurt cover up, much. + Just make believe to yourself that he's choppin' out on you at the + trainin' quarters.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera made no sign that he had heard. + </p> + <p> + “Sullen little devil,” Roberts muttered to the man next to him. “He always + was that way.” + </p> + <p> + But Rivera forgot to look his usual hatred. A vision of countless rifles + blinded his eyes. Every face in the audience, far as he could see, to the + high dollar-seats, was transformed into a rifle. And he saw the long + Mexican border arid and sun-washed and aching, and along it he saw the + ragged bands that delayed only for the guns. + </p> + <p> + Back in his corner he waited, standing up. His seconds had crawled out + through the ropes, taking the canvas stool with them. Diagonally across + the squared ring, Danny faced him. The gong struck, and the battle was on. + The audience howled its delight. Never had it seen a battle open more + convincingly. The papers were right. It was a grudge fight. Three-quarters + of the distance Danny covered in the rush to get together, his intention + to eat up the Mexican lad plainly advertised. He assailed with not one + blow, nor two, nor a dozen. He was a gyroscope of blows, a whirlwind of + destruction. Rivera was nowhere. He was overwhelmed, buried beneath + avalanches of punches delivered from every angle and position by a past + master in the art. He was overborne, swept back against the ropes, + separated by the referee, and swept back against the ropes again. + </p> + <p> + It was not a fight. It was a slaughter, a massacre. Any audience, save a + prize fighting one, would have exhausted its emotions in that first + minute. Danny was certainly showing what he could do—a splendid + exhibition. Such was the certainty of the audience, as well as its + excitement and favoritism, that it failed to take notice that the Mexican + still stayed on his feet. It forgot Rivera. It rarely saw him, so closely + was he enveloped in Danny's man-eating attack. A minute of this went by, + and two minutes. Then, in a separation, it caught a clear glimpse of the + Mexican. His lip was cut, his nose was bleeding. As he turned and + staggered into a clinch, the welts of oozing blood, from his contacts with + the ropes, showed in red bars across his back. But what the audience did + not notice was that his chest was not heaving and that his eyes were + coldly burning as ever. Too many aspiring champions, in the cruel welter + of the training camps, had practiced this man-eating attack on him. He had + learned to live through for a compensation of from half a dollar a go up + to fifteen dollars a week—a hard school, and he was schooled hard. + </p> + <p> + Then happened the amazing thing. The whirling, blurring mix-up ceased + suddenly. Rivera stood alone. Danny, the redoubtable Danny, lay on his + back. His body quivered as consciousness strove to return to it. He had + not staggered and sunk down, nor had he gone over in a long slumping fall. + The right hook of Rivera had dropped him in midair with the abruptness of + death. The referee shoved Rivera back with one hand, and stood over the + fallen gladiator counting the seconds. It is the custom of prize-fighting + audiences to cheer a clean knock-down blow. But this audience did not + cheer. The thing had been too unexpected. It watched the toll of the + seconds in tense silence, and through this silence the voice of Roberts + rose exultantly: + </p> + <p> + “I told you he was a two-handed fighter!” + </p> + <p> + By the fifth second, Danny was rolling over on his face, and when seven + was counted, he rested on one knee, ready to rise after the count of nine + and before the count of ten. If his knee still touched the floor at “ten,” + he was considered “down,” and also “out.” The instant his knee left the + floor, he was considered “up,” and in that instant it was Rivera's right + to try and put him down again. Rivera took no chances. The moment that + knee left the floor he would strike again. He circled around, but the + referee circled in between, and Rivera knew that the seconds he counted + were very slow. All Gringos were against him, even the referee. + </p> + <p> + At “nine” the referee gave Rivera a sharp thrust back. It was unfair, but + it enabled Danny to rise, the smile back on his lips. Doubled partly over, + with arms wrapped about face and abdomen, he cleverly stumbled into a + clinch. By all the rules of the game the referee should have broken it, + but he did not, and Danny clung on like a surf-battered barnacle and + moment by moment recuperated. The last minute of the round was going fast. + If he could live to the end, he would have a full minute in his corner to + revive. And live to the end he did, smiling through all desperateness and + extremity. + </p> + <p> + “The smile that won't come off!” somebody yelled, and the audience laughed + loudly in its relief. + </p> + <p> + “The kick that Greaser's got is something God-awful,” Danny gasped in his + corner to his adviser while his handlers worked frantically over him. + </p> + <p> + The second and third rounds were tame. Danny, a tricky and consummate ring + general, stalled and blocked and held on, devoting himself to recovering + from that dazing first-round blow. In the fourth round he was himself + again. Jarred and shaken, nevertheless his good condition had enabled him + to regain his vigor. But he tried no man-eating tactics. The Mexican had + proved a tartar. Instead, he brought to bear his best fighting powers. In + tricks and skill and experience he was the master, and though he could + land nothing vital, he proceeded scientifically to chop and wear down his + opponent. He landed three blows to Rivera's one, but they were punishing + blows only, and not deadly. It was the sum of many of them that + constituted deadliness. He was respectful of this two-handed dub with the + amazing short-arm kicks in both his fists. + </p> + <p> + In defense, Rivera developed a disconcerting straight-left. Again and + again, attack after attack he straight-lefted away from him with + accumulated damage to Danny's mouth and nose. But Danny was protean. That + was why he was the coming champion. He could change from style to style of + fighting at will. He now devoted himself to infighting. In this he was + particularly wicked, and it enabled him to avoid the other's + straight-left. Here he set the house wild repeatedly, capping it with a + marvelous lockbreak and lift of an inside upper-cut that raised the + Mexican in the air and dropped him to the mat. Rivera rested on one knee, + making the most of the count, and in the soul of him he knew the referee + was counting short seconds on him. + </p> + <p> + Again, in the seventh, Danny achieved the diabolical inside uppercut. He + succeeded only in staggering Rivera, but, in the ensuing moment of + defenseless helplessness, he smashed him with another blow through the + ropes. Rivera's body bounced on the heads of the newspaper men below, and + they boosted him back to the edge of the platform outside the ropes. Here + he rested on one knee, while the referee raced off the seconds. Inside the + ropes, through which he must duck to enter the ring, Danny waited for him. + Nor did the referee intervene or thrust Danny back. + </p> + <p> + The house was beside itself with delight. + </p> + <p> + “Kill'm, Danny, kill'm!” was the cry. + </p> + <p> + Scores of voices took it up until it was like a war-chant of wolves. + </p> + <p> + Danny did his best, but Rivera, at the count of eight, instead of nine, + came unexpectedly through the ropes and safely into a clinch. Now the + referee worked, tearing him away so that he could be hit, giving Danny + every advantage that an unfair referee can give. + </p> + <p> + But Rivera lived, and the daze cleared from his brain. It was all of a + piece. They were the hated Gringos and they were all unfair. And in the + worst of it visions continued to flash and sparkle in his brain—long + lines of railroad track that simmered across the desert; rurales and + American constables, prisons and calabooses; tramps at water tanks—all + the squalid and painful panorama of his odyssey after Rio Blanca and the + strike. And, resplendent and glorious, he saw the great, red Revolution + sweeping across his land. The guns were there before him. Every hated face + was a gun. It was for the guns he fought. He was the guns. He was the + Revolution. He fought for all Mexico. + </p> + <p> + The audience began to grow incensed with Rivera. Why didn't he take the + licking that was appointed him? Of course he was going to be licked, but + why should he be so obstinate about it? Very few were interested in him, + and they were the certain, definite percentage of a gambling crowd that + plays long shots. Believing Danny to be the winner, nevertheless they had + put their money on the Mexican at four to ten and one to three. More than + a trifle was up on the point of how many rounds Rivera could last. Wild + money had appeared at the ringside proclaiming that he could not last + seven rounds, or even six. The winners of this, now that their cash risk + was happily settled, had joined in cheering on the favorite. + </p> + <p> + Rivera refused to be licked. Through the eighth round his opponent strove + vainly to repeat the uppercut. In the ninth, Rivera stunned the house + again. In the midst of a clinch he broke the lock with a quick, lithe + movement, and in the narrow space between their bodies his right lifted + from the waist. Danny went to the floor and took the safety of the count. + The crowd was appalled. He was being bested at his own game. His famous + right-uppercut had been worked back on him. Rivera made no attempt to + catch him as he arose at “nine.” The referee was openly blocking that + play, though he stood clear when the situation was reversed and it was + Rivera who desired to rise. + </p> + <p> + Twice in the tenth, Rivera put through the right-uppercut, lifted from + waist to opponent's chin. Danny grew desperate. The smile never left his + face, but he went back to his man-eating rushes. Whirlwind as he would, he + could not damage Rivera, while Rivera through the blur and whirl, dropped + him to the mat three times in succession. Danny did not recuperate so + quickly now, and by the eleventh round he was in a serious way. But from + then till the fourteenth he put up the gamest exhibition of his career. He + stalled and blocked, fought parsimoniously, and strove to gather strength. + Also, he fought as foully as a successful fighter knows how. Every trick + and device he employed, butting in the clinches with the seeming of + accident, pinioning Rivera's glove between arm and body, heeling his glove + on Rivera's mouth to clog his breathing. Often, in the clinches, through + his cut and smiling lips he snarled insults unspeakable and vile in + Rivera's ear. Everybody, from the referee to the house, was with Danny and + was helping Danny. And they knew what he had in mind. Bested by this + surprise-box of an unknown, he was pinning all on a single punch. He + offered himself for punishment, fished, and feinted, and drew, for that + one opening that would enable him to whip a blow through with all his + strength and turn the tide. As another and greater fighter had done before + him, he might do a right and left, to solar plexus and across the jaw. He + could do it, for he was noted for the strength of punch that remained in + his arms as long as he could keep his feet. + </p> + <p> + Rivera's seconds were not half-caring for him in the intervals between + rounds. Their towels made a showing, but drove little air into his panting + lungs. Spider Hagerty talked advice to him, but Rivera knew it was wrong + advice. Everybody was against him. He was surrounded by treachery. In the + fourteenth round he put Danny down again, and himself stood resting, hands + dropped at side, while the referee counted. In the other corner Rivera had + been noting suspicious whisperings. He saw Michael Kelly make his way to + Roberts and bend and whisper. Rivera's ears were a cat's, desert-trained, + and he caught snatches of what was said. He wanted to hear more, and when + his opponent arose he maneuvered the fight into a clinch over against the + ropes. + </p> + <p> + “Got to,” he could hear Michael, while Roberts nodded. “Danny's got to win—I + stand to lose a mint—I've got a ton of money covered—my own. + If he lasts the fifteenth I'm bust—the boy'll mind you. Put + something across.” + </p> + <p> + And thereafter Rivera saw no more visions. They were trying to job him. + Once again he dropped Danny and stood resting, his hands at his slide. + Roberts stood up. + </p> + <p> + “That settled him,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Go to your corner.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with authority, as he had often spoken to Rivera at the training + quarters. But Rivera looked hatred at him and waited for Danny to rise. + Back in his corner in the minute interval, Kelly, the promoter, came and + talked to Rivera. + </p> + <p> + “Throw it, damn you,” he rasped in, a harsh low voice. “You gotta lay + down, Rivera. Stick with me and I'll make your future. I'll let you lick + Danny next time. But here's where you lay down.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera showed with his eyes that he heard, but he made neither sign of + assent nor dissent. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you speak?” Kelly demanded angrily. + </p> + <p> + “You lose, anyway,” Spider Hagerty supplemented. “The referee'll take it + away from you. Listen to Kelly, and lay down.” + </p> + <p> + “Lay down, kid,” Kelly pleaded, “and I'll help you to the championship.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “I will, so help me, kid.” + </p> + <p> + At the strike of the gong Rivera sensed something impending. The house did + not. Whatever it was it was there inside the ring with him and very close. + Danny's earlier surety seemed returned to him. The confidence of his + advance frightened Rivera. Some trick was about to be worked. Danny + rushed, but Rivera refused the encounter. He side-stepped away into + safety. What the other wanted was a clinch. It was in some way necessary + to the trick. Rivera backed and circled away, yet he knew, sooner or + later, the clinch and the trick would come. Desperately he resolved to + draw it. He made as if to effect the clinch with Danny's next rush. + Instead, at the last instant, just as their bodies should have come + together, Rivera darted nimbly back. And in the same instant Danny's + corner raised a cry of foul. Rivera had fooled them. The referee paused + irresolutely. The decision that trembled on his lips was never uttered, + for a shrill, boy's voice from the gallery piped, “Raw work!” + </p> + <p> + Danny cursed Rivera openly, and forced him, while Rivera danced away. + Also, Rivera made up his mind to strike no more blows at the body. In this + he threw away half his chance of winning, but he knew if he was to win at + all it was with the outfighting that remained to him. Given the least + opportunity, they would lie a foul on him. Danny threw all caution to the + winds. For two rounds he tore after and into the boy who dared not meet + him at close quarters. Rivera was struck again and again; he took blows by + the dozens to avoid the perilous clinch. During this supreme final rally + of Danny's the audience rose to its feet and went mad. It did not + understand. All it could see was that its favorite was winning, after all. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you fight?” it demanded wrathfully of Rivera. + </p> + <p> + “You're yellow! You're yellow!” “Open up, you cur! Open up!” “Kill'm, + Danny! Kill 'm!” “You sure got 'm! Kill 'm!” + </p> + <p> + In all the house, bar none, Rivera was the only cold man. By temperament + and blood he was the hottest-passioned there; but he had gone through such + vastly greater heats that this collective passion of ten thousand throats, + rising surge on surge, was to his brain no more than the velvet cool of a + summer twilight. + </p> + <p> + Into the seventeenth round Danny carried his rally. Rivera, under a heavy + blow, drooped and sagged. His hands dropped helplessly as he reeled + backward. Danny thought it was his chance. The boy was at, his mercy. Thus + Rivera, feigning, caught him off his guard, lashing out a clean drive to + the mouth. Danny went down. When he arose, Rivera felled him with a + down-chop of the right on neck and jaw. Three times he repeated this. It + was impossible for any referee to call these blows foul. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill! Bill!” Kelly pleaded to the referee. + </p> + <p> + “I can't,” that official lamented back. “He won't give me a chance.” + </p> + <p> + Danny, battered and heroic, still kept coming up. Kelly and others near to + the ring began to cry out to the police to stop it, though Danny's corner + refused to throw in the towel. Rivera saw the fat police captain starting + awkwardly to climb through the ropes, and was not sure what it meant. + There were so many ways of cheating in this game of the Gringos. Danny, on + his feet, tottered groggily and helplessly before him. The referee and the + captain were both reaching for Rivera when he struck the last blow. There + was no need to stop the fight, for Danny did not rise. + </p> + <p> + “Count!” Rivera cried hoarsely to the referee. + </p> + <p> + And when the count was finished, Danny's seconds gathered him up and + carried him to his corner. + </p> + <p> + “Who wins?” Rivera demanded. + </p> + <p> + Reluctantly, the referee caught his gloved hand and held it aloft. + </p> + <p> + There were no congratulations for Rivera. He walked to his corner + unattended, where his seconds had not yet placed his stool. He leaned + backward on the ropes and looked his hatred at them, swept it on and about + him till the whole ten thousand Gringos were included. His knees trembled + under him, and he was sobbing from exhaustion. Before his eyes the hated + faces swayed back and forth in the giddiness of nausea. Then he remembered + they were the guns. The guns were his. The Revolution could go on. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1029 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..849f5a0 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #1029 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1029) diff --git a/old/1029-0.txt b/old/1029-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..469921c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1029-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6272 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Night-Born, by Jack London + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Night-Born + +Author: Jack London + +Last Updated: January 3, 2009 +Posting Date: August 2, 2008 [EBook #1029] +Last Updated: March 3, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NIGHT-BORN *** + + + + +Produced by J.R. Wright + + + + + +THE NIGHT-BORN + +By Jack London + + + +CONTENTS: + + THE NIGHT-BORN + THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED + WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG + THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT + WINGED BLACKMAIL + BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES + WAR + UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS + TO KILL A MAN + THE MEXICAN + + + + +THE NIGHT-BORN + +It was in the old Alta-Inyo Club--a warm night for San Francisco--and +through the open windows, hushed and far, came the brawl of the streets. +The talk had led on from the Graft Prosecution and the latest signs +that the town was to be run wide open, down through all the grotesque +sordidness and rottenness of man-hate and man-meanness, until the name +of O'Brien was mentioned--O'Brien, the promising young pugilist who +had been killed in the prize-ring the night before. At once the air +had seemed to freshen. O'Brien had been a clean-living young man with +ideals. He neither drank, smoked, nor swore, and his had been the body +of a beautiful young god. He had even carried his prayer-book to the +ringside. They found it in his coat pocket in the dressing-room... +afterward. + +Here was Youth, clean and wholesome, unsullied--the thing of glory and +wonder for men to conjure with..... after it has been lost to them and +they have turned middle-aged. And so well did we conjure, that Romance +came and for an hour led us far from the man-city and its snarling roar. +Bardwell, in a way, started it by quoting from Thoreau; but it was old +Trefethan, bald-headed and dewlapped, who took up the quotation and for +the hour to come was romance incarnate. At first we wondered how many +Scotches he had consumed since dinner, but very soon all that was +forgotten. + +“It was in 1898--I was thirty-five then,” he said. “Yes, I know you are +adding it up. You're right. I'm forty-seven now; look ten years more; +and the doctors say--damn the doctors anyway!” + +He lifted the long glass to his lips and sipped it slowly to soothe away +his irritation. + +“But I was young... once. I was young twelve years ago, and I had +hair on top of my head, and my stomach was lean as a runner's, and the +longest day was none too long for me. I was a husky back there in '98. +You remember me, Milner. You knew me then. Wasn't I a pretty good bit of +all right?” + +Milner nodded and agreed. Like Trefethan, he was another mining engineer +who had cleaned up a fortune in the Klondike. + +“You certainly were, old man,” Milner said. “I'll never forget when +you cleaned out those lumberjacks in the M. & M. that night that +little newspaper man started the row. Slavin was in the country at +the time,”--this to us--“and his manager wanted to get up a match with +Trefethan.” + +“Well, look at me now,” Trefethan commanded angrily. “That's what the +Goldstead did to me--God knows how many millions, but nothing left in my +soul..... nor in my veins. The good red blood is gone. I am a jellyfish, +a huge, gross mass of oscillating protoplasm, a--a...” + +But language failed him, and he drew solace from the long glass. + +“Women looked at me then; and turned their heads to look a second time. +Strange that I never married. But the girl. That's what I started to +tell you about. I met her a thousand miles from anywhere, and then some. +And she quoted to me those very words of Thoreau that Bardwell quoted a +moment ago--the ones about the day-born gods and the night-born.” + +“It was after I had made my locations on Goldstead--and didn't know what +a treasure-pot that that trip creek was going to prove--that I made that +trip east over the Rockies, angling across to the Great Up North there +the Rockies are something more than a back-bone. They are a boundary, +a dividing line, a wall impregnable and unscalable. There is no +intercourse across them, though, on occasion, from the early days, +wandering trappers have crossed them, though more were lost by the way +than ever came through. And that was precisely why I tackled the job. It +was a traverse any man would be proud to make. I am prouder of it right +now than anything else I have ever done. + +“It is an unknown land. Great stretches of it have never been explored. +There are big valleys there where the white man has never set foot, and +Indian tribes as primitive as ten thousand years... almost, for they +have had some contact with the whites. Parties of them come out once in +a while to trade, and that is all. Even the Hudson Bay Company failed to +find them and farm them. + +“And now the girl. I was coming up a stream--you'd call it a river in +California--uncharted--and unnamed. It was a noble valley, now shut in +by high canyon walls, and again opening out into beautiful stretches, +wide and long, with pasture shoulder-high in the bottoms, meadows dotted +with flowers, and with clumps of timberspruce--virgin and magnificent. +The dogs were packing on their backs, and were sore-footed and played +out; while I was looking for any bunch of Indians to get sleds and +drivers from and go on with the first snow. It was late fall, but +the way those flowers persisted surprised me. I was supposed to be in +sub-arctic America, and high up among the buttresses of the Rockies, +and yet there was that everlasting spread of flowers. Some day the white +settlers will be in there and growing wheat down all that valley. + +“And then I lifted a smoke, and heard the barking of the dogs--Indian +dogs--and came into camp. There must have been five hundred of them, +proper Indians at that, and I could see by the jerking-frames that the +fall hunting had been good. And then I met her--Lucy. That was her name. +Sign language--that was all we could talk with, till they led me to a +big fly--you know, half a tent, open on the one side where a campfire +burned. It was all of moose-skins, this fly--moose-skins, smoke-cured, +hand-rubbed, and golden-brown. Under it everything was neat and orderly +as no Indian camp ever was. The bed was laid on fresh spruce boughs. +There were furs galore, and on top of all was a robe of swanskins--white +swan-skins--I have never seen anything like that robe. And on top of it, +sitting cross-legged, was Lucy. She was nut-brown. I have called her a +girl. But she was not. She was a woman, a nut-brown woman, an Amazon, a +full-blooded, full-bodied woman, and royal ripe. And her eyes were blue. + +“That's what took me off my feet--her eyes--blue, not China blue, but +deep blue, like the sea and sky all melted into one, and very wise. More +than that, they had laughter in them--warm laughter, sun-warm and human, +very human, and... shall I say feminine? They were. They were a woman's +eyes, a proper woman's eyes. You know what that means. Can I say more? +Also, in those blue eyes were, at the same time, a wild unrest, a +wistful yearning, and a repose, an absolute repose, a sort of all-wise +and philosophical calm.” + +Trefethan broke off abruptly. + +“You fellows think I am screwed. I'm not. This is only my fifth since +dinner. I am dead sober. I am solemn. I sit here now side by side with +my sacred youth. It is not I--'old' Trefethan--that talks; it is my +youth, and it is my youth that says those were the most wonderful eyes +I have ever seen--so very calm, so very restless; so very wise, so very +curious; so very old, so very young; so satisfied and yet yearning so +wistfully. Boys, I can't describe them. When I have told you about her, +you may know better for yourselves.” + +“She did not stand up. But she put out her hand.” + +“'Stranger,' she said, 'I'm real glad to see you.' + +“I leave it to you--that sharp, frontier, Western tang of speech. +Picture my sensations. It was a woman, a white woman, but that tang! +It was amazing that it should be a white woman, here, beyond the last +boundary of the world--but the tang. I tell you, it hurt. It was like +the stab of a flatted note. And yet, let me tell you, that woman was a +poet. You shall see.” + +“She dismissed the Indians. And, by Jove, they went. They took her +orders and followed her blind. She was hi-yu skookam chief. She told the +bucks to make a camp for me and to take care of my dogs. And they +did, too. And they knew enough not to get away with as much as a +moccasin-lace of my outfit. She was a regular She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, +and I want to tell you it chilled me to the marrow, sent those little +thrills Marathoning up and down my spinal column, meeting a white woman +out there at the head of a tribe of savages a thousand miles the other +side of No Man's Land. + +“'Stranger,” she said, 'I reckon you're sure the first white that ever +set foot in this valley. Set down an' talk a spell, and then we'll have +a bite to eat. Which way might you be comin'?' + +“There it was, that tang again. But from now to the end of the yarn I +want you to forget it. I tell you I forgot it, sitting there on the edge +of that swan-skin robe and listening and looking at the most wonderful +woman that ever stepped out of the pages of Thoreau or of any other +man's book. + +“I stayed on there a week. It was on her invitation. She promised to fit +me out with dogs and sleds and with Indians that would put me across +the best pass of the Rockies in five hundred miles. Her fly was pitched +apart from the others, on the high bank by the river, and a couple of +Indian girls did her cooking for her and the camp work. And so we talked +and talked, while the first snow fell and continued to fall and make a +surface for my sleds. And this was her story. + +“She was frontier-born, of poor settlers, and you know what that +means--work, work, always work, work in plenty and without end. + +“'I never seen the glory of the world,' she said. 'I had no time. I knew +it was right out there, anywhere, all around the cabin, but there was +always the bread to set, the scrubbin' and the washin' and the work that +was never done. I used to be plumb sick at times, jes' to get out into +it all, especially in the spring when the songs of the birds drove me +most clean crazy. I wanted to run out through the long pasture grass, +wetting my legs with the dew of it, and to climb the rail fence, and +keep on through the timber and up and up over the divide so as to get a +look around. Oh, I had all kinds of hankerings--to follow up the +canyon beds and slosh around from pool to pool, making friends with +the water-dogs and the speckly trout; to peep on the sly and watch the +squirrels and rabbits and small furry things and see what they was doing +and learn the secrets of their ways. Seemed to me, if I had time, I +could crawl among the flowers, and, if I was good and quiet, catch them +whispering with themselves, telling all kinds of wise things that mere +humans never know.'” + +Trefethan paused to see that his glass had been refilled. + +“Another time she said: 'I wanted to run nights like a wild thing, just +to run through the moonshine and under the stars, to run white and naked +in the darkness that I knew must feel like cool velvet, and to run and +run and keep on running. One evening, plumb tuckered out--it had been a +dreadful hard hot day, and the bread wouldn't raise and the churning had +gone wrong, and I was all irritated and jerky--well, that evening I +made mention to dad of this wanting to run of mine. He looked at me +curious-some and a bit scared. And then he gave me two pills to take. +Said to go to bed and get a good sleep and I'd be all hunky-dory in +the morning. So I never mentioned my hankerings to him, or any one any +more.' + +“The mountain home broke up--starved out, I imagine--and the family came +to Seattle to live. There she worked in a factory--long hours, you +know, and all the rest, deadly work. And after a year of that she became +waitress in a cheap restaurant--hash-slinger, she called it. She said +to me once, 'Romance I guess was what I wanted. But there wan't no +romance floating around in dishpans and washtubs, or in factories and +hash-joints.' + +“When she was eighteen she married--a man who was going up to Juneau to +start a restaurant. He had a few dollars saved, and appeared prosperous. +She didn't love him--she was emphatic about that, but she was all tired +out, and she wanted to get away from the unending drudgery. Besides, +Juneau was in Alaska, and her yearning took the form of a desire to see +that wonderland. But little she saw of it. He started the restaurant, +a little cheap one, and she quickly learned what he had married her +for..... to save paying wages. She came pretty close to running the +joint and doing all the work from waiting to dishwashing. She cooked +most of the time as well. And she had four years of it. + +“Can't you picture her, this wild woods creature, quick with every old +primitive instinct, yearning for the free open, and mowed up in a vile +little hash-joint and toiling and moiling for four mortal years? + +“'There was no meaning in anything,' she said. 'What was it all about! +Why was I born! Was that all the meaning of life--just to work and work +and be always tired!--to go to bed tired and to wake up tired, with +every day like every other day unless it was harder?' She had heard talk +of immortal life from the gospel sharps, she said, but she could +not reckon that what she was doin' was a likely preparation for her +immortality. + +“But she still had her dreams, though more rarely. She had read a few +books--what, it is pretty hard to imagine, Seaside Library novels most +likely; yet they had been food for fancy. 'Sometimes,' she said, 'when +I was that dizzy from the heat of the cooking that if I didn't take +a breath of fresh air I'd faint, I'd stick my head out of the kitchen +window, and close my eyes and see most wonderful things. All of a sudden +I'd be traveling down a country road, and everything clean and quiet, +no dust, no dirt; just streams ripplin' down sweet meadows, and lambs +playing, breezes blowing the breath of flowers, and soft sunshine over +everything; and lovely cows lazying knee-deep in quiet pools, and young +girls bathing in a curve of stream all white and slim and natural--and +I'd know I was in Arcady. I'd read about that country once, in a book. +And maybe knights, all flashing in the sun, would come riding around a +bend in the road, or a lady on a milk-white mare, and in the distance +I could see the towers of a castle rising, or I just knew, on the next +turn, that I'd come upon some palace, all white and airy and fairy-like, +with fountains playing, and flowers all over everything, and peacocks +on the lawn..... and then I'd open my eyes, and the heat of the +cooking range would strike on me, and I'd hear Jake sayin'--he was my +husband--I'd hear Jake sayin', “Why ain't you served them beans? Think I +can wait here all day!” Romance!--I reckon the nearest I ever come to +it was when a drunken Armenian cook got the snakes and tried to cut my +throat with a potato knife and I got my arm burned on the stove before I +could lay him out with the potato stomper. + +“'I wanted easy ways, and lovely things, and Romance and all that; but +it just seemed I had no luck nohow and was only and expressly born for +cooking and dishwashing. There was a wild crowd in Juneau them days, but +I looked at the other women, and their way of life didn't excite me. +I reckon I wanted to be clean. I don't know why; I just wanted to, I +guess; and I reckoned I might as well die dishwashing as die their way.” + +Trefethan halted in his tale for a moment, completing to himself some +thread of thought. + +“And this is the woman I met up there in the Arctic, running a tribe of +wild Indians and a few thousand square miles of hunting territory. And +it happened, simply enough, though, for that matter, she might have +lived and died among the pots and pans. But 'Came the whisper, came the +vision.' That was all she needed, and she got it. + +“'I woke up one day,' she said. 'Just happened on it in a scrap of +newspaper. I remember every word of it, and I can give it to you.' And +then she quoted Thoreau's Cry of the Human: + +“'The young pines springing up, in the corn field from year to year are +to me a refreshing fact. We talk of civilizing the Indian, but that is +not the name for his improvement. By the wary independence and aloofness +of his dim forest life he preserves his intercourse with his native gods +and is admitted from time to time to a rare and peculiar society with +nature. He has glances of starry recognition, to which our saloons +are strangers. The steady illumination of his qenius, dim only because +distant, is like the faint but satisfying light of the stars compared +with the dazzling but ineffectual and short-lived blaze of candles. The +Society Islanders had their day-born gods, but they were not supposed to +be of equal antiquity with the..... night-born gods.' + +“That's what she did, repeated it word for word, and I forgot the tang, +for it was solemn, a declaration of religion--pagan, if you will; and +clothed in the living garmenture of herself. + +“'And the rest of it was torn away,' she added, a great emptiness in her +voice. 'It was only a scrap of newspaper. But that Thoreau was a wise +man. I wish I knew more about him.' She stopped a moment, and I swear +her face was ineffably holy as she said, 'I could have made him a good +wife.' + +“And then she went on. 'I knew right away, as soon as I read that, what +was the matter with me. I was a night-born. I, who had lived all my +life with the day-born, was a night-born. That was why I had never been +satisfied with cooking and dishwashing; that was why I had hankered to +run naked in the moonlight. And I knew that this dirty little Juneau +hash-joint was no place for me. And right there and then I said, “I +quit.” I packed up my few rags of clothes, and started. Jake saw me and +tried to stop me. + +“'What you doing?” he says. + +“'Divorcin' you and me,' I says. 'I'm headin' for tall timber and where +I belong.'” + +“'No you don't,' he says, reaching for me to stop me. 'The cooking has +got on your head. You listen to me talk before you up and do anything +brash.' + +“But I pulled a gun-a little Colt's forty-four--and says, 'This does my +talkin' for me.' + +“And I left.” + +Trefethan emptied his glass and called for another. + +“Boys, do you know what that girl did? She was twenty-two. She had spent +her life over the dish-pan and she knew no more about the world than I +do of the fourth dimension, or the fifth. All roads led to her desire. +No; she didn't head for the dance-halls. On the Alaskan Pan-handle it +is preferable to travel by water. She went down to the beach. An Indian +canoe was starting for Dyea--you know the kind, carved out of a single +tree, narrow and deep and sixty feet long. She gave them a couple of +dollars and got on board. + +“'Romance?' she told me. 'It was Romance from the jump. There were three +families altogether in that canoe, and that crowded there wasn't room to +turn around, with dogs and Indian babies sprawling over everything, and +everybody dipping a paddle and making that canoe go.' And all around the +great solemn mountains, and tangled drifts of clouds and sunshine. And +oh, the silence! the great wonderful silence! And, once, the smoke of +a hunter's camp, away off in the distance, trailing among the trees. +It was like a picnic, a grand picnic, and I could see my dreams coming +true, and I was ready for something to happen 'most any time. And it +did. + +“'And that first camp, on the island! And the boys spearing fish in the +mouth of the creek, and the big deer one of the bucks shot just around +the point. And there were flowers everywhere, and in back from the beach +the grass was thick and lush and neck-high. And some of the girls went +through this with me, and we climbed the hillside behind and picked +berries and roots that tasted sour and were good to eat. And we came +upon a big bear in the berries making his supper, and he said “Oof!” and +ran away as scared as we were. And then the camp, and the camp smoke, +and the smell of fresh venison cooking. It was beautiful. I was with the +night-born at last, and I knew that was where I belonged. And for the +first time in my life, it seemed to me, I went to bed happy that night, +looking out under a corner of the canvas at the stars cut off black by a +big shoulder of mountain, and listening to the night-noises, and knowing +that the same thing would go on next day and forever and ever, for I +wasn't going back. And I never did go back.' + +“'Romance! I got it next day. We had to cross a big arm of the +ocean--twelve or fifteen miles, at least; and it came on to blow when we +were in the middle. That night I was along on shore, with one wolf-dog, +and I was the only one left alive.' + +“Picture it yourself,” Trefethan broke off to say. “The canoe was +wrecked and lost, and everybody pounded to death on the rocks except +her. She went ashore hanging on to a dog's tail, escaping the rocks and +washing up on a tiny beach, the only one in miles. + +“'Lucky for me it was the mainland,' she said. 'So I headed right away +back, through the woods and over the mountains and straight on anywhere. +Seemed I was looking for something and knew I'd find it. I wasn't +afraid. I was night-born, and the big timber couldn't kill me. And on +the second day I found it. I came upon a small clearing and a tumbledown +cabin. Nobody had been there for years and years. The roof had fallen +in. Rotted blankets lay in the bunks, and pots and pans were on the +stove. But that was not the most curious thing. Outside, along the +edge of the trees, you can't guess what I found. The skeletons of eight +horses, each tied to a tree. They had starved to death, I reckon, and +left only little piles of bones scattered some here and there. And each +horse had had a load on its back. There the loads lay, in among the +bones--painted canvas sacks, and inside moosehide sacks, and inside the +moosehide sacks--what do you think?'” + +She stopped, reached under a corner of the bed among the spruce boughs, +and pulled out a leather sack. She untied the mouth and ran out into my +hand as pretty a stream of gold as I have ever seen--coarse gold, placer +gold, some large dust, but mostly nuggets, and it was so fresh and rough +that it scarcely showed signs of water-wash. + +“'You say you're a mining engineer,' she said, 'and you know this +country. Can you name a pay-creek that has the color of that gold!' + +“I couldn't! There wasn't a trace of silver. It was almost pure, and I +told her so. + +“'You bet,' she said. 'I sell that for nineteen dollars an ounce. You +can't get over seventeen for Eldorado gold, and Minook gold don't fetch +quite eighteen. Well, that was what I found among the bones--eight +horse-loads of it, one hundred and fifty pounds to the load.' + +“'A quarter of a million dollars!' I cried out. + +“'That's what I reckoned it roughly,' she answered. 'Talk about Romance! +And me a slaving the way I had all the years, when as soon as I ventured +out, inside three days, this was what happened. And what became of the +men that mined all that gold? Often and often I wonder about it. They +left their horses, loaded and tied, and just disappeared off the face of +the earth, leaving neither hide nor hair behind them. I never heard tell +of them. Nobody knows anything about them. Well, being the night-born, I +reckon I was their rightful heir.'” + +Trefethan stopped to light a cigar. + +“Do you know what that girl did? She cached the gold, saving out thirty +pounds, which she carried back to the coast. Then she signaled a passing +canoe, made her way to Pat Healy's trading post at Dyea, outfitted, +and went over Chilcoot Pass. That was in '88--eight years before the +Klondike strike, and the Yukon was a howling wilderness. She was afraid +of the bucks, but she took two young squaws with her, crossed the lakes, +and went down the river and to all the early camps on the Lower Yukon. +She wandered several years over that country and then on in to where I +met her. Liked the looks of it, she said, seeing, in her own words, 'a +big bull caribou knee-deep in purple iris on the valley-bottom.' She +hooked up with the Indians, doctored them, gained their confidence, and +gradually took them in charge. She had only left that country once, and +then, with a bunch of the young bucks, she went over Chilcoot, cleaned +up her gold-cache, and brought it back with her. + +“'And here I be, stranger,' she concluded her yarn, 'and here's the most +precious thing I own.' + +“She pulled out a little pouch of buckskin, worn on her neck like a +locket, and opened it. And inside, wrapped in oiled silk, yellowed with +age and worn and thumbed, was the original scrap of newspaper containing +the quotation from Thoreau. + +“'And are you happy... satisfied?' I asked her. 'With a quarter of a +million you wouldn't have to work down in the States. You must miss a +lot.' + +“'Not much,' she answered. 'I wouldn't swop places with any woman down +in the States. These are my people; this is where I belong. But there +are times--and in her eyes smoldered up that hungry yearning I've +mentioned--'there are times when I wish most awful bad for that Thoreau +man to happen along.' + +“'Why?' I asked. + +“'So as I could marry him. I do get mighty lonesome at spells. I'm just +a woman--a real woman. I've heard tell of the other kind of women that +gallivanted off like me and did queer things--the sort that become +soldiers in armies, and sailors on ships. But those women are queer +themselves. They're more like men than women; they look like men and +they don't have ordinary women's needs. They don't want love, nor little +children in their arms and around their knees. I'm not that sort. I +leave it to you, stranger. Do I look like a man?' + +“She didn't. She was a woman, a beautiful, nut-brown woman, with a +sturdy, health-rounded woman's body and with wonderful deep-blue woman's +eyes. + +“'Ain't I woman?' she demanded. 'I am. I'm 'most all woman, and then +some. And the funny thing is, though I'm night-born in everything else, +I'm not when it comes to mating. I reckon that kind likes its own kind +best. That's the way it is with me, anyway, and has been all these +years.' + +“'You mean to tell me--' I began. + +“'Never,' she said, and her eyes looked into mine with the straightness +of truth. 'I had one husband, only--him I call the Ox; and I reckon he's +still down in Juneau running the hash-joint. Look him up, if you ever +get back, and you'll find he's rightly named.' + +“And look him up I did, two years afterward. He was all she said--solid +and stolid, the Ox--shuffling around and waiting on the tables. + +“'You need a wife to help you,' I said. + +“'I had one once,' was his answer. + +“'Widower?' + +“'Yep. She went loco. She always said the heat of the cooking would +get her, and it did. Pulled a gun on me one day and ran away with some +Siwashes in a canoe. Caught a blow up the coast and all hands drowned.'” + +Trefethan devoted himself to his glass and remained silent. + +“But the girl?” Milner reminded him. + +“You left your story just as it was getting interesting, tender. Did +it?” + +“It did,” Trefethan replied. “As she said herself, she was savage in +everything except mating, and then she wanted her own kind. She was very +nice about it, but she was straight to the point. She wanted to marry +me. + +“'Stranger,' she said, 'I want you bad. You like this sort of life or +you wouldn't be here trying to cross the Rockies in fall weather. It's +a likely spot. You'll find few likelier. Why not settle down! I'll make +you a good wife.' + +“And then it was up to me. And she waited. I don't mind confessing that +I was sorely tempted. I was half in love with her as it was. You know I +have never married. And I don't mind adding, looking back over my life, +that she is the only woman that ever affected me that way. But it was +too preposterous, the whole thing, and I lied like a gentleman. I told +her I was already married. + +“'Is your wife waiting for you?' she asked. + +“I said yes. + +“'And she loves you?' + +“I said yes. + +“And that was all. She never pressed her point... except once, and then +she showed a bit of fire. + +“'All I've got to do,' she said, 'is to give the word, and you don't get +away from here. If I give the word, you stay on... But I ain't going to +give it. I wouldn't want you if you didn't want to be wanted... and if +you didn't want me.' + +“She went ahead and outfitted me and started me on my way. + +“'It's a darned shame, stranger,” she said, at parting. 'I like your +looks, and I like you. If you ever change your mind, come back.' + +“Now there was one thing I wanted to do, and that was to kiss her +good-bye, but I didn't know how to go about it nor how she would take +it.--I tell you I was half in love with her. But she settled it herself. + +“'Kiss me,' she said. 'Just something to go on and remember.' + +“And we kissed, there in the snow, in that valley by the Rockies, and +I left her standing by the trail and went on after my dogs. I was six +weeks in crossing over the pass and coming down to the first post on +Great Slave Lake.” + +The brawl of the streets came up to us like a distant surf. A +steward, moving noiselessly, brought fresh siphons. And in the silence +Trefethan's voice fell like a funeral bell: + +“It would have been better had I stayed. Look at me.” + +We saw his grizzled mustache, the bald spot on his head, the puff-sacks +under his eyes, the sagging cheeks, the heavy dewlap, the general +tiredness and staleness and fatness, all the collapse and ruin of a man +who had once been strong but who had lived too easily and too well. + +“It's not too late, old man,” Bardwell said, almost in a whisper. + +“By God! I wish I weren't a coward!” was Trefethan's answering cry. “I +could go back to her. She's there, now. I could shape up and live many a +long year... with her... up there. To remain here is to commit suicide. +But I am an old man--forty-seven--look at me. The trouble is,” he lifted +his glass and glanced at it, “the trouble is that suicide of this sort +is so easy. I am soft and tender. The thought of the long day's travel +with the dogs appalls me; the thought of the keen frost in the morning +and of the frozen sled-lashings frightens me--” + +Automatically the glass was creeping toward his lips. With a swift +surge of anger he made as if to crash it down upon the floor. Next came +hesitancy and second thought. The glass moved upward to his lips and +paused. He laughed harshly and bitterly, but his words were solemn: + +“Well, here's to the Night-Born. She WAS a wonder.” + + + + +THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED + +I TELL this for a fact. It happened in the bull-ring at Quito. I sat +in the box with John Harned, and with Maria Valenzuela, and with Luis +Cervallos. I saw it happen. I saw it all from first to last. I was on +the steamer Ecuadore from Panama to Guayaquil. Maria Valenzuela is +my cousin. I have known her always. She is very beautiful. I am a +Spaniard--an Ecuadoriano, true, but I am descended from Pedro Patino, +who was one of Pizarro's captains. They were brave men. They were +heroes. Did not Pizarro lead three hundred and fifty Spanish cavaliers +and four thousand Indians into the far Cordilleras in search of +treasure? And did not all the four thousand Indians and three hundred +of the brave cavaliers die on that vain quest? But Pedro Patino did +not die. He it was that lived to found the family of the Patino. I am +Ecuadoriano, true, but I am Spanish. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. I own +many haciendas, and ten thousand Indians are my slaves, though the law +says they are free men who work by freedom of contract. The law is a +funny thing. We Ecuadorianos laugh at it. It is our law. We make it for +ourselves. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. Remember that name. It will be +written some day in history. There are revolutions in Ecuador. We call +them elections. It is a good joke is it not?--what you call a pun? + +John Harned was an American. I met him first at the Tivoli hotel in +Panama. He had much money--this I have heard. He was going to Lima, +but he met Maria Valenzuela in the Tivoli hotel. Maria Valenzuela is +my cousin, and she is beautiful. It is true, she is the most beautiful +woman in Ecuador. But also is she most beautiful in every country--in +Paris, in Madrid, in New York, in Vienna. Always do all men look at her, +and John Harned looked long at her at Panama. He loved her, that I know +for a fact. She was Ecuadoriano, true--but she was of all countries; she +was of all the world. She spoke many languages. She sang--ah! like an +artiste. Her smile--wonderful, divine. Her eyes--ah! have I not seen +men look in her eyes? They were what you English call amazing. They were +promises of paradise. Men drowned themselves in her eyes. + +Maria Valenzuela was rich--richer than I, who am accounted very rich in +Ecuador. But John Harned did not care for her money. He had a heart--a +funny heart. He was a fool. He did not go to Lima. He left the steamer +at Guayaquil and followed her to Quito. She was coming home from Europe +and other places. I do not see what she found in him, but she liked him. +This I know for a fact, else he would not have followed her to Quito. +She asked him to come. Well do I remember the occasion. She said: + +“Come to Quito and I will show you the bullfight--brave, clever, +magnificent!” + +But he said: “I go to Lima, not Quito. Such is my passage engaged on the +steamer.” + +“You travel for pleasure--no?” said Maria Valenzuela; and she looked at +him as only Maria Valenzuela could look, her eyes warm with the promise. + +And he came. No; he did not come for the bull-fight. He came because of +what he had seen in her eyes. Women like Maria Valenzuela are born once +in a hundred years. They are of no country and no time. They are what +you call goddesses. Men fall down at their feet. They play with men and +run them through their pretty fingers like sand. Cleopatra was such a +woman they say; and so was Circe. She turned men into swine. Ha! ha! It +is true--no? + +It all came about because Maria Valenzuela said: + +“You English people are--what shall I say?--savage--no? You prize-fight. +Two men each hit the other with their fists till their eyes are blinded +and their noses are broken. Hideous! And the other men who look on cry +out loudly and are made glad. It is barbarous--no?” + +“But they are men,” said John Harned; “and they prize-fight out of +desire. No one makes them prize-fight. They do it because they desire it +more than anything else in the world.” + +Maria Valenzuela--there was scorn in her smile as she said: “They kill +each other often--is it not so? I have read it in the papers.” + +“But the bull,” said John Harned. + +“The bull is killed many times in the bull-fight, and the bull does not +come into the the ring out of desire. It is not fair to the bull. He +is compelled to fight. But the man in the prize-fight--no; he is not +compelled.” + +“He is the more brute therefore,” said Maria Valenzuela. + +“He is savage. He is primitive. He is animal. He strikes with his paws +like a bear from a cave, and he is ferocious. But the bull-fight--ah! +You have not seen the bullfight--no? The toreador is clever. He must +have skill. He is modern. He is romantic. He is only a man, soft and +tender, and he faces the wild bull in conflict. And he kills with a +sword, a slender sword, with one thrust, so, to the heart of the great +beast. It is delicious. It makes the heart beat to behold--the small +man, the great beast, the wide level sand, the thousands that look on +without breath; the great beast rushes to the attack, the small man +stands like a statue; he does not move, he is unafraid, and in his hand +is the slender sword flashing like silver in the sun; nearer and nearer +rushes the great beast with its sharp horns, the man does not move, and +then--so--the sword flashes, the thrust is made, to the heart, to the +hilt, the bull falls to the sand and is dead, and the man is unhurt. It +is brave. It is magnificent! Ah!--I could love the toreador. But the +man of the prize-fight--he is the brute, the human beast, the savage +primitive, the maniac that receives many blows in his stupid face and +rejoices. Come to Quito and I will show you the brave sport of men, the +toreador and the bull.” + +But John Harned did not go to Quito for the bull-fight. He went because +of Maria Valenzuela. He was a large man, more broad of shoulder than +we Ecuadorianos, more tall, more heavy of limb and bone. True, he was +larger of his own race. His eyes were blue, though I have seen them +gray, and, sometimes, like cold steel. His features were large, too--not +delicate like ours, and his jaw was very strong to look at. Also, his +face was smooth-shaven like a priest's. Why should a man feel shame for +the hair on his face? Did not God put it there? Yes, I believe in God--I +am not a pagan like many of you English. God is good. He made me an +Ecuadoriano with ten thousand slaves. And when I die I shall go to God. +Yes, the priests are right. + +But John Harned. He was a quiet man. He talked always in a low voice, +and he never moved his hands when he talked. One would have thought his +heart was a piece of ice; yet did he have a streak of warm in his blood, +for he followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito. Also, and for all that he +talked low without moving his hands, he was an animal, as you shall +see--the beast primitive, the stupid, ferocious savage of the long ago +that dressed in wild skins and lived in the caves along with the bears +and wolves. + +Luis Cervallos is my friend, the best of Ecuadorianos. He owns three +cacao plantations at Naranjito and Chobo. At Milagro is his big sugar +plantation. He has large haciendas at Ambato and Latacunga, and down +the coast is he interested in oil-wells. Also has he spent much money +in planting rubber along the Guayas. He is modern, like the Yankee; and, +like the Yankee, full of business. He has much money, but it is in many +ventures, and ever he needs more money for new ventures and for the old +ones. He has been everywhere and seen everything. When he was a very +young man he was in the Yankee military academy what you call West +Point. There was trouble. He was made to resign. He does not like +Americans. But he did like Maria Valenzuela, who was of his own country. +Also, he needed her money for his ventures and for his gold mine in +Eastern Ecuador where the painted Indians live. I was his friend. It +was my desire that he should marry Maria Valenzuela. Further, much of my +money had I invested in his ventures, more so in his gold mine which was +very rich but which first required the expense of much money before it +would yield forth its riches. If Luis Cervallos married Maria Valenzuela +I should have more money very immediately. + +But John Harned followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito, and it was quickly +clear to us--to Luis Cervallos and me that she looked upon John Harned +with great kindness. It is said that a woman will have her will, but +this is a case not in point, for Maria Valenzuela did not have her +will--at least not with John Harned. Perhaps it would all have happened +as it did, even if Luis Cervallos and I had not sat in the box that day +at the bull-ring in Quito. But this I know: we DID sit in the box that +day. And I shall tell you what happened. + +The four of us were in the one box, guests of Luis Cervallos. I was next +to the Presidente's box. On the other side was the box of General Jose +Eliceo Salazar. With him were Joaquin Endara and Urcisino Castillo, +both generals, and Colonel Jacinto Fierro and Captain Baltazar de +Echeverria. Only Luis Cervallos had the position and the influence +to get that box next to the Presidente. I know for a fact that the +Presidente himself expressed the desire to the management that Luis +Cervallos should have that box. + +The band finished playing the national hymn of Ecuador. The procession +of the toreadors was over. The Presidente nodded to begin. The bugles +blew, and the bull dashed in--you know the way, excited, bewildered, the +darts in its shoulder burning like fire, itself seeking madly whatever +enemy to destroy. The toreadors hid behind their shelters and waited. +Suddenly they appeared forth, the capadores, five of them, from every +side, their colored capes flinging wide. The bull paused at sight of +such a generosity of enemies, unable in his own mind to know which to +attack. Then advanced one of the capadors alone to meet the bull. The +bull was very angry. With its fore-legs it pawed the sand of the arena +till the dust rose all about it. Then it charged, with lowered head, +straight for the lone capador. + +It is always of interest, the first charge of the first bull. After a +time it is natural that one should grow tired, trifle, that the keenness +should lose its edge. But that first charge of the first bull! John +Harned was seeing it for the first time, and he could not escape the +excitement--the sight of the man, armed only with a piece of cloth, +and of the bull rushing upon him across the sand with sharp horns, +widespreading. + +“See!” cried Maria Valenzuela. “Is it not superb?” + +John Harned nodded, but did not look at her. His eyes were sparkling, +and they were only for the bull-ring. The capador stepped to the side, +with a twirl of the cape eluding the bull and spreading the cape on his +own shoulders. + +“What do you think?” asked Maria Venzuela. “Is it not +a--what-you-call--sporting proposition--no?” + +“It is certainly,” said John Harned. “It is very clever.” + +She clapped her hands with delight. They were little hands. The audience +applauded. The bull turned and came back. Again the capadore eluded him, +throwing the cape on his shoulders, and again the audience applauded. +Three times did this happen. The capadore was very excellent. Then he +retired, and the other capadore played with the bull. After that they +placed the banderillos in the bull, in the shoulders, on each side of +the back-bone, two at a time. Then stepped forward Ordonez, the chief +matador, with the long sword and the scarlet cape. The bugles blew for +the death. He is not so good as Matestini. Still he is good, and with +one thrust he drove the sword to the heart, and the bull doubled his +legs under him and lay down and died. It was a pretty thrust, clean and +sure; and there was much applause, and many of the common people threw +their hats into the ring. Maria Valenzuela clapped her hands with the +rest, and John Harned, whose cold heart was not touched by the event, +looked at her with curiosity. + +“You like it?” he asked. + +“Always,” she said, still clapping her hands. + +“From a little girl,” said Luis Cervallos. “I remember her first fight. +She was four years old. She sat with her mother, and just like now she +clapped her hands. She is a proper Spanish woman. + +“You have seen it,” said Maria Valenzuela to John Harned, as they +fastened the mules to the dead bull and dragged it out. “You have seen +the bull-fight and you like it--no? What do you think? + +“I think the bull had no chance,” he said. “The bull was doomed from +the first. The issue was not in doubt. Every one knew, before the bull +entered the ring, that it was to die. To be a sporting proposition, the +issue must be in doubt. It was one stupid bull who had never fought +a man against five wise men who had fought many bulls. It would be +possibly a little bit fair if it were one man against one bull.” + +“Or one man against five bulls,” said Maria Valenzuela; and we all +laughed, and Luis Ceryallos laughed loudest. + +“Yes,” said John Harned, “against five bulls, and the man, like the +bulls, never in the bull ring before--a man like yourself, Senor +Crevallos.” + +“Yet we Spanish like the bull-fight,” said Luis Cervallos; and I swear +the devil was whispering then in his ear, telling him to do that which I +shall relate. + +“Then must it be a cultivated taste,” John Harned made answer. “We kill +bulls by the thousand every day in Chicago, yet no one cares to pay +admittance to see.” + +“That is butchery,” said I; “but this--ah, this is an art. It is +delicate. It is fine. It is rare.” + +“Not always,” said Luis Cervallos. “I have seen clumsy matadors, and I +tell you it is not nice.” + +He shuddered, and his face betrayed such what-you-call disgust, that I +knew, then, that the devil was whispering and that he was beginning to +play a part. + +“Senor Harned may be right,” said Luis Cervallos. “It may not be fair +to the bull. For is it not known to all of us that for twenty-four hours +the bull is given no water, and that immediately before the fight he is +permitted to drink his fill?” + +“And he comes into the ring heavy with water?” said John Harned quickly; +and I saw that his eyes were very gray and very sharp and very cold. + +“It is necessary for the sport,” said Luis Cervallos. “Would you have +the bull so strong that he would kill the toreadors?” + +“I would that he had a fighting chance,” said John Harned, facing the +ring to see the second bull come in. + +It was not a good bull. It was frightened. It ran around the ring in +search of a way to get out. The capadors stepped forth and flared their +capes, but he refused to charge upon them. + +“It is a stupid bull,” said Maria Valenzuela. + +“I beg pardon,” said John Harned; “but it would seem to me a wise bull. +He knows he must not fight man. See! He smells death there in the ring.” + +True. The bull, pausing where the last one had died, was smelling the +wet sand and snorting. Again he ran around the ring, with raised head, +looking at the faces of the thousands that hissed him, that threw +orange-peel at him and called him names. But the smell of blood decided +him, and he charged a capador, so without warning that the man just +escaped. He dropped his cape and dodged into the shelter. The bull +struck the wall of the ring with a crash. And John Harned said, in a +quiet voice, as though he talked to himself: + +“I will give one thousand sucres to the lazar-house of Quito if a bull +kills a man this day.” + +“You like bulls?” said Maria Valenzuela with a smile. + +“I like such men less,” said John Harned. “A toreador is not a brave +man. He surely cannot be a brave man. See, the bull's tongue is already +out. He is tired and he has not yet begun.” + +“It is the water,” said Luis Cervallos. + +“Yes, it is the water,” said John Harned. “Would it not be safer to +hamstring the bull before he comes on?” + +Maria Valenzuela was made angry by this sneer in John Harned's words. +But Luis Cervallos smiled so that only I could see him, and then it +broke upon my mind surely the game he was playing. He and I were to be +banderilleros. The big American bull was there in the box with us. We +were to stick the darts in him till he became angry, and then there +might be no marriage with Maria Valenzuela. It was a good sport. And the +spirit of bull-fighters was in our blood. + +The bull was now angry and excited. The capadors had great game with +him. He was very quick, and sometimes he turned with such sharpness +that his hind legs lost their footing and he plowed the sand with his +quarter. But he charged always the flung capes and committed no harm. + +“He has no chance,” said John Harned. “He is fighting wind.” + +“He thinks the cape is his enemy,” explained Maria Valenzuela. “See how +cleverly the capador deceives him.” + +“It is his nature to be deceived,” said John Harned. “Wherefore he is +doomed to fight wind. The toreadors know it, you know it, I know it--we +all know from the first that he will fight wind. He only does not know +it. It is his stupid beast-nature. He has no chance.” + +“It is very simple,” said Luis Cervallos. “The bull shuts his eyes when +he charges. Therefore--” + +“The man steps, out of the way and the bull rushes by,” Harned +interrupted. + +“Yes,” said Luis Cervallos; “that is it. The bull shuts his eyes, and +the man knows it.” + +“But cows do not shut their eyes,” said John Harned. “I know a cow at +home that is a Jersey and gives milk, that would whip the whole gang of +them.” + +“But the toreadors do not fight cows,” said I. + +“They are afraid to fight cows,” said John Harned. + +“Yes,” said Luis Cervallos, “they are afraid to fight cows. There would +be no sport in killing toreadors.” + +“There would be some sport,” said John Harned, “if a toreador were +killed once in a while. When I become an old man, and mayhap a cripple, +and should I need to make a living and be unable to do hard work, +then would I become a bull-fighter. It is a light vocation for elderly +gentlemen and pensioners.” + +“But see!” said Maria Valenzuela, as the bull charged bravely and the +capador eluded it with a fling of his cape. “It requires skill so to +avoid the beast.” + +“True,” said John Harned. “But believe me, it requires a thousand times +more skill to avoid the many and quick punches of a prize-fighter who +keeps his eyes open and strikes with intelligence. Furthermore, this +bull does not want to fight. Behold, he runs away.” + +It was not a good bull, for again it ran around the ring, seeking to +find a way out. + +“Yet these bulls are sometimes the most dangerous,” said Luis Cervallos. +“It can never be known what they will do next. They are wise. They are +half cow. The bull-fighters never like them.--See! He has turned!” + +Once again, baffled and made angry by the walls of the ring that would +not let him out, the bull was attacking his enemies valiantly. + +“His tongue is hanging out,” said John Harned. “First, they fill him +with water. Then they tire him out, one man and then another, persuading +him to exhaust himself by fighting wind. While some tire him, others +rest. But the bull they never let rest. Afterward, when he is quite +tired and no longer quick, the matador sticks the sword into him.” + +The time had now come for the banderillos. Three times one of the +fighters endeavored to place the darts, and three times did he fail. +He but stung the bull and maddened it. The banderillos must go in, you +know, two at a time, into the shoulders, on each side the backbone and +close to it. If but one be placed, it is a failure. The crowd hissed and +called for Ordonez. And then Ordonez did a great thing. Four times +he stood forth, and four times, at the first attempt, he stuck in the +banderillos, so that eight of them, well placed, stood out of the back +of the bull at one time. The crowd went mad, and a rain of hats and +money fell on the sand of the ring. + +And just then the bull charged unexpectedly one of the capadors. The man +slipped and lost his head. The bull caught him--fortunately, between his +wide horns. And while the audience watched, breathless and silent, John +Harned stood up and yelled with gladness. Alone, in that hush of all of +us, John Harned yelled. And he yelled for the bull. As you see yourself, +John Harned wanted the man killed. His was a brutal heart. This bad +conduct made those angry that sat in the box of General Salazar, and +they cried out against John Harned. And Urcisino Castillo told him to +his face that he was a dog of a Gringo and other things. Only it was +in Spanish, and John Harned did not understand. He stood and yelled, +perhaps for the time of ten seconds, when the bull was enticed into +charging the other capadors and the man arose unhurt. + +“The bull has no chance,” John Harned said with sadness as he sat down. +“The man was uninjured. They fooled the bull away from him.” Then he +turned to Maria Valenzuela and said: “I beg your pardon. I was excited.” + +She smiled and in reproof tapped his arm with her fan. + +“It is your first bull-fight,” she said. “After you have seen more you +will not cry for the death of the man. You Americans, you see, are more +brutal than we. It is because of your prize-fighting. We come only to +see the bull killed.” + +“But I would the bull had some chance,” he answered. “Doubtless, in +time, I shall cease to be annoyed by the men who take advantage of the +bull.” + +The bugles blew for the death of the bull. Ordonez stood forth with the +sword and the scarlet cloth. But the bull had changed again, and did not +want to fight. Ordonez stamped his foot in the sand, and cried out, and +waved the scarlet cloth. Then the bull charged, but without heart. There +was no weight to the charge. It was a poor thrust. The sword struck +a bone and bent. Ordonez took a fresh sword. The bull, again stung to +fight, charged once more. Five times Ordonez essayed the thrust, and +each time the sword went but part way in or struck bone. The sixth time, +the sword went in to the hilt. But it was a bad thrust. The sword missed +the heart and stuck out half a yard through the ribs on the opposite +side. The audience hissed the matador. I glanced at John Harned. He sat +silent, without movement; but I could see his teeth were set, and his +hands were clenched tight on the railing of the box. + +All fight was now out of the bull, and, though it was no vital thrust, +he trotted lamely what of the sword that stuck through him, in one side +and out the other. He ran away from the matador and the capadors, and +circled the edge of the ring, looking up at the many faces. + +“He is saying: 'For God's sake let me out of this; I don't want to +fight,'” said John Harned. + +That was all. He said no more, but sat and watched, though sometimes +he looked sideways at Maria Valenzuela to see how she took it. She was +angry with the matador. He was awkward, and she had desired a clever +exhibition. + +The bull was now very tired, and weak from loss of blood, though far +from dying. He walked slowly around the wall of the ring, seeking a +way out. He would not charge. He had had enough. But he must be killed. +There is a place, in the neck of a bull behind the horns, where the +cord of the spine is unprotected and where a short stab will immediately +kill. Ordonez stepped in front of the bull and lowered his scarlet cloth +to the ground. The bull would not charge. He stood still and smelled the +cloth, lowering his head to do so. Ordonez stabbed between the horns at +the spot in the neck. The bull jerked his head up. The stab had missed. +Then the bull watched the sword. When Ordonez moved the cloth on the +ground, the bull forgot the sword and lowered his head to smell the +cloth. Again Ordonez stabbed, and again he failed. He tried many times. +It was stupid. And John Harned said nothing. At last a stab went home, +and the bull fell to the sand, dead immediately, and the mules were made +fast and he was dragged out. + +“The Gringos say it is a cruel sport--no?” said Luis Cervallos. “That it +is not humane. That it is bad for the bull. No?” + +“No,” said John Harned. “The bull does not count for much. It is bad for +those that look on. It is degrading to those that look on. It teaches +them to delight in animal suffering. It is cowardly for five men to +fight one stupid bull. Therefore those that look on learn to be cowards. +The bull dies, but those that look on live and the lesson is learned. +The bravery of men is not nourished by scenes of cowardice.” + +Maria Valenzuela said nothing. Neither did she look at him. But she +heard every word and her cheeks were white with anger. She looked out +across the ring and fanned herself, but I saw that her hand trembled. +Nor did John Harned look at her. He went on as though she were not +there. He, too, was angry, coldly angry. + +“It is the cowardly sport of a cowardly people,” he said. + +“Ah,” said Luis Cervallos softly, “you think you understand us.” + +“I understand now the Spanish Inquisition,” said John Harned. “It must +have been more delightful than bull-fighting.” + +Luis Cervallos smiled but said nothing. He glanced at Maria Valenzuela, +and knew that the bull-fight in the box was won. Never would she have +further to do with the Gringo who spoke such words. But neither Luis +Cervallos nor I was prepared for the outcome of the day. I fear we do +not understand the Gringos. How were we to know that John Harned, who +was so coldly angry, should go suddenly mad! But mad he did go, as you +shall see. The bull did not count for much--he said so himself. Then why +should the horse count for so much? That I cannot understand. The mind +of John Harned lacked logic. That is the only explanation. + +“It is not usual to have horses in the bull-ring at Quito,” said Luis +Cervallos, looking up from the program. “In Spain they always have them. +But to-day, by special permission we shall have them. When the next bull +comes on there will be horses and picadors-you know, the men who carry +lances and ride the horses.” + +“The bull is doomed from the first,” said John Harned. “Are the horses +then likewise doomed!” + +“They are blindfolded so that they may not see the bull,” said Luis +Cervallos. “I have seen many horses killed. It is a brave sight.” + +“I have seen the bull slaughtered,” said John Harned “I will now see the +horse slaughtered, so that I may understand more fully the fine points +of this noble sport.” + +“They are old horses,” said Luis Cervallos, “that are not good for +anything else.” + +“I see,” said John Harned. + +The third bull came on, and soon against it were both capadors and +picadors. One picador took his stand directly below us. I agree, it was +a thin and aged horse he rode, a bag of bones covered with mangy hide. + +“It is a marvel that the poor brute can hold up the weight of the +rider,” said John Harned. “And now that the horse fights the bull, what +weapons has it?” + +“The horse does not fight the bull,” said Luis Cervallos. + +“Oh,” said John Harned, “then is the horse there to be gored? That must +be why it is blindfolded, so that it shall not see the bull coming to +gore it.” + +“Not quite so,” said I. “The lance of the picador is to keep the bull +from goring the horse.” + +“Then are horses rarely gored?” asked John Harned. + +“No,” said Luis Cervallos. “I have seen, at Seville, eighteen horses +killed in one day, and the people clamored for more horses.” + +“Were they blindfolded like this horse?” asked John Harned. + +“Yes,” said Luis Cervallos. + +After that we talked no more, but watched the fight. And John Harned was +going mad all the time, and we did not know. The bull refused to charge +the horse. And the horse stood still, and because it could not see it +did not know that the capadors were trying to make the bull charge upon +it. The capadors teased the bull their capes, and when it charged them +they ran toward the horse and into their shelters. At last the bull was +angry, and it saw the horse before it. + +“The horse does not know, the horse does not know,” John Harned +whispered to himself, unaware that he voiced his thought aloud. + +The bull charged, and of course the horse knew nothing till the picador +failed and the horse found himself impaled on the bull's horns from +beneath. The bull was magnificently strong. The sight of its strength +was splendid to see. It lifted the horse clear into the air; and as the +horse fell to its side on on the ground the picador landed on his feet +and escaped, while the capadors lured the bull away. The horse was +emptied of its essential organs. Yet did it rise to its feet screaming. +It was the scream of the horse that did it, that made John Harned +completely mad; for he, too, started to rise to his feet, I heard +him curse low and deep. He never took his eyes from the horse, which, +screaming, strove to run, but fell down instead and rolled on its back +so that all its four legs were kicking in the air. Then the bull charged +it and gored it again and again until it was dead. + +John Harned was now on his feet. His eyes were no longer cold like +steel. They were blue flames. He looked at Maria Valenzuela, and she +looked at him, and in his face was a great loathing. The moment of his +madness was upon him. Everybody was looking, now that the horse was +dead; and John Harned was a large man and easy to be seen. + +“Sit down,” said Luis Cervallos, “or you will make a fool of yourself.” + +John Harned replied nothing. He struck out his fist. He smote Luis +Cervallos in the face so that he fell like a dead man across the chairs +and did not rise again. He saw nothing of what followed. But I saw much. +Urcisino Castillo, leaning forward from the next box, with his cane +struck John Harned full across the face. And John Harned smote him with +his fist so that in falling he overthrew General Salazar. John Harned +was now in what-you-call Berserker rage--no? The beast primitive in him +was loose and roaring--the beast primitive of the holes and caves of the +long ago. + +“You came for a bull-fight,” I heard him say, “And by God I'll show you +a man-fight!” + +It was a fight. The soldiers guarding the Presidente's box leaped +across, but from one of them he took a rifle and beat them on their +heads with it. From the other box Colonel Jacinto Fierro was shooting at +him with a revolver. The first shot killed a soldier. This I know for +a fact. I saw it. But the second shot struck John Harned in the side. +Whereupon he swore, and with a lunge drove the bayonet of his rifle into +Colonel Jacinto Fierro's body. It was horrible to behold. The Americans +and the English are a brutal race. They sneer at our bull-fighting, yet +do they delight in the shedding of blood. More men were killed that day +because of John Harned than were ever killed in all the history of the +bull-ring of Quito, yes, and of Guayaquil and all Ecuador. + +It was the scream of the horse that did it, yet why did not John Harned +go mad when the bull was killed? A beast is a beast, be it bull or +horse. John Harned was mad. There is no other explanation. He was +blood-mad, a beast himself. I leave it to your judgment. Which is +worse--the goring of the horse by the bull, or the goring of Colonel +Jacinto Fierro by the bayonet in the hands of John Harned! And John +Harned gored others with that bayonet. He was full of devils. He fought +with many bullets in him, and he was hard to kill. And Maria Valenzuela +was a brave woman. Unlike the other women, she did not cry out nor +faint. She sat still in her box, gazing out across the bull-ring. Her +face was white and she fanned herself, but she never looked around. + +From all sides came the soldiers and officers and the common people +bravely to subdue the mad Gringo. It is true--the cry went up from +the crowd to kill all the Gringos. It is an old cry in Latin-American +countries, what of the dislike for the Gringos and their uncouth ways. +It is true, the cry went up. But the brave Ecuadorianos killed only +John Harned, and first he killed seven of them. Besides, there were many +hurt. I have seen many bull-fights, but never have I seen anything so +abominable as the scene in the boxes when the fight was over. It was +like a field of battle. The dead lay around everywhere, while the +wounded sobbed and groaned and some of them died. One man, whom John +Harned had thrust through the belly with the bayonet, clutched at +himself with both his hands and screamed. I tell you for a fact it was +more terrible than the screaming of a thousand horses. + +No, Maria Valenzuela did not marry Luis Cervallos. I am sorry for that. +He was my friend, and much of my money was invested in his ventures. It +was five weeks before the surgeons took the bandages from his face. And +there is a scar there to this day, on the cheek, under the eye. Yet +John Harned struck him but once and struck him only with his naked +fist. Maria Valenzuela is in Austria now. It is said she is to marry an +Arch-Duke or some high nobleman. I do not know. I think she liked John +Harned before he followed her to Quito to see the bull-fight. But why +the horse? That is what I desire to know. Why should he watch the bull +and say that it did not count, and then go immediately and most horribly +mad because a horse screamed? There is no understanding the Gringos. +They are barbarians. + + + + +WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG + +HE was a very quiet, self-possessed sort of man, sitting a moment on top +of the wall to sound the damp darkness for warnings of the dangers it +might conceal. But the plummet of his hearing brought nothing to him +save the moaning of wind through invisible trees and the rustling of +leaves on swaying branches. A heavy fog drifted and drove before the +wind, and though he could not see this fog, the wet of it blew upon his +face, and the wall on which he sat was wet. + +Without noise he had climbed to the top of the wall from the outside, +and without noise he dropped to the ground on the inside. From his +pocket he drew an electric night-stick, but he did not use it. Dark as +the way was, he was not anxious for light. Carrying the night-stick in +his hand, his finger on the button, he advanced through the darkness. +The ground was velvety and springy to his feet, being carpeted with dead +pine-needles and leaves and mold which evidently had been undisturbed +for years. Leaves and branches brushed against his body, but so dark was +it that he could not avoid them. Soon he walked with his hand stretched +out gropingly before him, and more than once the hand fetched up against +the solid trunks of massive trees. All about him he knew were these +trees; he sensed the loom of them everywhere; and he experienced a +strange feeling of microscopic smallness in the midst of great bulks +leaning toward him to crush him. Beyond, he knew, was the house, and he +expected to find some trail or winding path that would lead easily to +it. + +Once, he found himself trapped. On every side he groped against trees +and branches, or blundered into thickets of underbrush, until there +seemed no way out. Then he turned on his light, circumspectly, directing +its rays to the ground at his feet. Slowly and carefully he moved +it about him, the white brightness showing in sharp detail all the +obstacles to his progress. He saw, an opening between huge-trunked +trees, and advanced through it, putting out the light and treading +on dry footing as yet protected from the drip of the fog by the dense +foliage overhead. His sense of direction was good, and he knew he was +going toward the house. + +And then the thing happened--the thing unthinkable and unexpected. His +descending foot came down upon something that was soft and alive, and +that arose with a snort under the weight of his body. He sprang clear, +and crouched for another spring, anywhere, tense and expectant, keyed +for the onslaught of the unknown. He waited a moment, wondering what +manner of animal it was that had arisen from under his foot and that now +made no sound nor movement and that must be crouching and waiting just +as tensely and expectantly as he. The strain became unbearable. Holding +the night-stick before him, he pressed the button, saw, and screamed +aloud in terror. He was prepared for anything, from a frightened calf or +fawn to a belligerent lion, but he was not prepared for what he saw. In +that instant his tiny searchlight, sharp and white, had shown him what a +thousand years would not enable him to forget--a man, huge and blond, +yellow-haired and yellow-bearded, naked except for soft-tanned moccasins +and what seemed a goat-skin about his middle. Arms and legs were bare, +as were his shoulders and most of his chest. The skin was smooth and +hairless, but browned by sun and wind, while under it heavy muscles were +knotted like fat snakes. Still, this alone, unexpected as it well was, +was not what had made the man scream out. What had caused his terror was +the unspeakable ferocity of the face, the wild-animal glare of the blue +eyes scarcely dazzled by the light, the pine-needles matted and clinging +in the beard and hair, and the whole formidable body crouched and in the +act of springing at him. Practically in the instant he saw all this, and +while his scream still rang, the thing leaped, he flung his night-stick +full at it, and threw himself to the ground. He felt its feet and shins +strike against his ribs, and he bounded up and away while the thing +itself hurled onward in a heavy crashing fall into the underbrush. + +As the noise of the fall ceased, the man stopped and on hands and knees +waited. He could hear the thing moving about, searching for him, and he +was afraid to advertise his location by attempting further flight. He +knew that inevitably he would crackle the underbrush and be pursued. +Once he drew out his revolver, then changed his mind. He had recovered +his composure and hoped to get away without noise. Several times he +heard the thing beating up the thickets for him, and there were moments +when it, too, remained still and listened. This gave an idea to the man. +One of his hands was resting on a chunk of dead wood. Carefully, first +feeling about him in the darkness to know that the full swing of his arm +was clear, he raised the chunk of wood and threw it. It was not a large +piece, and it went far, landing noisily in a bush. He heard the thing +bound into the bush, and at the same time himself crawled steadily away. +And on hands and knees, slowly and cautiously, he crawled on, till his +knees were wet on the soggy mold, When he listened he heard naught but +the moaning wind and the drip-drip of the fog from the branches. Never +abating his caution, he stood erect and went on to the stone wall, over +which he climbed and dropped down to the road outside. + +Feeling his way in a clump of bushes, he drew out a bicycle and prepared +to mount. He was in the act of driving the gear around with his foot for +the purpose of getting the opposite pedal in position, when he heard the +thud of a heavy body that landed lightly and evidently on its feet. +He did not wait for more, but ran, with hands on the handles of his +bicycle, until he was able to vault astride the saddle, catch the +pedals, and start a spurt. Behind he could hear the quick thud-thud +of feet on the dust of the road, but he drew away from it and lost it. +Unfortunately, he had started away from the direction of town and was +heading higher up into the hills. He knew that on this particular road +there were no cross roads. The only way back was past that terror, +and he could not steel himself to face it. At the end of half an hour, +finding himself on an ever increasing grade, he dismounted. For still +greater safety, leaving the wheel by the roadside, he climbed through a +fence into what he decided was a hillside pasture, spread a newspaper on +the ground, and sat down. + +“Gosh!” he said aloud, mopping the sweat and fog from his face. + +And “Gosh!” he said once again, while rolling a cigarette and as he +pondered the problem of getting back. + +But he made no attempt to go back. He was resolved not to face that +road in the dark, and with head bowed on knees, he dozed, waiting for +daylight. + +How long afterward he did not know, he was awakened by the yapping bark +of a young coyote. As he looked about and located it on the brow of the +hill behind him, he noted the change that had come over the face of the +night. The fog was gone; the stars and moon were out; even the wind had +died down. It had transformed into a balmy California summer night. +He tried to doze again, but the yap of the coyote disturbed him. Half +asleep, he heard a wild and eery chant. Looking about him, he noticed +that the coyote had ceased its noise and was running away along the +crest of the hill, and behind it, in full pursuit, no longer chanting, +ran the naked creature he had encountered in the garden. It was a young +coyote, and it was being overtaken when the chase passed from view. The +man trembled as with a chill as he started to his feet, clambered over +the fence, and mounted his wheel. But it was his chance and he knew it. +The terror was no longer between him and Mill Valley. + +He sped at a breakneck rate down the hill, but in the turn at the +bottom, in the deep shadows, he encountered a chuck-hole and pitched +headlong over the handle bar. + +“It's sure not my night,” he muttered, as he examined the broken fork of +the machine. + +Shouldering the useless wheel, he trudged on. In time he came to the +stone wall, and, half disbelieving his experience, he sought in the road +for tracks, and found them--moccasin tracks, large ones, deep-bitten +into the dust at the toes. It was while bending over them, examining, +that again he heard the eery chant. He had seen the thing pursue the +coyote, and he knew he had no chance on a straight run. He did not +attempt it, contenting himself with hiding in the shadows on the off +side of the road. + +And again he saw the thing that was like a naked man, running swiftly +and lightly and singing as it ran. Opposite him it paused, and his heart +stood still. But instead of coming toward his hiding-place, it leaped +into the air, caught the branch of a roadside tree, and swung swiftly +upward, from limb to limb, like an ape. It swung across the wall, and a +dozen feet above the top, into the branches of another tree, and dropped +out of sight to the ground. The man waited a few wondering minutes, then +started on. + +II + +Dave Slotter leaned belligerently against the desk that barred the way +to the private office of James Ward, senior partner of the firm of Ward, +Knowles & Co. Dave was angry. Every one in the outer office had looked +him over suspiciously, and the man who faced him was excessively +suspicious. + +“You just tell Mr. Ward it's important,” he urged. + +“I tell you he is dictating and cannot be disturbed,” was the answer. +“Come to-morrow.” + +“To-morrow will be too late. You just trot along and tell Mr. Ward it's +a matter of life and death.” + +The secretary hesitated and Dave seized the advantage. + +“You just tell him I was across the bay in Mill Valley last night, and +that I want to put him wise to something.” + +“What name?” was the query. + +“Never mind the name. He don't know me.” + +When Dave was shown into the private office, he was still in the +belligerent frame of mind, but when he saw a large fair man whirl in +a revolving chair from dictating to a stenographer to face him, Dave's +demeanor abruptly changed. He did not know why it changed, and he was +secretly angry with himself. + +“You are Mr. Ward?” Dave asked with a fatuousness that still further +irritated him. He had never intended it at all. + +“Yes,” came the answer. + +“And who are you?” + +“Harry Bancroft,” Dave lied. “You don't know me, and my name don't +matter.” + +“You sent in word that you were in Mill Valley last night?” + +“You live there, don't you?” Dave countered, looking suspiciously at the +stenographer. + +“Yes. What do you mean to see me about? I am very busy.” + +“I'd like to see you alone, sir.” + +Mr. Ward gave him a quick, penetrating look, hesitated, then made up his +mind. + +“That will do for a few minutes, Miss Potter.” + +The girl arose, gathered her notes together, and passed out. Dave looked +at Mr. James Ward wonderingly, until that gentleman broke his train of +inchoate thought. + +“Well?” + +“I was over in Mill Valley last night,” Dave began confusedly. + +“I've heard that before. What do you want?” + +And Dave proceeded in the face of a growing conviction that was +unbelievable. “I was at your house, or in the grounds, I mean.” + +“What were you doing there?” + +“I came to break in,” Dave answered in all frankness. + +“I heard you lived all alone with a Chinaman for cook, and it looked +good to me. Only I didn't break in. Something happened that prevented. +That's why I'm here. I come to warn you. I found a wild man loose in +your grounds--a regular devil. He could pull a guy like me to pieces. +He gave me the run of my life. He don't wear any clothes to speak of, he +climbs trees like a monkey, and he runs like a deer. I saw him chasing a +coyote, and the last I saw of it, by God, he was gaining on it.” + +Dave paused and looked for the effect that would follow his words. But +no effect came. James Ward was quietly curious, and that was all. + +“Very remarkable, very remarkable,” he murmured. “A wild man, you say. +Why have you come to tell me?” + +“To warn you of your danger. I'm something of a hard proposition myself, +but I don't believe in killing people... that is, unnecessarily. I +realized that you was in danger. I thought I'd warn you. Honest, that's +the game. Of course, if you wanted to give me anything for my trouble, +I'd take it. That was in my mind, too. But I don't care whether you give +me anything or not. I've warned you any way, and done my duty.” + +Mr. Ward meditated and drummed on the surface of his desk. Dave noticed +they were large, powerful hands, withal well-cared for despite their +dark sunburn. Also, he noted what had already caught his eye before--a +tiny strip of flesh-colored courtplaster on the forehead over one eye. +And still the thought that forced itself into his mind was unbelievable. + +Mr. Ward took a wallet from his inside coat pocket, drew out a +greenback, and passed it to Dave, who noted as he pocketed it that it +was for twenty dollars. + +“Thank you,” said Mr. Ward, indicating that the interview was at an end. + +“I shall have the matter investigated. A wild man running loose IS +dangerous.” + +But so quiet a man was Mr. Ward, that Dave's courage returned. Besides, +a new theory had suggested itself. The wild man was evidently Mr. Ward's +brother, a lunatic privately confined. Dave had heard of such things. +Perhaps Mr. Ward wanted it kept quiet. That was why he had given him the +twenty dollars. + +“Say,” Dave began, “now I come to think of it that wild man looked a lot +like you--” + +That was as far as Dave got, for at that moment he witnessed a +transformation and found himself gazing into the same unspeakably +ferocious blue eyes of the night before, at the same clutching +talon-like hands, and at the same formidable bulk in the act of +springing upon him. But this time Dave had no night-stick to throw, and +he was caught by the biceps of both arms in a grip so terrific that it +made him groan with pain. He saw the large white teeth exposed, for all +the world as a dog's about to bite. Mr. Ward's beard brushed his face +as the teeth went in for the grip on his throat. But the bite was not +given. Instead, Dave felt the other's body stiffen as with an iron +restraint, and then he was flung aside, without effort but with such +force that only the wall stopped his momentum and dropped him gasping to +the floor. + +“What do you mean by coming here and trying to blackmail me?” Mr. Ward +was snarling at him. “Here, give me back that money.” + +Dave passed the bill back without a word. + +“I thought you came here with good intentions. I know you now. Let me +see and hear no more of you, or I'll put you in prison where you belong. +Do you understand?” + +“Yes, sir,” Dave gasped. + +“Then go.” + +And Dave went, without further word, both his biceps aching intolerably +from the bruise of that tremendous grip. As his hand rested on the door +knob, he was stopped. + +“You were lucky,” Mr. Ward was saying, and Dave noted that his face and +eyes were cruel and gloating and proud. + +“You were lucky. Had I wanted, I could have torn your muscles out of +your arms and thrown them in the waste basket there.” + +“Yes, sir,” said Dave; and absolute conviction vibrated in his voice. + +He opened the door and passed out. The secretary looked at him +interrogatively. + +“Gosh!” was all Dave vouchsafed, and with this utterance passed out of +the offices and the story. + +III + +James G. Ward was forty years of age, a successful business man, and +very unhappy. For forty years he had vainly tried to solve a problem +that was really himself and that with increasing years became more +and more a woeful affliction. In himself he was two men, and, +chronologically speaking, these men were several thousand years or so +apart. He had studied the question of dual personality probably more +profoundly than any half dozen of the leading specialists in that +intricate and mysterious psychological field. In himself he was a +different case from any that had been recorded. Even the most fanciful +flights of the fiction-writers had not quite hit upon him. He was not +a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, nor was he like the unfortunate young man in +Kipling's “Greatest Story in the World.” His two personalities were so +mixed that they were practically aware of themselves and of each other +all the time. + +His other self he had located as a savage and a barbarian living under +the primitive conditions of several thousand years before. But which +self was he, and which was the other, he could never tell. For he was +both selves, and both selves all the time. Very rarely indeed did it +happen that one self did not know what the other was doing. Another +thing was that he had no visions nor memories of the past in which that +early self had lived. That early self lived in the present; but while +it lived in the present, it was under the compulsion to live the way of +life that must have been in that distant past. + +In his childhood he had been a problem to his father and mother, and to +the family doctors, though never had they come within a thousand miles +of hitting upon the clue to his erratic, conduct. Thus, they could not +understand his excessive somnolence in the forenoon, nor his excessive +activity at night. When they found him wandering along the hallways +at night, or climbing over giddy roofs, or running in the hills, they +decided he was a somnambulist. In reality he was wide-eyed awake and +merely under the nightroaming compulsion of his early self. Questioned +by an obtuse medico, he once told the truth and suffered the ignominy of +having the revelation contemptuously labeled and dismissed as “dreams.” + +The point was, that as twilight and evening came on he became wakeful. +The four walls of a room were an irk and a restraint. He heard a +thousand voices whispering to him through the darkness. The night +called to him, for he was, for that period of the twenty-four hours, +essentially a night-prowler. But nobody understood, and never again did +he attempt to explain. They classified him as a sleep-walker and took +precautions accordingly--precautions that very often were futile. As his +childhood advanced, he grew more cunning, so that the major portion of +all his nights were spent in the open at realizing his other self. As +a result, he slept in the forenoons. Morning studies and schools were +impossible, and it was discovered that only in the afternoons, under +private teachers, could he be taught anything. Thus was his modern self +educated and developed. + +But a problem, as a child, he ever remained. He was known as a little +demon, of insensate cruelty and viciousness. The family medicos +privately adjudged him a mental monstrosity and degenerate. Such few +boy companions as he had, hailed him as a wonder, though they were all +afraid of him. He could outclimb, outswim, outrun, outdevil any of +them; while none dared fight with him. He was too terribly strong, madly +furious. + +When nine years of age he ran away to the hills, where he flourished, +night-prowling, for seven weeks before he was discovered and brought +home. The marvel was how he had managed to subsist and keep in condition +during that time. They did not know, and he never told them, of the +rabbits he had killed, of the quail, young and old, he had captured +and devoured, of the farmers' chicken-roosts he had raided, nor of the +cave-lair he had made and carpeted with dry leaves and grasses and in +which he had slept in warmth and comfort through the forenoons of many +days. + +At college he was notorious for his sleepiness and stupidity during the +morning lectures and for his brilliance in the afternoon. By collateral +reading and by borrowing the notebook of his fellow students he managed +to scrape through the detestable morning courses, while his afternoon +courses were triumphs. In football he proved a giant and a terror, and, +in almost every form of track athletics, save for strange Berserker +rages that were sometimes displayed, he could be depended upon to win. +But his fellows were afraid to box with him, and he signalized his last +wrestling bout by sinking his teeth into the shoulder of his opponent. + +After college, his father, in despair, sent him among the cow-punchers +of a Wyoming ranch. Three months later the doughty cowmen confessed he +was too much for them and telegraphed his father to come and take the +wild man away. Also, when the father arrived to take him away, the +cowmen allowed that they would vastly prefer chumming with howling +cannibals, gibbering lunatics, cavorting gorillas, grizzly bears, and +man-eating tigers than with this particular Young college product with +hair parted in the middle. + +There was one exception to the lack of memory of the life of his early +self, and that was language. By some quirk of atavism, a certain portion +of that early self's language had come down to him as a racial memory. +In moments of happiness, exaltation, or battle, he was prone to burst +out in wild barbaric songs or chants. It was by this means that he +located in time and space that strayed half of him who should have been +dead and dust for thousands of years. He sang, once, and deliberately, +several of the ancient chants in the presence of Professor Wertz, who +gave courses in old Saxon and who was a philogist of repute and passion. +At the first one, the professor pricked up his ears and demanded to +know what mongrel tongue or hog-German it was. When the second chant was +rendered, the professor was highly excited. James Ward then concluded +the performance by giving a song that always irresistibly rushed to his +lips when he was engaged in fierce struggling or fighting. Then it was +that Professor Wertz proclaimed it no hog-German, but early German, or +early Teuton, of a date that must far precede anything that had ever +been discovered and handed down by the scholars. So early was it that +it was beyond him; yet it was filled with haunting reminiscences of +word-forms he knew and which his trained intuition told him were true +and real. He demanded the source of the songs, and asked to borrow the +precious book that contained them. Also, he demanded to know why +young Ward had always posed as being profoundly ignorant of the German +language. And Ward could neither explain his ignorance nor lend the +book. Whereupon, after pleadings and entreaties that extended through +weeks, Professor Wert took a dislike to the young man, believed him +a liar, and classified him as a man of monstrous selfishness for not +giving him a glimpse of this wonderful screed that was older than the +oldest any philologist had ever known or dreamed. + +But little good did it do this much-mixed young man to know that half of +him was late American and the other half early Teuton. Nevertheless, the +late American in him was no weakling, and he (if he were a he and had +a shred of existence outside of these two) compelled an adjustment or +compromise between his one self that was a nightprowling savage that +kept his other self sleepy of mornings, and that other self that was +cultured and refined and that wanted to be normal and live and love and +prosecute business like other people. The afternoons and early evenings +he gave to the one, the nights to the other; the forenoons and parts of +the nights were devoted to sleep for the twain. But in the mornings he +slept in bed like a civilized man. In the night time he slept like a +wild animal, as he had slept Dave Slotter stepped on him in the woods. + +Persuading his father to advance the capital, he went into business +and keen and successful business he made of it, devoting his afternoons +whole-souled to it, while his partner devoted the mornings. The early +evenings he spent socially, but, as the hour grew to nine or ten, an +irresistible restlessness overcame him and he disappeared from the +haunts of men until the next afternoon. Friends and acquaintances +thought that he spent much of his time in sport. And they were right, +though they never would have dreamed of the nature of the sport, even if +they had seen him running coyotes in night-chases over the hills of Mill +Valley. Neither were the schooner captains believed when they reported +seeing, on cold winter mornings, a man swimming in the tide-rips of +Raccoon Straits or in the swift currents between Goat island and Angel +Island miles from shore. + +In the bungalow at Mill Valley he lived alone, save for Lee Sing, the +Chinese cook and factotum, who knew much about the strangeness of his +master, who was paid well for saying nothing, and who never did say +anything. After the satisfaction of his nights, a morning's sleep, and a +breakfast of Lee Sing's, James Ward crossed the bay to San Francisco on +a midday ferryboat and went to the club and on to his office, as normal +and conventional a man of business as could be found in the city. But as +the evening lengthened, the night called to him. There came a quickening +of all his perceptions and a restlessness. His hearing was suddenly +acute; the myriad night-noises told him a luring and familiar story; +and, if alone, he would begin to pace up and down the narrow room like +any caged animal from the wild. + +Once, he ventured to fall in love. He never permitted himself that +diversion again. He was afraid. And for many a day the young lady, +scared at least out of a portion of her young ladyhood, bore on her +arms and shoulders and wrists divers black-and-blue bruises--tokens of +caresses which he had bestowed in all fond gentleness but too late +at night. There was the mistake. Had he ventured love-making in the +afternoon, all would have been well, for it would have been as the quiet +gentleman that he would have made love--but at night it was the uncouth, +wife-stealing savage of the dark German forests. Out of his wisdom, he +decided that afternoon love-making could be prosecuted successfully; but +out of the same wisdom he was convinced that marriage as would prove +a ghastly failure. He found it appalling to imagine being married and +encountering his wife after dark. + +So he had eschewed all love-making, regulated his dual life, cleaned up +a million in business, fought shy of match-making mamas and bright-eyed +and eager young ladies of various ages, met Lilian Gersdale and made +it a rigid observance never to see her later than eight o'clock in the +evening, run of nights after his coyotes, and slept in forest lairs--and +through it all had kept his secret safe save Lee Sing... and now, +Dave Slotter. It was the latter's discovery of both his selves that +frightened him. In spite of the counter fright he had given the burglar, +the latter might talk. And even if he did not, sooner or later he would +be found out by some one else. + +Thus it was that James Ward made a fresh and heroic effort to control +the Teutonic barbarian that was half of him. So well did he make it +a point to see Lilian in the afternoons, that the time came when +she accepted him for better or worse, and when he prayed privily and +fervently that it was not for worse. During this period no prize-fighter +ever trained more harshly and faithfully for a contest than he trained +to subdue the wild savage in him. Among other things, he strove to +exhaust himself during the day, so that sleep would render him deaf to +the call of the night. He took a vacation from the office and went on +long hunting trips, following the deer through the most inaccessible and +rugged country he could find--and always in the daytime. Night found him +indoors and tired. At home he installed a score of exercise machines, +and where other men might go through a particular movement ten times, he +went hundreds. Also, as a compromise, he built a sleeping porch on the +second story. Here he at least breathed the blessed night air. Double +screens prevented him from escaping into the woods, and each night Lee +Sing locked him in and each morning let him out. + +The time came, in the month of August, when he engaged additional +servants to assist Lee Sing and dared a house party in his Mill Valley +bungalow. Lilian, her mother and brother, and half a dozen mutual +friends, were the guests. For two days and nights all went well. And on +the third night, playing bridge till eleven o'clock, he had reason to be +proud of himself. His restlessness fully hid, but as luck would have it, +Lilian Gersdale was his opponent on his right. She was a frail delicate +flower of a woman, and in his night-mood her very frailty incensed +him. Not that he loved her less, but that he felt almost irresistibly +impelled to reach out and paw and maul her. Especially was this true +when she was engaged in playing a winning hand against him. + +He had one of the deer-hounds brought in and, when it seemed he must fly +to pieces with the tension, a caressing hand laid on the animal brought +him relief. These contacts with the hairy coat gave him instant easement +and enabled him to play out the evening. Nor did anyone guess the +while terrible struggle their host was making, the while he laughed so +carelessly and played so keenly and deliberately. + +When they separated for the night, he saw to it that he parted from +Lilian in the presence or the others. Once on his sleeping porch +and safely locked in, he doubled and tripled and even quadrupled his +exercises until, exhausted, he lay down on the couch to woo sleep and to +ponder two problems that especially troubled him. One was this matter +of exercise. It was a paradox. The more he exercised in this excessive +fashion, the stronger he became. While it was true that he thus quite +tired out his night-running Teutonic self, it seemed that he was merely +setting back the fatal day when his strength would be too much for him +and overpower him, and then it would be a strength more terrible than +he had yet known. The other problem was that of his marriage and of the +stratagems he must employ in order to avoid his wife after dark. And +thus, fruitlessly pondering, he fell asleep. + +Now, where the huge grizzly bear came from that night was long a +mystery, while the people of the Springs Brothers' Circus, showing at +Sausalito, searched long and vainly for “Big Ben, the Biggest Grizzly +in Captivity.” But Big Ben escaped, and, out of the mazes of half a +thousand bungalows and country estates, selected the grounds of James J. +Ward for visitation. The self first Mr. Ward knew was when he found him +on his feet, quivering and tense, a surge of battle in his breast and +on his lips the old war-chant. From without came a wild baying and +bellowing of the hounds. And sharp as a knife-thrust through the +pandemonium came the agony of a stricken dog--his dog, he knew. + +Not stopping for slippers, pajama-clad, he burst through the door Lee +Sing had so carefully locked, and sped down the stairs and out into +the night. As his naked feet struck the graveled driveway, he stopped +abruptly, reached under the steps to a hiding-place he knew well, and +pulled forth a huge knotty club--his old companion on many a mad night +adventure on the hills. The frantic hullabaloo of the dogs was coming +nearer, and, swinging the club, he sprang straight into the thickets to +meet it. + +The aroused household assembled on the wide veranda. Somebody turned +on the electric lights, but they could see nothing but one another's +frightened faces. Beyond the brightly illuminated driveway the trees +formed a wall of impenetrable blackness. Yet somewhere in that blackness +a terrible struggle was going on. There was an infernal outcry of +animals, a great snarling and growling, the sound of blows being struck +and a smashing and crashing of underbrush by heavy bodies. + +The tide of battle swept out from among the trees and upon the driveway +just beneath the onlookers. Then they saw. Mrs. Gersdale cried out +and clung fainting to her son. Lilian, clutching the railing so +spasmodically that a bruising hurt was left in her finger-ends for +days, gazed horror-stricken at a yellow-haired, wild-eyed giant whom she +recognized as the man who was to be her husband. He was swinging a great +club, and fighting furiously and calmly with a shaggy monster that was +bigger than any bear she had ever seen. One rip of the beast's claws had +dragged away Ward's pajama-coat and streaked his flesh with blood. + +While most of Lilian Gersdale's fright was for the man beloved, there +was a large portion of it due to the man himself. Never had she dreamed +so formidable and magnificent a savage lurked under the starched shirt +and conventional garb of her betrothed. And never had she had any +conception of how a man battled. Such a battle was certainly not modern; +nor was she there beholding a modern man, though she did not know it. +For this was not Mr. James J. Ward, the San Francisco business man, but +one, unnamed and unknown, a crude, rude savage creature who, by some +freak of chance, lived again after thrice a thousand years. + +The hounds, ever maintaining their mad uproar, circled about the fight, +or dashed in and out, distracting the bear. When the animal turned to +meet such flanking assaults, the man leaped in and the club came down. +Angered afresh by every such blow, the bear would rush, and the man, +leaping and skipping, avoiding the dogs, went backwards or circled +to one side or the other. Whereupon the dogs, taking advantage of the +opening, would again spring in and draw the animal's wrath to them. + +The end came suddenly. Whirling, the grizzly caught a hound with a +wide sweeping cuff that sent the brute, its ribs caved in and its back +broken, hurtling twenty feet. Then the human brute went mad. A foaming +rage flecked the lips that parted with a wild inarticulate cry, as it +sprang in, swung the club mightily in both hands, and brought it down +full on the head of the uprearing grizzly. Not even the skull of a +grizzly could withstand the crushing force of such a blow, and the +animal went down to meet the worrying of the hounds. And through their +scurrying leaped the man, squarely upon the body, where, in the white +electric light, resting on his club, he chanted a triumph in an unknown +tongue--a song so ancient that Professor Wertz would have given ten +years of his life for it. + +His guests rushed to possess him and acclaim him, but James Ward, +suddenly looking out of the eyes of the early Teuton, saw the fair frail +Twentieth Century girl he loved, and felt something snap in his brain. +He staggered weakly toward her, dropped the club, and nearly fell. +Something had gone wrong with him. Inside his brain was an intolerable +agony. It seemed as if the soul of him were flying asunder. Following +the excited gaze of the others, he glanced back and saw the carcass of +the bear. The sight filled him with fear. He uttered a cry and would +have fled, had they not restrained him and led him into the bungalow. + +***** + +James J. Ward is still at the head of the firm of Ward, Knowles & Co. +But he no longer lives in the country; nor does he run of nights after +the coyotes under the moon. The early Teuton in him died the night of +the Mill Valley fight with the bear. James J. Ward is now wholly +James J. Ward, and he shares no part of his being with any vagabond +anachronism from the younger world. And so wholly is James J. Ward +modern, that he knows in all its bitter fullness the curse of civilized +fear. He is now afraid of the dark, and night in the forest is to him a +thing of abysmal terror. His city house is of the spick and span order, +and he evinces a great interest in burglarproof devices. His home is +a tangle of electric wires, and after bed-time a guest can scarcely +breathe without setting off an alarm. Also, he had invented a +combination keyless door-lock that travelers may carry in their vest +pockets and apply immediately and successfully under all circumstances. +But his wife does not deem him a coward. She knows better. And, like +any hero, he is content to rest on his laurels. His bravery is never +questioned by those friends who are aware of the Mill Valley episode. + + + + +THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT + +CARTER WATSON, a current magazine under his arm, strolled slowly along, +gazing about him curiously. Twenty years had elapsed since he had been +on this particular street, and the changes were great and stupefying. +This Western city of three hundred thousand souls had contained but +thirty thousand, when, as a boy, he had been wont to ramble along +its streets. In those days the street he was now on had been a quiet +residence street in the respectable workingclass quarter. On this late +afternoon he found that it had been submerged by a vast and vicious +tenderloin. Chinese and Japanese shops and dens abounded, all confusedly +intermingled with low white resorts and boozing dens. This quiet street +of his youth had become the toughest quarter of the city. + +He looked at his watch. It was half-past five. It was the slack time of +the day in such a region, as he well knew, yet he was curious to see. In +all his score of years of wandering and studying social conditions over +the world, he had carried with him the memory of his old town as a sweet +and wholesome place. The metamorphosis he now beheld was startling. He +certainly must continue his stroll and glimpse the infamy to which his +town had descended. + +Another thing: Carter Watson had a keen social and civic consciousness. +Independently wealthy, he had been loath to dissipate his energies +in the pink teas and freak dinners of society, while actresses, +race-horses, and kindred diversions had left him cold. He had the +ethical bee in his bonnet and was a reformer of no mean pretension, +though his work had been mainly in the line of contributions to the +heavier reviews and quarterlies and to the publication over his name +of brightly, cleverly written books on the working classes and the +slum-dwellers. Among the twenty-seven to his credit occurred titles such +as, “If Christ Came to New Orleans,” “The Worked-out Worker,” “Tenement +Reform in Berlin,” “The Rural Slums of England,” “The people of the East +Side,” “Reform Versus Revolution,” “The University Settlement as a Hot +Bed of Radicalism” and “The Cave Man of Civilization.” + +But Carter Watson was neither morbid nor fanatic. He did not lose his +head over the horrors he encountered, studied, and exposed. No hair +brained enthusiasm branded him. His humor saved him, as did his wide +experience and his conservative philosophic temperament. Nor did he +have any patience with lightning change reform theories. As he saw it, +society would grow better only through the painfully slow and arduously +painful processes of evolution. There were no short cuts, no sudden +regenerations. The betterment of mankind must be worked out in agony and +misery just as all past social betterments had been worked out. + +But on this late summer afternoon, Carter Watson was curious. As he +moved along he paused before a gaudy drinking place. The sign above +read, “The Vendome.” There were two entrances. One evidently led to the +bar. This he did not explore. The other was a narrow hallway. +Passing through this he found himself in a huge room, filled with +chair-encircled tables and quite deserted. In the dim light he made out +a piano in the distance. Making a mental note that he would come back +some time and study the class of persons that must sit and drink at +those multitudinous tables, he proceeded to circumnavigate the room. + +Now, at the rear, a short hallway led off to a small kitchen, and here, +at a table, alone, sat Patsy Horan, proprietor of the Vendome, consuming +a hasty supper ere the evening rush of business. Also, Patsy Horan +was angry with the world. He had got out of the wrong side of bed that +morning, and nothing had gone right all day. Had his barkeepers been +asked, they would have described his mental condition as a grouch. But +Carter Watson did not know this. As he passed the little hallway, Patsy +Horan's sullen eyes lighted on the magazine he carried under his arm. +Patsy did not know Carter Watson, nor did he know that what he carried +under his arm was a magazine. Patsy, out of the depths of his grouch, +decided that this stranger was one of those pests who marred and scarred +the walls of his back rooms by tacking up or pasting up advertisements. +The color on the front cover of the magazine convinced him that it was +such an advertisement. Thus the trouble began. Knife and fork in hand, +Patsy leaped for Carter Watson. + +“Out wid yeh!” Patsy bellowed. “I know yer game!” + +Carter Watson was startled. The man had come upon him like the eruption +of a jack-in-the-box. + +“A defacin' me walls,” cried Patsy, at the same time emitting a string +of vivid and vile, rather than virile, epithets of opprobrium. + +“If I have given any offense I did not mean to--” + +But that was as far as the visitor got. Patsy interrupted. + +“Get out wid yeh; yeh talk too much wid yer mouth,” quoted Patsy, +emphasizing his remarks with flourishes of the knife and fork. + +Carter Watson caught a quick vision of that eating-fork inserted +uncomfortably between his ribs, knew that it would be rash to talk +further with his mouth, and promptly turned to go. The sight of his +meekly retreating back must have further enraged Patsy Horan, for that +worthy, dropping the table implements, sprang upon him. + +Patsy weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. So did Watson. In this they +were equal. But Patsy was a rushing, rough-and-tumble saloon-fighter, +while Watson was a boxer. In this the latter had the advantage, for +Patsy came in wide open, swinging his right in a perilous sweep. All +Watson had to do was to straight-left him and escape. But Watson had +another advantage. His boxing, and his experience in the slums and +ghettos of the world, had taught him restraint. + +He pivoted on his feet, and, instead of striking, ducked the other's +swinging blow and went into a clinch. But Patsy, charging like a bull, +had the momentum of his rush, while Watson, whirling to meet him, had no +momentum. As a result, the pair of them went down, with all their three +hundred and sixty pounds of weight, in a long crashing fall, Watson +underneath. He lay with his head touching the rear wall of the large +room. The street was a hundred and fifty feet away, and he did some +quick thinking. His first thought was to avoid trouble. He had no wish +to get into the papers of this, his childhood town, where many of his +relatives and family friends still lived. + +So it was that he locked his arms around the man on top of him, held him +close, and waited for the help to come that must come in response to the +crash of the fall. The help came--that is, six men ran in from the bar +and formed about in a semi-circle. + +“Take him off, fellows,” Watson said. “I haven't struck him, and I don't +want any fight.” + +But the semi-circle remained silent. Watson held on and waited. Patsy, +after various vain efforts to inflict damage, made an overture. + +“Leggo o' me an' I'll get off o' yeh,” said he. + +Watson let go, but when Patsy scrambled to his feet he stood over his +recumbent foe, ready to strike. + +“Get up,” Patsy commanded. + +His voice was stern and implacable, like the voice of God calling to +judgment, and Watson knew there was no mercy there. + +“Stand back and I'll get up,” he countered. + +“If yer a gentleman, get up,” quoth Patsy, his pale blue eyes aflame +with wrath, his fist ready for a crushing blow. + +At the same moment he drew his foot back to kick the other in the face. +Watson blocked the kick with his crossed arms and sprang to his feet so +quickly that he was in a clinch with his antagonist before the latter +could strike. Holding him, Watson spoke to the onlookers: + +“Take him away from me, fellows. You see I am not striking him. I don't +want to fight. I want to get out of here.” + +The circle did not move nor speak. Its silence was ominous and sent a +chill to Watson's heart. + +Patsy made an effort to throw him, which culminated in his putting Patsy +on his back. Tearing loose from him, Watson sprang to his feet and made +for the door. But the circle of men was interposed a wall. He noticed +the white, pasty faces, the kind that never see the sun, and knew that +the men who barred his way were the nightprowlers and preying beasts +of the city jungle. By them he was thrust back upon the pursuing, +bull-rushing Patsy. + +Again it was a clinch, in which, in momentary safety, Watson appealed +to the gang. And again his words fell on deaf ears. Then it was that +he knew of many similar knew fear. For he had known of many similar +situations, in low dens like this, when solitary men were man-handled, +their ribs and features caved in, themselves beaten and kicked to death. +And he knew, further, that if he were to escape he must neither strike +his assailant nor any of the men who opposed him. + +Yet in him was righteous indignation. Under no circumstances could +seven to one be fair. Also, he was angry, and there stirred in him +the fighting beast that is in all men. But he remembered his wife and +children, his unfinished book, the ten thousand rolling acres of the +up-country ranch he loved so well. He even saw in flashing visions the +blue of the sky, the golden sun pouring down on his flower-spangled +meadows, the lazy cattle knee-deep in the brooks, and the flash of trout +in the riffles. Life was good-too good for him to risk it for a moment's +sway of the beast. In short, Carter Watson was cool and scared. + +His opponent, locked by his masterly clinch, was striving to throw him. +Again Watson put him on the floor, broke away, and was thrust back by +the pasty-faced circle to duck Patsy's swinging right and effect another +clinch. This happened many times. And Watson grew even cooler, while +the baffled Patsy, unable to inflict punishment, raged wildly and more +wildly. He took to batting with his head in the clinches. The first +time, he landed his forehead flush on Watson's nose. After that, the +latter, in the clinches, buried his face in Patsy's breast. But the +enraged Patsy batted on, striking his own eye and nose and cheek on the +top of the other's head. The more he was thus injured, the more and the +harder did Patsy bat. + +This one-sided contest continued for twelve or fifteen minutes. Watson +never struck a blow, and strove only to escape. Sometimes, in the free +moments, circling about among the tables as he tried to win the door, +the pasty-faced men gripped his coat-tails and flung him back at the +swinging right of the on-rushing Patsy. Time upon time, and times +without end, he clinched and put Patsy on his back, each time first +whirling him around and putting him down in the direction of the door +and gaining toward that goal by the length of the fall. + +In the end, hatless, disheveled, with streaming nose and one eye closed, +Watson won to the sidewalk and into the arms of a policeman. + +“Arrest that man,” Watson panted. + +“Hello, Patsy,” said the policeman. “What's the mix-up?” + +“Hello, Charley,” was the answer. “This guy comes in--” + +“Arrest that man, officer,” Watson repeated. + +“G'wan! Beat it!” said Patsy. + +“Beat it!” added the policeman. “If you don't, I'll pull you in.” + +“Not unless you arrest that man. He has committed a violent and +unprovoked assault on me.” + +“Is it so, Patsy?” was the officer's query. + +“Nah. Lemme tell you, Charley, an' I got the witnesses to prove it, so +help me God. I was settin' in me kitchen eatin' a bowl of soup, when +this guy comes in an' gets gay wid me. I never seen him in me born days +before. He was drunk--” + +“Look at me, officer,” protested the indignant sociologist. “Am I +drunk?” + +The officer looked at him with sullen, menacing eyes and nodded to Patsy +to continue. + +“This guy gets gay wid me. 'I'm Tim McGrath,' says he, 'an' I can do the +like to you,' says he. 'Put up yer hands.' I smiles, an' wid that, biff +biff, he lands me twice an' spills me soup. Look at me eye. I'm fair +murdered.” + +“What are you going to do, officer?” Watson demanded. + +“Go on, beat it,” was the answer, “or I'll pull you sure.” + +The civic righteousness of Carter Watson flamed up. + +“Mr. Officer, I protest--” + +But at that moment the policeman grabbed his arm with a savage jerk that +nearly overthrew him. + +“Come on, you're pulled.” + +“Arrest him, too,” Watson demanded. + +“Nix on that play,” was the reply. + +“What did you assault him for, him a peacefully eatin' his soup?” + +II + +Carter Watson was genuinely angry. Not only had he been wantonly +assaulted, badly battered, and arrested, but the morning papers without +exception came out with lurid accounts of his drunken brawl with the +proprietor of the notorious Vendome. Not one accurate or truthful line +was published. Patsy Horan and his satellites described the battle in +detail. The one incontestable thing was that Carter Watson had been +drunk. Thrice he had been thrown out of the place and into the gutter, +and thrice he had come back, breathing blood and fire and announcing +that he was going to clean out the place. “EMINENT SOCIOLOGIST JAGGED +AND JUGGED,” was the first head-line he read, on the front page, +accompanied by a large portrait of himself. Other headlines were: +“CARTER WATSON ASPIRED TO CHAMPIONSHIP HONORS”; “CARTER WATSON GETS +HIS”; “NOTED SOCIOLOGIST ATTEMPTS TO CLEAN OUT A TENDERLOIN CAFE”; and +“CARTER WATSON KNOCKED OUT BY PATSY HORAN IN THREE ROUNDS.” + +At the police court, next morning, under bail, appeared Carter Watson +to answer the complaint of the People Versus Carter Watson, for +the latter's assault and battery on one Patsy Horan. But first, the +Prosecuting Attorney, who was paid to prosecute all offenders against +the People, drew him aside and talked with him privately. + +“Why not let it drop!” said the Prosecuting Attorney. “I tell you what +you do, Mr. Watson: Shake hands with Mr. Horan and make it up, and we'll +drop the case right here. A word to the Judge, and the case against you +will be dismissed.” + +“But I don't want it dismissed,” was the answer. “Your office being what +it is, you should be prosecuting me instead of asking me to make up with +this--this fellow.” + +“Oh, I'll prosecute you all right,” retorted the Prosecuting Attorney. + +“Also you will have to prosecute this Patsy Horan,” Watson advised; “for +I shall now have him arrested for assault and battery.” + +“You'd better shake and make up,” the Prosecuting Attorney repeated, and +this time there was almost a threat in his voice. + +The trials of both men were set for a week later, on the same morning, +in Police Judge Witberg's court. + +“You have no chance,” Watson was told by an old friend of his boyhood, +the retired manager of the biggest paper in the city. “Everybody knows +you were beaten up by this man. His reputation is most unsavory. But it +won't help you in the least. Both cases will be dismissed. This will be +because you are you. Any ordinary man would be convicted.” + +“But I do not understand,” objected the perplexed sociologist. “Without +warning I was attacked by this man; and badly beaten. I did not strike a +blow. I--” + +“That has nothing to do with it,” the other cut him off. + +“Then what is there that has anything to do with it?” + +“I'll tell you. You are now up against the local police and political +machine. Who are you? You are not even a legal resident in this town. +You live up in the country. You haven't a vote of your own here. Much +less do you swing any votes. This dive proprietor swings a string of +votes in his precincts--a mighty long string.” + +“Do you mean to tell me that this Judge Witberg will violate the +sacredness of his office and oath by letting this brute off?” Watson +demanded. + +“Watch him,” was the grim reply. “Oh, he'll do it nicely enough. He will +give an extra-legal, extra-judicial decision, abounding in every word in +the dictionary that stands for fairness and right.” + +“But there are the newspapers,” Watson cried. + +“They are not fighting the administration at present. They'll give it to +you hard. You see what they have already done to you.” + +“Then these snips of boys on the police detail won't write the truth?” + +“They will write something so near like the truth that the public will +believe it. They write their stories under instruction, you know. They +have their orders to twist and color, and there won't be much left of +you when they get done. Better drop the whole thing right now. You are +in bad.” + +“But the trials are set.” + +“Give the word and they'll drop them now. A man can't fight a machine +unless he has a machine behind him.” + +III + +But Carter Watson was stubborn. He was convinced that the machine would +beat him, but all his days he had sought social experience, and this was +certainly something new. + +The morning of the trial the Prosecuting Attorney made another attempt +to patch up the affair. + +“If you feel that way, I should like to get a lawyer to prosecute the +case,” said Watson. + +“No, you don't,” said the Prosecuting Attorney. “I am paid by the People +to prosecute, and prosecute I will. But let me tell you. You have no +chance. We shall lump both cases into one, and you watch out.” + +Judge Witberg looked good to Watson. A fairly young man, short, +comfortably stout, smooth-shaven and with an intelligent face, he seemed +a very nice man indeed. This good impression was added to by the smiling +lips and the wrinkles of laughter in the corners of his black eyes. +Looking at him and studying him, Watson felt almost sure that his old +friend's prognostication was wrong. + +But Watson was soon to learn. Patsy Horan and two of his satellites +testified to a most colossal aggregation of perjuries. Watson could not +have believed it possible without having experienced it. They denied +the existence of the other four men. And of the two that testified, one +claimed to have been in the kitchen, a witness to Watson's unprovoked +assault on Patsy, while the other, remaining in the bar, had witnessed +Watson's second and third rushes into the place as he attempted to +annihilate the unoffending Patsy. The vile language ascribed to Watson +was so voluminously and unspeakably vile, that he felt they were +injuring their own case. It was so impossible that he should utter such +things. But when they described the brutal blows he had rained on poor +Patsy's face, and the chair he demolished when he vainly attempted to +kick Patsy, Watson waxed secretly hilarious and at the same time sad. +The trial was a farce, but such lowness of life was depressing to +contemplate when he considered the long upward climb humanity must make. + +Watson could not recognize himself, nor could his worst enemy have +recognized him, in the swashbuckling, rough-housing picture that was +painted of him. But, as in all cases of complicated perjury, rifts and +contradictions in the various stories appeared. The Judge somehow failed +to notice them, while the Prosecuting Attorney and Patsy's attorney +shied off from them gracefully. Watson had not bothered to get a lawyer +for himself, and he was now glad that he had not. + +Still, he retained a semblance of faith in Judge Witberg when he went +himself on the stand and started to tell his story. + +“I was strolling casually along the street, your Honor,” Watson began, +but was interrupted by the Judge. + +“We are not here to consider your previous actions,” bellowed Judge +Witberg. “Who struck the first blow?” + +“Your Honor,” Watson pleaded, “I have no witnesses of the actual fray, +and the truth of my story can only be brought out by telling the story +fully--” + +Again he was interrupted. + +“We do not care to publish any magazines here,” Judge Witberg roared, +looking at him so fiercely and malevolently that Watson could scarcely +bring himself to believe that this was same man he had studied a few +minutes previously. + +“Who struck the first blow?” Patsy's attorney asked. + +The Prosecuting Attorney interposed, demanding to know which of the two +cases lumped together was, and by what right Patsy's lawyer, at that +stage of the proceedings, should take the witness. Patsy's attorney +fought back. Judge Witberg interfered, professing no knowledge of any +two cases being lumped together. All this had to be explained. Battle +royal raged, terminating in both attorneys apologizing to the Court and +to each other. And so it went, and to Watson it had the seeming of a +group of pickpockets ruffling and bustling an honest man as they took +his purse. The machine was working, that was all. + +“Why did you enter this place of unsavory reputations?” was asked him. + +“It has been my custom for many years, as a student of economics and +sociology, to acquaint myself--” + +But this was as far as Watson got. + +“We want none of your ologies here,” snarled Judge Witberg. “It is a +plain question. Answer it plainly. Is it true or not true that you were +drunk? That is the gist of the question.” + +When Watson attempted to tell how Patsy had injured his face in his +attempts to bat with his head, Watson was openly scouted and flouted, +and Judge Witberg again took him in hand. + +“Are you aware of the solemnity of the oath you took to testify to +nothing but the truth on this witness stand?” the Judge demanded. “This +is a fairy story you are telling. It is not reasonable that a man would +so injure himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft +and sensitive parts of his face against your head. You are a sensible +man. It is unreasonable, is it not?” + +“Men are unreasonable when they are angry,” Watson answered meekly. + +Then it was that Judge Witberg was deeply outraged and righteously +wrathful. + +“What right have you to say that?” he cried. “It is gratuitous. It has +no bearing on the case. You are here as a witness, sir, of events that +have transpired. The Court does not wish to hear any expressions of +opinion from you at all.” + +“I but answered your question, your Honor,” Watson protested humbly. + +“You did nothing of the sort,” was the next blast. “And let me warn you, +sir, let me warn you, that you are laying yourself liable to contempt by +such insolence. And I will have you know that we know how to observe the +law and the rules of courtesy down here in this little courtroom. I am +ashamed of you.” + +And, while the next punctilious legal wrangle between the attorneys +interrupted his tale of what happened in the Vendome, Carter Watson, +without bitterness, amused and at the same time sad, saw rise before him +the machine, large and small, that dominated his country, the unpunished +and shameless grafts of a thousand cities perpetrated by the spidery +and vermin-like creatures of the machines. Here it was before him, a +courtroom and a judge, bowed down in subservience by the machine to a +dive-keeper who swung a string of votes. Petty and sordid as it was, it +was one face of the many-faced machine that loomed colossally, in every +city and state, in a thousand guises overshadowing the land. + +A familiar phrase rang in his ears: “It is to laugh.” At the height of +the wrangle, he giggled, once, aloud, and earned a sullen frown from +Judge Witberg. Worse, a myriad times, he decided, were these bullying +lawyers and this bullying judge then the bucko mates in first quality +hell-ships, who not only did their own bullying but protected themselves +as well. These petty rapscallions, on the other hand, sought protection +behind the majesty of the law. They struck, but no one was permitted to +strike back, for behind them were the prison cells and the clubs of the +stupid policemen--paid and professional fighters and beaters-up of +men. Yet he was not bitter. The grossness and the sliminess of it was +forgotten in the simple grotesqueness of it, and he had the saving sense +of humor. + +Nevertheless, hectored and heckled though he was, he managed in the end +to give a simple, straightforward version of the affair, and, despite +a belligerent cross-examination, his story was not shaken in any +particular. Quite different it was from the perjuries that had shouted +aloud from the perjuries of Patsy and his two witnesses. + +Both Patsy's attorney and the Prosecuting Attorney rested their +cases, letting everything go before the Court without argument. Watson +protested against this, but was silenced when the Prosecuting Attorney +told him that Public Prosecutor and knew his business. + +“Patrick Horan has testified that he was in danger of his life and that +he was compelled to defend himself,” Judge Witberg's verdict began. “Mr. +Watson has testified to the same thing. Each has sworn that the other +struck the first blow; each has sworn that the other made an unprovoked +assault on him. It is an axiom of the law that the defendant should +be given the benefit of the doubt. A very reasonable doubt exists. +Therefore, in the case of the People Versus Carter Watson the benefit +of the doubt is given to said Carter Watson and he is herewith ordered +discharged from custody. The same reasoning applies to the case of the +People Versus Patrick Horan. He is given the benefit of the doubt and +discharged from custody. My recommendation is that both defendants shake +hands and make up.” + +In the afternoon papers the first headline that caught Watson's eye was: +“CARTER WATSON ACQUITTED.” In the second paper it was: “CARTER WATSON +ESCAPES A FINE.” But what capped everything was the one beginning: +“CARTER WATSON A GOOD FELLOW.” In the text he read how Judge Witberg had +advised both fighters to shake hands, which they promptly did. Further, +he read: + +“'Let's have a nip on it,' said Patsy Horan. + +“'Sure,' said Carter Watson. + +“And, arm in arm, they ambled for the nearest saloon.” + +IV + +Now, from the whole adventure, Watson carried away no bitterness. It was +a social experience of a new order, and it led to the writing of another +book, which he entitled, “POLICE COURT PROCEDURE: A Tentative Analysis.” + +One summer morning a year later, on his ranch, he left his horse and +himself clambered on through a miniature canyon to inspect some rock +ferns he had planted the previous winter. Emerging from the upper end +of the canyon, he came out on one of his flower-spangled meadows, a +delightful isolated spot, screened from the world by low hills and +clumps of trees. And here he found a man, evidently on a stroll from the +summer hotel down at the little town a mile away. They met face to face +and the recognition was mutual. It was Judge Witberg. Also, it was +a clear case of trespass, for Watson had trespass signs upon his +boundaries, though he never enforced them. + +Judge Witberg held out his hand, which Watson refused to see. + +“Politics is a dirty trade, isn't it, Judge?” he remarked. “Oh, yes, +I see your hand, but I don't care to take it. The papers said I shook +hands with Patsy Horan after the trial. You know I did not, but let me +tell you that I'd a thousand times rather shake hands with him and his +vile following of curs, than with you.” + +Judge Witberg was painfully flustered, and as he hemmed and hawed and +essayed to speak, Watson, looking at him, was struck by a sudden whim, +and he determined on a grim and facetious antic. + +“I should scarcely expect any animus from a man of your acquirements and +knowledge of the world,” the Judge was saying. + +“Animus?” Watson replied. “Certainly not. I haven't such a thing in my +nature. And to prove it, let me show you something curious, something +you have never seen before.” Casting about him, Watson picked up a rough +stone the size of his fist. “See this. Watch me.” + +So saying, Carter Watson tapped himself a sharp blow on the cheek. The +stone laid the flesh open to the bone and the blood spurted forth. + +“The stone was too sharp,” he announced to the astounded police judge, +who thought he had gone mad. + +“I must bruise it a trifle. There is nothing like being realistic in +such matters.” + +Whereupon Carter Watson found a smooth stone and with it pounded his +cheek nicely several times. + +“Ah,” he cooed. “That will turn beautifully green and black in a few +hours. It will be most convincing.” + +“You are insane,” Judge Witberg quavered. + +“Don't use such vile language to me,” said Watson. “You see my bruised +and bleeding face? You did that, with that right hand of yours. You hit +me twice--biff, biff. It is a brutal and unprovoked assault. I am in +danger of my life. I must protect myself.” + +Judge Witberg backed away in alarm before the menacing fists of the +other. + +“If you strike me I'll have you arrested,” Judge Witberg threatened. + +“That is what I told Patsy,” was the answer. “And do you know what he +did when I told him that?” + +“No.” + +“That!” + +And at the same moment Watson's right fist landed flush on Judge +Witberg's nose, putting that legal gentleman over on his back on the +grass. + +“Get up!” commanded Watson. “If you are a gentleman, get up--that's what +Patsy told me, you know.” + +Judge Witberg declined to rise, and was dragged to his feet by the +coat-collar, only to have one eye blacked and be put on his back again. +After that it was a red Indian massacre. Judge Witberg was humanely and +scientifically beaten up. His checks were boxed, his cars cuffed, and +his face was rubbed in the turf. And all the time Watson exposited +the way Patsy Horan had done it. Occasionally, and very carefully, the +facetious sociologist administered a real bruising blow. Once, dragging +the poor Judge to his feet, he deliberately bumped his own nose on the +gentleman's head. The nose promptly bled. + +“See that!” cried Watson, stepping back and deftly shedding his blood +all down his own shirt front. “You did it. With your fist you did it. It +is awful. I am fair murdered. I must again defend myself.” + +And once more Judge Witberg impacted his features on a fist and was sent +to grass. + +“I will have you arrested,” he sobbed as he lay. + +“That's what Patsy said.” + +“A brutal---sniff, sniff,--and unprovoked--sniff, sniff--assault.” + +“That's what Patsy said.” + +“I will surely have you arrested.” + +“Speaking slangily, not if I can beat you to it.” + +And with that, Carter Watson departed down the canyon, mounted his +horse, and rode to town. + +An hour later, as Judge Witberg limped up the grounds to his hotel, he +was arrested by a village constable on a charge of assault and battery +preferred by Carter Watson. + +V + +“Your Honor,” Watson said next day to the village Justice, a well to +do farmer and graduate, thirty years before, from a cow college, “since +this Sol Witberg has seen fit to charge me with battery, following upon +my charge of battery against him, I would suggest that both cases +be lumped together. The testimony and the facts are the same in both +cases.” + +To this the Justice agreed, and the double case proceeded. Watson, as +prosecuting witness, first took the stand and told his story. + +“I was picking flowers,” he testified. “Picking flowers on my own land, +never dreaming of danger. Suddenly this man rushed upon me from behind +the trees. 'I am the Dodo,' he says, 'and I can do you to a frazzle. +Put up your hands.' I smiled, but with that, biff, biff, he struck +me, knocking me down and spilling my flowers. The language he used was +frightful. It was an unprovoked and brutal assault. Look at my cheek. +Look at my nose--I could not understand it. He must have been drunk. +Before I recovered from my surprise he had administered this beating. +I was in danger of my life and was compelled to defend himself. That +is all, Your Honor, though I must say, in conclusion, that I cannot +get over my perplexity. Why did he say he was the Dodo? Why did he so +wantonly attack me?” + +And thus was Sol Witberg given a liberal education in the art of +perjury. Often, from his high seat, he had listened indulgently to +police court perjuries in cooked-up cases; but for the first time +perjury was directed against him, and he no longer sat above the court, +with the bailiffs, the Policemen's clubs, and the prison cells behind +him. + +“Your Honor,” he cried, “never have I heard such a pack of lies told by +so bare-faced a liar--!” + +Watson here sprang to his feet. + +“Your Honor, I protest. It is for your Honor to decide truth or +falsehood. The witness is on the stand to testify to actual events that +have transpired. His personal opinion upon things in general, and upon +me, has no bearing on the case whatever.” + +The Justice scratched his head and waxed phlegmatically indignant. + +“The point is well taken,” he decided. “I am surprised at you, Mr. +Witberg, claiming to be a judge and skilled in the practice of the law, +and yet being guilty of such unlawyerlike conduct. Your manner, sir, and +your methods, remind me of a shyster. This is a simple case of assault +and battery. We are here to determine who struck the first blow, and we +are not interested in your estimates of Mr. Watson's personal character. +Proceed with your story.” + +Sol Witberg would have bitten his bruised and swollen lip in chagrin, +had it not hurt so much. But he contained himself and told a simple, +straightforward, truthful story. + +“Your Honor,” Watson said, “I would suggest that you ask him what he was +doing on my premises.” + +“A very good question. What were you doing, sir, on Mr. Watson's +premises?” + +“I did not know they were his premises.” + +“It was a trespass, your Honor,” Watson cried. “The warnings are posted +conspicuously.” + +“I saw no warnings,” said Sol Witberg. + +“I have seen them myself,” snapped the Justice. “They are very +conspicuous. And I would warn you, sir, that if you palter with +the truth in such little matters you may darken your more important +statements with suspicion. Why did you strike Mr. Watson?” + +“Your Honor, as I have testified, I did not strike a blow.” + +The Justice looked at Carter Watson's bruised and swollen visage, and +turned to glare at Sol Witberg. + +“Look at that man's cheek!” he thundered. “If you did not strike a blow +how comes it that he is so disfigured and injured?” + +“As I testified--” + +“Be careful,” the Justice warned. + +“I will be careful, sir. I will say nothing but the truth. He struck +himself with a rock. He struck himself with two different rocks.” + +“Does it stand to reason that a man, any man not a lunatic, would so +injure himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft and +sensitive parts of his face with a stone?” Carter Watson demanded + +“It sounds like a fairy story,” was the Justice's comment. + +“Mr. Witberg, had you been drinking?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Do you never drink?” + +“On occasion.” + +The Justice meditated on this answer with an air of astute profundity. + +Watson took advantage of the opportunity to wink at Sol Witberg, but +that much-abused gentleman saw nothing humorous in the situation. + +“A very peculiar case, a very peculiar case,” the Justice announced, +as he began his verdict. “The evidence of the two parties is flatly +contradictory. There are no witnesses outside the two principals. Each +claims the other committed the assault, and I have no legal way of +determining the truth. But I have my private opinion, Mr. Witberg, and +I would recommend that henceforth you keep off of Mr. Watson's premises +and keep away from this section of the country--” + +“This is an outrage!” Sol Witberg blurted out. + +“Sit down, sir!” was the Justice's thundered command. “If you interrupt +the Court in this manner again, I shall fine you for contempt. And I +warn you I shall fine you heavily--you, a judge yourself, who should be +conversant with the courtesy and dignity of courts. I shall now give my +verdict: + +“It is a rule of law that the defendant shall be given the benefit of +the doubt. As I have said, and I repeat, there is no legal way for me +to determine who struck the first blow. Therefore, and much to my +regret,”--here he paused and glared at Sol Witberg--“in each of these +cases I am compelled to give the defendant the benefit of the doubt. +Gentlemen, you are both dismissed.” + +“Let us have a nip on it,” Watson said to Witberg, as they left the +courtroom; but that outraged person refused to lock arms and amble to +the nearest saloon. + + + + +WINGED BLACKMAIL + +PETER WINN lay back comfortably in a library chair, with closed eyes, +deep in the cogitation of a scheme of campaign destined in the near +future to make a certain coterie of hostile financiers sit up. The +central idea had come to him the night before, and he was now reveling +in the planning of the remoter, minor details. By obtaining control of a +certain up-country bank, two general stores, and several logging camps, +he could come into control of a certain dinky jerkwater line which shall +here be nameless, but which, in his hands, would prove the key to a +vastly larger situation involving more main-line mileage almost than +there were spikes in the aforesaid dinky jerkwater. It was so simple +that he had almost laughed aloud when it came to him. No wonder those +astute and ancient enemies of his had passed it by. + +The library door opened, and a slender, middle-aged man, weak-eyed and +eye glassed, entered. In his hands was an envelope and an open letter. +As Peter Winn's secretary it was his task to weed out, sort, and +classify his employer's mail. + +“This came in the morning post,” he ventured apologetically and with +the hint of a titter. “Of course it doesn't amount to anything, but I +thought you would like to see it.” + +“Read it,” Peter Winn commanded, without opening his eyes. + +The secretary cleared his throat. + +“It is dated July seventeenth, but is without address. Postmark San +Francisco. It is also quite illiterate. The spelling is atrocious. Here +it is: + +“Mr. Peter Winn, SIR: I send you respectfully by express a pigeon worth +good money. She's a loo-loo--” + +“What is a loo-loo?” Peter Winn interrupted. + +The secretary tittered. + +“I'm sure I don't know, except that it must be a superlative of some +sort. The letter continues: + +“Please freight it with a couple of thousand-dollar bills and let it go. +If you do I wont never annoy you no more. If you dont you will be sorry. + +“That is all. It is unsigned. I thought it would amuse you.” + +“Has the pigeon come?” Peter Winn demanded. + +“I'm sure I never thought to enquire.” + +“Then do so.” + +In five minutes the secretary was back. + +“Yes, sir. It came this morning.” + +“Then bring it in.” + +The secretary was inclined to take the affair as a practical joke, but +Peter Winn, after an examination of the pigeon, thought otherwise. + +“Look at it,” he said, stroking and handling it. “See the length of the +body and that elongated neck. A proper carrier. I doubt if I've ever +seen a finer specimen. Powerfully winged and muscled. As our unknown +correspondent remarked, she is a loo-loo. It's a temptation to keep +her.” + +The secretary tittered. + +“Why not? Surely you will not let it go back to the writer of that +letter.” + +Peter Winn shook his head. + +“I'll answer. No man can threaten me, even anonymously or in foolery.” + +On a slip of paper he wrote the succinct message, “Go to hell,” signed +it, and placed it in the carrying apparatus with which the bird had been +thoughtfully supplied. + +“Now we'll let her loose. Where's my son? I'd like him to see the +flight.” + +“He's down in the workshop. He slept there last night, and had his +breakfast sent down this morning.” + +“He'll break his neck yet,” Peter Winn remarked, half-fiercely, +half-proudly, as he led the way to the veranda. + +Standing at the head of the broad steps, he tossed the pretty creature +outward and upward. She caught herself with a quick beat of wings, +fluttered about undecidedly for a space, then rose in the air. + +Again, high up, there seemed indecision; then, apparently getting her +bearings, she headed east, over the oak-trees that dotted the park-like +grounds. + +“Beautiful, beautiful,” Peter Winn murmured. “I almost wish I had her +back.” + +But Peter Winn was a very busy man, with such large plans in his head +and with so many reins in his hands that he quickly forgot the incident. +Three nights later the left wing of his country house was blown up. It +was not a heavy explosion, and nobody was hurt, though the wing itself +was ruined. Most of the windows of the rest of the house were broken, +and there was a deal of general damage. By the first ferry boat of the +morning half a dozen San Francisco detectives arrived, and several hours +later the secretary, in high excitement, erupted on Peter Winn. + +“It's come!” the secretary gasped, the sweat beading his forehead and +his eyes bulging behind their glasses. + +“What has come?” Peter demanded. “It--the--the loo-loo bird.” + +Then the financier understood. + +“Have you gone over the mail yet?” + +“I was just going over it, sir.” + +“Then continue, and see if you can find another letter from our +mysterious friend, the pigeon fancier.” + +The letter came to light. It read: + +Mr. Peter Winn, HONORABLE SIR: Now dont be a fool. If youd came through, +your shack would not have blew up--I beg to inform you respectfully, +am sending same pigeon. Take good care of same, thank you. Put five one +thousand dollar bills on her and let her go. Dont feed her. Dont try to +follow bird. She is wise to the way now and makes better time. If you +dont come through, watch out. + +Peter Winn was genuinely angry. This time he indited no message for the +pigeon to carry. Instead, he called in the detectives, and, under their +advice, weighted the pigeon heavily with shot. Her previous flight +having been eastward toward the bay, the fastest motor-boat in Tiburon +was commissioned to take up the chase if it led out over the water. + +But too much shot had been put on the carrier, and she was exhausted +before the shore was reached. Then the mistake was made of putting too +little shot on her, and she rose high in the air, got her bearings and +started eastward across San Francisco Bay. She flew straight over Angel +Island, and here the motor-boat lost her, for it had to go around the +island. + +That night, armed guards patrolled the grounds. But there was no +explosion. Yet, in the early morning Peter Winn learned by telephone +that his sister's home in Alameda had been burned to the ground. + +Two days later the pigeon was back again, coming this time by freight in +what had seemed a barrel of potatoes. Also came another letter: + +Mr. Peter Winn, RESPECTABLE SIR: It was me that fixed yr sisters house. +You have raised hell, aint you. Send ten thousand now. Going up all the +time. Dont put any more handicap weights on that bird. You sure cant +follow her, and its cruelty to animals. + +Peter Winn was ready to acknowledge himself beaten. The detectives +were powerless, and Peter did not know where next the man would +strike--perhaps at the lives of those near and dear to him. He even +telephoned to San Francisco for ten thousand dollars in bills of large +denomination. But Peter had a son, Peter Winn, Junior, with the +same firm-set jaw as his fathers, and the same knitted, brooding +determination in his eyes. He was only twenty-six, but he was all man, a +secret terror and delight to the financier, who alternated between pride +in his son's aeroplane feats and fear for an untimely and terrible end. + +“Hold on, father, don't send that money,” said Peter Winn, Junior. +“Number Eight is ready, and I know I've at last got that reefing down +fine. It will work, and it will revolutionize flying. Speed--that's +what's needed, and so are the large sustaining surfaces for getting +started and for altitude. I've got them both. Once I'm up I reef down. +There it is. The smaller the sustaining surface, the higher the speed. +That was the law discovered by Langley. And I've applied it. I can rise +when the air is calm and full of holes, and I can rise when its boiling, +and by my control of my plane areas I can come pretty close to making +any speed I want. Especially with that new Sangster-Endholm engine.” + +“You'll come pretty close to breaking your neck one of these days,” was +his father's encouraging remark. + +“Dad, I'll tell you what I'll come pretty close to-ninety miles an +hour--Yes, and a hundred. Now listen! I was going to make a trial +tomorrow. But it won't take two hours to start today. I'll tackle it +this afternoon. Keep that money. Give me the pigeon and I'll follow her +to her loft where ever it is. Hold on, let me talk to the mechanics.” + +He called up the workshop, and in crisp, terse sentences gave his orders +in a way that went to the older man's heart. Truly, his one son was a +chip off the old block, and Peter Winn had no meek notions concerning +the intrinsic value of said old block. + +Timed to the minute, the young man, two hours later, was ready for the +start. In a holster at his hip, for instant use, cocked and with the +safety on, was a large-caliber automatic pistol. With a final inspection +and overhauling he took his seat in the aeroplane. He started the +engine, and with a wild burr of gas explosions the beautiful fabric +darted down the launching ways and lifted into the air. Circling, as he +rose, to the west, he wheeled about and jockeyed and maneuvered for the +real start of the race. + +This start depended on the pigeon. Peter Winn held it. Nor was it +weighted with shot this time. Instead, half a yard of bright ribbon was +firmly attached to its leg--this the more easily to enable its flight +being followed. Peter Winn released it, and it arose easily enough +despite the slight drag of the ribbon. There was no uncertainty about +its movements. This was the third time it had made particular homing +passage, and it knew the course. + +At an altitude of several hundred feet it straightened out and went due +east. The aeroplane swerved into a straight course from its last curve +and followed. The race was on. Peter Winn, looking up, saw that the +pigeon was outdistancing the machine. Then he saw something else. The +aeroplane suddenly and instantly became smaller. It had reefed. Its +high-speed plane-design was now revealed. Instead of the generous +spread of surface with which it had taken the air, it was now a lean and +hawklike monoplane balanced on long and exceedingly narrow wings. + +***** + +When young Winn reefed down so suddenly, he received a surprise. It +was his first trial of the new device, and while he was prepared for +increased speed he was not prepared for such an astonishing increase. It +was better than he dreamed, and, before he knew it, he was hard upon +the pigeon. That little creature, frightened by this, the most monstrous +hawk it had ever seen, immediately darted upward, after the manner of +pigeons that strive always to rise above a hawk. + +In great curves the monoplane followed upward, higher and higher into +the blue. It was difficult, from underneath to see the pigeon, and young +Winn dared not lose it from his sight. He even shook out his reefs in +order to rise more quickly. Up, up they went, until the pigeon, true +to its instinct, dropped and struck at what it thought to be the back of +its pursuing enemy. Once was enough, for, evidently finding no life in +the smooth cloth surface of the machine, it ceased soaring and +straightened out on its eastward course. + +A carrier pigeon on a passage can achieve a high rate of speed, and +Winn reefed again. And again, to his satisfaction, he found that he was +beating the pigeon. But this time he quickly shook out a portion of his +reefed sustaining surface and slowed down in time. From then on he knew +he had the chase safely in hand, and from then on a chant rose to his +lips which he continued to sing at intervals, and unconsciously, for the +rest of the passage. It was: “Going some; going some; what did I tell +you!--going some.” + +Even so, it was not all plain sailing. The air is an unstable medium at +best, and quite without warning, at an acute angle, he entered an aerial +tide which he recognized as the gulf stream of wind that poured through +the drafty-mouthed Golden Gate. His right wing caught it first--a +sudden, sharp puff that lifted and tilted the monoplane and threatened +to capsize it. But he rode with a sensitive “loose curb,” and quickly, +but not too quickly, he shifted the angles of his wing-tips, depressed +the front horizontal rudder, and swung over the rear vertical rudder to +meet the tilting thrust of the wind. As the machine came back to an even +keel, and he knew that he was now wholly in the invisible stream, he +readjusted the wing-tips, rapidly away from him during the several +moments of his discomfiture. + +The pigeon drove straight on for the Alameda County shore, and it +was near this shore that Winn had another experience. He fell into an +air-hole. He had fallen into air-holes before, in previous flights, but +this was a far larger one than he had ever encountered. With his eyes +strained on the ribbon attached to the pigeon, by that fluttering bit of +color he marked his fall. Down he went, at the pit of his stomach that +old sink sensation which he had known as a boy he first negotiated +quick-starting elevators. But Winn, among other secrets of aviation, had +learned that to go up it was sometimes necessary first to go down. +The air had refused to hold him. Instead of struggling futilely and +perilously against this lack of sustension, he yielded to it. With +steady head and hand, he depressed the forward horizontal rudder--just +recklessly enough and not a fraction more--and the monoplane dived head +foremost and sharply down the void. It was falling with the keenness of +a knife-blade. Every instant the speed accelerated frightfully. Thus +he accumulated the momentum that would save him. But few instants were +required, when, abruptly shifting the double horizontal rudders forward +and astern, he shot upward on the tense and straining plane and out of +the pit. + +At an altitude of five hundred feet, the pigeon drove on over the town +of Berkeley and lifted its flight to the Contra Costa hills. Young Winn +noted the campus and buildings of the University of California--his +university--as he rose after the pigeon. + +Once more, on these Contra Costa hills, he early came to grief. The +pigeon was now flying low, and where a grove of eucalyptus presented a +solid front to the wind, the bird was suddenly sent fluttering wildly +upward for a distance of a hundred feet. Winn knew what it meant. It had +been caught in an air-surf that beat upward hundreds of feet where +the fresh west wind smote the upstanding wall of the grove. He reefed +hastily to the uttermost, and at the same time depressed the angle of +his flight to meet that upward surge. Nevertheless, the monoplane was +tossed fully three hundred feet before the danger was left astern. + +Two or more ranges of hills the pigeon crossed, and then Winn saw it +dropping down to a landing where a small cabin stood in a hillside +clearing. He blessed that clearing. Not only was it good for alighting, +but, on account of the steepness of the slope, it was just the thing for +rising again into the air. + +A man, reading a newspaper, had just started up at the sight of the +returning pigeon, when he heard the burr of Winn's engine and saw the +huge monoplane, with all surfaces set, drop down upon him, stop suddenly +on an air-cushion manufactured on the spur of the moment by a shift of +the horizontal rudders, glide a few yards, strike ground, and come to +rest not a score of feet away from him. But when he saw a young man, +calmly sitting in the machine and leveling a pistol at him, the man +turned to run. Before he could make the corner of the cabin, a bullet +through the leg brought him down in a sprawling fall. + +“What do you want!” he demanded sullenly, as the other stood over him. + +“I want to take you for a ride in my new machine,” Winn answered. +“Believe me, she is a loo-loo.” + +The man did not argue long, for this strange visitor had most convincing +ways. Under Winn's instructions, covered all the time by the pistol, +the man improvised a tourniquet and applied it to his wounded leg. Winn +helped him to a seat in the machine, then went to the pigeon-loft and +took possession of the bird with the ribbon still fast to its leg. + +A very tractable prisoner, the man proved. Once up in the air, he sat +close, in an ecstasy of fear. An adept at winged blackmail, he had no +aptitude for wings himself, and when he gazed down at the flying land +and water far beneath him, he did not feel moved to attack his captor, +now defenseless, both hands occupied with flight. + +Instead, the only way the man felt moved was to sit closer. + +***** + +Peter Winn, Senior, scanning the heavens with powerful glasses, saw +the monoplane leap into view and grow large over the rugged backbone +of Angel Island. Several minutes later he cried out to the waiting +detectives that the machine carried a passenger. Dropping swiftly and +piling up an abrupt air-cushion, the monoplane landed. + +“That reefing device is a winner!” young Winn cried, as he climbed out. +“Did you see me at the start? I almost ran over the pigeon. Going some, +dad! Going some! What did I tell you? Going some!” + +“But who is that with you?” his father demanded. + +The young man looked back at his prisoner and remembered. + +“Why, that's the pigeon-fancier,” he said. “I guess the officers can +take care of him.” + +Peter Winn gripped his son's hand in grim silence, and fondled the +pigeon which his son had passed to him. Again he fondled the pretty +creature. Then he spoke. + +“Exhibit A, for the People,” he said. + + + + +BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES + +ARRANGEMENTS quite extensive had been made for the celebration of +Christmas on the yacht Samoset. Not having been in any civilized port +for months, the stock of provisions boasted few delicacies; yet Minnie +Duncan had managed to devise real feasts for cabin and forecastle. + +“Listen, Boyd,” she told her husband. “Here are the menus. For the cabin, +raw bonita native style, turtle soup, omelette a la Samoset--” + +“What the dickens?” Boyd Duncan interrupted. + +“Well, if you must know, I found a tin of mushrooms and a package of +egg-powder which had fallen down behind the locker, and there are other +things as well that will go into it. But don't interrupt. Boiled yam, +fried taro, alligator pear salad--there, you've got me all mixed, Then +I found a last delectable half-pound of dried squid. There will be baked +beans Mexican, if I can hammer it into Toyama's head; also, baked papaia +with Marquesan honey, and, lastly, a wonderful pie the secret of which +Toyama refuses to divulge.” + +“I wonder if it is possible to concoct a punch or a cocktail out of +trade rum?” Duncan muttered gloomily. + +“Oh! I forgot! Come with me.” + +His wife caught his hand and led him through the small connecting door +to her tiny stateroom. Still holding his hand, she fished in the depths +of a hat-locker and brought forth a pint bottle of champagne. + +“The dinner is complete!” he cried. + +“Wait.” + +She fished again, and was rewarded with a silver-mounted whisky flask. +She held it to the light of a port-hole, and the liquor showed a quarter +of the distance from the bottom. + +“I've been saving it for weeks,” she explained. “And there's enough for +you and Captain Dettmar.” + +“Two mighty small drinks,” Duncan complained. + +“There would have been more, but I gave a drink to Lorenzo when he was +sick.” + +Duncan growled, “Might have given him rum,” facetiously. + +“The nasty stuff! For a sick man? Don't be greedy, Boyd. And I'm glad +there isn't any more, for Captain Dettmar's sake. Drinking always makes +him irritable. And now for the men's dinner. Soda crackers, sweet cakes, +candy--” + +“Substantial, I must say.” + +“Do hush. Rice, and curry, yam, taro, bonita, of course, a big cake +Toyama is making, young pig--” + +“Oh, I say,” he protested. + +“It is all right, Boyd. We'll be in Attu-Attu in three days. Besides, +it's my pig. That old chief what-ever-his-name distinctly presented it +to me. You saw him yourself. And then two tins of bullamacow. That's +their dinner. And now about the presents. Shall we wait until tomorrow, +or give them this evening?” + +“Christmas Eve, by all means,” was the man's judgment. “We'll call all +hands at eight bells; I'll give them a tot of rum all around, and then +you give the presents. Come on up on deck. It's stifling down here. I +hope Lorenzo has better luck with the dynamo; without the fans there +won't be much sleeping to-night if we're driven below.” + +They passed through the small main-cabin, climbed a steep companion +ladder, and emerged on deck. The sun was setting, and the promise was +for a clear tropic night. The Samoset, with fore- and main-sail winged +out on either side, was slipping a lazy four-knots through the smooth +sea. Through the engine-room skylight came a sound of hammering. They +strolled aft to where Captain Dettmar, one foot on the rail, was +oiling the gear of the patent log. At the wheel stood a tall South Sea +Islander, clad in white undershirt and scarlet hip-cloth. + +Boyd Duncan was an original. At least that was the belief of his +friends. Of comfortable fortune, with no need to do anything but take +his comfort, he elected to travel about the world in outlandish and +most uncomfortable ways. Incidentally, he had ideas about coral-reefs, +disagreed profoundly with Darwin on that subject, had voiced his opinion +in several monographs and one book, and was now back at his hobby, +cruising the South Seas in a tiny, thirty-ton yacht and studying +reef-formations. + +His wife, Minnie Duncan, was also declared an original, inasmuch as she +joyfully shared his vagabond wanderings. Among other things, in the six +exciting years of their marriage she had climbed Chimborazo with him, +made a three-thousand-mile winter journey with dogs and sleds in Alaska, +ridden a horse from Canada to Mexico, cruised the Mediterranean in a +ten-ton yawl, and canoed from Germany to the Black Sea across the +heart of Europe. They were a royal pair of wanderlusters, he, big and +broad-shouldered, she a small, brunette, and happy woman, whose one +hundred and fifteen pounds were all grit and endurance, and withal, +pleasing to look upon. + +The Samoset had been a trading schooner, when Duncan bought her in San +Francisco and made alterations. Her interior was wholly rebuilt, so that +the hold became main-cabin and staterooms, while abaft amidships were +installed engines, a dynamo, an ice machine, storage batteries, and, +far in the stern, gasoline tanks. Necessarily, she carried a small crew. +Boyd, Minnie, and Captain Dettmar were the only whites on board, though +Lorenzo, the small and greasy engineer, laid a part claim to white, +being a Portuguese half-caste. A Japanese served as cook, and a Chinese +as cabin boy. Four white sailors had constituted the original crew +for'ard, but one by one they had yielded to the charms of palm-waving +South Sea isles and been replaced by islanders. Thus, one of the dusky +sailors hailed from Easter Island, a second from the Carolines, a third +from the Paumotus, while the fourth was a gigantic Samoan. At sea, Boyd +Duncan, himself a navigator, stood a mate's watch with Captain Dettmar, +and both of them took a wheel or lookout occasionally. On a pinch, +Minnie herself could take a wheel, and it was on pinches that she proved +herself more dependable at steering than did the native sailors. + +At eight bells, all hands assembled at the wheel, and Boyd Duncan +appeared with a black bottle and a mug. The rum he served out himself, +half a mug of it to each man. They gulped the stuff down with many +facial expressions of delight, followed by loud lip-smackings of +approval, though the liquor was raw enough and corrosive enough to burn +their mucous membranes. All drank except Lee Goom, the abstemious +cabin boy. This rite accomplished, they waited for the next, the +present-giving. Generously molded on Polynesian lines, huge-bodied and +heavy-muscled, they were nevertheless like so many children, laughing +merrily at little things, their eager black eyes flashing in the lantern +light as their big bodies swayed to the heave and roll of the ship. + +Calling each by name, Minnie gave the presents out, accompanying each +presentation with some happy remark that added to the glee. There +were trade watches, clasp knives, amazing assortments of fish-hooks +in packages, plug tobacco, matches, and gorgeous strips of cotton for +loincloths all around. That Boyd Duncan was liked by them was evidenced +by the roars of laughter with which they greeted his slightest joking +allusion. + +Captain Dettmar, white-faced, smiling only when his employer chanced to +glance at him, leaned against the wheel-box, looking on. Twice, he left +the group and went below, remaining there but a minute each time. Later, +in the main cabin, when Lorenzo, Lee Goom and Toyama received their +presents, he disappeared into his stateroom twice again. For of all +times, the devil that slumbered in Captain Dettmar's soul chose this +particular time of good cheer to awaken. Perhaps it was not entirely the +devil's fault, for Captain Dettmar, privily cherishing a quart of whisky +for many weeks, had selected Christmas Eve for broaching it. + +It was still early in the evening--two bells had just gone--when Duncan +and his wife stood by the cabin companionway, gazing to windward and +canvassing the possibility of spreading their beds on deck. A small, +dark blot of cloud, slowly forming on the horizon, carried the threat +of a rain-squall, and it was this they were discussing when Captain +Dettmar, coming from aft and about to go below, glanced at them with +sudden suspicion. He paused, his face working spasmodically. Then he +spoke: + +“You are talking about me.” + +His voice was hoarse, and there was an excited vibration in it. Minnie +Duncan started, then glanced at her husband's immobile face, took the +cue, and remained silent. + +“I say you were talking about me,” Captain Dettmar repeated, this time +with almost a snarl. + +He did not lurch nor betray the liquor on him in any way save by the +convulsive working of his face. + +“Minnie, you'd better go down,” Duncan said gently. “Tell Lee Goom we'll +sleep below. It won't be long before that squall is drenching things.” + +She took the hint and left, delaying just long enough to give one +anxious glance at the dim faces of the two men. + +Duncan puffed at his cigar and waited till his wife's voice, in talk +with the cabin-boy, came up through the open skylight. + +“Well?” Duncan demanded in a low voice, but sharply. + +“I said you were talking about me. I say it again. Oh, I haven't been +blind. Day after day I've seen the two of you talking about me. Why +don't you come out and say it to my face! I know you know. And I know +your mind's made up to discharge me at Attu-Attu.” + +“I am sorry you are making such a mess of everything,” was Duncan's +quiet reply. + +But Captain Dettmar's mind was set on trouble. + +“You know you are going to discharge me. You think you are too good to +associate with the likes of me--you and your wife.” + +“Kindly keep her out of this,” Duncan warned. “What do you want?” + +“I want to know what you are going to do!” + +“Discharge you, after this, at Attu-Attu.” + +“You intended to, all along.” + +“On the contrary. It is your present conduct that compels me.” + +“You can't give me that sort of talk.” + +“I can't retain a captain who calls me a liar.” + +Captain Dettmar for the moment was taken aback. His face and lips +worked, but he could say nothing. Duncan coolly pulled at his cigar and +glanced aft at the rising cloud of squall. + +“Lee Goom brought the mail aboard at Tahiti,” Captain Dettmar began. + +“We were hove short then and leaving. You didn't look at your letters +until we were outside, and then it was too late. That's why you didn't +discharge me at Tahiti. Oh, I know. I saw the long envelope when Lee +Goom came over the side. It was from the Governor of California, printed +on the corner for any one to see. You'd been working behind my back. +Some beachcomber in Honolulu had whispered to you, and you'd written to +the Governor to find out. And that was his answer Lee Goom carried +out to you. Why didn't you come to me like a man! No, you must play +underhand with me, knowing that this billet was the one chance for me to +get on my feet again. And as soon as you read the Governor's letter your +mind was made up to get rid of me. I've seen it on your face ever since +for all these months.. I've seen the two of you, polite as hell to me +all the time, and getting away in corners and talking about me and that +affair in 'Frisco.” + +“Are you done?” Duncan asked, his voice low, and tense. “Quite done?” + +Captain Dettmar made no answer. + +“Then I'll tell you a few things. It was precisely because of that +affair in 'Frisco that I did not discharge you in Tahiti. God knows you +gave me sufficient provocation. I thought that if ever a man needed a +chance to rehabilitate himself, you were that man. Had there been no +black mark against you, I would have discharged you when I learned how +you were robbing me.” + +Captain Dettmar showed surprise, started to interrupt, then changed his +mind. + +“There was that matter of the deck-calking, the bronze rudder-irons, the +overhauling of the engine, the new spinnaker boom, the new davits, and +the repairs to the whale-boat. You OKd the shipyard bill. It was four +thousand one hundred and twenty-two francs. By the regular shipyard +charges it ought not to have been a centime over twenty-five hundred +francs-” + +“If you take the word of those alongshore sharks against mine--' the +other began thickly. + +“Save yourself the trouble of further lying,” Duncan went on coldly. +“I looked it up. I got Flaubin before the Governor himself, and the old +rascal confessed to sixteen hundred overcharge. Said you'd stuck him up +for it. Twelve hundred went to you, and his share was four hundred and +the job. Don't interrupt. I've got his affidavit below. Then was when I +would have put you ashore, except for the cloud you were under. You had +to have this one chance or go clean to hell. I gave you the chance. And +what have you got to say about it?” + +“What did the Governor say?” Captain Dettmar demanded truculently. + +“Which governor?” + +“Of California. Did he lie to you like all the rest?” + +“I'll tell you what he said. He said that you had been convicted on +circumstantial evidence; that was why you had got life imprisonment +instead of hanging; that you had always stoutly maintained your +innocence; that you were the black sheep of the Maryland Dettmars; that +they moved heaven and earth for your pardon; that your prison conduct +was most exemplary; that he was prosecuting attorney at the time you +were convicted; that after you had served seven years he yielded to your +family's plea and pardoned you; and that in his own mind existed a doubt +that you had killed McSweeny.” + +There was a pause, during which Duncan went on studying the rising +squall, while Captain Dettmar's face worked terribly. + +“Well, the Governor was wrong,” he announced, with a short laugh. “I did +kill McSweeny. I did get the watchman drunk that night. I beat McSweeny +to death in his bunk. I used the iron belaying pin that appeared in the +evidence. He never had a chance. I beat him to a jelly. Do you want the +details?” + +Duncan looked at him in the curious way one looks at any monstrosity, +but made no reply. + +“Oh, I'm not afraid to tell you,” Captain Dettmar blustered on. “There +are no witnesses. Besides, I am a free man now. I am pardoned, and by +God they can never put me back in that hole again. I broke McSweeny's +jaw with the first blow. He was lying on his back asleep. He said, 'My +God, Jim! My God!' It was funny to see his broken jaw wabble as he said +it. Then I smashed him... I say, do you want the rest of the details?” + +“Is that all you have to say?” was the answer. + +“Isn't it enough?” Captain Dettmar retorted. + +“It is enough.” + +“What are you going to do about it?” + +“Put you ashore at Attu-Attu.” + +“And in the meantime?” + +“In the meantime...” Duncan paused. An increase of weight in the wind +rippled his hair. The stars overhead vanished, and the Samoset swung +four points off her course in the careless steersman's hands. “In the +meantime throw your halyards down on deck and look to your wheel. I'll +call the men.” + +The next moment the squall burst upon them. Captain Dettmar, springing +aft, lifted the coiled mainsail halyards from their pins and threw them, +ready to run, on the deck. The three islanders swarmed from the tiny +forecastle, two of them leaping to the halyards and holding by a single +turn, while the third fastened down the engineroom, companion and +swung the ventilators around. Below, Lee Goom and Toyama were lowering +skylight covers and screwing up deadeyes. Duncan pulled shut the cover +of the companion scuttle, and held on, waiting, the first drops of rain +pelting his face, while the Samoset leaped violently ahead, at the same +time heeling first to starboard then to port as the gusty pressures +caught her winged-out sails. + +All waited. But there was no need to lower away on the run. The +power went out of the wind, and the tropic rain poured a deluge over +everything. Then it was, the danger past, and as the Kanakas began to +coil the halyards back on the pins, that Boyd Duncan went below. + +“All right,” he called in cheerily to his wife. “Only a puff.” + +“And Captain Dettmar?” she queried. + +“Has been drinking, that is all. I shall get rid of him at Attu-Attu.” + +But before Duncan climbed into his bunk, he strapped around himself, +against the skin and under his pajama coat, a heavy automatic pistol. + +He fell asleep almost immediately, for his was the gift of perfect +relaxation. He did things tensely, in the way savages do, but the +instant the need passed he relaxed, mind and body. So it was that he +slept, while the rain still poured on deck and the yacht plunged and +rolled in the brief, sharp sea caused by the squall. + +He awoke with a feeling of suffocation and heaviness. The electric fans +had stopped, and the air was thick and stifling. Mentally cursing +all Lorenzos and storage batteries, he heard his wife moving in the +adjoining stateroom and pass out into the main cabin. Evidently heading +for the fresher air on deck, he thought, and decided it was a good +example to imitate. Putting on his slippers and tucking a pillow and a +blanket under his arm, he followed her. As he was about to emerge from +the companionway, the ship's clock in the cabin began to strike and he +stopped to listen. Four bells sounded. It was two in the morning. From +without came the creaking of the gaff-jaw against the mast. The Samoset +rolled and righted on a sea, and in the light breeze her canvas gave +forth a hollow thrum. + +He was just putting his foot out on the damp deck when he heard his +wife scream. It was a startled frightened scream that ended in a splash +overside. He leaped out and ran aft. In the dim starlight he could make +out her head and shoulders disappearing astern in the lazy wake. + +“What was it?” Captain Dettmar, who was at the wheel, asked. + +“Mrs. Duncan,” was Duncan's reply, as he tore the life-buoy from its +hook and flung it aft. “Jibe over to starboard and come up on the wind!” + he commanded. + +And then Boyd Duncan made a mistake. He dived overboard. + +When he came up, he glimpsed the blue-light on the buoy, which had +ignited automatically when it struck the water. He swam for it, and +found Minnie had reached it first. + +“Hello,” he said. “Just trying to keep cool?” + +“Oh, Boyd!” was her answer, and one wet hand reached out and touched +his. + +The blue light, through deterioration or damage, flickered out. As they +lifted on the smooth crest of a wave, Duncan turned to look where the +Samoset made a vague blur in the darkness. No lights showed, but there +was noise of confusion. He could hear Captain Dettmar's shouting above +the cries of the others. + +“I must say he's taking his time,” Duncan grumbled. “Why doesn't he +jibe? There she goes now.” + +They could hear the rattle of the boom tackle blocks as the sail was +eased across. + +“That was the mainsail,” he muttered. “Jibed to port when I told him +starboard.” + +Again they lifted on a wave, and again and again, ere they could make +out the distant green of the Samoset's starboard light. But instead of +remaining stationary, in token that the yacht was coming toward them, it +began moving across their field of vision. Duncan swore. + +“What's the lubber holding over there for!” he demanded. “He's got his +compass. He knows our bearing.” + +But the green light, which was all they could see, and which they could +see only when they were on top of a wave, moved steadily away from them, +withal it was working up to windward, and grew dim and dimmer. Duncan +called out loudly and repeatedly, and each time, in the intervals, they +could hear, very faintly, the voice of Captain Dettmar shouting orders. + +“How can he hear me with such a racket?” Duncan complained. + +“He's doing it so the crew won't hear you,” was Minnie's answer. + +There was something in the quiet way she said it that caught her +husband's attention. + +“What do you mean?” + +“I mean that he is not trying to pick us up,” she went on in the same +composed voice. “He threw me overboard.” + +“You are not making a mistake?” + +“How could I? I was at the main rigging, looking to see if any more +rain threatened. He must have left the wheel and crept behind me. I was +holding on to a stay with one hand. He gripped my hand free from behind +and threw me over. It's too bad you didn't know, or else you would have +staid aboard.” + +Duncan groaned, but said nothing for several minutes. The green light +changed the direction of its course. + +“She's gone about,” he announced. “You are right. He's deliberately +working around us and to windward. Up wind they can never hear me. But +here goes.” + +He called at minute intervals for a long time. The green light +disappeared, being replaced by the red, showing that the yacht had gone +about again. + +“Minnie,” he said finally, “it pains me to tell you, but you married a +fool. Only a fool would have gone overboard as I did.” + +“What chance have we of being picked up... by some other vessel, I +mean?” she asked. + +“About one in ten thousand, or ten thousand million. Not a steamer route +nor trade route crosses this stretch of ocean. And there aren't any +whalers knocking about the South Seas. There might be a stray trading +schooner running across from Tutuwanga. But I happen to know that island +is visited only once a year. A chance in a million is ours.” + +“And we'll play that chance,” she rejoined stoutly. + +“You ARE a joy!” His hand lifted hers to his lips. “And Aunt Elizabeth +always wondered what I saw in you. Of course we'll play that chance. And +we'll win it, too. To happen otherwise would be unthinkable. Here goes.” + +He slipped the heavy pistol from his belt and let it sink into the sea. +The belt, however, he retained. + +“Now you get inside the buoy and get some sleep. Duck under.” + +She ducked obediently, and came up inside the floating circle. He +fastened the straps for her, then, with the pistol belt, buckled himself +across one shoulder to the outside of the buoy. + +“We're good for all day to-morrow,” he said. “Thank God the water's +warm. It won't be a hardship for the first twenty-hour hours, anyway. +And if we're not picked up by nightfall, we've just got to hang on for +another day, that's all.” + +For half an hour they maintained silence, Duncan, his head resting on +the arm that was on the buoy, seemed asleep. + +“Boyd?” Minnie said softly. + +“Thought you were asleep,” he growled. + +“Boyd, if we don't come through this--” + +“Stow that!” he broke in ungallantly. “Of course we're coming through. +There is isn't a doubt of it. Somewhere on this ocean is a ship that's +heading right for us. You wait and see. Just the same I wish my brain +were equipped with wireless. Now I'm going to sleep, if you don't.” + +But for once, sleep baffled him. An hour later he heard Minnie stir and +knew she was awake. + +“Say, do you know what I've been thinking!” she asked. + +“No; what?” + +“That I'll wish you a Merry Christmas.” + +“By George, I never thought of it. Of course it's Christmas Day. We'll +have many more of them, too. And do you know what I've been thinking? +What a confounded shame we're done out of our Christmas dinner. Wait +till I lay hands on Dettmar. I'll take it out of him. And it won't be +with an iron belaying pin either, Just two bunches of naked knuckles, +that's all.” + +Despite his facetiousness, Boyd Duncan had little hope. He knew well +enough the meaning of one chance in a million, and was calmly certain +that his wife and he had entered upon their last few living hours--hours +that were inevitably bound to be black and terrible with tragedy. + +The tropic sun rose in a cloudless sky. Nothing was to be seen. The +Samoset was beyond the sea-rim. As the sun rose higher, Duncan ripped +his pajama trousers in halves and fashioned them into two rude turbans. +Soaked in sea-water they offset the heat-rays. + +“When I think of that dinner, I'm really angry,” he complained, as he +noted an anxious expression threatening to set on his wife's face. “And +I want you to be with me when I settle with Dettmar. I've always been +opposed to women witnessing scenes of blood, but this is different. It +will be a beating.” + +“I hope I don't break my knuckles on him,” he added, after a pause. + +Midday came and went, and they floated on, the center of a narrow +sea-circle. A gentle breath of the dying trade-wind fanned them, and +they rose and fell monotonously on the smooth swells of a perfect summer +sea. Once, a gunie spied them, and for half an hour circled about them +with majestic sweeps. And, once, a huge rayfish, measuring a score of +feet across the tips, passed within a few yards. + +By sunset, Minnie began to rave, softly, babblingly, like a child. +Duncan's face grew haggard as he watched and listened, while in his +mind he revolved plans of how best to end the hours of agony that were +coming. And, so planning, as they rose on a larger swell than usual, +he swept the circle of the sea with his eyes, and saw, what made him cry +out. + +“Minnie!” She did not answer, and he shouted her name again in her ear, +with all the voice he could command. Her eyes opened, in them fluttered +commingled consciousness and delirium. He slapped her hands and wrists +till the sting of the blows roused her. + +“There she is, the chance in a million!” he cried. + +“A steamer at that, heading straight for us! By George, it's a cruiser! +I have it!--the Annapolis, returning with those astronomers from +Tutuwanga.” + +***** + +United States Consul Lingford was a fussy, elderly gentleman, and in +the two years of his service at Attu-Attu had never encountered so +unprecedented a case as that laid before him by Boyd Duncan. The +latter, with his wife, had been landed there by the Annapolis, which had +promptly gone on with its cargo of astronomers to Fiji. + +“It was cold-blooded, deliberate attempt to murder,” said Consul +Lingford. “The law shall take its course. I don't know how precisely +to deal with this Captain Dettmar, but if he comes to Attu-Attu, depend +upon it he shall be dealt with, he--ah--shall be dealt with. In the +meantime, I shall read up the law. And now, won't you and your good lady +stop for lunch!” + +As Duncan accepted the invitation, Minnie, who had been glancing out +of the window at the harbor, suddenly leaned forward and touched her +husband's arm. He followed her gaze, and saw the Samoset, flag at half +mast, rounding up and dropping anchor scarcely a hundred yards away. + +“There's my boat now,” Duncan said to the Consul. “And there's the +launch over the side, and Captain Dettmar dropping into it. If I don't +miss my guess, he's coming to report our deaths to you.” + +The launch landed on the white beach, and leaving Lorenzo tinkering with +the engine, Captain Dettmar strode across the beach and up the path to +the Consulate. + +“Let him make his report,” Duncan said. “We'll just step into this next +room and listen.” + +And through the partly open door, he and his wife heard Captain Dettmar, +with tears in his voice, describe the loss of his owners. + +“I jibed over and went back across the very spot,” he concluded. “There +was not a sign of them. I called and called, but there was never an +answer. I tacked back and forth and wore for two solid hours, then hove +to till daybreak, and cruised back and forth all day, two men at the +mastheads. It is terrible. I am heartbroken. Mr. Duncan was a splendid +man, and I shall never...” + +But he never completed the sentence, for at that moment his splendid +employer strode out upon him, leaving Minnie standing in the doorway. +Captain Dettmar's white face blanched even whiter. + +“I did my best to pick you up, sir,” he began. + +Boyd Duncan's answer was couched in terms of bunched knuckles, two +bunches of them, that landed right and left on Captain Dettmar's face. + +Captain Dettmar staggered backward, recovered, and rushed with swinging +arms at his employer, only to be met with a blow squarely between the +eyes. This time the Captain went down, bearing the typewriter under him +as he crashed to the floor. + +“This is not permissible,” Consul Lingford spluttered. “I beg of you, I +beg of you, to desist.” + +“I'll pay the damages to office furniture,” Duncan answered, and at the +same time landing more bunched knuckles on the eyes and nose of Dettmar. + +Consul Lingford bobbed around in the turmoil like a wet hen, while his +office furniture went to ruin. Once, he caught Duncan by the arm, but +was flung back, gasping, half-across the room. Another time he appealed +to Minnie. + +“Mrs. Duncan, won't you, please, please, restrain your husband?” + +But she, white-faced and trembling, resolutely shook her head and +watched the fray with all her eyes. + +“It is outrageous,” Consul Lingford cried, dodging the hurtling bodies +of the two men. “It is an affront to the Government, to the United +States Government. Nor will it be overlooked, I warn you. Oh, do pray +desist, Mr. Duncan. You will kill the man. I beg of you. I beg, I +beg...” + +But the crash of a tall vase filled with crimson hibiscus blossoms left +him speechless. + +The time came when Captain Dettmar could no longer get up. He got as far +as hands and knees, struggled vainly to rise further, then collapsed. +Duncan stirred the groaning wreck with his foot. + +“He's all right,” he announced. “I've only given him what he has given +many a sailor and worse.” + +“Great heavens, sir!” Consul Lingford exploded, staring horror-stricken +at the man whom he had invited to lunch. + +Duncan giggled involuntarily, then controlled himself. + +“I apologize, Mr. Lingford, I most heartily apologize. I fear I was +slightly carried away by my feelings.” + +Consul Lingford gulped and sawed the air speechlessly with his arms. + +“Slightly, sir? Slightly?” he managed to articulate. + +“Boyd,” Minnie called softly from the doorway. + +He turned and looked. + +“You ARE a joy,” she said. + +“And now, Mr. Lingford, I am done with him,” Duncan said. “I turn over +what is left to you and the law.” + +“That?” Consul Lingford queried, in accent of horror. + +“That,” Boyd Duncan replied, looking ruefully at his battered knuckles. + + + + +WAR + +HE was a young man, not more than twenty-four or five, and he might have +sat his horse with the careless grace of his youth had he not been +so catlike and tense. His black eyes roved everywhere, catching the +movements of twigs and branches where small birds hopped, questing ever +onward through the changing vistas of trees and brush, and returning +always to the clumps of undergrowth on either side. And as he watched, +so did he listen, though he rode on in silence, save for the boom of +heavy guns from far to the west. This had been sounding monotonously +in his ears for hours, and only its cessation could have aroused his +notice. For he had business closer to hand. Across his saddle-bow was +balanced a carbine. + +So tensely was he strung, that a bunch of quail, exploding into flight +from under his horse's nose, startled him to such an extent that +automatically, instantly, he had reined in and fetched the carbine +halfway to his shoulder. He grinned sheepishly, recovered himself, and +rode on. So tense was he, so bent upon the work he had to do, that the +sweat stung his eyes unwiped, and unheeded rolled down his nose and +spattered his saddle pommel. The band of his cavalryman's hat was +fresh-stained with sweat. The roan horse under him was likewise wet. It +was high noon of a breathless day of heat. Even the birds and squirrels +did not dare the sun, but sheltered in shady hiding places among the +trees. + +Man and horse were littered with leaves and dusted with yellow pollen, +for the open was ventured no more than was compulsory. They kept to the +brush and trees, and invariably the man halted and peered out before +crossing a dry glade or naked stretch of upland pasturage. He worked +always to the north, though his way was devious, and it was from the +north that he seemed most to apprehend that for which he was looking. +He was no coward, but his courage was only that of the average civilized +man, and he was looking to live, not die. + +Up a small hillside he followed a cowpath through such dense scrub that +he was forced to dismount and lead his horse. But when the path swung +around to the west, he abandoned it and headed to the north again along +the oak-covered top of the ridge. + +The ridge ended in a steep descent-so steep that he zigzagged back and +forth across the face of the slope, sliding and stumbling among the dead +leaves and matted vines and keeping a watchful eye on the horse above +that threatened to fall down upon him. The sweat ran from him, and the +pollen-dust, settling pungently in mouth and nostrils, increased +his thirst. Try as he would, nevertheless the descent was noisy, and +frequently he stopped, panting in the dry heat and listening for any +warning from beneath. + +At the bottom he came out on a flat, so densely forested that he could +not make out its extent. Here the character of the woods changed, and he +was able to remount. Instead of the twisted hillside oaks, tall straight +trees, big-trunked and prosperous, rose from the damp fat soil. Only +here and there were thickets, easily avoided, while he encountered +winding, park-like glades where the cattle had pastured in the days +before war had run them off. + +His progress was more rapid now, as he came down into the valley, and at +the end of half an hour he halted at an ancient rail fence on the edge +of a clearing. He did not like the openness of it, yet his path lay +across to the fringe of trees that marked the banks of the stream. +It was a mere quarter of a mile across that open, but the thought of +venturing out in it was repugnant. A rifle, a score of them, a thousand, +might lurk in that fringe by the stream. + +Twice he essayed to start, and twice he paused. He was appalled by his +own loneliness. The pulse of war that beat from the West suggested the +companionship of battling thousands; here was naught but silence, and +himself, and possible death-dealing bullets from a myriad ambushes. And +yet his task was to find what he feared to find. He must on, and on, +till somewhere, some time, he encountered another man, or other men, +from the other side, scouting, as he was scouting, to make report, as he +must make report, of having come in touch. + +Changing his mind, he skirted inside the woods for a distance, and again +peeped forth. This time, in the middle of the clearing, he saw a +small farmhouse. There were no signs of life. No smoke curled from the +chimney, not a barnyard fowl clucked and strutted. The kitchen door +stood open, and he gazed so long and hard into the black aperture that +it seemed almost that a farmer's wife must emerge at any moment. + +He licked the pollen and dust from his dry lips, stiffened himself, mind +and body, and rode out into the blazing sunshine. Nothing stirred. He +went on past the house, and approached the wall of trees and bushes by +the river's bank. One thought persisted maddeningly. It was of the crash +into his body of a high-velocity bullet. It made him feel very fragile +and defenseless, and he crouched lower in the saddle. + +Tethering his horse in the edge of the wood, he continued a hundred +yards on foot till he came to the stream. Twenty feet wide it was, +without perceptible current, cool and inviting, and he was very thirsty. +But he waited inside his screen of leafage, his eyes fixed on the screen +on the opposite side. To make the wait endurable, he sat down, his +carbine resting on his knees. The minutes passed, and slowly his +tenseness relaxed. At last he decided there was no danger; but just as +he prepared to part the bushes and bend down to the water, a movement +among the opposite bushes caught his eye. + +It might be a bird. But he waited. Again there was an agitation of the +bushes, and then, so suddenly that it almost startled a cry from him, +the bushes parted and a face peered out. It was a face covered with +several weeks' growth of ginger-colored beard. The eyes were blue and +wide apart, with laughter-wrinkles in the comers that showed despite the +tired and anxious expression of the whole face. + +All this he could see with microscopic clearness, for the distance was +no more than twenty feet. And all this he saw in such brief time, that +he saw it as he lifted his carbine to his shoulder. He glanced along the +sights, and knew that he was gazing upon a man who was as good as dead. +It was impossible to miss at such point blank range. + +But he did not shoot. Slowly he lowered the carbine and watched. A +hand, clutching a water-bottle, became visible and the ginger beard bent +downward to fill the bottle. He could hear the gurgle of the water. Then +arm and bottle and ginger beard disappeared behind the closing bushes. +A long time he waited, when, with thirst unslaked, he crept back to his +horse, rode slowly across the sun-washed clearing, and passed into the +shelter of the woods beyond. + +II + +Another day, hot and breathless. A deserted farmhouse, large, with many +outbuildings and an orchard, standing in a clearing. From the Woods, on +a roan horse, carbine across pommel, rode the young man with the quick +black eyes. He breathed with relief as he gained the house. That a fight +had taken place here earlier in the season was evident. Clips and empty +cartridges, tarnished with verdigris, lay on the ground, which, while +wet, had been torn up by the hoofs of horses. Hard by the kitchen garden +were graves, tagged and numbered. From the oak tree by the kitchen door, +in tattered, weatherbeaten garments, hung the bodies of two men. The +faces, shriveled and defaced, bore no likeness to the faces of men. The +roan horse snorted beneath them, and the rider caressed and soothed it +and tied it farther away. + +Entering the house, he found the interior a wreck. He trod on empty +cartridges as he walked from room to room to reconnoiter from the +windows. Men had camped and slept everywhere, and on the floor of one +room he came upon stains unmistakable where the wounded had been laid +down. + +Again outside, he led the horse around behind the barn and invaded the +orchard. A dozen trees were burdened with ripe apples. He filled his +pockets, eating while he picked. Then a thought came to him, and he +glanced at the sun, calculating the time of his return to camp. He +pulled off his shirt, tying the sleeves and making a bag. This he +proceeded to fill with apples. + +As he was about to mount his horse, the animal suddenly pricked up its +ears. The man, too, listened, and heard, faintly, the thud of hoofs on +soft earth. He crept to the corner of the barn and peered out. A dozen +mounted men, strung out loosely, approaching from the opposite side of +the clearing, were only a matter of a hundred yards or so away. They +rode on to the house. Some dismounted, while others remained in the +saddle as an earnest that their stay would be short. They seemed to +be holding a council, for he could hear them talking excitedly in the +detested tongue of the alien invader. The time passed, but they seemed +unable to reach a decision. He put the carbine away in its boot, +mounted, and waited impatiently, balancing the shirt of apples on the +pommel. + +He heard footsteps approaching, and drove his spurs so fiercely into the +roan as to force a surprised groan from the animal as it leaped forward. +At the corner of the barn he saw the intruder, a mere boy of nineteen or +twenty for all of his uniform jump back to escape being run down. At +the same moment the roan swerved and its rider caught a glimpse of the +aroused men by the house. Some were springing from their horses, and +he could see the rifles going to their shoulders. He passed the kitchen +door and the dried corpses swinging in the shade, compelling his foes to +run around the front of the house. A rifle cracked, and a second, but he +was going fast, leaning forward, low in the saddle, one hand clutching +the shirt of apples, the other guiding the horse. + +The top bar of the fence was four feet high, but he knew his roan and +leaped it at full career to the accompaniment of several scattered +shots. Eight hundred yards straight away were the woods, and the roan +was covering the distance with mighty strides. Every man was now firing. +pumping their guns so rapidly that he no longer heard individual shots. +A bullet went through his hat, but he was unaware, though he did know +when another tore through the apples on the pommel. And he winced and +ducked even lower when a third bullet, fired low, struck a stone between +his horse's legs and ricochetted off through the air, buzzing and +humming like some incredible insect. + +The shots died down as the magazines were emptied, until, quickly, there +was no more shooting. The young man was elated. Through that astonishing +fusillade he had come unscathed. He glanced back. Yes, they had emptied +their magazines. He could see several reloading. Others were running +back behind the house for their horses. As he looked, two already +mounted, came back into view around the corner, riding hard. And at the +same moment, he saw the man with the unmistakable ginger beard kneel +down on the ground, level his gun, and coolly take his time for the long +shot. + +The young man threw his spurs into the horse, crouched very low, and +swerved in his flight in order to distract the other's aim. And still +the shot did not come. With each jump of the horse, the woods sprang +nearer. They were only two hundred yards away and still the shot was +delayed. + +And then he heard it, the last thing he was to hear, for he was dead ere +he hit the ground in the long crashing fall from the saddle. And they, +watching at the house, saw him fall, saw his body bounce when it struck +the earth, and saw the burst of red-cheeked apples that rolled about +him. They laughed at the unexpected eruption of apples, and clapped +their hands in applause of the long shot by the man with the ginger +beard. + + + + +UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS + +“CAN any man--a gentleman, I mean--call a woman a pig?” + +The little man flung this challenge forth to the whole group, then +leaned back in his deck chair, sipping lemonade with an air commingled +of certitude and watchful belligerence. Nobody made answer. They were +used to the little man and his sudden passions and high elevations. + +“I repeat, it was in my presence that he said a certain lady, whom none +of you knows, was a pig. He did not say swine. He grossly said that she +was a pig. And I hold that no man who is a man could possibly make such +a remark about any woman.” + +Dr. Dawson puffed stolidly at his black pipe. Matthews, with knees +hunched up and clasped by his arms, was absorbed in the flight of a +gunie. Sweet, finishing his Scotch and soda, was questing about with his +eyes for a deck steward. + +“I ask you, Mr. Treloar, can any man call any woman a pig?” + +Treloar, who happened to be sitting next to him, was startled by the +abruptness of the attack, and wondered what grounds he had ever given +the little man to believe that he could call a woman a pig. + +“I should say,” he began his hesitant answer, “that it--er--depends on +the--er--the lady.” + +The little man was aghast. + +“You mean...?” he quavered. + +“That I have seen female humans who were as bad as pigs--and worse.” + +There was a long pained silence. The little man seemed withered by the +coarse brutality of the reply. In his face was unutterable hurt and woe. + +“You have told of a man who made a not nice remark and you have +classified him,” Treloar said in cold, even tones. “I shall now tell +you about a woman--I beg your pardon--a lady, and when I have finished +I shall ask you to classify her. Miss Caruthers I shall call her, +principally for the reason that it is not her name. It was on a P. & O. +boat, and it occurred neither more nor less than several years ago. + +“Miss Caruthers was charming. No; that is not the word. She was amazing. +She was a young woman, and a lady. Her father was a certain high +official whose name, if I mentioned it, would be immediately recognized +by all of you. She was with her mother and two maids at the time, going +out to join the old gentleman wherever you like to wish in the East. + +“She, and pardon me for repeating, was amazing. It is the one adequate +word. Even the most minor adjectives applicable to her are bound to be +sheer superlatives. There was nothing she could not do better than any +woman and than most men. Sing, play--bah!--as some rhetorician once +said of old Nap, competition fled from her. Swim! She could have made +a fortune and a name as a public performer. She was one of those rare +women who can strip off all the frills of dress, and in simple swimming +suit be more satisfying beautiful. Dress! She was an artist. + +“But her swimming. Physically, she was the perfect woman--you know +what I mean, not in the gross, muscular way of acrobats, but in all the +delicacy of line and fragility of frame and texture. And combined with +this, strength. How she could do it was the marvel. You know the wonder +of a woman's arm--the fore arm, I mean; the sweet fading away from +rounded biceps and hint of muscle, down through small elbow and firm +soft swell to the wrist, small, unthinkably small and round and strong. +This was hers. And yet, to see her swimming the sharp quick English +overhand stroke, and getting somewhere with it, too, was--well, I +understand anatomy and athletics and such things, and yet it was a +mystery to me how she could do it. + +“She could stay under water for two minutes. I have timed her. No man +on board, except Dennitson, could capture as many coins as she with a +single dive. On the forward main-deck was a big canvas tank with six +feet of sea-water. We used to toss small coins into it. I have seen her +dive from the bridge deck--no mean feat in itself--into that six-feet +of water, and fetch up no less than forty-seven coins, scattered +willy-nilly over the whole bottom of the tank. Dennitson, a quiet young +Englishman, never exceeded her in this, though he made it a point always +to tie her score. + +“She was a sea-woman, true. But she was a land-woman, a +horsewoman--a--she was the universal woman. To see her, all softness of +soft dress, surrounded by half a dozen eager men, languidly careless of +them all or flashing brightness and wit on them and at them and through +them, one would fancy she was good for nothing else in the world. +At such moments I have compelled myself to remember her score of +forty-seven coins from the bottom of the swimming tank. But that was +she, the everlasting, wonder of a woman who did all things well. + +“She fascinated every betrousered human around her. She had me--and I +don't mind confessing it--she bad me to heel along with the rest. Young +puppies and old gray dogs who ought to have known better--oh, they all +came up and crawled around her skirts and whined and fawned when she +whistled. They were all guilty, from young Ardmore, a pink cherub of +nineteen outward bound for some clerkship in the Consular Service, to +old Captain Bentley, grizzled and sea-worn, and as emotional, to look +at, as a Chinese joss. There was a nice middle-aged chap, Perkins, I +believe, who forgot his wife was on board until Miss Caruthers sent him +to the right about and back where he belonged. + +“Men were wax in her hands. She melted them, or softly molded them, or +incinerated them, as she pleased. There wasn't a steward, even, grand +and remote as she was, who, at her bidding, would have hesitated to +souse the Old Man himself with a plate of soup. You have all seen such +women--a sort of world's desire to all men. As a man-conqueror she was +supreme. She was a whip-lash, a sting and a flame, an electric spark. +Oh, believe me, at times there were flashes of will that scorched +through her beauty and seduction and smote a victim into blank and +shivering idiocy and fear. + +“And don't fail to mark, in the light of what is to come, that she was +a prideful woman. Pride of race, pride of caste, pride of sex, pride of +power--she had it all, a pride strange and wilful and terrible. + +“She ran the ship, she ran the voyage, she ran everything, and she ran +Dennitson. That he had outdistanced the pack even the least wise of us +admitted. That she liked him, and that this feeling was growing, there +was not a doubt. I am certain that she looked on him with kinder eyes +than she had ever looked with on man before. We still worshiped, and +were always hanging about waiting to be whistled up, though we knew that +Dennitson was laps and laps ahead of us. What might have happened we +shall never know, for we came to Colombo and something else happened. + +“You know Colombo, and how the native boys dive for coins in the +shark-infested bay. Of course, it is only among the ground sharks and +fish sharks that they venture. It is almost uncanny the way they know +sharks and can sense the presence of a real killer--a tiger shark, for +instance, or a gray nurse strayed up from Australian waters. Let such a +shark appear, and, long before the passengers can guess, every mother's +son of them is out of the water in a wild scramble for safety. + +“It was after tiffin, and Miss Caruthers was holding her usual court +under the deck-awnings. Old Captain Bentley had just been whistled +up, and had granted her what he never granted before... nor +since--permission for the boys to come up on the promenade deck. You +see, Miss Caruthers was a swimmer, and she was interested. She took up +a collection of all our small change, and herself tossed it overside, +singly and in handfuls, arranging the terms of the contests, chiding a +miss, giving extra rewards to clever wins, in short, managing the whole +exhibition. + +“She was especially keen on their jumping. You know, jumping feet-first +from a height, it is very difficult to hold the body perpendicularly +while in the air. The center of gravity of the male body is high, and +the tendency is to overtopple. But the little beggars employed a method +which she declared was new to her and which she desired to learn. +Leaping from the davits of the boat-deck above, they plunged downward, +their faces and shoulders bowed forward, looking at the water. And only +at the last moment did they abruptly straighten up and enter the water +erect and true. + +“It was a pretty sight. Their diving was not so good, though there was +one of them who was excellent at it, as he was in all the other stunts. +Some white man must have taught him, for he made the proper swan dive +and did it as beautifully as I have ever seen it. You know, headfirst +into the water, from a great height, the problem is to enter the water +at the perfect angle. Miss the angle and it means at the least a twisted +back and injury for life. Also, it has meant death for many a bungler. +But this boy could do it--seventy feet I know he cleared in one dive +from the rigging--clenched hands on chest, head thrown back, sailing +more like a bird, upward and out, and out and down, body flat on the air +so that if it struck the surface in that position it would be split in +half like a herring. But the moment before the water is reached, the +head drops forward, the hands go out and lock the arms in an arch in +advance of the head, and the body curves gracefully downward and enters +the water just right. + +“This the boy did, again and again, to the delight of all of us, but +particularly of Miss Caruthers. He could not have been a moment over +twelve or thirteen, yet he was by far the cleverest of the gang. He was +the favorite of his crowd, and its leader. Though there were a number +older than he, they acknowledged his chieftaincy. He was a beautiful +boy, a lithe young god in breathing bronze, eyes wide apart, intelligent +and daring, a bubble, a mote, a beautiful flash and sparkle of life. You +have seen wonderful glorious creatures--animals, anything, a leopard, +a horse-restless, eager, too much alive ever to be still, silken of +muscle, each slightest movement a benediction of grace, every action +wild, untrammeled, and over all spilling out that intense vitality, that +sheen and luster of living light. The boy had it. Life poured out of him +almost in an effulgence. His skin glowed with it. It burned in his eyes. +I swear I could almost hear it crackle from him. Looking at him, it was +as if a whiff of ozone came to one's nostrils--so fresh and young was +he, so resplendent with health, so wildly wild. + +“This was the boy. And it was he who gave the alarm in the midst of the +sport. The boys made a dash of it for the gangway platform, swimming the +fastest strokes they knew, pellmell, floundering and splashing, fright +in their faces, clambering out with jumps and surges, any way to get +out, lending one another a hand to safety, till all were strung along +the gangway and peering down into the water. + +“'What is the matter?' asked Miss Caruthers. + +“'A shark, I fancy,' Captain Bentley answered. 'Lucky little beggars +that he didn't get one of them.' + +“'Are they afraid of sharks?' she asked. + +“'Aren't you?' he asked back.” + +She shuddered, looked overside at the water, and made a move. + +“'Not for the world would I venture where a shark might be,' she said, +and shuddered again. 'They are horrible! Horrible!' + +“The boys came up on the promenade deck, clustering close to the rail +and worshiping Miss Caruthers who had flung them such a wealth of +backsheesh. The performance being over, Captain Bentley motioned to them +to clear out. But she stopped him. + +“'One moment, please, Captain. I have always understood that the natives +are not afraid of sharks.' + +“She beckoned the boy of the swan dive nearer to her, and signed to +him to dive over again. He shook his head, and along with all his crew +behind him laughed as if it were a good joke. + +“'Shark,' he volunteered, pointing to the water. + +“'No,' she said. 'There is no shark.' + +“But he nodded his head positively, and the boys behind him nodded with +equal positiveness. + +“'No, no, no,' she cried. And then to us, 'Who'll lend me a half-crown +and a sovereign!' + +“Immediately the half dozen of us were presenting her with crowns and +sovereigns, and she accepted the two coins from young Ardmore. + +“She held up the half-crown for the boys to see. But there was no eager +rush to the rail preparatory to leaping. They stood there grinning +sheepishly. She offered the coin to each one individually, and each, +as his turn came, rubbed his foot against his calf, shook his head, +and grinned. Then she tossed the half-crown overboard. With wistful, +regretful faces they watched its silver flight through the air, but not +one moved to follow it. + +“'Don't do it with the sovereign,' Dennitson said to her in a low voice. + +“She took no notice, but held up the gold coin before the eyes of the +boy of the swan dive. + +“'Don't,' said Captain Bentley. 'I wouldn't throw a sick cat overside +with a shark around.' + +“But she laughed, bent on her purpose, and continued to dazzle the boy. + +“'Don't tempt him,' Dennitson urged. 'It is a fortune to him, and he +might go over after it.' + +“'Wouldn't YOU?' she flared at him. 'If I threw it?'” + +This last more softly. + +Dennitson shook his head. + +“'Your price is high,' she said. 'For how many sovereigns would you go?' + +“'There are not enough coined to get me overside,' was his answer. + +“She debated a moment, the boy forgotten in her tilt with Dennitson. + +“'For me?' she said very softly. + +“'To save your life--yes. But not otherwise.' + +“She turned back to the boy. Again she held the coin before his eyes, +dazzling him with the vastness of its value. Then she made as to toss +it out, and, involuntarily, he made a half-movement toward the rail, +but was checked by sharp cries of reproof from his companions. There was +anger in their voices as well. + +“'I know it is only fooling,' Dennitson said. 'Carry it as far as you +like, but for heaven's sake don't throw it.' + +“Whether it was that strange wilfulness of hers, or whether she doubted +the boy could be persuaded, there is no telling. It was unexpected to +all of us. Out from the shade of the awning the coin flashed golden +in the blaze of sunshine and fell toward the sea in a glittering arch. +Before a hand could stay him, the boy was over the rail and curving +beautifully downward after the coin. Both were in the air at the same +time. It was a pretty sight. The sovereign cut the water sharply, and at +the very spot, almost at the same instant, with scarcely a splash, the +boy entered. + +“From the quicker-eyed black boys watching, came an exclamation. We were +all at the railing. Don't tell me it is necessary for a shark to turn on +its back. That one did not. In the clear water, from the height we were +above it, we saw everything. The shark was a big brute, and with one +drive he cut the boy squarely in half. + +“There was a murmur or something from among us--who made it I did not +know; it might have been I. And then there was silence. Miss Caruthers +was the first to speak. Her face was deathly white. + +“'I never dreamed,' she said, and laughed a short, hysterical laugh. + +“All her pride was at work to give her control. She turned weakly toward +Dennitson, and then, on from one to another of us. In her eyes was a +terrible sickness, and her lips were trembling. We were brutes--oh, I +know it, now that I look back upon it. But we did nothing. + +“'Mr. Dennitson,' she said, 'Tom, won't you take me below!' + +“He never changed the direction of his gaze, which was the bleakest I +have ever seen in a man's face, nor did he move an eyelid. He took a +cigarette from his case and lighted it. Captain Bentley made a nasty +sound in his throat and spat overboard. That was all; that and the +silence. + +“She turned away and started to walk firmly down the deck. Twenty feet +away, she swayed and thrust a hand against the wall to save herself. And +so she went on, supporting herself against the cabins and walking very +slowly.” Treloar ceased. He turned his head and favored the little man +with a look of cold inquiry. + +“Well,” he said finally. “Classify her.” + +The little man gulped and swallowed. + +“I have nothing to say,” he said. “I have nothing whatever to say.” + + + + +TO KILL A MAN + +THOUGH dim night-lights burned, she moved familiarly through the big +rooms and wide halls, seeking vainly the half-finished book of verse she +had mislaid and only now remembered. When she turned on the lights in +the drawing-room, she disclosed herself clad in a sweeping negligee gown +of soft rose-colored stuff, throat and shoulders smothered in lace. Her +rings were still on her fingers, her massed yellow hair had not yet been +taken down. She was delicately, gracefully beautiful, with slender, +oval face, red lips, a faint color in the cheeks, and blue eyes of the +chameleon sort that at will stare wide with the innocence of childhood, +go hard and gray and brilliantly cold, or flame up in hot wilfulness and +mastery. + +She turned the lights off and passed out and down the hall toward the +morning room. At the entrance she paused and listened. From farther on +had come, not a noise, but an impression of movement. She could have +sworn she had not heard anything, yet something had been different. +The atmosphere of night quietude had been disturbed. She wondered what +servant could be prowling about. Not the butler, who was notorious +for retiring early save on special occasion. Nor could it be her maid, +whom she had permitted to go that evening. + +Passing on to the dining-room, she found the door closed. Why she opened +it and went on in, she did not know, except for the feeling that the +disturbing factor, whatever it might be, was there. The room was in +darkness, and she felt her way to the button and pressed. As the blaze +of light flashed on, she stepped back and cried out. It was a mere “Oh!” + and it was not loud. + + +Facing her, alongside the button, flat against the wall, was a man. In +his hand, pointed toward her, was a revolver. She noticed, even in +the shock of seeing him, that the weapon was black and exceedingly +long-barreled. She knew black and exceedingly long it for what it was, a +Colt's. He was a medium-sized man, roughly clad, brown-eyed, and swarthy +with sunburn. He seemed very cool. There was no wabble to the revolver +and it was directed toward her stomach, not from an outstretched arm, +but from the hip, against which the forearm rested. + +“Oh,” she said. “I beg your pardon. You startled me. What do you want?” + +“I reckon I want to get out,” he answered, with a humorous twitch to +the lips. “I've kind of lost my way in this here shebang, and if you'll +kindly show me the door I'll cause no trouble and sure vamoose.” + +“But what are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice touched with the +sharpness of one used to authority. + +“Plain robbing, Miss, that's all. I came snooping around to see what I +could gather up. I thought you wan't to home, seein' as I saw you pull +out with your old man in an auto. I reckon that must a ben your pa, and +you're Miss Setliffe.” + +Mrs. Setliffe saw his mistake, appreciated the naive compliment, and +decided not to undeceive him. + +“How do you know I am Miss Setliffe?” she asked. + +“This is old Setliffe's house, ain't it?” + +She nodded. + +“I didn't know he had a daughter, but I reckon you must be her. And now, +if it ain't botherin' you too much, I'd sure be obliged if you'd show me +the way out.” + +“But why should I? You are a robber, a burglar.” + +“If I wan't an ornery shorthorn at the business, I'd be accumulatin' +them rings on your fingers instead of being polite,” he retorted. + +“I come to make a raise outa old Setliffe, and not to be robbing +women-folks. If you get outa the way, I reckon I can find my own way +out.” + +Mrs. Setliffe was a keen woman, and she felt that from such a man there +was little to fear. That he was not a typical criminal, she was certain. +From his speech she knew he was not of the cities, and she seemed to +sense the wider, homelier air of large spaces. + +“Suppose I screamed?” she queried curiously. “Suppose I made an outcry +for help? You couldn't shoot me?... a woman?” + +She noted the fleeting bafflement in his brown eyes. He answered slowly +and thoughtfully, as if working out a difficult problem. “I reckon, +then, I'd have to choke you and maul you some bad.” + +“A woman?” + +“I'd sure have to,” he answered, and she saw his mouth set grimly. + +“You're only a soft woman, but you see, Miss, I can't afford to go to +jail. No, Miss, I sure can't. There's a friend of mine waitin' for +me out West. He's in a hole, and I've got to help him out.” The mouth +shaped even more grimly. “I guess I could choke you without hurting you +much to speak of.” + +Her eyes took on a baby stare of innocent incredulity as she watched +him. + +“I never met a burglar before,” she assured him, “and I can't begin to +tell you how interested I am.” + +“I'm not a burglar, Miss. Not a real one,” he hastened to add as she +looked her amused unbelief. “It looks like it, me being here in your +house. But it's the first time I ever tackled such a job. I needed the +money bad. Besides, I kind of look on it like collecting what's coming +to me.” + +“I don't understand,” she smiled encouragingly. “You came here to rob, +and to rob is to take what is not yours.” + +“Yes, and no, in this here particular case. But I reckon I'd better be +going now.” + +He started for the door of the dining-room, but she interposed, and a +very beautiful obstacle she made of herself. His left hand went out +as if to grip her, then hesitated. He was patently awed by her soft +womanhood. + +“There!” she cried triumphantly. “I knew you wouldn't.” + +The man was embarrassed. + +“I ain't never manhandled a woman yet,” he explained, “and it don't come +easy. But I sure will, if you set to screaming.” + +“Won't you stay a few minutes and talk?” she urged. “I'm so interested. +I should like to hear you explain how burglary is collecting what is +coming to you.” + +He looked at her admiringly. + +“I always thought women-folks were scairt of robbers,” he confessed. +“But you don't seem none.” + +She laughed gaily. + +“There are robbers and robbers, you know. I am not afraid of you, +because I am confident you are not the sort of creature that would harm +a woman. Come, talk with me a while. Nobody will disturb us. I am all +alone. My--father caught the night train to New York. The servants are +all asleep. I should like to give you something to eat--women always +prepare midnight suppers for the burglars they catch, at least they +do in the magazine stories. But I don't know where to find the food. +Perhaps you will have something to drink?” + +He hesitated, and did not reply; but she could see the admiration for +her growing in his eyes. + +“You're not afraid?” she queried. “I won't poison you, I promise. I'll +drink with you to show you it is all right.” + +“You sure are a surprise package of all right,” he declared, for the +first time lowering the weapon and letting it hang at his side. “No one +don't need to tell me ever again that women-folks in cities is afraid. +You ain't much--just a little soft pretty thing. But you've sure got the +spunk. And you're trustful on top of it. There ain't many women, or men +either, who'd treat a man with a gun the way you're treating me.” + +She smiled her pleasure in the compliment, and her face, was very +earnest as she said: + +“That is because I like your appearance. You are too decent-looking a +man to be a robber. You oughtn't to do such things. If you are in bad +luck you should go to work. Come, put away that nasty revolver and let +us talk it over. The thing for you to do is to work.” + +“Not in this burg,” he commented bitterly. “I've walked two inches off +the bottom of my legs trying to find a job. Honest, I was a fine large +man once... before I started looking for a job.” + +The merry laughter with which she greeted his sally obviously pleased +him, and she was quick to note and take advantage of it. She moved +directly away from the door and toward the sideboard. + +“Come, you must tell me all about it while I get that drink for you. +What will it be? Whisky?” + +“Yes, ma'am,” he said, as he followed her, though he still carried +the big revolver at his side, and though he glanced reluctantly at the +unguarded open door. + +She filled a glass for him at the sideboard. + +“I promised to drink with you,” she said hesitatingly. “But I don't like +whisky. I... I prefer sherry.” + +She lifted the sherry bottle tentatively for his consent. + +“Sure,” he answered, with a nod. “Whisky's a man's drink. I never like +to see women at it. Wine's more their stuff.” + +She raised her glass to his, her eyes meltingly sympathetic. + +“Here's to finding you a good position--” + +But she broke off at sight of the expression of surprised disgust on his +face. The glass, barely touched, was removed from his wry lips. + +“What is the matter!” she asked anxiously. “Don't you like it? Have I +made a mistake?” + +“It's sure funny whisky. Tastes like it got burned and smoked in the +making.” + +“Oh! How silly of me! I gave you Scotch. Of course you are accustomed to +rye. Let me change it.” + +She was almost solicitiously maternal, as she replaced the glass with +another and sought and found the proper bottle. + +“Better?” she asked. + +“Yes, ma'am. No smoke in it. It's sure the real good stuff. I ain't had +a drink in a week. Kind of slick, that; oily, you know; not made in a +chemical factory.” + +“You are a drinking man?” It was half a question, half a challenge. + +“No, ma'am, not to speak of. I HAVE rared up and ripsnorted at spells, +but most unfrequent. But there is times when a good stiff jolt lands on +the right spot kerchunk, and this is sure one of them. And now, thanking +you for your kindness, ma'am, I'll just be a pulling along.” + +But Mrs. Setliffe did not want to lose her burglar. She was too poised a +woman to possess much romance, but there was a thrill about the present +situation that delighted her. Besides, she knew there was no danger. The +man, despite his jaw and the steady brown eyes, was eminently tractable. +Also, farther back in her consciousness glimmered the thought of an +audience of admiring friends. It was too bad not to have that audience. + +“You haven't explained how burglary, in your case, is merely collecting +what is your own,” she said. “Come, sit down, and tell me about it here +at the table.” + +She maneuvered for her own seat, and placed him across the corner from +her. His alertness had not deserted him, as she noted, and his eyes +roved sharply about, returning always with smoldering admiration to +hers, but never resting long. And she noted likewise that while she +spoke he was intent on listening for other sounds than those of her +voice. Nor had he relinquished the revolver, which lay at the corner of +the table between them, the butt close to his right hand. + +But he was in a new habitat which he did not know. This man from the +West, cunning in woodcraft and plainscraft, with eyes and ears open, +tense and suspicious, did not know that under the table, close to her +foot, was the push button of an electric bell. He had never heard of +such a contrivance, and his keenness and wariness went for naught. + +“It's like this, Miss,” he began, in response to her urging. “Old +Setliffe done me up in a little deal once. It was raw, but it worked. +Anything will work full and legal when it's got few hundred million +behind it. I'm not squealin', and I ain't taking a slam at your pa. +He don't know me from Adam, and I reckon he don't know he done me outa +anything. He's too big, thinking and dealing in millions, to ever hear +of a small potato like me. He's an operator. He's got all kinds of +experts thinking and planning and working for him, some of them, I hear, +getting more cash salary than the President of the United States. I'm +only one of thousands that have been done up by your pa, that's all. + +“You see, ma'am, I had a little hole in the ground--a dinky, hydraulic, +one-horse outfit of a mine. And when the Setliffe crowd shook down +Idaho, and reorganized the smelter trust, and roped in the rest of the +landscape, and put through the big hydraulic scheme at Twin Pines, why +I sure got squeezed. I never had a run for my money. I was scratched +off the card before the first heat. And so, to-night, being broke and my +friend needing me bad, I just dropped around to make a raise outa your +pa. Seeing as I needed it, it kinda was coming to me.” + +“Granting all that you say is so,” she said, “nevertheless it does not +make house-breaking any the less house-breaking. You couldn't make such +a defense in a court of law.” + +“I know that,” he confessed meekly. “What's right ain't always legal. +And that's why I am so uncomfortable a-settin' here and talking with +you. Not that I ain't enjoying your company--I sure do enjoy it--but I +just can't afford to be caught. I know what they'd do to me in this here +city. There was a young fellow that got fifty years only last week for +holding a man up on the street for two dollars and eighty-five cents. I +read about it in the paper. When times is hard and they ain't no work, +men get desperate. And then the other men who've got something to be +robbed of get desperate, too, and they just sure soak it to the other +fellows. If I got caught, I reckon I wouldn't get a mite less than ten +years. That's why I'm hankering to be on my way.” + +“No; wait.” She lifted a detaining hand, at the same time removing her +foot from the bell, which she had been pressing intermittently. “You +haven't told me your name yet.” + +He hesitated. + +“Call me Dave.” + +“Then... Dave,” she laughed with pretty confusion. “Something must be +done for you. You are a young man, and you are just at the beginning +of a bad start. If you begin by attempting to collect what you think is +coming to you, later on you will be collecting what you are perfectly +sure isn't coming to you. And you know what the end will be. Instead of +this, we must find something honorable for you to do.” + +“I need the money, and I need it now,” he replied doggedly. “It's not +for myself, but for that friend I told you about. He's in a peck of +trouble, and he's got to get his lift now or not at all.” + +“I can find you a position,” she said quickly. “And--yes, the very +thing!--I'll lend you the money you want to send to your friend. This +you can pay back out of your salary.” + +“About three hundred would do,” he said slowly. “Three hundred would +pull him through. I'd work my fingers off for a year for that, and my +keep, and a few cents to buy Bull Durham with.” + +“Ah! You smoke! I never thought of it.” + +Her hand went out over the revolver toward his hand, as she pointed to +the tell-tale yellow stain on his fingers. At the same time her eyes +measured the nearness of her own hand and of his to the weapon. She +ached to grip it in one swift movement. She was sure she could do +it, and yet she was not sure; and so it was that she refrained as she +withdrew her hand. + +“Won't you smoke?” she invited. + +“I'm 'most dying to.” + +“Then do so. I don't mind. I really like it--cigarettes, I mean.” + +With his left band he dipped into his side pocket, brought out a +loose wheat-straw paper and shifted it to his right hand close by the +revolver. Again he dipped, transferring to the paper a pinch of brown, +flaky tobacco. Then he proceeded, both hands just over the revolver, to +roll the cigarette. + +“From the way you hover close to that nasty weapon, you seem to be +afraid of me,” she challenged. + +“Not exactly afraid of you, ma'am, but, under the circumstances, just a +mite timid.” + +“But I've not been afraid of you.” + +“You've got nothing to lose.” + +“My life,” she retorted. + +“That's right,” he acknowledged promptly, “and you ain't been scairt of +me. Mebbe I am over anxious.” + +“I wouldn't cause you any harm.” + +Even as she spoke, her slipper felt for the bell and pressed it. At the +same time her eyes were earnest with a plea of honesty. + +“You are a judge of men. I know it. And of women. Surely, when I am +trying to persuade you from a criminal life and to get you honest work +to do....?” + +He was immediately contrite. + +“I sure beg your pardon, ma'am,” he said. “I reckon my nervousness ain't +complimentary.” + +As he spoke, he drew his right hand from the table, and after lighting +the cigarette, dropped it by his side. + +“Thank you for your confidence,” she breathed softly, resolutely keeping +her eyes from measuring the distance to the revolver, and keeping her +foot pressed firmly on the bell. + +“About that three hundred,” he began. “I can telegraph it West to-night. +And I'll agree to work a year for it and my keep.” + +“You will earn more than that. I can promise seventy-five dollars a +month at the least. Do you know horses?” + +His face lighted up and his eyes sparkled. + +“Then go to work for me--or for my father, rather, though I engage all +the servants. I need a second coachman--” + +“And wear a uniform?” he interrupted sharply, the sneer of the free-born +West in his voice and on his lips. + +She smiled tolerantly. + +“Evidently that won't do. Let me think. Yes. Can you break and handle +colts?” + +He nodded. + +“We have a stock farm, and there's room for just such a man as you. Will +you take it?” + +“Will I, ma'am?” His voice was rich with gratitude and enthusiasm. “Show +me to it. I'll dig right in to-morrow. And I can sure promise you one +thing, ma'am. You'll never be sorry for lending Hughie Luke a hand in +his trouble--” + +“I thought you said to call you Dave,” she chided forgivingly. + +“I did, ma'am. I did. And I sure beg your pardon. It was just plain +bluff. My real name is Hughie Luke. And if you'll give me the address +of that stock farm of yours, and the railroad fare, I head for it first +thing in the morning.” + +Throughout the conversation she had never relaxed her attempts on the +bell. She had pressed it in every alarming way--three shorts and a long, +two and a long, and five. She had tried long series of shorts, and, +once, she had held the button down for a solid three minutes. And she +had been divided between objurgation of the stupid, heavy-sleeping +butler and doubt if the bell were in order. + +“I am so glad,” she said; “so glad that you are willing. There won't be +much to arrange. But you will first have to trust me while I go upstairs +for my purse.” + +She saw the doubt flicker momentarily in his eyes, and added hastily, +“But you see I am trusting you with the three hundred dollars.” + +“I believe you, ma'am,” he came back gallantly. “Though I just can't +help this nervousness.” + +“Shall I go and get it?” + +But before she could receive consent, a slight muffled jar from the +distance came to her ear. She knew it for the swing-door of the butler's +pantry. But so slight was it--more a faint vibration than a sound--that +she would not have heard had not her ears been keyed and listening for +it. Yet the man had heard. He was startled in his composed way. + +“What was that?” he demanded. + +For answer, her left hand flashed out to the revolver and brought it +back. She had had the start of him, and she needed it, for the next +instant his hand leaped up from his side, clutching emptiness where the +revolver had been. + +“Sit down!” she commanded sharply, in a voice new to him. “Don't move. +Keep your hands on the table.” + +She had taken a lesson from him. Instead of holding the heavy weapon +extended, the butt of it and her forearm rested on the table, the muzzle +pointed, not at his head, but his chest. And he, looking coolly and +obeying her commands, knew there was no chance of the kick-up of the +recoil producing a miss. Also, he saw that the revolver did not wabble, +nor the hand shake, and he was thoroughly conversant with the size of +hole the soft-nosed bullets could make. He had eyes, not for her, but +for the hammer, which had risen under the pressure of her forefinger on +the trigger. + +“I reckon I'd best warn you that that there trigger-pull is filed +dreadful fine. Don't press too hard, or I'll have a hole in me the size +of a walnut.” + +She slacked the hammer partly down. + +“That's better,” he commented. “You'd best put it down all the way. You +see how easy it works. If you want to, a quick light pull will jiffy her +up and back and make a pretty mess all over your nice floor.” + +A door opened behind him, and he heard somebody enter the room. But he +did not turn his bead. He was looking at her, and he found it the face +of another woman--hard, cold, pitiless yet brilliant in its beauty. The +eyes, too, were hard, though blazing with a cold light. + +“Thomas,” she commanded, “go to the telephone and call the police. Why +were you so long in answering?” + +“I came as soon as I heard the bell, madam,” was the answer. + +The robber never took his eyes from hers, nor did she from his, but +at mention of the bell she noticed that his eyes were puzzled for the +moment. + +“Beg your pardon,” said the butler from behind, “but wouldn't it be +better for me to get a weapon and arouse the servants?” + +“No; ring for the police. I can hold this man. Go and do it--quickly.” + +The butler slippered out of the room, and the man and the woman sat on, +gazing into each other's eyes. To her it was an experience keen with +enjoyment, and in her mind was the gossip of her crowd, and she saw +notes in the society weeklies of the beautiful young Mrs. Setliffe +capturing an armed robber single-handed. It would create a sensation, +she was sure. + +“When you get that sentence you mentioned,” she said coldly, “you will +have time to meditate upon what a fool you have been, taking other +persons' property and threatening women with revolvers. You will have +time to learn your lesson thoroughly. Now tell the truth. You haven't +any friend in trouble. All that you told me was lies.” + +He did not reply. Though his eyes were upon her, they seemed blank. In +truth, for the instant she was veiled to him, and what he saw was the +wide sunwashed spaces of the West, where men and women were bigger than +the rotten denizens, as he had encountered them, of the thrice rotten +cities of the East. + +“Go on. Why don't you speak? Why don't you lie some more? Why don't you +beg to be let off?” + +“I might,” he answered, licking his dry lips. “I might ask to be let off +if...” + +“If what?” she demanded peremptorily, as he paused. + +“I was trying to think of a word you reminded me of. As I was saying, I +might if you was a decent woman.” + +Her face paled. + +“Be careful,” she warned. + +“You don't dast kill me,” he sneered. “The world's a pretty low down +place to have a thing like you prowling around in it, but it ain't so +plumb low down, I reckon, as to let you put a hole in me. You're sure +bad, but the trouble with you is that you're weak in your badness. It +ain't much to kill a man, but you ain't got it in you. There's where you +lose out.” + +“Be careful of what you say,” she repeated. “Or else, I warn you, it +will go hard with you. It can be seen to whether your sentence is light +or heavy.” + +“Something's the matter with God,” he remarked irrelevantly, “to be +letting you around loose. It's clean beyond me what he's up to, playing +such-like tricks on poor humanity. Now if I was God--” + +His further opinion was interrupted by the entrance of the butler. + +“Something is wrong with the telephone, madam,” he announced. “The wires +are crossed or something, because I can't get Central.” + +“Go and call one of the servants,” she ordered. “Send him out for an +officer, and then return here.” + +Again the pair was left alone. + +“Will you kindly answer one question, ma'am?” the man said. “That +servant fellow said something about a bell. I watched you like a cat, +and you sure rung no bell.” + +“It was under the table, you poor fool. I pressed it with my foot.” + +“Thank you, ma'am. I reckoned I'd seen your kind before, and now I sure +know I have. I spoke to you true and trusting, and all the time you was +lying like hell to me.” + +She laughed mockingly. + +“Go on. Say what you wish. It is very interesting.” + +“You made eyes at me, looking soft and kind, playing up all the time the +fact that you wore skirts instead of pants--and all the time with your +foot on the bell under the table. Well, there's some consolation. I'd +sooner be poor Hughie Luke, doing his ten years, than be in your skin. +Ma'am, hell is full of women like you.” + +There was silence for a space, in which the man, never taking his eyes +from her, studying her, was making up his mind. + +“Go on,” she urged. “Say something.” + +“Yes, ma'am, I'll say something. I'll sure say something. Do you know +what I'm going to do? I'm going to get right up from this chair and walk +out that door. I'd take the gun from you, only you might turn foolish +and let it go off. You can have the gun. It's a good one. As I was +saying, I am going right out that door. And you ain't going to pull that +gun off either. It takes guts to shoot a man, and you sure ain't got +them. Now get ready and see if you can pull that trigger. I ain't going +to harm you. I'm going out that door, and I'm starting.” + +Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he pushed back the chair and slowly stood +erect. The hammer rose halfway. She watched it. So did he. + +“Pull harder,” he advised. “It ain't half up yet. Go on and pull it and +kill a man. That's what I said, kill a man, spatter his brains out on +the floor, or slap a hole into him the size of your fist. That's what +killing a man means.” + +The hammer lowered jerkily but gently. The man turned his back and +walked slowly to the door. She swung the revolver around so that it bore +on his back. Twice again the hammer came up halfway and was reluctantly +eased down. + +At the door the man turned for a moment before passing on. A sneer was +on his lips. He spoke to her in a low voice, almost drawling, but in +it was the quintessence of all loathing, as he called her a name +unspeakable and vile. + + + + +THE MEXICAN + +NOBODY knew his history--they of the Junta least of all. He was their +“little mystery,” their “big patriot,” and in his way he worked as +hard for the coming Mexican Revolution as did they. They were tardy in +recognizing this, for not one of the Junta liked him. The day he first +drifted into their crowded, busy rooms, they all suspected him of being +a spy--one of the bought tools of the Diaz secret service. Too many of +the comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the United +States, and others of them, in irons, were even then being taken across +the border to be lined up against adobe walls and shot. + +At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably. Boy he was, +not more than eighteen and not over large for his years. He announced +that he was Felipe Rivera, and that it was his wish to work for the +Revolution. That was all--not a wasted word, no further explanation. He +stood waiting. There was no smile on his lips, no geniality in his eyes. +Big dashing Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder. Here was something +forbidding, terrible, inscrutable. There was something venomous and +snakelike in the boy's black eyes. They burned like cold fire, as with +a vast, concentrated bitterness. He flashed them from the faces of +the conspirators to the typewriter which little Mrs. Sethby was +industriously operating. His eyes rested on hers but an instant--she +had chanced to look up--and she, too, sensed the nameless something that +made her pause. She was compelled to read back in order to regain the +swing of the letter she was writing. + +Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos, and +questioningly they looked back and to each other. The indecision of +doubt brooded in their eyes. This slender boy was the Unknown, vested +with all the menace of the Unknown. He was unrecognizable, something +quite beyond the ken of honest, ordinary revolutionists whose fiercest +hatred for Diaz and his tyranny after all was only that of honest and +ordinary patriots. Here was something else, they knew not what. But +Vera, always the most impulsive, the quickest to act, stepped into the +breach. + +“Very well,” he said coldly. “You say you want to work for the +Revolution. Take off your coat. Hang it over there. I will show you, +come--where are the buckets and cloths. The floor is dirty. You will +begin by scrubbing it, and by scrubbing the floors of the other rooms. +The spittoons need to be cleaned. Then there are the windows.” + +“Is it for the Revolution?” the boy asked. + +“It is for the Revolution,” Vera answered. + +Rivera looked cold suspicion at all of them, then proceeded to take off +his coat. + +“It is well,” he said. + +And nothing more. Day after day he came to his work--sweeping, +scrubbing, cleaning. He emptied the ashes from the stoves, brought up +the coal and kindling, and lighted the fires before the most energetic +one of them was at his desk. + +“Can I sleep here?” he asked once. + +Ah, ha! So that was it--the hand of Diaz showing through! To sleep in +the rooms of the Junta meant access to their secrets, to the lists of +names, to the addresses of comrades down on Mexican soil. The request +was denied, and Rivera never spoke of it again. He slept they knew not +where, and ate they knew not where nor how. Once, Arrellano offered him +a couple of dollars. Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head. +When Vera joined in and tried to press it upon him, he said: + +“I am working for the Revolution.” + +It takes money to raise a modern revolution, and always the Junta was +pressed. The members starved and toiled, and the longest day was none +too long, and yet there were times when it appeared as if the Revolution +stood or fell on no more than the matter of a few dollars. Once, the +first time, when the rent of the house was two months behind and the +landlord was threatening dispossession, it was Felipe Rivera, the +scrub-boy in the poor, cheap clothes, worn and threadbare, who laid +sixty dollars in gold on May Sethby's desk. There were other times. +Three hundred letters, clicked out on the busy typewriters (appeals for +assistance, for sanctions from the organized labor groups, requests for +square news deals to the editors of newspapers, protests against the +high-handed treatment of revolutionists by the United States courts), +lay unmailed, awaiting postage. Vera's watch had disappeared--the +old-fashioned gold repeater that had been his father's. Likewise had +gone the plain gold band from May Setbby's third finger. Things were +desperate. Ramos and Arrellano pulled their long mustaches in despair. +The letters must go off, and the Post Office allowed no credit to +purchasers of stamps. Then it was that Rivera put on his hat and +went out. When he came back he laid a thousand two-cent stamps on May +Sethby's desk. + +“I wonder if it is the cursed gold of Diaz?” said Vera to the comrades. + +They elevated their brows and could not decide. And Felipe Rivera, the +scrubber for the Revolution, continued, as occasion arose, to lay down +gold and silver for the Junta's use. + +And still they could not bring themselves to like him. They did not know +him. His ways were not theirs. He gave no confidences. He repelled all +probing. Youth that he was, they could never nerve themselves to dare to +question him. + +“A great and lonely spirit, perhaps, I do not know, I do not know,” + Arrellano said helplessly. + +“He is not human,” said Ramos. + +“His soul has been seared,” said May Sethby. “Light and laughter have +been burned out of him. He is like one dead, and yet he is fearfully +alive.” + +“He has been through hell,” said Vera. “No man could look like that who +has not been through hell--and he is only a boy.” + +Yet they could not like him. He never talked, never inquired, never +suggested. He would stand listening, expressionless, a thing dead, save +for his eyes, coldly burning, while their talk of the Revolution ran +high and warm. From face to face and speaker to speaker his eyes +would turn, boring like gimlets of incandescent ice, disconcerting and +perturbing. + +“He is no spy,” Vera confided to May Sethby. “He is a patriot--mark me, +the greatest patriot of us all. I know it, I feel it, here in my heart +and head I feel it. But him I know not at all.” + +“He has a bad temper,” said May Sethby. + +“I know,” said Vera, with a shudder. “He has looked at me with those +eyes of his. They do not love; they threaten; they are savage as a wild +tiger's. I know, if I should prove unfaithful to the Cause, that he +would kill me. He has no heart. He is pitiless as steel, keen and cold +as frost. He is like moonshine in a winter night when a man freezes to +death on some lonely mountain top. I am not afraid of Diaz and all his +killers; but this boy, of him am I afraid. I tell you true. I am afraid. +He is the breath of death.” + +Yet Vera it was who persuaded the others to give the first trust +to Rivera. The line of communication between Los Angeles and Lower +California had broken down. Three of the comrades had dug their own +graves and been shot into them. Two more were United States prisoners +in Los Angeles. Juan Alvarado, the Federal commander, was a monster. All +their plans did he checkmate. They could no longer gain access to the +active revolutionists, and the incipient ones, in Lower California. + +Young Rivera was given his instructions and dispatched south. When he +returned, the line of communication was reestablished, and Juan Alvarado +was dead. He had been found in bed, a knife hilt-deep in his breast. +This had exceeded Rivera's instructions, but they of the Junta knew the +times of his movements. They did not ask him. He said nothing. But they +looked at one another and conjectured. + +“I have told you,” said Vera. “Diaz has more to fear from this youth +than from any man. He is implacable. He is the hand of God.” + +The bad temper, mentioned by May Sethby, and sensed by them all, +was evidenced by physical proofs. Now he appeared with a cut lip, +a blackened cheek, or a swollen ear. It was patent that he brawled, +somewhere in that outside world where he ate and slept, gained money, +and moved in ways unknown to them. As the time passed, he had come to +set type for the little revolutionary sheet they published weekly. There +were occasions when he was unable to set type, when his knuckles were +bruised and battered, when his thumbs were injured and helpless, when +one arm or the other hung wearily at his side while his face was drawn +with unspoken pain. + +“A wastrel,” said Arrellano. + +“A frequenter of low places,” said Ramos. + +“But where does he get the money?” Vera demanded. “Only to-day, just +now, have I learned that he paid the bill for white paper--one hundred +and forty dollars.” + +“There are his absences,” said May Sethby. “He never explains them.” + +“We should set a spy upon him,” Ramos propounded. + +“I should not care to be that spy,” said Vera. “I fear you would never +see me again, save to bury me. He has a terrible passion. Not even God +would he permit to stand between him and the way of his passion.” + +“I feel like a child before him,” Ramos confessed. + +“To me he is power--he is the primitive, the wild wolf, the striking +rattlesnake, the stinging centipede,” said Arrellano. + +“He is the Revolution incarnate,” said Vera. “He is the flame and the +spirit of it, the insatiable cry for vengeance that makes no cry but +that slays noiselessly. He is a destroying angel in moving through the +still watches of the night.” + +“I could weep over him,” said May Sethby. “He knows nobody. He hates +all people. Us he tolerates, for we are the way of his desire. He is +alone.... lonely.” Her voice broke in a half sob and there was dimness +in her eyes. + +Rivera's ways and times were truly mysterious. There were periods when +they did not see him for a week at a time. Once, he was away a month. +These occasions were always capped by his return, when, without +advertisement or speech, he laid gold coins on May Sethby's desk. Again, +for days and weeks, he spent all his time with the Junta. And yet again, +for irregular periods, he would disappear through the heart of each day, +from early morning until late afternoon. At such times he came early and +remained late. Arrellano had found him at midnight, setting type with +fresh swollen knuckles, or mayhap it was his lip, new-split, that still +bled. + +II + +The time of the crisis approached. Whether or not the Revolution would +be depended upon the Junta, and the Junta was hard-pressed. The need +for money was greater than ever before, while money was harder to get. +Patriots had given their last cent and now could give no more. Section +gang laborers-fugitive peons from Mexico--were contributing half +their scanty wages. But more than that was needed. The heart-breaking, +conspiring, undermining toil of years approached fruition. The time +was ripe. The Revolution hung on the balance. One shove more, one last +heroic effort, and it would tremble across the scales to victory. They +knew their Mexico. Once started, the Revolution would take care of +itself. The whole Diaz machine would go down like a house of cards. The +border was ready to rise. One Yankee, with a hundred I.W.W. men, waited +the word to cross over the border and begin the conquest of Lower +California. But he needed guns. And clear across to the Atlantic, +the Junta in touch with them all and all of them needing guns, mere +adventurers, soldiers of fortune, bandits, disgruntled American union +men, socialists, anarchists, rough-necks, Mexican exiles, peons escaped +from bondage, whipped miners from the bull-pens of Coeur d'Alene and +Colorado who desired only the more vindictively to fight--all the +flotsam and jetsam of wild spirits from the madly complicated modern +world. And it was guns and ammunition, ammunition and guns--the +unceasing and eternal cry. + +Fling this heterogeneous, bankrupt, vindictive mass across the border, +and the Revolution was on. The custom house, the northern ports of +entry, would be captured. Diaz could not resist. He dared not throw +the weight of his armies against them, for he must hold the south. And +through the south the flame would spread despite. The people would rise. +The defenses of city after city would crumple up. State after state +would totter down. And at last, from every side, the victorious armies +of the Revolution would close in on the City of Mexico itself, Diaz's +last stronghold. + +But the money. They had the men, impatient and urgent, who would use the +guns. They knew the traders who would sell and deliver the guns. But to +culture the Revolution thus far had exhausted the Junta. The last dollar +had been spent, the last resource and the last starving patriot milked +dry, and the great adventure still trembled on the scales. Guns and +ammunition! The ragged battalions must be armed. But how? Ramos lamented +his confiscated estates. Arrellano wailed the spendthriftness of his +youth. May Sethby wondered if it would have been different had they of +the Junta been more economical in the past. + +“To think that the freedom of Mexico should stand or fall on a few +paltry thousands of dollars,” said Paulino Vera. + +Despair was in all their faces. Jose Amarillo, their last hope, a recent +convert, who had promised money, had been apprehended at his hacienda in +Chihuahua and shot against his own stable wall. The news had just come +through. + +Rivera, on his knees, scrubbing, looked up, with suspended brush, his +bare arms flecked with soapy, dirty water. + +“Will five thousand do it?” he asked. + +They looked their amazement. Vera nodded and swallowed. He could not +speak, but he was on the instant invested with a vast faith. + +“Order the guns,” Rivera said, and thereupon was guilty of the longest +flow of words they had ever heard him utter. “The time is short. In +three weeks I shall bring you the five thousand. It is well. The weather +will be warmer for those who fight. Also, it is the best I can do.” + +Vera fought his faith. It was incredible. Too many fond hopes had been +shattered since he had begun to play the revolution game. He believed +this threadbare scrubber of the Revolution, and yet he dared not +believe. + +“You are crazy,” he said. + +“In three weeks,” said Rivera. “Order the guns.” + +He got up, rolled down his sleeves, and put on his coat. + +“Order the guns,” he said. + +“I am going now.” + +III + +After hurrying and scurrying, much telephoning and bad language, a night +session was held in Kelly's office. Kelly was rushed with business; +also, he was unlucky. He had brought Danny Ward out from New York, +arranged the fight for him with Billy Carthey, the date was three +weeks away, and for two days now, carefully concealed from the sporting +writers, Carthey had been lying up, badly injured. There was no one to +take his place. Kelly had been burning the wires East to every eligible +lightweight, but they were tied up with dates and contracts. And now +hope had revived, though faintly. + +“You've got a hell of a nerve,” Kelly addressed Rivera, after one look, +as soon as they got together. + +Hate that was malignant was in Rivera's eyes, but his face remained +impassive. + +“I can lick Ward,” was all he said. + +“How do you know? Ever see him fight?” + +Rivera shook his head. + +“He can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed.” + +Rivera shrugged his shoulders. + +“Haven't you got anything to say?” the fight promoter snarled. + +“I can lick him.” + +“Who'd you ever fight, anyway!” Michael Kelly demanded. Michael was the +promotor's brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms where he made +goodly sums on the fight game. + +Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare. + +The promoter's secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, sneered +audibly. + +“Well, you know Roberts,” Kelly broke the hostile silence. “He ought to +be here. I've sent for him. Sit down and wait, though f rom the looks of +you, you haven't got a chance. I can't throw the public down with a bum +fight. Ringside seats are selling at fifteen dollars, you know that.” + +When Roberts arrived, it was patent that he was mildly drunk. He was a +tall, lean, slack-jointed individual, and his walk, like his talk, was a +smooth and languid drawl. + +Kelly went straight to the point. + +“Look here, Roberts, you've been bragging you discovered this little +Mexican. You know Carthey's broke his arm. Well, this little yellow +streak has the gall to blow in to-day and say he'll take Carthey's +place. What about it?” + +“It's all right, Kelly,” came the slow response. “He can put up a +fight.” + +“I suppose you'll be sayin' next that he can lick Ward,” Kelly snapped. + +Roberts considered judicially. + +“No, I won't say that. Ward's a top-notcher and a ring general. But he +can't hashhouse Rivera in short order. I know Rivera. Nobody can get +his goat. He ain't got a goat that I could ever discover. And he's a +two-handed fighter. He can throw in the sleep-makers from any position.” + +“Never mind that. What kind of a show can he put up? You've been +conditioning and training fighters all your life. I take off my hat to +your judgment. Can he give the public a run for its money?” + +“He sure can, and he'll worry Ward a mighty heap on top of it. You +don't know that boy. I do. I discovered him. He ain't got a goat. He's a +devil. He's a wizzy-wooz if anybody should ask you. He'll make Ward sit +up with a show of local talent that'll make the rest of you sit up. I +won't say he'll lick Ward, but he'll put up such a show that you'll all +know he's a comer.” + +“All right.” Kelly turned to his secretary. “Ring up Ward. I warned +him to show up if I thought it worth while. He's right across at the +Yellowstone, throwin' chests and doing the popular.” + +Kelly turned back to the conditioner. “Have a drink?” + +Roberts sipped his highball and unburdened himself. + +“Never told you how I discovered the little cuss. It was a couple of +years ago he showed up out at the quarters. I was getting Prayne ready +for his fight with Delaney. Prayne's wicked. He ain't got a tickle of +mercy in his make-up. I chopped up his pardner's something cruel, and +I couldn't find a willing boy that'd work with him. I'd noticed this +little starved Mexican kid hanging around, and I was desperate. So +I grabbed him, shoved on the gloves and put him in. He was tougher'n +rawhide, but weak. And he didn't know the first letter in the alphabet +of boxing. Prayne chopped him to ribbons. But he hung on for two +sickening rounds, when he fainted. Starvation, that was all. Battered! +You couldn't have recognized him. I gave him half a dollar and a square +meal. You oughta seen him wolf it down. He hadn't had the end of a bite +for a couple of days. That's the end of him, thinks I. But next day he +showed up, stiff an' sore, ready for another half and a square meal. And +he done better as time went by. Just a born fighter, and tough beyond +belief. He hasn't a heart. He's a piece of ice. And he never talked +eleven words in a string since I know him. He saws wood and does his +work.” + +“I've seen 'm,” the secretary said. “He's worked a lot for you.” + +“All the big little fellows has tried out on him,” Roberts answered. +“And he's learned from 'em. I've seen some of them he could lick. But +his heart wasn't in it. I reckoned he never liked the game. He seemed to +act that way.” + +“He's been fighting some before the little clubs the last few months,” + Kelly said. + +“Sure. But I don't know what struck 'm. All of a sudden his heart got +into it. He just went out like a streak and cleaned up all the little +local fellows. Seemed to want the money, and he's won a bit, though his +clothes don't look it. He's peculiar. Nobody knows his business. Nobody +knows how he spends his time. Even when he's on the job, he plumb up and +disappears most of each day soon as his work is done. Sometimes he just +blows away for weeks at a time. But he don't take advice. There's a +fortune in it for the fellow that gets the job of managin' him, only he +won't consider it. And you watch him hold out for the cash money when +you get down to terms.” + +It was at this stage that Danny Ward arrived. Quite a party it was. +His manager and trainer were with him, and he breezed in like a gusty +draught of geniality, good-nature, and all-conqueringness. Greetings +flew about, a joke here, a retort there, a smile or a laugh for +everybody. Yet it was his way, and only partly sincere. He was a good +actor, and he had found geniality a most valuable asset in the game +of getting on in the world. But down underneath he was the deliberate, +cold-blooded fighter and business man. The rest was a mask. Those who +knew him or trafficked with him said that when it came to brass tacks +he was Danny-on-the-Spot. He was invariably present at all business +discussions, and it was urged by some that his manager was a blind whose +only function was to serve as Danny's mouth-piece. + +Rivera's way was different. Indian blood, as well as Spanish, was in +his veins, and he sat back in a corner, silent, immobile, only his black +eyes passing from face to face and noting everything. + +“So that's the guy,” Danny said, running an appraising eye over his +proposed antagonist. “How de do, old chap.” + +Rivera's eyes burned venomously, but he made no sign of acknowledgment. +He disliked all Gringos, but this Gringo he hated with an immediacy that +was unusual even in him. + +“Gawd!” Danny protested facetiously to the promoter. “You ain't +expectin' me to fight a deef mute.” When the laughter subsided, he made +another hit. “Los Angeles must be on the dink when this is the best you +can scare up. What kindergarten did you get 'm from?” + +“He's a good little boy, Danny, take it from me,” Roberts defended. “Not +as easy as he looks.” + +“And half the house is sold already,” Kelly pleaded. “You'll have to +take 'm on, Danny. It is the best we can do.” + +Danny ran another careless and unflattering glance over Rivera and +sighed. + +“I gotta be easy with 'm, I guess. If only he don't blow up.” + +Roberts snorted. + +“You gotta be careful,” Danny's manager warned. “No taking chances with +a dub that's likely to sneak a lucky one across.” + +“Oh, I'll be careful all right, all right,” Danny smiled. “I'll get in +at the start an' nurse 'im along for the dear public's sake. What d' ye +say to fifteen rounds, Kelly--an' then the hay for him?” + +“That'll do,” was the answer. “As long as you make it realistic.” + +“Then let's get down to biz.” Danny paused and calculated. “Of course, +sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts, same as with Carthey. But +the split'll be different. Eighty will just about suit me.” And to his +manager, “That right?” + +The manager nodded. + +“Here, you, did you get that?” Kelly asked Rivera. + +Rivera shook his head. + +“Well, it is this way,” Kelly exposited. “The purse'll be sixty-five per +cent of the gate receipts. You're a dub, and an unknown. You and Danny +split, twenty per cent goin' to you, an' eighty to Danny. That's fair, +isn't it, Roberts?” + +“Very fair, Rivera,” Roberts agreed. + +“You see, you ain't got a reputation yet.” + +“What will sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts be?” Rivera +demanded. + +“Oh, maybe five thousand, maybe as high as eight thousand,” Danny broke +in to explain. “Something like that. Your share'll come to something +like a thousand or sixteen hundred. Pretty good for takin' a licking +from a guy with my reputation. What d' ye say?” + +Then Rivera took their breaths away. “Winner takes all,” he said with +finality. + +A dead silence prevailed. + +“It's like candy from a baby,” Danny's manager proclaimed. + +Danny shook his head. + +“I've been in the game too long,” he explained. + +“I'm not casting reflections on the referee, or the present company. +I'm not sayin' nothing about book-makers an' frame-ups that sometimes +happen. But what I do say is that it's poor business for a fighter like +me. I play safe. There's no tellin'. Mebbe I break my arm, eh? Or some +guy slips me a bunch of dope?” He shook his head solemnly. “Win or lose, +eighty is my split. What d' ye say, Mexican?” + +Rivera shook his head. + +Danny exploded. He was getting down to brass tacks now. + +“Why, you dirty little greaser! I've a mind to knock your block off +right now.” + +Roberts drawled his body to interposition between hostilities. + +“Winner takes all,” Rivera repeated sullenly. + +“Why do you stand out that way?” Danny asked. + +“I can lick you,” was the straight answer. + +Danny half started to take off his coat. But, as his manager knew, it +was a grand stand play. The coat did not come off, and Danny allowed +himself to be placated by the group. Everybody sympathized with him. +Rivera stood alone. + +“Look here, you little fool,” Kelly took up the argument. “You're +nobody. We know what you've been doing the last few months--putting away +little local fighters. But Danny is class. His next fight after this +will be for the championship. And you're unknown. Nobody ever heard of +you out of Los Angeles.” + +“They will,” Rivera answered with a shrug, “after this fight.” + +“You think for a second you can lick me?” Danny blurted in. + +Rivera nodded. + +“Oh, come; listen to reason,” Kelly pleaded. “Think of the advertising.” + +“I want the money,” was Rivera's answer. + +“You couldn't win from me in a thousand years,” Danny assured him. + +“Then what are you holdin' out for?” Rivera countered. “If the money's +that easy, why don't you go after it?” + +“I will, so help me!” Danny cried with abrupt conviction. “I'll beat you +to death in the ring, my boy--you monkeyin' with me this way. Make +out the articles, Kelly. Winner take all. Play it up in the sportin' +columns. Tell 'em it's a grudge fight. I'll show this fresh kid a few.” + +Kelly's secretary had begun to write, when Danny interrupted. + +“Hold on!” He turned to Rivera. + +“Weights?” + +“Ringside,” came the answer. + +“Not on your life, Fresh Kid. If winner takes all, we weigh in at ten +A.M.” + +“And winner takes all?” Rivera queried. + +Danny nodded. That settled it. He would enter the ring in his full +ripeness of strength. + +“Weigh in at ten,” Rivera said. + +The secretary's pen went on scratching. + +“It means five pounds,” Roberts complained to Rivera. + +“You've given too much away. You've thrown the fight right there. +Danny'll lick you sure. He'll be as strong as a bull. You're a fool. You +ain't got the chance of a dewdrop in hell.” + +Rivera's answer was a calculated look of hatred. Even this Gringo he +despised, and him had he found the whitest Gringo of them all. + +IV + +Barely noticed was Rivera as he entered the ring. Only a very slight and +very scattering ripple of half-hearted hand-clapping greeted him. The +house did not believe in him. He was the lamb led to slaughter at the +hands of the great Danny. Besides, the house was disappointed. It had +expected a rushing battle between Danny Ward and Billy Carthey, and +here it must put up with this poor little tyro. Still further, it had +manifested its disapproval of the change by betting two, and even three, +to one on Danny. And where a betting audience's money is, there is its +heart. + +The Mexican boy sat down in his corner and waited. The slow minutes +lagged by. Danny was making him wait. It was an old trick, but ever it +worked on the young, new fighters. They grew frightened, sitting thus +and facing their own apprehensions and a callous, tobacco-smoking +audience. But for once the trick failed. Roberts was right. Rivera had +no goat. He, who was more delicately coordinated, more finely nerved and +strung than any of them, had no nerves of this sort. The atmosphere of +foredoomed defeat in his own corner had no effect on him. His handlers +were Gringos and strangers. Also they were scrubs--the dirty driftage +of the fight game, without honor, without efficiency. And they were +chilled, as well, with certitude that theirs was the losing corner. + +“Now you gotta be careful,” Spider Hagerty warned him. Spider was his +chief second. “Make it last as long as you can--them's my instructions +from Kelly. If you don't, the papers'll call it another bum fight and +give the game a bigger black eye in Los Angeles.” + +All of which was not encouraging. But Rivera took no notice. He despised +prize fighting. It was the hated game of the hated Gringo. He had taken +up with it, as a chopping block for others in the training quarters, +solely because he was starving. The fact that he was marvelously made +for it had meant nothing. He hated it. Not until he had come in to the +Junta, had he fought for money, and he had found the money easy. Not +first among the sons of men had he been to find himself successful at a +despised vocation. + +He did not analyze. He merely knew that he must win this fight. There +could be no other outcome. For behind him, nerving him to this belief, +were profounder forces than any the crowded house dreamed. Danny Ward +fought for money, and for the easy ways of life that money would bring. +But the things Rivera fought for burned in his brain--blazing and +terrible visions, that, with eyes wide open, sitting lonely in the +corner of the ring and waiting for his tricky antagonist, he saw as +clearly as he had lived them. + +He saw the white-walled, water-power factories of Rio Blanco. He saw the +six thousand workers, starved and wan, and the little children, seven +and eight years of age, who toiled long shifts for ten cents a day. +He saw the perambulating corpses, the ghastly death's heads of men who +labored in the dye-rooms. He remembered that he had heard his father +call the dye-rooms the “suicide-holes,” where a year was death. He +saw the little patio, and his mother cooking and moiling at crude +housekeeping and finding time to caress and love him. And his father he +saw, large, big-moustached and deep-chested, kindly above all men, +who loved all men and whose heart was so large that there was love to +overflowing still left for the mother and the little muchacho playing +in the corner of the patio. In those days his name had not been Felipe +Rivera. It had been Fernandez, his father's and mother's name. Him had +they called Juan. Later, he had changed it himself, for he had found +the name of Fernandez hated by prefects of police, jefes politicos, and +rurales. + +Big, hearty Joaquin Fernandez! A large place he occupied in Rivera's +visions. He had not understood at the time, but looking back he could +understand. He could see him setting type in the little printery, or +scribbling endless hasty, nervous lines on the much-cluttered desk. And +he could see the strange evenings, when workmen, coming secretly in the +dark like men who did ill deeds, met with his father and talked long +hours where he, the muchacho, lay not always asleep in the corner. + +As from a remote distance he could hear Spider Hagerty saying to him: +“No layin' down at the start. Them's instructions. Take a beatin' and +earn your dough.” + +Ten minutes had passed, and he still sat in his corner. There were no +signs of Danny, who was evidently playing the trick to the limit. + +But more visions burned before the eye of Rivera's memory. The strike, +or, rather, the lockout, because the workers of Rio Blanco had helped +their striking brothers of Puebla. The hunger, the expeditions in the +hills for berries, the roots and herbs that all ate and that twisted and +pained the stomachs of all of them. And then, the nightmare; the waste +of ground before the company's store; the thousands of starving workers; +General Rosalio Martinez and the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz, and the +death-spitting rifles that seemed never to cease spitting, while the +workers' wrongs were washed and washed again in their own blood. And +that night! He saw the flat cars, piled high with the bodies of the +slain, consigned to Vera Cruz, food for the sharks of the bay. Again +he crawled over the grisly heaps, seeking and finding, stripped +and mangled, his father and his mother. His mother he especially +remembered--only her face projecting, her body burdened by the weight +of dozens of bodies. Again the rifles of the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz +cracked, and again he dropped to the ground and slunk away like some +hunted coyote of the hills. + +To his ears came a great roar, as of the sea, and he saw Danny Ward, +leading his retinue of trainers and seconds, coming down the center +aisle. The house was in wild uproar for the popular hero who was bound +to win. Everybody proclaimed him. Everybody was for him. Even Rivera's +own seconds warmed to something akin to cheerfulness when Danny ducked +jauntily through the ropes and entered the ring. His face continually +spread to an unending succession of smiles, and when Danny smiled he +smiled in every feature, even to the laughter-wrinkles of the corners of +the eyes and into the depths of the eyes themselves. Never was there so +genial a fighter. His face was a running advertisement of good feeling, +of good fellowship. He knew everybody. He joked, and laughed, and +greeted his friends through the ropes. Those farther away, unable to +suppress their admiration, cried loudly: “Oh, you Danny!” It was a +joyous ovation of affection that lasted a full five minutes. + +Rivera was disregarded. For all that the audience noticed, he did not +exist. Spider Lagerty's bloated face bent down close to his. + +“No gettin' scared,” the Spider warned. + +“An' remember instructions. You gotta last. No layin' down. If you lay +down, we got instructions to beat you up in the dressing rooms. Savve? +You just gotta fight.” + +The house began to applaud. Danny was crossing the ring to him. Danny +bent over, caught Rivera's right hand in both his own and shook it with +impulsive heartiness. Danny's smile-wreathed face was close to his. The +audience yelled its appreciation of Danny's display of sporting spirit. +He was greeting his opponent with the fondness of a brother. Danny's +lips moved, and the audience, interpreting the unheard words to be +those of a kindly-natured sport, yelled again. Only Rivera heard the low +words. + +“You little Mexican rat,” hissed from between Danny's gaily smiling +lips, “I'll fetch the yellow outa you.” + +Rivera made no move. He did not rise. He merely hated with his eyes. + +“Get up, you dog!” some man yelled through the ropes from behind. + +The crowd began to hiss and boo him for his unsportsmanlike conduct, +but he sat unmoved. Another great outburst of applause was Danny's as he +walked back across the ring. + +When Danny stripped, there was ohs! and ahs! of delight. His body was +perfect, alive with easy suppleness and health and strength. The skin +was white as a woman's, and as smooth. All grace, and resilience, +and power resided therein. He had proved it in scores of battles. His +photographs were in all the physical culture magazines. + +A groan went up as Spider Hagerty peeled Rivera's sweater over his head. +His body seemed leaner, because of the swarthiness of the skin. He had +muscles, but they made no display like his opponent's. What the audience +neglected to see was the deep chest. Nor could it guess the toughness of +the fiber of the flesh, the instantaneousness of the cell explosions +of the muscles, the fineness of the nerves that wired every part of +him into a splendid fighting mechanism. All the audience saw was a +brown-skinned boy of eighteen with what seemed the body of a boy. With +Danny it was different. Danny was a man of twenty-four, and his body +was a man's body. The contrast was still more striking as they stood +together in the center of the ring receiving the referee's last +instructions. + +Rivera noticed Roberts sitting directly behind the newspaper men. He was +drunker than usual, and his speech was correspondingly slower. + +“Take it easy, Rivera,” Roberts drawled. + +“He can't kill you, remember that. He'll rush you at the go-off, but +don't get rattled. You just and stall, and clinch. He can't hurt cover +up, much. Just make believe to yourself that he's choppin' out on you at +the trainin' quarters.” + +Rivera made no sign that he had heard. + +“Sullen little devil,” Roberts muttered to the man next to him. “He +always was that way.” + +But Rivera forgot to look his usual hatred. A vision of countless rifles +blinded his eyes. Every face in the audience, far as he could see, to +the high dollar-seats, was transformed into a rifle. And he saw the long +Mexican border arid and sun-washed and aching, and along it he saw the +ragged bands that delayed only for the guns. + +Back in his corner he waited, standing up. His seconds had crawled out +through the ropes, taking the canvas stool with them. Diagonally across +the squared ring, Danny faced him. The gong struck, and the battle was +on. The audience howled its delight. Never had it seen a battle open +more convincingly. The papers were right. It was a grudge fight. +Three-quarters of the distance Danny covered in the rush to get +together, his intention to eat up the Mexican lad plainly advertised. He +assailed with not one blow, nor two, nor a dozen. He was a gyroscope +of blows, a whirlwind of destruction. Rivera was nowhere. He was +overwhelmed, buried beneath avalanches of punches delivered from every +angle and position by a past master in the art. He was overborne, swept +back against the ropes, separated by the referee, and swept back against +the ropes again. + +It was not a fight. It was a slaughter, a massacre. Any audience, save +a prize fighting one, would have exhausted its emotions in that first +minute. Danny was certainly showing what he could do--a splendid +exhibition. Such was the certainty of the audience, as well as its +excitement and favoritism, that it failed to take notice that the +Mexican still stayed on his feet. It forgot Rivera. It rarely saw him, +so closely was he enveloped in Danny's man-eating attack. A minute of +this went by, and two minutes. Then, in a separation, it caught a clear +glimpse of the Mexican. His lip was cut, his nose was bleeding. As he +turned and staggered into a clinch, the welts of oozing blood, from his +contacts with the ropes, showed in red bars across his back. But what +the audience did not notice was that his chest was not heaving and that +his eyes were coldly burning as ever. Too many aspiring champions, in +the cruel welter of the training camps, had practiced this man-eating +attack on him. He had learned to live through for a compensation of from +half a dollar a go up to fifteen dollars a week--a hard school, and he +was schooled hard. + +Then happened the amazing thing. The whirling, blurring mix-up ceased +suddenly. Rivera stood alone. Danny, the redoubtable Danny, lay on his +back. His body quivered as consciousness strove to return to it. He had +not staggered and sunk down, nor had he gone over in a long slumping +fall. The right hook of Rivera had dropped him in midair with the +abruptness of death. The referee shoved Rivera back with one hand, and +stood over the fallen gladiator counting the seconds. It is the custom +of prize-fighting audiences to cheer a clean knock-down blow. But this +audience did not cheer. The thing had been too unexpected. It watched +the toll of the seconds in tense silence, and through this silence the +voice of Roberts rose exultantly: + +“I told you he was a two-handed fighter!” + +By the fifth second, Danny was rolling over on his face, and when seven +was counted, he rested on one knee, ready to rise after the count of +nine and before the count of ten. If his knee still touched the floor +at “ten,” he was considered “down,” and also “out.” The instant his +knee left the floor, he was considered “up,” and in that instant it was +Rivera's right to try and put him down again. Rivera took no chances. +The moment that knee left the floor he would strike again. He circled +around, but the referee circled in between, and Rivera knew that the +seconds he counted were very slow. All Gringos were against him, even +the referee. + +At “nine” the referee gave Rivera a sharp thrust back. It was unfair, +but it enabled Danny to rise, the smile back on his lips. Doubled partly +over, with arms wrapped about face and abdomen, he cleverly stumbled +into a clinch. By all the rules of the game the referee should have +broken it, but he did not, and Danny clung on like a surf-battered +barnacle and moment by moment recuperated. The last minute of the round +was going fast. If he could live to the end, he would have a full minute +in his corner to revive. And live to the end he did, smiling through all +desperateness and extremity. + +“The smile that won't come off!” somebody yelled, and the audience +laughed loudly in its relief. + +“The kick that Greaser's got is something God-awful,” Danny gasped in +his corner to his adviser while his handlers worked frantically over +him. + +The second and third rounds were tame. Danny, a tricky and consummate +ring general, stalled and blocked and held on, devoting himself to +recovering from that dazing first-round blow. In the fourth round he was +himself again. Jarred and shaken, nevertheless his good condition had +enabled him to regain his vigor. But he tried no man-eating tactics. +The Mexican had proved a tartar. Instead, he brought to bear his best +fighting powers. In tricks and skill and experience he was the master, +and though he could land nothing vital, he proceeded scientifically to +chop and wear down his opponent. He landed three blows to Rivera's one, +but they were punishing blows only, and not deadly. It was the sum of +many of them that constituted deadliness. He was respectful of this +two-handed dub with the amazing short-arm kicks in both his fists. + +In defense, Rivera developed a disconcerting straight-left. Again +and again, attack after attack he straight-lefted away from him with +accumulated damage to Danny's mouth and nose. But Danny was protean. +That was why he was the coming champion. He could change from style to +style of fighting at will. He now devoted himself to infighting. In +this he was particularly wicked, and it enabled him to avoid the other's +straight-left. Here he set the house wild repeatedly, capping it with +a marvelous lockbreak and lift of an inside upper-cut that raised the +Mexican in the air and dropped him to the mat. Rivera rested on one +knee, making the most of the count, and in the soul of him he knew the +referee was counting short seconds on him. + +Again, in the seventh, Danny achieved the diabolical inside uppercut. +He succeeded only in staggering Rivera, but, in the ensuing moment of +defenseless helplessness, he smashed him with another blow through the +ropes. Rivera's body bounced on the heads of the newspaper men below, +and they boosted him back to the edge of the platform outside the ropes. +Here he rested on one knee, while the referee raced off the seconds. +Inside the ropes, through which he must duck to enter the ring, Danny +waited for him. Nor did the referee intervene or thrust Danny back. + +The house was beside itself with delight. + +“Kill'm, Danny, kill'm!” was the cry. + +Scores of voices took it up until it was like a war-chant of wolves. + +Danny did his best, but Rivera, at the count of eight, instead of nine, +came unexpectedly through the ropes and safely into a clinch. Now the +referee worked, tearing him away so that he could be hit, giving Danny +every advantage that an unfair referee can give. + +But Rivera lived, and the daze cleared from his brain. It was all of a +piece. They were the hated Gringos and they were all unfair. And in the +worst of it visions continued to flash and sparkle in his brain--long +lines of railroad track that simmered across the desert; rurales and +American constables, prisons and calabooses; tramps at water tanks--all +the squalid and painful panorama of his odyssey after Rio Blanca and the +strike. And, resplendent and glorious, he saw the great, red Revolution +sweeping across his land. The guns were there before him. Every hated +face was a gun. It was for the guns he fought. He was the guns. He was +the Revolution. He fought for all Mexico. + +The audience began to grow incensed with Rivera. Why didn't he take the +licking that was appointed him? Of course he was going to be licked, but +why should he be so obstinate about it? Very few were interested in him, +and they were the certain, definite percentage of a gambling crowd that +plays long shots. Believing Danny to be the winner, nevertheless they +had put their money on the Mexican at four to ten and one to three. More +than a trifle was up on the point of how many rounds Rivera could last. +Wild money had appeared at the ringside proclaiming that he could not +last seven rounds, or even six. The winners of this, now that their cash +risk was happily settled, had joined in cheering on the favorite. + +Rivera refused to be licked. Through the eighth round his opponent +strove vainly to repeat the uppercut. In the ninth, Rivera stunned the +house again. In the midst of a clinch he broke the lock with a quick, +lithe movement, and in the narrow space between their bodies his right +lifted from the waist. Danny went to the floor and took the safety of +the count. The crowd was appalled. He was being bested at his own game. +His famous right-uppercut had been worked back on him. Rivera made +no attempt to catch him as he arose at “nine.” The referee was openly +blocking that play, though he stood clear when the situation was +reversed and it was Rivera who desired to rise. + +Twice in the tenth, Rivera put through the right-uppercut, lifted from +waist to opponent's chin. Danny grew desperate. The smile never left his +face, but he went back to his man-eating rushes. Whirlwind as he would, +he could not damage Rivera, while Rivera through the blur and whirl, +dropped him to the mat three times in succession. Danny did not +recuperate so quickly now, and by the eleventh round he was in a serious +way. But from then till the fourteenth he put up the gamest exhibition +of his career. He stalled and blocked, fought parsimoniously, and strove +to gather strength. Also, he fought as foully as a successful fighter +knows how. Every trick and device he employed, butting in the clinches +with the seeming of accident, pinioning Rivera's glove between arm and +body, heeling his glove on Rivera's mouth to clog his breathing. Often, +in the clinches, through his cut and smiling lips he snarled insults +unspeakable and vile in Rivera's ear. Everybody, from the referee to the +house, was with Danny and was helping Danny. And they knew what he had +in mind. Bested by this surprise-box of an unknown, he was pinning +all on a single punch. He offered himself for punishment, fished, and +feinted, and drew, for that one opening that would enable him to whip +a blow through with all his strength and turn the tide. As another and +greater fighter had done before him, he might do a right and left, to +solar plexus and across the jaw. He could do it, for he was noted for +the strength of punch that remained in his arms as long as he could keep +his feet. + +Rivera's seconds were not half-caring for him in the intervals between +rounds. Their towels made a showing, but drove little air into his +panting lungs. Spider Hagerty talked advice to him, but Rivera knew +it was wrong advice. Everybody was against him. He was surrounded by +treachery. In the fourteenth round he put Danny down again, and himself +stood resting, hands dropped at side, while the referee counted. In +the other corner Rivera had been noting suspicious whisperings. He saw +Michael Kelly make his way to Roberts and bend and whisper. Rivera's +ears were a cat's, desert-trained, and he caught snatches of what was +said. He wanted to hear more, and when his opponent arose he maneuvered +the fight into a clinch over against the ropes. + +“Got to,” he could hear Michael, while Roberts nodded. “Danny's got to +win--I stand to lose a mint--I've got a ton of money covered--my own. +If he lasts the fifteenth I'm bust--the boy'll mind you. Put something +across.” + +And thereafter Rivera saw no more visions. They were trying to job him. +Once again he dropped Danny and stood resting, his hands at his slide. +Roberts stood up. + +“That settled him,” he said. + +“Go to your corner.” + +He spoke with authority, as he had often spoken to Rivera at the +training quarters. But Rivera looked hatred at him and waited for Danny +to rise. Back in his corner in the minute interval, Kelly, the promoter, +came and talked to Rivera. + +“Throw it, damn you,” he rasped in, a harsh low voice. “You gotta lay +down, Rivera. Stick with me and I'll make your future. I'll let you lick +Danny next time. But here's where you lay down.” + +Rivera showed with his eyes that he heard, but he made neither sign of +assent nor dissent. + +“Why don't you speak?” Kelly demanded angrily. + +“You lose, anyway,” Spider Hagerty supplemented. “The referee'll take it +away from you. Listen to Kelly, and lay down.” + +“Lay down, kid,” Kelly pleaded, “and I'll help you to the championship.” + +Rivera did not answer. + +“I will, so help me, kid.” + +At the strike of the gong Rivera sensed something impending. The house +did not. Whatever it was it was there inside the ring with him and very +close. Danny's earlier surety seemed returned to him. The confidence of +his advance frightened Rivera. Some trick was about to be worked. Danny +rushed, but Rivera refused the encounter. He side-stepped away into +safety. What the other wanted was a clinch. It was in some way necessary +to the trick. Rivera backed and circled away, yet he knew, sooner or +later, the clinch and the trick would come. Desperately he resolved +to draw it. He made as if to effect the clinch with Danny's next rush. +Instead, at the last instant, just as their bodies should have come +together, Rivera darted nimbly back. And in the same instant Danny's +corner raised a cry of foul. Rivera had fooled them. The referee paused +irresolutely. The decision that trembled on his lips was never uttered, +for a shrill, boy's voice from the gallery piped, “Raw work!” + +Danny cursed Rivera openly, and forced him, while Rivera danced away. +Also, Rivera made up his mind to strike no more blows at the body. In +this he threw away half his chance of winning, but he knew if he was to +win at all it was with the outfighting that remained to him. Given the +least opportunity, they would lie a foul on him. Danny threw all caution +to the winds. For two rounds he tore after and into the boy who dared +not meet him at close quarters. Rivera was struck again and again; +he took blows by the dozens to avoid the perilous clinch. During this +supreme final rally of Danny's the audience rose to its feet and went +mad. It did not understand. All it could see was that its favorite was +winning, after all. + +“Why don't you fight?” it demanded wrathfully of Rivera. + +“You're yellow! You're yellow!” “Open up, you cur! Open up!” “Kill'm, +Danny! Kill 'm!” “You sure got 'm! Kill 'm!” + +In all the house, bar none, Rivera was the only cold man. By temperament +and blood he was the hottest-passioned there; but he had gone through +such vastly greater heats that this collective passion of ten thousand +throats, rising surge on surge, was to his brain no more than the velvet +cool of a summer twilight. + +Into the seventeenth round Danny carried his rally. Rivera, under a +heavy blow, drooped and sagged. His hands dropped helplessly as he +reeled backward. Danny thought it was his chance. The boy was at, his +mercy. Thus Rivera, feigning, caught him off his guard, lashing out a +clean drive to the mouth. Danny went down. When he arose, Rivera felled +him with a down-chop of the right on neck and jaw. Three times he +repeated this. It was impossible for any referee to call these blows +foul. + +“Oh, Bill! Bill!” Kelly pleaded to the referee. + +“I can't,” that official lamented back. “He won't give me a chance.” + +Danny, battered and heroic, still kept coming up. Kelly and others near +to the ring began to cry out to the police to stop it, though Danny's +corner refused to throw in the towel. Rivera saw the fat police captain +starting awkwardly to climb through the ropes, and was not sure what it +meant. There were so many ways of cheating in this game of the Gringos. +Danny, on his feet, tottered groggily and helplessly before him. The +referee and the captain were both reaching for Rivera when he struck the +last blow. There was no need to stop the fight, for Danny did not rise. + +“Count!” Rivera cried hoarsely to the referee. + +And when the count was finished, Danny's seconds gathered him up and +carried him to his corner. + +“Who wins?” Rivera demanded. + +Reluctantly, the referee caught his gloved hand and held it aloft. + +There were no congratulations for Rivera. He walked to his corner +unattended, where his seconds had not yet placed his stool. He leaned +backward on the ropes and looked his hatred at them, swept it on and +about him till the whole ten thousand Gringos were included. His knees +trembled under him, and he was sobbing from exhaustion. Before his eyes +the hated faces swayed back and forth in the giddiness of nausea. Then +he remembered they were the guns. The guns were his. The Revolution +could go on. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Night-Born, by Jack London + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NIGHT-BORN *** + +***** This file should be named 1029-0.txt or 1029-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/1029/ + +Produced by J.R. Wright + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/1029-0.zip b/old/1029-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..838497a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1029-0.zip diff --git a/old/1029-h.zip b/old/1029-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a699fc6 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1029-h.zip diff --git a/old/1029-h/1029-h.htm b/old/1029-h/1029-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fc2b487 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1029-h/1029-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7488 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Night-born, by Jack London + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Night-Born, by Jack London + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Night-Born + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: August 2, 2008 [EBook #1029] +Last Updated: March 3, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NIGHT-BORN *** + + + + +Produced by J.R. Wright, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE NIGHT-BORN + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Jack London + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE NIGHT-BORN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> WINGED BLACKMAIL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> WAR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> TO KILL A MAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE MEXICAN </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + THE NIGHT-BORN + </h2> + <p> + It was in the old Alta-Inyo Club—a warm night for San Francisco—and + through the open windows, hushed and far, came the brawl of the streets. + The talk had led on from the Graft Prosecution and the latest signs that + the town was to be run wide open, down through all the grotesque + sordidness and rottenness of man-hate and man-meanness, until the name of + O'Brien was mentioned—O'Brien, the promising young pugilist who had + been killed in the prize-ring the night before. At once the air had seemed + to freshen. O'Brien had been a clean-living young man with ideals. He + neither drank, smoked, nor swore, and his had been the body of a beautiful + young god. He had even carried his prayer-book to the ringside. They found + it in his coat pocket in the dressing-room... afterward. + </p> + <p> + Here was Youth, clean and wholesome, unsullied—the thing of glory + and wonder for men to conjure with..... after it has been lost to them and + they have turned middle-aged. And so well did we conjure, that Romance + came and for an hour led us far from the man-city and its snarling roar. + Bardwell, in a way, started it by quoting from Thoreau; but it was old + Trefethan, bald-headed and dewlapped, who took up the quotation and for + the hour to come was romance incarnate. At first we wondered how many + Scotches he had consumed since dinner, but very soon all that was + forgotten. + </p> + <p> + “It was in 1898—I was thirty-five then,” he said. “Yes, I know you + are adding it up. You're right. I'm forty-seven now; look ten years more; + and the doctors say—damn the doctors anyway!” + </p> + <p> + He lifted the long glass to his lips and sipped it slowly to soothe away + his irritation. + </p> + <p> + “But I was young... once. I was young twelve years ago, and I had hair on + top of my head, and my stomach was lean as a runner's, and the longest day + was none too long for me. I was a husky back there in '98. You remember + me, Milner. You knew me then. Wasn't I a pretty good bit of all right?” + </p> + <p> + Milner nodded and agreed. Like Trefethan, he was another mining engineer + who had cleaned up a fortune in the Klondike. + </p> + <p> + “You certainly were, old man,” Milner said. “I'll never forget when you + cleaned out those lumberjacks in the M. & M. that night that little + newspaper man started the row. Slavin was in the country at the time,”—this + to us—“and his manager wanted to get up a match with Trefethan.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, look at me now,” Trefethan commanded angrily. “That's what the + Goldstead did to me—God knows how many millions, but nothing left in + my soul..... nor in my veins. The good red blood is gone. I am a + jellyfish, a huge, gross mass of oscillating protoplasm, a—a...” + </p> + <p> + But language failed him, and he drew solace from the long glass. + </p> + <p> + “Women looked at me then; and turned their heads to look a second time. + Strange that I never married. But the girl. That's what I started to tell + you about. I met her a thousand miles from anywhere, and then some. And + she quoted to me those very words of Thoreau that Bardwell quoted a moment + ago—the ones about the day-born gods and the night-born.” + </p> + <p> + “It was after I had made my locations on Goldstead—and didn't know + what a treasure-pot that that trip creek was going to prove—that I + made that trip east over the Rockies, angling across to the Great Up North + there the Rockies are something more than a back-bone. They are a + boundary, a dividing line, a wall impregnable and unscalable. There is no + intercourse across them, though, on occasion, from the early days, + wandering trappers have crossed them, though more were lost by the way + than ever came through. And that was precisely why I tackled the job. It + was a traverse any man would be proud to make. I am prouder of it right + now than anything else I have ever done. + </p> + <p> + “It is an unknown land. Great stretches of it have never been explored. + There are big valleys there where the white man has never set foot, and + Indian tribes as primitive as ten thousand years... almost, for they have + had some contact with the whites. Parties of them come out once in a while + to trade, and that is all. Even the Hudson Bay Company failed to find them + and farm them. + </p> + <p> + “And now the girl. I was coming up a stream—you'd call it a river in + California—uncharted—and unnamed. It was a noble valley, now + shut in by high canyon walls, and again opening out into beautiful + stretches, wide and long, with pasture shoulder-high in the bottoms, + meadows dotted with flowers, and with clumps of timberspruce—virgin + and magnificent. The dogs were packing on their backs, and were + sore-footed and played out; while I was looking for any bunch of Indians + to get sleds and drivers from and go on with the first snow. It was late + fall, but the way those flowers persisted surprised me. I was supposed to + be in sub-arctic America, and high up among the buttresses of the Rockies, + and yet there was that everlasting spread of flowers. Some day the white + settlers will be in there and growing wheat down all that valley. + </p> + <p> + “And then I lifted a smoke, and heard the barking of the dogs—Indian + dogs—and came into camp. There must have been five hundred of them, + proper Indians at that, and I could see by the jerking-frames that the + fall hunting had been good. And then I met her—Lucy. That was her + name. Sign language—that was all we could talk with, till they led + me to a big fly—you know, half a tent, open on the one side where a + campfire burned. It was all of moose-skins, this fly—moose-skins, + smoke-cured, hand-rubbed, and golden-brown. Under it everything was neat + and orderly as no Indian camp ever was. The bed was laid on fresh spruce + boughs. There were furs galore, and on top of all was a robe of swanskins—white + swan-skins—I have never seen anything like that robe. And on top of + it, sitting cross-legged, was Lucy. She was nut-brown. I have called her a + girl. But she was not. She was a woman, a nut-brown woman, an Amazon, a + full-blooded, full-bodied woman, and royal ripe. And her eyes were blue. + </p> + <p> + “That's what took me off my feet—her eyes—blue, not China + blue, but deep blue, like the sea and sky all melted into one, and very + wise. More than that, they had laughter in them—warm laughter, + sun-warm and human, very human, and... shall I say feminine? They were. + They were a woman's eyes, a proper woman's eyes. You know what that means. + Can I say more? Also, in those blue eyes were, at the same time, a wild + unrest, a wistful yearning, and a repose, an absolute repose, a sort of + all-wise and philosophical calm.” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan broke off abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “You fellows think I am screwed. I'm not. This is only my fifth since + dinner. I am dead sober. I am solemn. I sit here now side by side with my + sacred youth. It is not I—'old' Trefethan—that talks; it is my + youth, and it is my youth that says those were the most wonderful eyes I + have ever seen—so very calm, so very restless; so very wise, so very + curious; so very old, so very young; so satisfied and yet yearning so + wistfully. Boys, I can't describe them. When I have told you about her, + you may know better for yourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “She did not stand up. But she put out her hand.” + </p> + <p> + “'Stranger,' she said, 'I'm real glad to see you.' + </p> + <p> + “I leave it to you—that sharp, frontier, Western tang of speech. + Picture my sensations. It was a woman, a white woman, but that tang! It + was amazing that it should be a white woman, here, beyond the last + boundary of the world—but the tang. I tell you, it hurt. It was like + the stab of a flatted note. And yet, let me tell you, that woman was a + poet. You shall see.” + </p> + <p> + “She dismissed the Indians. And, by Jove, they went. They took her orders + and followed her blind. She was hi-yu skookam chief. She told the bucks to + make a camp for me and to take care of my dogs. And they did, too. And + they knew enough not to get away with as much as a moccasin-lace of my + outfit. She was a regular She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, and I want to tell you + it chilled me to the marrow, sent those little thrills Marathoning up and + down my spinal column, meeting a white woman out there at the head of a + tribe of savages a thousand miles the other side of No Man's Land. + </p> + <p> + “'Stranger,” she said, 'I reckon you're sure the first white that ever set + foot in this valley. Set down an' talk a spell, and then we'll have a bite + to eat. Which way might you be comin'?' + </p> + <p> + “There it was, that tang again. But from now to the end of the yarn I want + you to forget it. I tell you I forgot it, sitting there on the edge of + that swan-skin robe and listening and looking at the most wonderful woman + that ever stepped out of the pages of Thoreau or of any other man's book. + </p> + <p> + “I stayed on there a week. It was on her invitation. She promised to fit + me out with dogs and sleds and with Indians that would put me across the + best pass of the Rockies in five hundred miles. Her fly was pitched apart + from the others, on the high bank by the river, and a couple of Indian + girls did her cooking for her and the camp work. And so we talked and + talked, while the first snow fell and continued to fall and make a surface + for my sleds. And this was her story. + </p> + <p> + “She was frontier-born, of poor settlers, and you know what that means—work, + work, always work, work in plenty and without end. + </p> + <p> + “'I never seen the glory of the world,' she said. 'I had no time. I knew + it was right out there, anywhere, all around the cabin, but there was + always the bread to set, the scrubbin' and the washin' and the work that + was never done. I used to be plumb sick at times, jes' to get out into it + all, especially in the spring when the songs of the birds drove me most + clean crazy. I wanted to run out through the long pasture grass, wetting + my legs with the dew of it, and to climb the rail fence, and keep on + through the timber and up and up over the divide so as to get a look + around. Oh, I had all kinds of hankerings—to follow up the canyon + beds and slosh around from pool to pool, making friends with the + water-dogs and the speckly trout; to peep on the sly and watch the + squirrels and rabbits and small furry things and see what they was doing + and learn the secrets of their ways. Seemed to me, if I had time, I could + crawl among the flowers, and, if I was good and quiet, catch them + whispering with themselves, telling all kinds of wise things that mere + humans never know.'” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan paused to see that his glass had been refilled. + </p> + <p> + “Another time she said: 'I wanted to run nights like a wild thing, just to + run through the moonshine and under the stars, to run white and naked in + the darkness that I knew must feel like cool velvet, and to run and run + and keep on running. One evening, plumb tuckered out—it had been a + dreadful hard hot day, and the bread wouldn't raise and the churning had + gone wrong, and I was all irritated and jerky—well, that evening I + made mention to dad of this wanting to run of mine. He looked at me + curious-some and a bit scared. And then he gave me two pills to take. Said + to go to bed and get a good sleep and I'd be all hunky-dory in the + morning. So I never mentioned my hankerings to him, or any one any more.' + </p> + <p> + “The mountain home broke up—starved out, I imagine—and the + family came to Seattle to live. There she worked in a factory—long + hours, you know, and all the rest, deadly work. And after a year of that + she became waitress in a cheap restaurant—hash-slinger, she called + it. She said to me once, 'Romance I guess was what I wanted. But there + wan't no romance floating around in dishpans and washtubs, or in factories + and hash-joints.' + </p> + <p> + “When she was eighteen she married—a man who was going up to Juneau + to start a restaurant. He had a few dollars saved, and appeared + prosperous. She didn't love him—she was emphatic about that, but she + was all tired out, and she wanted to get away from the unending drudgery. + Besides, Juneau was in Alaska, and her yearning took the form of a desire + to see that wonderland. But little she saw of it. He started the + restaurant, a little cheap one, and she quickly learned what he had + married her for..... to save paying wages. She came pretty close to + running the joint and doing all the work from waiting to dishwashing. She + cooked most of the time as well. And she had four years of it. + </p> + <p> + “Can't you picture her, this wild woods creature, quick with every old + primitive instinct, yearning for the free open, and mowed up in a vile + little hash-joint and toiling and moiling for four mortal years? + </p> + <p> + “'There was no meaning in anything,' she said. 'What was it all about! Why + was I born! Was that all the meaning of life—just to work and work + and be always tired!—to go to bed tired and to wake up tired, with + every day like every other day unless it was harder?' She had heard talk + of immortal life from the gospel sharps, she said, but she could not + reckon that what she was doin' was a likely preparation for her + immortality. + </p> + <p> + “But she still had her dreams, though more rarely. She had read a few + books—what, it is pretty hard to imagine, Seaside Library novels + most likely; yet they had been food for fancy. 'Sometimes,' she said, + 'when I was that dizzy from the heat of the cooking that if I didn't take + a breath of fresh air I'd faint, I'd stick my head out of the kitchen + window, and close my eyes and see most wonderful things. All of a sudden + I'd be traveling down a country road, and everything clean and quiet, no + dust, no dirt; just streams ripplin' down sweet meadows, and lambs + playing, breezes blowing the breath of flowers, and soft sunshine over + everything; and lovely cows lazying knee-deep in quiet pools, and young + girls bathing in a curve of stream all white and slim and natural—and + I'd know I was in Arcady. I'd read about that country once, in a book. And + maybe knights, all flashing in the sun, would come riding around a bend in + the road, or a lady on a milk-white mare, and in the distance I could see + the towers of a castle rising, or I just knew, on the next turn, that I'd + come upon some palace, all white and airy and fairy-like, with fountains + playing, and flowers all over everything, and peacocks on the lawn..... + and then I'd open my eyes, and the heat of the cooking range would strike + on me, and I'd hear Jake sayin'—he was my husband—I'd hear + Jake sayin', “Why ain't you served them beans? Think I can wait here all + day!” Romance!—I reckon the nearest I ever come to it was when a + drunken Armenian cook got the snakes and tried to cut my throat with a + potato knife and I got my arm burned on the stove before I could lay him + out with the potato stomper. + </p> + <p> + “'I wanted easy ways, and lovely things, and Romance and all that; but it + just seemed I had no luck nohow and was only and expressly born for + cooking and dishwashing. There was a wild crowd in Juneau them days, but I + looked at the other women, and their way of life didn't excite me. I + reckon I wanted to be clean. I don't know why; I just wanted to, I guess; + and I reckoned I might as well die dishwashing as die their way.” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan halted in his tale for a moment, completing to himself some + thread of thought. + </p> + <p> + “And this is the woman I met up there in the Arctic, running a tribe of + wild Indians and a few thousand square miles of hunting territory. And it + happened, simply enough, though, for that matter, she might have lived and + died among the pots and pans. But 'Came the whisper, came the vision.' + That was all she needed, and she got it. + </p> + <p> + “'I woke up one day,' she said. 'Just happened on it in a scrap of + newspaper. I remember every word of it, and I can give it to you.' And + then she quoted Thoreau's Cry of the Human: + </p> + <p> + “'The young pines springing up, in the corn field from year to year are to + me a refreshing fact. We talk of civilizing the Indian, but that is not + the name for his improvement. By the wary independence and aloofness of + his dim forest life he preserves his intercourse with his native gods and + is admitted from time to time to a rare and peculiar society with nature. + He has glances of starry recognition, to which our saloons are strangers. + The steady illumination of his qenius, dim only because distant, is like + the faint but satisfying light of the stars compared with the dazzling but + ineffectual and short-lived blaze of candles. The Society Islanders had + their day-born gods, but they were not supposed to be of equal antiquity + with the..... night-born gods.' + </p> + <p> + “That's what she did, repeated it word for word, and I forgot the tang, + for it was solemn, a declaration of religion—pagan, if you will; and + clothed in the living garmenture of herself. + </p> + <p> + “'And the rest of it was torn away,' she added, a great emptiness in her + voice. 'It was only a scrap of newspaper. But that Thoreau was a wise man. + I wish I knew more about him.' She stopped a moment, and I swear her face + was ineffably holy as she said, 'I could have made him a good wife.' + </p> + <p> + “And then she went on. 'I knew right away, as soon as I read that, what + was the matter with me. I was a night-born. I, who had lived all my life + with the day-born, was a night-born. That was why I had never been + satisfied with cooking and dishwashing; that was why I had hankered to run + naked in the moonlight. And I knew that this dirty little Juneau + hash-joint was no place for me. And right there and then I said, “I quit.” + I packed up my few rags of clothes, and started. Jake saw me and tried to + stop me. + </p> + <p> + “'What you doing?” he says. + </p> + <p> + “'Divorcin' you and me,' I says. 'I'm headin' for tall timber and where I + belong.'” + </p> + <p> + “'No you don't,' he says, reaching for me to stop me. 'The cooking has got + on your head. You listen to me talk before you up and do anything brash.' + </p> + <p> + “But I pulled a gun-a little Colt's forty-four—and says, 'This does + my talkin' for me.' + </p> + <p> + “And I left.” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan emptied his glass and called for another. + </p> + <p> + “Boys, do you know what that girl did? She was twenty-two. She had spent + her life over the dish-pan and she knew no more about the world than I do + of the fourth dimension, or the fifth. All roads led to her desire. No; + she didn't head for the dance-halls. On the Alaskan Pan-handle it is + preferable to travel by water. She went down to the beach. An Indian canoe + was starting for Dyea—you know the kind, carved out of a single + tree, narrow and deep and sixty feet long. She gave them a couple of + dollars and got on board. + </p> + <p> + “'Romance?' she told me. 'It was Romance from the jump. There were three + families altogether in that canoe, and that crowded there wasn't room to + turn around, with dogs and Indian babies sprawling over everything, and + everybody dipping a paddle and making that canoe go.' And all around the + great solemn mountains, and tangled drifts of clouds and sunshine. And oh, + the silence! the great wonderful silence! And, once, the smoke of a + hunter's camp, away off in the distance, trailing among the trees. It was + like a picnic, a grand picnic, and I could see my dreams coming true, and + I was ready for something to happen 'most any time. And it did. + </p> + <p> + “'And that first camp, on the island! And the boys spearing fish in the + mouth of the creek, and the big deer one of the bucks shot just around the + point. And there were flowers everywhere, and in back from the beach the + grass was thick and lush and neck-high. And some of the girls went through + this with me, and we climbed the hillside behind and picked berries and + roots that tasted sour and were good to eat. And we came upon a big bear + in the berries making his supper, and he said “Oof!” and ran away as + scared as we were. And then the camp, and the camp smoke, and the smell of + fresh venison cooking. It was beautiful. I was with the night-born at + last, and I knew that was where I belonged. And for the first time in my + life, it seemed to me, I went to bed happy that night, looking out under a + corner of the canvas at the stars cut off black by a big shoulder of + mountain, and listening to the night-noises, and knowing that the same + thing would go on next day and forever and ever, for I wasn't going back. + And I never did go back.' + </p> + <p> + “'Romance! I got it next day. We had to cross a big arm of the ocean—twelve + or fifteen miles, at least; and it came on to blow when we were in the + middle. That night I was along on shore, with one wolf-dog, and I was the + only one left alive.' + </p> + <p> + “Picture it yourself,” Trefethan broke off to say. “The canoe was wrecked + and lost, and everybody pounded to death on the rocks except her. She went + ashore hanging on to a dog's tail, escaping the rocks and washing up on a + tiny beach, the only one in miles. + </p> + <p> + “'Lucky for me it was the mainland,' she said. 'So I headed right away + back, through the woods and over the mountains and straight on anywhere. + Seemed I was looking for something and knew I'd find it. I wasn't afraid. + I was night-born, and the big timber couldn't kill me. And on the second + day I found it. I came upon a small clearing and a tumbledown cabin. + Nobody had been there for years and years. The roof had fallen in. Rotted + blankets lay in the bunks, and pots and pans were on the stove. But that + was not the most curious thing. Outside, along the edge of the trees, you + can't guess what I found. The skeletons of eight horses, each tied to a + tree. They had starved to death, I reckon, and left only little piles of + bones scattered some here and there. And each horse had had a load on its + back. There the loads lay, in among the bones—painted canvas sacks, + and inside moosehide sacks, and inside the moosehide sacks—what do + you think?'” + </p> + <p> + She stopped, reached under a corner of the bed among the spruce boughs, + and pulled out a leather sack. She untied the mouth and ran out into my + hand as pretty a stream of gold as I have ever seen—coarse gold, + placer gold, some large dust, but mostly nuggets, and it was so fresh and + rough that it scarcely showed signs of water-wash. + </p> + <p> + “'You say you're a mining engineer,' she said, 'and you know this country. + Can you name a pay-creek that has the color of that gold!' + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't! There wasn't a trace of silver. It was almost pure, and I + told her so. + </p> + <p> + “'You bet,' she said. 'I sell that for nineteen dollars an ounce. You + can't get over seventeen for Eldorado gold, and Minook gold don't fetch + quite eighteen. Well, that was what I found among the bones—eight + horse-loads of it, one hundred and fifty pounds to the load.' + </p> + <p> + “'A quarter of a million dollars!' I cried out. + </p> + <p> + “'That's what I reckoned it roughly,' she answered. 'Talk about Romance! + And me a slaving the way I had all the years, when as soon as I ventured + out, inside three days, this was what happened. And what became of the men + that mined all that gold? Often and often I wonder about it. They left + their horses, loaded and tied, and just disappeared off the face of the + earth, leaving neither hide nor hair behind them. I never heard tell of + them. Nobody knows anything about them. Well, being the night-born, I + reckon I was their rightful heir.'” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan stopped to light a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what that girl did? She cached the gold, saving out thirty + pounds, which she carried back to the coast. Then she signaled a passing + canoe, made her way to Pat Healy's trading post at Dyea, outfitted, and + went over Chilcoot Pass. That was in '88—eight years before the + Klondike strike, and the Yukon was a howling wilderness. She was afraid of + the bucks, but she took two young squaws with her, crossed the lakes, and + went down the river and to all the early camps on the Lower Yukon. She + wandered several years over that country and then on in to where I met + her. Liked the looks of it, she said, seeing, in her own words, 'a big + bull caribou knee-deep in purple iris on the valley-bottom.' She hooked up + with the Indians, doctored them, gained their confidence, and gradually + took them in charge. She had only left that country once, and then, with a + bunch of the young bucks, she went over Chilcoot, cleaned up her + gold-cache, and brought it back with her. + </p> + <p> + “'And here I be, stranger,' she concluded her yarn, 'and here's the most + precious thing I own.' + </p> + <p> + “She pulled out a little pouch of buckskin, worn on her neck like a + locket, and opened it. And inside, wrapped in oiled silk, yellowed with + age and worn and thumbed, was the original scrap of newspaper containing + the quotation from Thoreau. + </p> + <p> + “'And are you happy... satisfied?' I asked her. 'With a quarter of a + million you wouldn't have to work down in the States. You must miss a + lot.' + </p> + <p> + “'Not much,' she answered. 'I wouldn't swop places with any woman down in + the States. These are my people; this is where I belong. But there are + times—and in her eyes smoldered up that hungry yearning I've + mentioned—'there are times when I wish most awful bad for that + Thoreau man to happen along.' + </p> + <p> + “'Why?' I asked. + </p> + <p> + “'So as I could marry him. I do get mighty lonesome at spells. I'm just a + woman—a real woman. I've heard tell of the other kind of women that + gallivanted off like me and did queer things—the sort that become + soldiers in armies, and sailors on ships. But those women are queer + themselves. They're more like men than women; they look like men and they + don't have ordinary women's needs. They don't want love, nor little + children in their arms and around their knees. I'm not that sort. I leave + it to you, stranger. Do I look like a man?' + </p> + <p> + “She didn't. She was a woman, a beautiful, nut-brown woman, with a sturdy, + health-rounded woman's body and with wonderful deep-blue woman's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “'Ain't I woman?' she demanded. 'I am. I'm 'most all woman, and then some. + And the funny thing is, though I'm night-born in everything else, I'm not + when it comes to mating. I reckon that kind likes its own kind best. + That's the way it is with me, anyway, and has been all these years.' + </p> + <p> + “'You mean to tell me—' I began. + </p> + <p> + “'Never,' she said, and her eyes looked into mine with the straightness of + truth. 'I had one husband, only—him I call the Ox; and I reckon he's + still down in Juneau running the hash-joint. Look him up, if you ever get + back, and you'll find he's rightly named.' + </p> + <p> + “And look him up I did, two years afterward. He was all she said—solid + and stolid, the Ox—shuffling around and waiting on the tables. + </p> + <p> + “'You need a wife to help you,' I said. + </p> + <p> + “'I had one once,' was his answer. + </p> + <p> + “'Widower?' + </p> + <p> + “'Yep. She went loco. She always said the heat of the cooking would get + her, and it did. Pulled a gun on me one day and ran away with some + Siwashes in a canoe. Caught a blow up the coast and all hands drowned.'” + </p> + <p> + Trefethan devoted himself to his glass and remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “But the girl?” Milner reminded him. + </p> + <p> + “You left your story just as it was getting interesting, tender. Did it?” + </p> + <p> + “It did,” Trefethan replied. “As she said herself, she was savage in + everything except mating, and then she wanted her own kind. She was very + nice about it, but she was straight to the point. She wanted to marry me. + </p> + <p> + “'Stranger,' she said, 'I want you bad. You like this sort of life or you + wouldn't be here trying to cross the Rockies in fall weather. It's a + likely spot. You'll find few likelier. Why not settle down! I'll make you + a good wife.' + </p> + <p> + “And then it was up to me. And she waited. I don't mind confessing that I + was sorely tempted. I was half in love with her as it was. You know I have + never married. And I don't mind adding, looking back over my life, that + she is the only woman that ever affected me that way. But it was too + preposterous, the whole thing, and I lied like a gentleman. I told her I + was already married. + </p> + <p> + “'Is your wife waiting for you?' she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I said yes. + </p> + <p> + “'And she loves you?' + </p> + <p> + “I said yes. + </p> + <p> + “And that was all. She never pressed her point... except once, and then + she showed a bit of fire. + </p> + <p> + “'All I've got to do,' she said, 'is to give the word, and you don't get + away from here. If I give the word, you stay on... But I ain't going to + give it. I wouldn't want you if you didn't want to be wanted... and if you + didn't want me.' + </p> + <p> + “She went ahead and outfitted me and started me on my way. + </p> + <p> + “'It's a darned shame, stranger,” she said, at parting. 'I like your + looks, and I like you. If you ever change your mind, come back.' + </p> + <p> + “Now there was one thing I wanted to do, and that was to kiss her + good-bye, but I didn't know how to go about it nor how she would take it.—I + tell you I was half in love with her. But she settled it herself. + </p> + <p> + “'Kiss me,' she said. 'Just something to go on and remember.' + </p> + <p> + “And we kissed, there in the snow, in that valley by the Rockies, and I + left her standing by the trail and went on after my dogs. I was six weeks + in crossing over the pass and coming down to the first post on Great Slave + Lake.” + </p> + <p> + The brawl of the streets came up to us like a distant surf. A steward, + moving noiselessly, brought fresh siphons. And in the silence Trefethan's + voice fell like a funeral bell: + </p> + <p> + “It would have been better had I stayed. Look at me.” + </p> + <p> + We saw his grizzled mustache, the bald spot on his head, the puff-sacks + under his eyes, the sagging cheeks, the heavy dewlap, the general + tiredness and staleness and fatness, all the collapse and ruin of a man + who had once been strong but who had lived too easily and too well. + </p> + <p> + “It's not too late, old man,” Bardwell said, almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “By God! I wish I weren't a coward!” was Trefethan's answering cry. “I + could go back to her. She's there, now. I could shape up and live many a + long year... with her... up there. To remain here is to commit suicide. + But I am an old man—forty-seven—look at me. The trouble is,” + he lifted his glass and glanced at it, “the trouble is that suicide of + this sort is so easy. I am soft and tender. The thought of the long day's + travel with the dogs appalls me; the thought of the keen frost in the + morning and of the frozen sled-lashings frightens me—” + </p> + <p> + Automatically the glass was creeping toward his lips. With a swift surge + of anger he made as if to crash it down upon the floor. Next came + hesitancy and second thought. The glass moved upward to his lips and + paused. He laughed harshly and bitterly, but his words were solemn: + </p> + <p> + “Well, here's to the Night-Born. She WAS a wonder.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED + </h2> + <p> + I TELL this for a fact. It happened in the bull-ring at Quito. I sat in + the box with John Harned, and with Maria Valenzuela, and with Luis + Cervallos. I saw it happen. I saw it all from first to last. I was on the + steamer Ecuadore from Panama to Guayaquil. Maria Valenzuela is my cousin. + I have known her always. She is very beautiful. I am a Spaniard—an + Ecuadoriano, true, but I am descended from Pedro Patino, who was one of + Pizarro's captains. They were brave men. They were heroes. Did not Pizarro + lead three hundred and fifty Spanish cavaliers and four thousand Indians + into the far Cordilleras in search of treasure? And did not all the four + thousand Indians and three hundred of the brave cavaliers die on that vain + quest? But Pedro Patino did not die. He it was that lived to found the + family of the Patino. I am Ecuadoriano, true, but I am Spanish. I am + Manuel de Jesus Patino. I own many haciendas, and ten thousand Indians are + my slaves, though the law says they are free men who work by freedom of + contract. The law is a funny thing. We Ecuadorianos laugh at it. It is our + law. We make it for ourselves. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. Remember that + name. It will be written some day in history. There are revolutions in + Ecuador. We call them elections. It is a good joke is it not?—what + you call a pun? + </p> + <p> + John Harned was an American. I met him first at the Tivoli hotel in + Panama. He had much money—this I have heard. He was going to Lima, + but he met Maria Valenzuela in the Tivoli hotel. Maria Valenzuela is my + cousin, and she is beautiful. It is true, she is the most beautiful woman + in Ecuador. But also is she most beautiful in every country—in + Paris, in Madrid, in New York, in Vienna. Always do all men look at her, + and John Harned looked long at her at Panama. He loved her, that I know + for a fact. She was Ecuadoriano, true—but she was of all countries; + she was of all the world. She spoke many languages. She sang—ah! + like an artiste. Her smile—wonderful, divine. Her eyes—ah! + have I not seen men look in her eyes? They were what you English call + amazing. They were promises of paradise. Men drowned themselves in her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Maria Valenzuela was rich—richer than I, who am accounted very rich + in Ecuador. But John Harned did not care for her money. He had a heart—a + funny heart. He was a fool. He did not go to Lima. He left the steamer at + Guayaquil and followed her to Quito. She was coming home from Europe and + other places. I do not see what she found in him, but she liked him. This + I know for a fact, else he would not have followed her to Quito. She asked + him to come. Well do I remember the occasion. She said: + </p> + <p> + “Come to Quito and I will show you the bullfight—brave, clever, + magnificent!” + </p> + <p> + But he said: “I go to Lima, not Quito. Such is my passage engaged on the + steamer.” + </p> + <p> + “You travel for pleasure—no?” said Maria Valenzuela; and she looked + at him as only Maria Valenzuela could look, her eyes warm with the + promise. + </p> + <p> + And he came. No; he did not come for the bull-fight. He came because of + what he had seen in her eyes. Women like Maria Valenzuela are born once in + a hundred years. They are of no country and no time. They are what you + call goddesses. Men fall down at their feet. They play with men and run + them through their pretty fingers like sand. Cleopatra was such a woman + they say; and so was Circe. She turned men into swine. Ha! ha! It is true—no? + </p> + <p> + It all came about because Maria Valenzuela said: + </p> + <p> + “You English people are—what shall I say?—savage—no? You + prize-fight. Two men each hit the other with their fists till their eyes + are blinded and their noses are broken. Hideous! And the other men who + look on cry out loudly and are made glad. It is barbarous—no?” + </p> + <p> + “But they are men,” said John Harned; “and they prize-fight out of desire. + No one makes them prize-fight. They do it because they desire it more than + anything else in the world.” + </p> + <p> + Maria Valenzuela—there was scorn in her smile as she said: “They + kill each other often—is it not so? I have read it in the papers.” + </p> + <p> + “But the bull,” said John Harned. + </p> + <p> + “The bull is killed many times in the bull-fight, and the bull does not + come into the the ring out of desire. It is not fair to the bull. He is + compelled to fight. But the man in the prize-fight—no; he is not + compelled.” + </p> + <p> + “He is the more brute therefore,” said Maria Valenzuela. + </p> + <p> + “He is savage. He is primitive. He is animal. He strikes with his paws + like a bear from a cave, and he is ferocious. But the bull-fight—ah! + You have not seen the bullfight—no? The toreador is clever. He must + have skill. He is modern. He is romantic. He is only a man, soft and + tender, and he faces the wild bull in conflict. And he kills with a sword, + a slender sword, with one thrust, so, to the heart of the great beast. It + is delicious. It makes the heart beat to behold—the small man, the + great beast, the wide level sand, the thousands that look on without + breath; the great beast rushes to the attack, the small man stands like a + statue; he does not move, he is unafraid, and in his hand is the slender + sword flashing like silver in the sun; nearer and nearer rushes the great + beast with its sharp horns, the man does not move, and then—so—the + sword flashes, the thrust is made, to the heart, to the hilt, the bull + falls to the sand and is dead, and the man is unhurt. It is brave. It is + magnificent! Ah!—I could love the toreador. But the man of the + prize-fight—he is the brute, the human beast, the savage primitive, + the maniac that receives many blows in his stupid face and rejoices. Come + to Quito and I will show you the brave sport of men, the toreador and the + bull.” + </p> + <p> + But John Harned did not go to Quito for the bull-fight. He went because of + Maria Valenzuela. He was a large man, more broad of shoulder than we + Ecuadorianos, more tall, more heavy of limb and bone. True, he was larger + of his own race. His eyes were blue, though I have seen them gray, and, + sometimes, like cold steel. His features were large, too—not + delicate like ours, and his jaw was very strong to look at. Also, his face + was smooth-shaven like a priest's. Why should a man feel shame for the + hair on his face? Did not God put it there? Yes, I believe in God—I + am not a pagan like many of you English. God is good. He made me an + Ecuadoriano with ten thousand slaves. And when I die I shall go to God. + Yes, the priests are right. + </p> + <p> + But John Harned. He was a quiet man. He talked always in a low voice, and + he never moved his hands when he talked. One would have thought his heart + was a piece of ice; yet did he have a streak of warm in his blood, for he + followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito. Also, and for all that he talked low + without moving his hands, he was an animal, as you shall see—the + beast primitive, the stupid, ferocious savage of the long ago that dressed + in wild skins and lived in the caves along with the bears and wolves. + </p> + <p> + Luis Cervallos is my friend, the best of Ecuadorianos. He owns three cacao + plantations at Naranjito and Chobo. At Milagro is his big sugar + plantation. He has large haciendas at Ambato and Latacunga, and down the + coast is he interested in oil-wells. Also has he spent much money in + planting rubber along the Guayas. He is modern, like the Yankee; and, like + the Yankee, full of business. He has much money, but it is in many + ventures, and ever he needs more money for new ventures and for the old + ones. He has been everywhere and seen everything. When he was a very young + man he was in the Yankee military academy what you call West Point. There + was trouble. He was made to resign. He does not like Americans. But he did + like Maria Valenzuela, who was of his own country. Also, he needed her + money for his ventures and for his gold mine in Eastern Ecuador where the + painted Indians live. I was his friend. It was my desire that he should + marry Maria Valenzuela. Further, much of my money had I invested in his + ventures, more so in his gold mine which was very rich but which first + required the expense of much money before it would yield forth its riches. + If Luis Cervallos married Maria Valenzuela I should have more money very + immediately. + </p> + <p> + But John Harned followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito, and it was quickly + clear to us—to Luis Cervallos and me that she looked upon John + Harned with great kindness. It is said that a woman will have her will, + but this is a case not in point, for Maria Valenzuela did not have her + will—at least not with John Harned. Perhaps it would all have + happened as it did, even if Luis Cervallos and I had not sat in the box + that day at the bull-ring in Quito. But this I know: we DID sit in the box + that day. And I shall tell you what happened. + </p> + <p> + The four of us were in the one box, guests of Luis Cervallos. I was next + to the Presidente's box. On the other side was the box of General Jose + Eliceo Salazar. With him were Joaquin Endara and Urcisino Castillo, both + generals, and Colonel Jacinto Fierro and Captain Baltazar de Echeverria. + Only Luis Cervallos had the position and the influence to get that box + next to the Presidente. I know for a fact that the Presidente himself + expressed the desire to the management that Luis Cervallos should have + that box. + </p> + <p> + The band finished playing the national hymn of Ecuador. The procession of + the toreadors was over. The Presidente nodded to begin. The bugles blew, + and the bull dashed in—you know the way, excited, bewildered, the + darts in its shoulder burning like fire, itself seeking madly whatever + enemy to destroy. The toreadors hid behind their shelters and waited. + Suddenly they appeared forth, the capadores, five of them, from every + side, their colored capes flinging wide. The bull paused at sight of such + a generosity of enemies, unable in his own mind to know which to attack. + Then advanced one of the capadors alone to meet the bull. The bull was + very angry. With its fore-legs it pawed the sand of the arena till the + dust rose all about it. Then it charged, with lowered head, straight for + the lone capador. + </p> + <p> + It is always of interest, the first charge of the first bull. After a time + it is natural that one should grow tired, trifle, that the keenness should + lose its edge. But that first charge of the first bull! John Harned was + seeing it for the first time, and he could not escape the excitement—the + sight of the man, armed only with a piece of cloth, and of the bull + rushing upon him across the sand with sharp horns, widespreading. + </p> + <p> + “See!” cried Maria Valenzuela. “Is it not superb?” + </p> + <p> + John Harned nodded, but did not look at her. His eyes were sparkling, and + they were only for the bull-ring. The capador stepped to the side, with a + twirl of the cape eluding the bull and spreading the cape on his own + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think?” asked Maria Venzuela. “Is it not a—what-you-call—sporting + proposition—no?” + </p> + <p> + “It is certainly,” said John Harned. “It is very clever.” + </p> + <p> + She clapped her hands with delight. They were little hands. The audience + applauded. The bull turned and came back. Again the capadore eluded him, + throwing the cape on his shoulders, and again the audience applauded. + Three times did this happen. The capadore was very excellent. Then he + retired, and the other capadore played with the bull. After that they + placed the banderillos in the bull, in the shoulders, on each side of the + back-bone, two at a time. Then stepped forward Ordonez, the chief matador, + with the long sword and the scarlet cape. The bugles blew for the death. + He is not so good as Matestini. Still he is good, and with one thrust he + drove the sword to the heart, and the bull doubled his legs under him and + lay down and died. It was a pretty thrust, clean and sure; and there was + much applause, and many of the common people threw their hats into the + ring. Maria Valenzuela clapped her hands with the rest, and John Harned, + whose cold heart was not touched by the event, looked at her with + curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “You like it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Always,” she said, still clapping her hands. + </p> + <p> + “From a little girl,” said Luis Cervallos. “I remember her first fight. + She was four years old. She sat with her mother, and just like now she + clapped her hands. She is a proper Spanish woman. + </p> + <p> + “You have seen it,” said Maria Valenzuela to John Harned, as they fastened + the mules to the dead bull and dragged it out. “You have seen the + bull-fight and you like it—no? What do you think? + </p> + <p> + “I think the bull had no chance,” he said. “The bull was doomed from the + first. The issue was not in doubt. Every one knew, before the bull entered + the ring, that it was to die. To be a sporting proposition, the issue must + be in doubt. It was one stupid bull who had never fought a man against + five wise men who had fought many bulls. It would be possibly a little bit + fair if it were one man against one bull.” + </p> + <p> + “Or one man against five bulls,” said Maria Valenzuela; and we all + laughed, and Luis Ceryallos laughed loudest. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said John Harned, “against five bulls, and the man, like the bulls, + never in the bull ring before—a man like yourself, Senor Crevallos.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet we Spanish like the bull-fight,” said Luis Cervallos; and I swear the + devil was whispering then in his ear, telling him to do that which I shall + relate. + </p> + <p> + “Then must it be a cultivated taste,” John Harned made answer. “We kill + bulls by the thousand every day in Chicago, yet no one cares to pay + admittance to see.” + </p> + <p> + “That is butchery,” said I; “but this—ah, this is an art. It is + delicate. It is fine. It is rare.” + </p> + <p> + “Not always,” said Luis Cervallos. “I have seen clumsy matadors, and I + tell you it is not nice.” + </p> + <p> + He shuddered, and his face betrayed such what-you-call disgust, that I + knew, then, that the devil was whispering and that he was beginning to + play a part. + </p> + <p> + “Senor Harned may be right,” said Luis Cervallos. “It may not be fair to + the bull. For is it not known to all of us that for twenty-four hours the + bull is given no water, and that immediately before the fight he is + permitted to drink his fill?” + </p> + <p> + “And he comes into the ring heavy with water?” said John Harned quickly; + and I saw that his eyes were very gray and very sharp and very cold. + </p> + <p> + “It is necessary for the sport,” said Luis Cervallos. “Would you have the + bull so strong that he would kill the toreadors?” + </p> + <p> + “I would that he had a fighting chance,” said John Harned, facing the ring + to see the second bull come in. + </p> + <p> + It was not a good bull. It was frightened. It ran around the ring in + search of a way to get out. The capadors stepped forth and flared their + capes, but he refused to charge upon them. + </p> + <p> + “It is a stupid bull,” said Maria Valenzuela. + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon,” said John Harned; “but it would seem to me a wise bull. He + knows he must not fight man. See! He smells death there in the ring.” + </p> + <p> + True. The bull, pausing where the last one had died, was smelling the wet + sand and snorting. Again he ran around the ring, with raised head, looking + at the faces of the thousands that hissed him, that threw orange-peel at + him and called him names. But the smell of blood decided him, and he + charged a capador, so without warning that the man just escaped. He + dropped his cape and dodged into the shelter. The bull struck the wall of + the ring with a crash. And John Harned said, in a quiet voice, as though + he talked to himself: + </p> + <p> + “I will give one thousand sucres to the lazar-house of Quito if a bull + kills a man this day.” + </p> + <p> + “You like bulls?” said Maria Valenzuela with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “I like such men less,” said John Harned. “A toreador is not a brave man. + He surely cannot be a brave man. See, the bull's tongue is already out. He + is tired and he has not yet begun.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the water,” said Luis Cervallos. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is the water,” said John Harned. “Would it not be safer to + hamstring the bull before he comes on?” + </p> + <p> + Maria Valenzuela was made angry by this sneer in John Harned's words. But + Luis Cervallos smiled so that only I could see him, and then it broke upon + my mind surely the game he was playing. He and I were to be banderilleros. + The big American bull was there in the box with us. We were to stick the + darts in him till he became angry, and then there might be no marriage + with Maria Valenzuela. It was a good sport. And the spirit of + bull-fighters was in our blood. + </p> + <p> + The bull was now angry and excited. The capadors had great game with him. + He was very quick, and sometimes he turned with such sharpness that his + hind legs lost their footing and he plowed the sand with his quarter. But + he charged always the flung capes and committed no harm. + </p> + <p> + “He has no chance,” said John Harned. “He is fighting wind.” + </p> + <p> + “He thinks the cape is his enemy,” explained Maria Valenzuela. “See how + cleverly the capador deceives him.” + </p> + <p> + “It is his nature to be deceived,” said John Harned. “Wherefore he is + doomed to fight wind. The toreadors know it, you know it, I know it—we + all know from the first that he will fight wind. He only does not know it. + It is his stupid beast-nature. He has no chance.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very simple,” said Luis Cervallos. “The bull shuts his eyes when he + charges. Therefore—” + </p> + <p> + “The man steps, out of the way and the bull rushes by,” Harned + interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Luis Cervallos; “that is it. The bull shuts his eyes, and the + man knows it.” + </p> + <p> + “But cows do not shut their eyes,” said John Harned. “I know a cow at home + that is a Jersey and gives milk, that would whip the whole gang of them.” + </p> + <p> + “But the toreadors do not fight cows,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “They are afraid to fight cows,” said John Harned. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Luis Cervallos, “they are afraid to fight cows. There would be + no sport in killing toreadors.” + </p> + <p> + “There would be some sport,” said John Harned, “if a toreador were killed + once in a while. When I become an old man, and mayhap a cripple, and + should I need to make a living and be unable to do hard work, then would I + become a bull-fighter. It is a light vocation for elderly gentlemen and + pensioners.” + </p> + <p> + “But see!” said Maria Valenzuela, as the bull charged bravely and the + capador eluded it with a fling of his cape. “It requires skill so to avoid + the beast.” + </p> + <p> + “True,” said John Harned. “But believe me, it requires a thousand times + more skill to avoid the many and quick punches of a prize-fighter who + keeps his eyes open and strikes with intelligence. Furthermore, this bull + does not want to fight. Behold, he runs away.” + </p> + <p> + It was not a good bull, for again it ran around the ring, seeking to find + a way out. + </p> + <p> + “Yet these bulls are sometimes the most dangerous,” said Luis Cervallos. + “It can never be known what they will do next. They are wise. They are + half cow. The bull-fighters never like them.—See! He has turned!” + </p> + <p> + Once again, baffled and made angry by the walls of the ring that would not + let him out, the bull was attacking his enemies valiantly. + </p> + <p> + “His tongue is hanging out,” said John Harned. “First, they fill him with + water. Then they tire him out, one man and then another, persuading him to + exhaust himself by fighting wind. While some tire him, others rest. But + the bull they never let rest. Afterward, when he is quite tired and no + longer quick, the matador sticks the sword into him.” + </p> + <p> + The time had now come for the banderillos. Three times one of the fighters + endeavored to place the darts, and three times did he fail. He but stung + the bull and maddened it. The banderillos must go in, you know, two at a + time, into the shoulders, on each side the backbone and close to it. If + but one be placed, it is a failure. The crowd hissed and called for + Ordonez. And then Ordonez did a great thing. Four times he stood forth, + and four times, at the first attempt, he stuck in the banderillos, so that + eight of them, well placed, stood out of the back of the bull at one time. + The crowd went mad, and a rain of hats and money fell on the sand of the + ring. + </p> + <p> + And just then the bull charged unexpectedly one of the capadors. The man + slipped and lost his head. The bull caught him—fortunately, between + his wide horns. And while the audience watched, breathless and silent, + John Harned stood up and yelled with gladness. Alone, in that hush of all + of us, John Harned yelled. And he yelled for the bull. As you see + yourself, John Harned wanted the man killed. His was a brutal heart. This + bad conduct made those angry that sat in the box of General Salazar, and + they cried out against John Harned. And Urcisino Castillo told him to his + face that he was a dog of a Gringo and other things. Only it was in + Spanish, and John Harned did not understand. He stood and yelled, perhaps + for the time of ten seconds, when the bull was enticed into charging the + other capadors and the man arose unhurt. + </p> + <p> + “The bull has no chance,” John Harned said with sadness as he sat down. + “The man was uninjured. They fooled the bull away from him.” Then he + turned to Maria Valenzuela and said: “I beg your pardon. I was excited.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled and in reproof tapped his arm with her fan. + </p> + <p> + “It is your first bull-fight,” she said. “After you have seen more you + will not cry for the death of the man. You Americans, you see, are more + brutal than we. It is because of your prize-fighting. We come only to see + the bull killed.” + </p> + <p> + “But I would the bull had some chance,” he answered. “Doubtless, in time, + I shall cease to be annoyed by the men who take advantage of the bull.” + </p> + <p> + The bugles blew for the death of the bull. Ordonez stood forth with the + sword and the scarlet cloth. But the bull had changed again, and did not + want to fight. Ordonez stamped his foot in the sand, and cried out, and + waved the scarlet cloth. Then the bull charged, but without heart. There + was no weight to the charge. It was a poor thrust. The sword struck a bone + and bent. Ordonez took a fresh sword. The bull, again stung to fight, + charged once more. Five times Ordonez essayed the thrust, and each time + the sword went but part way in or struck bone. The sixth time, the sword + went in to the hilt. But it was a bad thrust. The sword missed the heart + and stuck out half a yard through the ribs on the opposite side. The + audience hissed the matador. I glanced at John Harned. He sat silent, + without movement; but I could see his teeth were set, and his hands were + clenched tight on the railing of the box. + </p> + <p> + All fight was now out of the bull, and, though it was no vital thrust, he + trotted lamely what of the sword that stuck through him, in one side and + out the other. He ran away from the matador and the capadors, and circled + the edge of the ring, looking up at the many faces. + </p> + <p> + “He is saying: 'For God's sake let me out of this; I don't want to + fight,'” said John Harned. + </p> + <p> + That was all. He said no more, but sat and watched, though sometimes he + looked sideways at Maria Valenzuela to see how she took it. She was angry + with the matador. He was awkward, and she had desired a clever exhibition. + </p> + <p> + The bull was now very tired, and weak from loss of blood, though far from + dying. He walked slowly around the wall of the ring, seeking a way out. He + would not charge. He had had enough. But he must be killed. There is a + place, in the neck of a bull behind the horns, where the cord of the spine + is unprotected and where a short stab will immediately kill. Ordonez + stepped in front of the bull and lowered his scarlet cloth to the ground. + The bull would not charge. He stood still and smelled the cloth, lowering + his head to do so. Ordonez stabbed between the horns at the spot in the + neck. The bull jerked his head up. The stab had missed. Then the bull + watched the sword. When Ordonez moved the cloth on the ground, the bull + forgot the sword and lowered his head to smell the cloth. Again Ordonez + stabbed, and again he failed. He tried many times. It was stupid. And John + Harned said nothing. At last a stab went home, and the bull fell to the + sand, dead immediately, and the mules were made fast and he was dragged + out. + </p> + <p> + “The Gringos say it is a cruel sport—no?” said Luis Cervallos. “That + it is not humane. That it is bad for the bull. No?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said John Harned. “The bull does not count for much. It is bad for + those that look on. It is degrading to those that look on. It teaches them + to delight in animal suffering. It is cowardly for five men to fight one + stupid bull. Therefore those that look on learn to be cowards. The bull + dies, but those that look on live and the lesson is learned. The bravery + of men is not nourished by scenes of cowardice.” + </p> + <p> + Maria Valenzuela said nothing. Neither did she look at him. But she heard + every word and her cheeks were white with anger. She looked out across the + ring and fanned herself, but I saw that her hand trembled. Nor did John + Harned look at her. He went on as though she were not there. He, too, was + angry, coldly angry. + </p> + <p> + “It is the cowardly sport of a cowardly people,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Luis Cervallos softly, “you think you understand us.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand now the Spanish Inquisition,” said John Harned. “It must + have been more delightful than bull-fighting.” + </p> + <p> + Luis Cervallos smiled but said nothing. He glanced at Maria Valenzuela, + and knew that the bull-fight in the box was won. Never would she have + further to do with the Gringo who spoke such words. But neither Luis + Cervallos nor I was prepared for the outcome of the day. I fear we do not + understand the Gringos. How were we to know that John Harned, who was so + coldly angry, should go suddenly mad! But mad he did go, as you shall see. + The bull did not count for much—he said so himself. Then why should + the horse count for so much? That I cannot understand. The mind of John + Harned lacked logic. That is the only explanation. + </p> + <p> + “It is not usual to have horses in the bull-ring at Quito,” said Luis + Cervallos, looking up from the program. “In Spain they always have them. + But to-day, by special permission we shall have them. When the next bull + comes on there will be horses and picadors-you know, the men who carry + lances and ride the horses.” + </p> + <p> + “The bull is doomed from the first,” said John Harned. “Are the horses + then likewise doomed!” + </p> + <p> + “They are blindfolded so that they may not see the bull,” said Luis + Cervallos. “I have seen many horses killed. It is a brave sight.” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen the bull slaughtered,” said John Harned “I will now see the + horse slaughtered, so that I may understand more fully the fine points of + this noble sport.” + </p> + <p> + “They are old horses,” said Luis Cervallos, “that are not good for + anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said John Harned. + </p> + <p> + The third bull came on, and soon against it were both capadors and + picadors. One picador took his stand directly below us. I agree, it was a + thin and aged horse he rode, a bag of bones covered with mangy hide. + </p> + <p> + “It is a marvel that the poor brute can hold up the weight of the rider,” + said John Harned. “And now that the horse fights the bull, what weapons + has it?” + </p> + <p> + “The horse does not fight the bull,” said Luis Cervallos. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said John Harned, “then is the horse there to be gored? That must be + why it is blindfolded, so that it shall not see the bull coming to gore + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite so,” said I. “The lance of the picador is to keep the bull from + goring the horse.” + </p> + <p> + “Then are horses rarely gored?” asked John Harned. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Luis Cervallos. “I have seen, at Seville, eighteen horses + killed in one day, and the people clamored for more horses.” + </p> + <p> + “Were they blindfolded like this horse?” asked John Harned. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Luis Cervallos. + </p> + <p> + After that we talked no more, but watched the fight. And John Harned was + going mad all the time, and we did not know. The bull refused to charge + the horse. And the horse stood still, and because it could not see it did + not know that the capadors were trying to make the bull charge upon it. + The capadors teased the bull their capes, and when it charged them they + ran toward the horse and into their shelters. At last the bull was angry, + and it saw the horse before it. + </p> + <p> + “The horse does not know, the horse does not know,” John Harned whispered + to himself, unaware that he voiced his thought aloud. + </p> + <p> + The bull charged, and of course the horse knew nothing till the picador + failed and the horse found himself impaled on the bull's horns from + beneath. The bull was magnificently strong. The sight of its strength was + splendid to see. It lifted the horse clear into the air; and as the horse + fell to its side on on the ground the picador landed on his feet and + escaped, while the capadors lured the bull away. The horse was emptied of + its essential organs. Yet did it rise to its feet screaming. It was the + scream of the horse that did it, that made John Harned completely mad; for + he, too, started to rise to his feet, I heard him curse low and deep. He + never took his eyes from the horse, which, screaming, strove to run, but + fell down instead and rolled on its back so that all its four legs were + kicking in the air. Then the bull charged it and gored it again and again + until it was dead. + </p> + <p> + John Harned was now on his feet. His eyes were no longer cold like steel. + They were blue flames. He looked at Maria Valenzuela, and she looked at + him, and in his face was a great loathing. The moment of his madness was + upon him. Everybody was looking, now that the horse was dead; and John + Harned was a large man and easy to be seen. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” said Luis Cervallos, “or you will make a fool of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + John Harned replied nothing. He struck out his fist. He smote Luis + Cervallos in the face so that he fell like a dead man across the chairs + and did not rise again. He saw nothing of what followed. But I saw much. + Urcisino Castillo, leaning forward from the next box, with his cane struck + John Harned full across the face. And John Harned smote him with his fist + so that in falling he overthrew General Salazar. John Harned was now in + what-you-call Berserker rage—no? The beast primitive in him was + loose and roaring—the beast primitive of the holes and caves of the + long ago. + </p> + <p> + “You came for a bull-fight,” I heard him say, “And by God I'll show you a + man-fight!” + </p> + <p> + It was a fight. The soldiers guarding the Presidente's box leaped across, + but from one of them he took a rifle and beat them on their heads with it. + From the other box Colonel Jacinto Fierro was shooting at him with a + revolver. The first shot killed a soldier. This I know for a fact. I saw + it. But the second shot struck John Harned in the side. Whereupon he + swore, and with a lunge drove the bayonet of his rifle into Colonel + Jacinto Fierro's body. It was horrible to behold. The Americans and the + English are a brutal race. They sneer at our bull-fighting, yet do they + delight in the shedding of blood. More men were killed that day because of + John Harned than were ever killed in all the history of the bull-ring of + Quito, yes, and of Guayaquil and all Ecuador. + </p> + <p> + It was the scream of the horse that did it, yet why did not John Harned go + mad when the bull was killed? A beast is a beast, be it bull or horse. + John Harned was mad. There is no other explanation. He was blood-mad, a + beast himself. I leave it to your judgment. Which is worse—the + goring of the horse by the bull, or the goring of Colonel Jacinto Fierro + by the bayonet in the hands of John Harned! And John Harned gored others + with that bayonet. He was full of devils. He fought with many bullets in + him, and he was hard to kill. And Maria Valenzuela was a brave woman. + Unlike the other women, she did not cry out nor faint. She sat still in + her box, gazing out across the bull-ring. Her face was white and she + fanned herself, but she never looked around. + </p> + <p> + From all sides came the soldiers and officers and the common people + bravely to subdue the mad Gringo. It is true—the cry went up from + the crowd to kill all the Gringos. It is an old cry in Latin-American + countries, what of the dislike for the Gringos and their uncouth ways. It + is true, the cry went up. But the brave Ecuadorianos killed only John + Harned, and first he killed seven of them. Besides, there were many hurt. + I have seen many bull-fights, but never have I seen anything so abominable + as the scene in the boxes when the fight was over. It was like a field of + battle. The dead lay around everywhere, while the wounded sobbed and + groaned and some of them died. One man, whom John Harned had thrust + through the belly with the bayonet, clutched at himself with both his + hands and screamed. I tell you for a fact it was more terrible than the + screaming of a thousand horses. + </p> + <p> + No, Maria Valenzuela did not marry Luis Cervallos. I am sorry for that. He + was my friend, and much of my money was invested in his ventures. It was + five weeks before the surgeons took the bandages from his face. And there + is a scar there to this day, on the cheek, under the eye. Yet John Harned + struck him but once and struck him only with his naked fist. Maria + Valenzuela is in Austria now. It is said she is to marry an Arch-Duke or + some high nobleman. I do not know. I think she liked John Harned before he + followed her to Quito to see the bull-fight. But why the horse? That is + what I desire to know. Why should he watch the bull and say that it did + not count, and then go immediately and most horribly mad because a horse + screamed? There is no understanding the Gringos. They are barbarians. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG + </h2> + <p> + HE was a very quiet, self-possessed sort of man, sitting a moment on top + of the wall to sound the damp darkness for warnings of the dangers it + might conceal. But the plummet of his hearing brought nothing to him save + the moaning of wind through invisible trees and the rustling of leaves on + swaying branches. A heavy fog drifted and drove before the wind, and + though he could not see this fog, the wet of it blew upon his face, and + the wall on which he sat was wet. + </p> + <p> + Without noise he had climbed to the top of the wall from the outside, and + without noise he dropped to the ground on the inside. From his pocket he + drew an electric night-stick, but he did not use it. Dark as the way was, + he was not anxious for light. Carrying the night-stick in his hand, his + finger on the button, he advanced through the darkness. The ground was + velvety and springy to his feet, being carpeted with dead pine-needles and + leaves and mold which evidently had been undisturbed for years. Leaves and + branches brushed against his body, but so dark was it that he could not + avoid them. Soon he walked with his hand stretched out gropingly before + him, and more than once the hand fetched up against the solid trunks of + massive trees. All about him he knew were these trees; he sensed the loom + of them everywhere; and he experienced a strange feeling of microscopic + smallness in the midst of great bulks leaning toward him to crush him. + Beyond, he knew, was the house, and he expected to find some trail or + winding path that would lead easily to it. + </p> + <p> + Once, he found himself trapped. On every side he groped against trees and + branches, or blundered into thickets of underbrush, until there seemed no + way out. Then he turned on his light, circumspectly, directing its rays to + the ground at his feet. Slowly and carefully he moved it about him, the + white brightness showing in sharp detail all the obstacles to his + progress. He saw, an opening between huge-trunked trees, and advanced + through it, putting out the light and treading on dry footing as yet + protected from the drip of the fog by the dense foliage overhead. His + sense of direction was good, and he knew he was going toward the house. + </p> + <p> + And then the thing happened—the thing unthinkable and unexpected. + His descending foot came down upon something that was soft and alive, and + that arose with a snort under the weight of his body. He sprang clear, and + crouched for another spring, anywhere, tense and expectant, keyed for the + onslaught of the unknown. He waited a moment, wondering what manner of + animal it was that had arisen from under his foot and that now made no + sound nor movement and that must be crouching and waiting just as tensely + and expectantly as he. The strain became unbearable. Holding the + night-stick before him, he pressed the button, saw, and screamed aloud in + terror. He was prepared for anything, from a frightened calf or fawn to a + belligerent lion, but he was not prepared for what he saw. In that instant + his tiny searchlight, sharp and white, had shown him what a thousand years + would not enable him to forget—a man, huge and blond, yellow-haired + and yellow-bearded, naked except for soft-tanned moccasins and what seemed + a goat-skin about his middle. Arms and legs were bare, as were his + shoulders and most of his chest. The skin was smooth and hairless, but + browned by sun and wind, while under it heavy muscles were knotted like + fat snakes. Still, this alone, unexpected as it well was, was not what had + made the man scream out. What had caused his terror was the unspeakable + ferocity of the face, the wild-animal glare of the blue eyes scarcely + dazzled by the light, the pine-needles matted and clinging in the beard + and hair, and the whole formidable body crouched and in the act of + springing at him. Practically in the instant he saw all this, and while + his scream still rang, the thing leaped, he flung his night-stick full at + it, and threw himself to the ground. He felt its feet and shins strike + against his ribs, and he bounded up and away while the thing itself hurled + onward in a heavy crashing fall into the underbrush. + </p> + <p> + As the noise of the fall ceased, the man stopped and on hands and knees + waited. He could hear the thing moving about, searching for him, and he + was afraid to advertise his location by attempting further flight. He knew + that inevitably he would crackle the underbrush and be pursued. Once he + drew out his revolver, then changed his mind. He had recovered his + composure and hoped to get away without noise. Several times he heard the + thing beating up the thickets for him, and there were moments when it, + too, remained still and listened. This gave an idea to the man. One of his + hands was resting on a chunk of dead wood. Carefully, first feeling about + him in the darkness to know that the full swing of his arm was clear, he + raised the chunk of wood and threw it. It was not a large piece, and it + went far, landing noisily in a bush. He heard the thing bound into the + bush, and at the same time himself crawled steadily away. And on hands and + knees, slowly and cautiously, he crawled on, till his knees were wet on + the soggy mold, When he listened he heard naught but the moaning wind and + the drip-drip of the fog from the branches. Never abating his caution, he + stood erect and went on to the stone wall, over which he climbed and + dropped down to the road outside. + </p> + <p> + Feeling his way in a clump of bushes, he drew out a bicycle and prepared + to mount. He was in the act of driving the gear around with his foot for + the purpose of getting the opposite pedal in position, when he heard the + thud of a heavy body that landed lightly and evidently on its feet. He did + not wait for more, but ran, with hands on the handles of his bicycle, + until he was able to vault astride the saddle, catch the pedals, and start + a spurt. Behind he could hear the quick thud-thud of feet on the dust of + the road, but he drew away from it and lost it. Unfortunately, he had + started away from the direction of town and was heading higher up into the + hills. He knew that on this particular road there were no cross roads. The + only way back was past that terror, and he could not steel himself to face + it. At the end of half an hour, finding himself on an ever increasing + grade, he dismounted. For still greater safety, leaving the wheel by the + roadside, he climbed through a fence into what he decided was a hillside + pasture, spread a newspaper on the ground, and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Gosh!” he said aloud, mopping the sweat and fog from his face. + </p> + <p> + And “Gosh!” he said once again, while rolling a cigarette and as he + pondered the problem of getting back. + </p> + <p> + But he made no attempt to go back. He was resolved not to face that road + in the dark, and with head bowed on knees, he dozed, waiting for daylight. + </p> + <p> + How long afterward he did not know, he was awakened by the yapping bark of + a young coyote. As he looked about and located it on the brow of the hill + behind him, he noted the change that had come over the face of the night. + The fog was gone; the stars and moon were out; even the wind had died + down. It had transformed into a balmy California summer night. He tried to + doze again, but the yap of the coyote disturbed him. Half asleep, he heard + a wild and eery chant. Looking about him, he noticed that the coyote had + ceased its noise and was running away along the crest of the hill, and + behind it, in full pursuit, no longer chanting, ran the naked creature he + had encountered in the garden. It was a young coyote, and it was being + overtaken when the chase passed from view. The man trembled as with a + chill as he started to his feet, clambered over the fence, and mounted his + wheel. But it was his chance and he knew it. The terror was no longer + between him and Mill Valley. + </p> + <p> + He sped at a breakneck rate down the hill, but in the turn at the bottom, + in the deep shadows, he encountered a chuck-hole and pitched headlong over + the handle bar. + </p> + <p> + “It's sure not my night,” he muttered, as he examined the broken fork of + the machine. + </p> + <p> + Shouldering the useless wheel, he trudged on. In time he came to the stone + wall, and, half disbelieving his experience, he sought in the road for + tracks, and found them—moccasin tracks, large ones, deep-bitten into + the dust at the toes. It was while bending over them, examining, that + again he heard the eery chant. He had seen the thing pursue the coyote, + and he knew he had no chance on a straight run. He did not attempt it, + contenting himself with hiding in the shadows on the off side of the road. + </p> + <p> + And again he saw the thing that was like a naked man, running swiftly and + lightly and singing as it ran. Opposite him it paused, and his heart stood + still. But instead of coming toward his hiding-place, it leaped into the + air, caught the branch of a roadside tree, and swung swiftly upward, from + limb to limb, like an ape. It swung across the wall, and a dozen feet + above the top, into the branches of another tree, and dropped out of sight + to the ground. The man waited a few wondering minutes, then started on. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + Dave Slotter leaned belligerently against the desk that barred the way to + the private office of James Ward, senior partner of the firm of Ward, + Knowles & Co. Dave was angry. Every one in the outer office had looked + him over suspiciously, and the man who faced him was excessively + suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “You just tell Mr. Ward it's important,” he urged. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you he is dictating and cannot be disturbed,” was the answer. + “Come to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow will be too late. You just trot along and tell Mr. Ward it's a + matter of life and death.” + </p> + <p> + The secretary hesitated and Dave seized the advantage. + </p> + <p> + “You just tell him I was across the bay in Mill Valley last night, and + that I want to put him wise to something.” + </p> + <p> + “What name?” was the query. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the name. He don't know me.” + </p> + <p> + When Dave was shown into the private office, he was still in the + belligerent frame of mind, but when he saw a large fair man whirl in a + revolving chair from dictating to a stenographer to face him, Dave's + demeanor abruptly changed. He did not know why it changed, and he was + secretly angry with himself. + </p> + <p> + “You are Mr. Ward?” Dave asked with a fatuousness that still further + irritated him. He had never intended it at all. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” came the answer. + </p> + <p> + “And who are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Harry Bancroft,” Dave lied. “You don't know me, and my name don't + matter.” + </p> + <p> + “You sent in word that you were in Mill Valley last night?” + </p> + <p> + “You live there, don't you?” Dave countered, looking suspiciously at the + stenographer. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What do you mean to see me about? I am very busy.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to see you alone, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ward gave him a quick, penetrating look, hesitated, then made up his + mind. + </p> + <p> + “That will do for a few minutes, Miss Potter.” + </p> + <p> + The girl arose, gathered her notes together, and passed out. Dave looked + at Mr. James Ward wonderingly, until that gentleman broke his train of + inchoate thought. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “I was over in Mill Valley last night,” Dave began confusedly. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard that before. What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + And Dave proceeded in the face of a growing conviction that was + unbelievable. “I was at your house, or in the grounds, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “What were you doing there?” + </p> + <p> + “I came to break in,” Dave answered in all frankness. + </p> + <p> + “I heard you lived all alone with a Chinaman for cook, and it looked good + to me. Only I didn't break in. Something happened that prevented. That's + why I'm here. I come to warn you. I found a wild man loose in your grounds—a + regular devil. He could pull a guy like me to pieces. He gave me the run + of my life. He don't wear any clothes to speak of, he climbs trees like a + monkey, and he runs like a deer. I saw him chasing a coyote, and the last + I saw of it, by God, he was gaining on it.” + </p> + <p> + Dave paused and looked for the effect that would follow his words. But no + effect came. James Ward was quietly curious, and that was all. + </p> + <p> + “Very remarkable, very remarkable,” he murmured. “A wild man, you say. Why + have you come to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “To warn you of your danger. I'm something of a hard proposition myself, + but I don't believe in killing people... that is, unnecessarily. I + realized that you was in danger. I thought I'd warn you. Honest, that's + the game. Of course, if you wanted to give me anything for my trouble, I'd + take it. That was in my mind, too. But I don't care whether you give me + anything or not. I've warned you any way, and done my duty.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ward meditated and drummed on the surface of his desk. Dave noticed + they were large, powerful hands, withal well-cared for despite their dark + sunburn. Also, he noted what had already caught his eye before—a + tiny strip of flesh-colored courtplaster on the forehead over one eye. And + still the thought that forced itself into his mind was unbelievable. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ward took a wallet from his inside coat pocket, drew out a greenback, + and passed it to Dave, who noted as he pocketed it that it was for twenty + dollars. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Mr. Ward, indicating that the interview was at an end. + </p> + <p> + “I shall have the matter investigated. A wild man running loose IS + dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + But so quiet a man was Mr. Ward, that Dave's courage returned. Besides, a + new theory had suggested itself. The wild man was evidently Mr. Ward's + brother, a lunatic privately confined. Dave had heard of such things. + Perhaps Mr. Ward wanted it kept quiet. That was why he had given him the + twenty dollars. + </p> + <p> + “Say,” Dave began, “now I come to think of it that wild man looked a lot + like you—” + </p> + <p> + That was as far as Dave got, for at that moment he witnessed a + transformation and found himself gazing into the same unspeakably + ferocious blue eyes of the night before, at the same clutching talon-like + hands, and at the same formidable bulk in the act of springing upon him. + But this time Dave had no night-stick to throw, and he was caught by the + biceps of both arms in a grip so terrific that it made him groan with + pain. He saw the large white teeth exposed, for all the world as a dog's + about to bite. Mr. Ward's beard brushed his face as the teeth went in for + the grip on his throat. But the bite was not given. Instead, Dave felt the + other's body stiffen as with an iron restraint, and then he was flung + aside, without effort but with such force that only the wall stopped his + momentum and dropped him gasping to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by coming here and trying to blackmail me?” Mr. Ward was + snarling at him. “Here, give me back that money.” + </p> + <p> + Dave passed the bill back without a word. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you came here with good intentions. I know you now. Let me see + and hear no more of you, or I'll put you in prison where you belong. Do + you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” Dave gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Then go.” + </p> + <p> + And Dave went, without further word, both his biceps aching intolerably + from the bruise of that tremendous grip. As his hand rested on the door + knob, he was stopped. + </p> + <p> + “You were lucky,” Mr. Ward was saying, and Dave noted that his face and + eyes were cruel and gloating and proud. + </p> + <p> + “You were lucky. Had I wanted, I could have torn your muscles out of your + arms and thrown them in the waste basket there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said Dave; and absolute conviction vibrated in his voice. + </p> + <p> + He opened the door and passed out. The secretary looked at him + interrogatively. + </p> + <p> + “Gosh!” was all Dave vouchsafed, and with this utterance passed out of the + offices and the story. + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + James G. Ward was forty years of age, a successful business man, and very + unhappy. For forty years he had vainly tried to solve a problem that was + really himself and that with increasing years became more and more a + woeful affliction. In himself he was two men, and, chronologically + speaking, these men were several thousand years or so apart. He had + studied the question of dual personality probably more profoundly than any + half dozen of the leading specialists in that intricate and mysterious + psychological field. In himself he was a different case from any that had + been recorded. Even the most fanciful flights of the fiction-writers had + not quite hit upon him. He was not a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, nor was he + like the unfortunate young man in Kipling's “Greatest Story in the World.” + His two personalities were so mixed that they were practically aware of + themselves and of each other all the time. + </p> + <p> + His other self he had located as a savage and a barbarian living under the + primitive conditions of several thousand years before. But which self was + he, and which was the other, he could never tell. For he was both selves, + and both selves all the time. Very rarely indeed did it happen that one + self did not know what the other was doing. Another thing was that he had + no visions nor memories of the past in which that early self had lived. + That early self lived in the present; but while it lived in the present, + it was under the compulsion to live the way of life that must have been in + that distant past. + </p> + <p> + In his childhood he had been a problem to his father and mother, and to + the family doctors, though never had they come within a thousand miles of + hitting upon the clue to his erratic, conduct. Thus, they could not + understand his excessive somnolence in the forenoon, nor his excessive + activity at night. When they found him wandering along the hallways at + night, or climbing over giddy roofs, or running in the hills, they decided + he was a somnambulist. In reality he was wide-eyed awake and merely under + the nightroaming compulsion of his early self. Questioned by an obtuse + medico, he once told the truth and suffered the ignominy of having the + revelation contemptuously labeled and dismissed as “dreams.” + </p> + <p> + The point was, that as twilight and evening came on he became wakeful. The + four walls of a room were an irk and a restraint. He heard a thousand + voices whispering to him through the darkness. The night called to him, + for he was, for that period of the twenty-four hours, essentially a + night-prowler. But nobody understood, and never again did he attempt to + explain. They classified him as a sleep-walker and took precautions + accordingly—precautions that very often were futile. As his + childhood advanced, he grew more cunning, so that the major portion of all + his nights were spent in the open at realizing his other self. As a + result, he slept in the forenoons. Morning studies and schools were + impossible, and it was discovered that only in the afternoons, under + private teachers, could he be taught anything. Thus was his modern self + educated and developed. + </p> + <p> + But a problem, as a child, he ever remained. He was known as a little + demon, of insensate cruelty and viciousness. The family medicos privately + adjudged him a mental monstrosity and degenerate. Such few boy companions + as he had, hailed him as a wonder, though they were all afraid of him. He + could outclimb, outswim, outrun, outdevil any of them; while none dared + fight with him. He was too terribly strong, madly furious. + </p> + <p> + When nine years of age he ran away to the hills, where he flourished, + night-prowling, for seven weeks before he was discovered and brought home. + The marvel was how he had managed to subsist and keep in condition during + that time. They did not know, and he never told them, of the rabbits he + had killed, of the quail, young and old, he had captured and devoured, of + the farmers' chicken-roosts he had raided, nor of the cave-lair he had + made and carpeted with dry leaves and grasses and in which he had slept in + warmth and comfort through the forenoons of many days. + </p> + <p> + At college he was notorious for his sleepiness and stupidity during the + morning lectures and for his brilliance in the afternoon. By collateral + reading and by borrowing the notebook of his fellow students he managed to + scrape through the detestable morning courses, while his afternoon courses + were triumphs. In football he proved a giant and a terror, and, in almost + every form of track athletics, save for strange Berserker rages that were + sometimes displayed, he could be depended upon to win. But his fellows + were afraid to box with him, and he signalized his last wrestling bout by + sinking his teeth into the shoulder of his opponent. + </p> + <p> + After college, his father, in despair, sent him among the cow-punchers of + a Wyoming ranch. Three months later the doughty cowmen confessed he was + too much for them and telegraphed his father to come and take the wild man + away. Also, when the father arrived to take him away, the cowmen allowed + that they would vastly prefer chumming with howling cannibals, gibbering + lunatics, cavorting gorillas, grizzly bears, and man-eating tigers than + with this particular Young college product with hair parted in the middle. + </p> + <p> + There was one exception to the lack of memory of the life of his early + self, and that was language. By some quirk of atavism, a certain portion + of that early self's language had come down to him as a racial memory. In + moments of happiness, exaltation, or battle, he was prone to burst out in + wild barbaric songs or chants. It was by this means that he located in + time and space that strayed half of him who should have been dead and dust + for thousands of years. He sang, once, and deliberately, several of the + ancient chants in the presence of Professor Wertz, who gave courses in old + Saxon and who was a philogist of repute and passion. At the first one, the + professor pricked up his ears and demanded to know what mongrel tongue or + hog-German it was. When the second chant was rendered, the professor was + highly excited. James Ward then concluded the performance by giving a song + that always irresistibly rushed to his lips when he was engaged in fierce + struggling or fighting. Then it was that Professor Wertz proclaimed it no + hog-German, but early German, or early Teuton, of a date that must far + precede anything that had ever been discovered and handed down by the + scholars. So early was it that it was beyond him; yet it was filled with + haunting reminiscences of word-forms he knew and which his trained + intuition told him were true and real. He demanded the source of the + songs, and asked to borrow the precious book that contained them. Also, he + demanded to know why young Ward had always posed as being profoundly + ignorant of the German language. And Ward could neither explain his + ignorance nor lend the book. Whereupon, after pleadings and entreaties + that extended through weeks, Professor Wert took a dislike to the young + man, believed him a liar, and classified him as a man of monstrous + selfishness for not giving him a glimpse of this wonderful screed that was + older than the oldest any philologist had ever known or dreamed. + </p> + <p> + But little good did it do this much-mixed young man to know that half of + him was late American and the other half early Teuton. Nevertheless, the + late American in him was no weakling, and he (if he were a he and had a + shred of existence outside of these two) compelled an adjustment or + compromise between his one self that was a nightprowling savage that kept + his other self sleepy of mornings, and that other self that was cultured + and refined and that wanted to be normal and live and love and prosecute + business like other people. The afternoons and early evenings he gave to + the one, the nights to the other; the forenoons and parts of the nights + were devoted to sleep for the twain. But in the mornings he slept in bed + like a civilized man. In the night time he slept like a wild animal, as he + had slept Dave Slotter stepped on him in the woods. + </p> + <p> + Persuading his father to advance the capital, he went into business and + keen and successful business he made of it, devoting his afternoons + whole-souled to it, while his partner devoted the mornings. The early + evenings he spent socially, but, as the hour grew to nine or ten, an + irresistible restlessness overcame him and he disappeared from the haunts + of men until the next afternoon. Friends and acquaintances thought that he + spent much of his time in sport. And they were right, though they never + would have dreamed of the nature of the sport, even if they had seen him + running coyotes in night-chases over the hills of Mill Valley. Neither + were the schooner captains believed when they reported seeing, on cold + winter mornings, a man swimming in the tide-rips of Raccoon Straits or in + the swift currents between Goat island and Angel Island miles from shore. + </p> + <p> + In the bungalow at Mill Valley he lived alone, save for Lee Sing, the + Chinese cook and factotum, who knew much about the strangeness of his + master, who was paid well for saying nothing, and who never did say + anything. After the satisfaction of his nights, a morning's sleep, and a + breakfast of Lee Sing's, James Ward crossed the bay to San Francisco on a + midday ferryboat and went to the club and on to his office, as normal and + conventional a man of business as could be found in the city. But as the + evening lengthened, the night called to him. There came a quickening of + all his perceptions and a restlessness. His hearing was suddenly acute; + the myriad night-noises told him a luring and familiar story; and, if + alone, he would begin to pace up and down the narrow room like any caged + animal from the wild. + </p> + <p> + Once, he ventured to fall in love. He never permitted himself that + diversion again. He was afraid. And for many a day the young lady, scared + at least out of a portion of her young ladyhood, bore on her arms and + shoulders and wrists divers black-and-blue bruises—tokens of + caresses which he had bestowed in all fond gentleness but too late at + night. There was the mistake. Had he ventured love-making in the + afternoon, all would have been well, for it would have been as the quiet + gentleman that he would have made love—but at night it was the + uncouth, wife-stealing savage of the dark German forests. Out of his + wisdom, he decided that afternoon love-making could be prosecuted + successfully; but out of the same wisdom he was convinced that marriage as + would prove a ghastly failure. He found it appalling to imagine being + married and encountering his wife after dark. + </p> + <p> + So he had eschewed all love-making, regulated his dual life, cleaned up a + million in business, fought shy of match-making mamas and bright-eyed and + eager young ladies of various ages, met Lilian Gersdale and made it a + rigid observance never to see her later than eight o'clock in the evening, + run of nights after his coyotes, and slept in forest lairs—and + through it all had kept his secret safe save Lee Sing... and now, Dave + Slotter. It was the latter's discovery of both his selves that frightened + him. In spite of the counter fright he had given the burglar, the latter + might talk. And even if he did not, sooner or later he would be found out + by some one else. + </p> + <p> + Thus it was that James Ward made a fresh and heroic effort to control the + Teutonic barbarian that was half of him. So well did he make it a point to + see Lilian in the afternoons, that the time came when she accepted him for + better or worse, and when he prayed privily and fervently that it was not + for worse. During this period no prize-fighter ever trained more harshly + and faithfully for a contest than he trained to subdue the wild savage in + him. Among other things, he strove to exhaust himself during the day, so + that sleep would render him deaf to the call of the night. He took a + vacation from the office and went on long hunting trips, following the + deer through the most inaccessible and rugged country he could find—and + always in the daytime. Night found him indoors and tired. At home he + installed a score of exercise machines, and where other men might go + through a particular movement ten times, he went hundreds. Also, as a + compromise, he built a sleeping porch on the second story. Here he at + least breathed the blessed night air. Double screens prevented him from + escaping into the woods, and each night Lee Sing locked him in and each + morning let him out. + </p> + <p> + The time came, in the month of August, when he engaged additional servants + to assist Lee Sing and dared a house party in his Mill Valley bungalow. + Lilian, her mother and brother, and half a dozen mutual friends, were the + guests. For two days and nights all went well. And on the third night, + playing bridge till eleven o'clock, he had reason to be proud of himself. + His restlessness fully hid, but as luck would have it, Lilian Gersdale was + his opponent on his right. She was a frail delicate flower of a woman, and + in his night-mood her very frailty incensed him. Not that he loved her + less, but that he felt almost irresistibly impelled to reach out and paw + and maul her. Especially was this true when she was engaged in playing a + winning hand against him. + </p> + <p> + He had one of the deer-hounds brought in and, when it seemed he must fly + to pieces with the tension, a caressing hand laid on the animal brought + him relief. These contacts with the hairy coat gave him instant easement + and enabled him to play out the evening. Nor did anyone guess the while + terrible struggle their host was making, the while he laughed so + carelessly and played so keenly and deliberately. + </p> + <p> + When they separated for the night, he saw to it that he parted from Lilian + in the presence or the others. Once on his sleeping porch and safely + locked in, he doubled and tripled and even quadrupled his exercises until, + exhausted, he lay down on the couch to woo sleep and to ponder two + problems that especially troubled him. One was this matter of exercise. It + was a paradox. The more he exercised in this excessive fashion, the + stronger he became. While it was true that he thus quite tired out his + night-running Teutonic self, it seemed that he was merely setting back the + fatal day when his strength would be too much for him and overpower him, + and then it would be a strength more terrible than he had yet known. The + other problem was that of his marriage and of the stratagems he must + employ in order to avoid his wife after dark. And thus, fruitlessly + pondering, he fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + Now, where the huge grizzly bear came from that night was long a mystery, + while the people of the Springs Brothers' Circus, showing at Sausalito, + searched long and vainly for “Big Ben, the Biggest Grizzly in Captivity.” + But Big Ben escaped, and, out of the mazes of half a thousand bungalows + and country estates, selected the grounds of James J. Ward for visitation. + The self first Mr. Ward knew was when he found him on his feet, quivering + and tense, a surge of battle in his breast and on his lips the old + war-chant. From without came a wild baying and bellowing of the hounds. + And sharp as a knife-thrust through the pandemonium came the agony of a + stricken dog—his dog, he knew. + </p> + <p> + Not stopping for slippers, pajama-clad, he burst through the door Lee Sing + had so carefully locked, and sped down the stairs and out into the night. + As his naked feet struck the graveled driveway, he stopped abruptly, + reached under the steps to a hiding-place he knew well, and pulled forth a + huge knotty club—his old companion on many a mad night adventure on + the hills. The frantic hullabaloo of the dogs was coming nearer, and, + swinging the club, he sprang straight into the thickets to meet it. + </p> + <p> + The aroused household assembled on the wide veranda. Somebody turned on + the electric lights, but they could see nothing but one another's + frightened faces. Beyond the brightly illuminated driveway the trees + formed a wall of impenetrable blackness. Yet somewhere in that blackness a + terrible struggle was going on. There was an infernal outcry of animals, a + great snarling and growling, the sound of blows being struck and a + smashing and crashing of underbrush by heavy bodies. + </p> + <p> + The tide of battle swept out from among the trees and upon the driveway + just beneath the onlookers. Then they saw. Mrs. Gersdale cried out and + clung fainting to her son. Lilian, clutching the railing so spasmodically + that a bruising hurt was left in her finger-ends for days, gazed + horror-stricken at a yellow-haired, wild-eyed giant whom she recognized as + the man who was to be her husband. He was swinging a great club, and + fighting furiously and calmly with a shaggy monster that was bigger than + any bear she had ever seen. One rip of the beast's claws had dragged away + Ward's pajama-coat and streaked his flesh with blood. + </p> + <p> + While most of Lilian Gersdale's fright was for the man beloved, there was + a large portion of it due to the man himself. Never had she dreamed so + formidable and magnificent a savage lurked under the starched shirt and + conventional garb of her betrothed. And never had she had any conception + of how a man battled. Such a battle was certainly not modern; nor was she + there beholding a modern man, though she did not know it. For this was not + Mr. James J. Ward, the San Francisco business man, but one, unnamed and + unknown, a crude, rude savage creature who, by some freak of chance, lived + again after thrice a thousand years. + </p> + <p> + The hounds, ever maintaining their mad uproar, circled about the fight, or + dashed in and out, distracting the bear. When the animal turned to meet + such flanking assaults, the man leaped in and the club came down. Angered + afresh by every such blow, the bear would rush, and the man, leaping and + skipping, avoiding the dogs, went backwards or circled to one side or the + other. Whereupon the dogs, taking advantage of the opening, would again + spring in and draw the animal's wrath to them. + </p> + <p> + The end came suddenly. Whirling, the grizzly caught a hound with a wide + sweeping cuff that sent the brute, its ribs caved in and its back broken, + hurtling twenty feet. Then the human brute went mad. A foaming rage + flecked the lips that parted with a wild inarticulate cry, as it sprang + in, swung the club mightily in both hands, and brought it down full on the + head of the uprearing grizzly. Not even the skull of a grizzly could + withstand the crushing force of such a blow, and the animal went down to + meet the worrying of the hounds. And through their scurrying leaped the + man, squarely upon the body, where, in the white electric light, resting + on his club, he chanted a triumph in an unknown tongue—a song so + ancient that Professor Wertz would have given ten years of his life for + it. + </p> + <p> + His guests rushed to possess him and acclaim him, but James Ward, suddenly + looking out of the eyes of the early Teuton, saw the fair frail Twentieth + Century girl he loved, and felt something snap in his brain. He staggered + weakly toward her, dropped the club, and nearly fell. Something had gone + wrong with him. Inside his brain was an intolerable agony. It seemed as if + the soul of him were flying asunder. Following the excited gaze of the + others, he glanced back and saw the carcass of the bear. The sight filled + him with fear. He uttered a cry and would have fled, had they not + restrained him and led him into the bungalow. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + James J. Ward is still at the head of the firm of Ward, Knowles & Co. + But he no longer lives in the country; nor does he run of nights after the + coyotes under the moon. The early Teuton in him died the night of the Mill + Valley fight with the bear. James J. Ward is now wholly James J. Ward, and + he shares no part of his being with any vagabond anachronism from the + younger world. And so wholly is James J. Ward modern, that he knows in all + its bitter fullness the curse of civilized fear. He is now afraid of the + dark, and night in the forest is to him a thing of abysmal terror. His + city house is of the spick and span order, and he evinces a great interest + in burglarproof devices. His home is a tangle of electric wires, and after + bed-time a guest can scarcely breathe without setting off an alarm. Also, + he had invented a combination keyless door-lock that travelers may carry + in their vest pockets and apply immediately and successfully under all + circumstances. But his wife does not deem him a coward. She knows better. + And, like any hero, he is content to rest on his laurels. His bravery is + never questioned by those friends who are aware of the Mill Valley + episode. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT + </h2> + <p> + CARTER WATSON, a current magazine under his arm, strolled slowly along, + gazing about him curiously. Twenty years had elapsed since he had been on + this particular street, and the changes were great and stupefying. This + Western city of three hundred thousand souls had contained but thirty + thousand, when, as a boy, he had been wont to ramble along its streets. In + those days the street he was now on had been a quiet residence street in + the respectable workingclass quarter. On this late afternoon he found that + it had been submerged by a vast and vicious tenderloin. Chinese and + Japanese shops and dens abounded, all confusedly intermingled with low + white resorts and boozing dens. This quiet street of his youth had become + the toughest quarter of the city. + </p> + <p> + He looked at his watch. It was half-past five. It was the slack time of + the day in such a region, as he well knew, yet he was curious to see. In + all his score of years of wandering and studying social conditions over + the world, he had carried with him the memory of his old town as a sweet + and wholesome place. The metamorphosis he now beheld was startling. He + certainly must continue his stroll and glimpse the infamy to which his + town had descended. + </p> + <p> + Another thing: Carter Watson had a keen social and civic consciousness. + Independently wealthy, he had been loath to dissipate his energies in the + pink teas and freak dinners of society, while actresses, race-horses, and + kindred diversions had left him cold. He had the ethical bee in his bonnet + and was a reformer of no mean pretension, though his work had been mainly + in the line of contributions to the heavier reviews and quarterlies and to + the publication over his name of brightly, cleverly written books on the + working classes and the slum-dwellers. Among the twenty-seven to his + credit occurred titles such as, “If Christ Came to New Orleans,” “The + Worked-out Worker,” “Tenement Reform in Berlin,” “The Rural Slums of + England,” “The people of the East Side,” “Reform Versus Revolution,” “The + University Settlement as a Hot Bed of Radicalism” and “The Cave Man of + Civilization.” + </p> + <p> + But Carter Watson was neither morbid nor fanatic. He did not lose his head + over the horrors he encountered, studied, and exposed. No hair brained + enthusiasm branded him. His humor saved him, as did his wide experience + and his conservative philosophic temperament. Nor did he have any patience + with lightning change reform theories. As he saw it, society would grow + better only through the painfully slow and arduously painful processes of + evolution. There were no short cuts, no sudden regenerations. The + betterment of mankind must be worked out in agony and misery just as all + past social betterments had been worked out. + </p> + <p> + But on this late summer afternoon, Carter Watson was curious. As he moved + along he paused before a gaudy drinking place. The sign above read, “The + Vendome.” There were two entrances. One evidently led to the bar. This he + did not explore. The other was a narrow hallway. Passing through this he + found himself in a huge room, filled with chair-encircled tables and quite + deserted. In the dim light he made out a piano in the distance. Making a + mental note that he would come back some time and study the class of + persons that must sit and drink at those multitudinous tables, he + proceeded to circumnavigate the room. + </p> + <p> + Now, at the rear, a short hallway led off to a small kitchen, and here, at + a table, alone, sat Patsy Horan, proprietor of the Vendome, consuming a + hasty supper ere the evening rush of business. Also, Patsy Horan was angry + with the world. He had got out of the wrong side of bed that morning, and + nothing had gone right all day. Had his barkeepers been asked, they would + have described his mental condition as a grouch. But Carter Watson did not + know this. As he passed the little hallway, Patsy Horan's sullen eyes + lighted on the magazine he carried under his arm. Patsy did not know + Carter Watson, nor did he know that what he carried under his arm was a + magazine. Patsy, out of the depths of his grouch, decided that this + stranger was one of those pests who marred and scarred the walls of his + back rooms by tacking up or pasting up advertisements. The color on the + front cover of the magazine convinced him that it was such an + advertisement. Thus the trouble began. Knife and fork in hand, Patsy + leaped for Carter Watson. + </p> + <p> + “Out wid yeh!” Patsy bellowed. “I know yer game!” + </p> + <p> + Carter Watson was startled. The man had come upon him like the eruption of + a jack-in-the-box. + </p> + <p> + “A defacin' me walls,” cried Patsy, at the same time emitting a string of + vivid and vile, rather than virile, epithets of opprobrium. + </p> + <p> + “If I have given any offense I did not mean to—” + </p> + <p> + But that was as far as the visitor got. Patsy interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Get out wid yeh; yeh talk too much wid yer mouth,” quoted Patsy, + emphasizing his remarks with flourishes of the knife and fork. + </p> + <p> + Carter Watson caught a quick vision of that eating-fork inserted + uncomfortably between his ribs, knew that it would be rash to talk further + with his mouth, and promptly turned to go. The sight of his meekly + retreating back must have further enraged Patsy Horan, for that worthy, + dropping the table implements, sprang upon him. + </p> + <p> + Patsy weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. So did Watson. In this they + were equal. But Patsy was a rushing, rough-and-tumble saloon-fighter, + while Watson was a boxer. In this the latter had the advantage, for Patsy + came in wide open, swinging his right in a perilous sweep. All Watson had + to do was to straight-left him and escape. But Watson had another + advantage. His boxing, and his experience in the slums and ghettos of the + world, had taught him restraint. + </p> + <p> + He pivoted on his feet, and, instead of striking, ducked the other's + swinging blow and went into a clinch. But Patsy, charging like a bull, had + the momentum of his rush, while Watson, whirling to meet him, had no + momentum. As a result, the pair of them went down, with all their three + hundred and sixty pounds of weight, in a long crashing fall, Watson + underneath. He lay with his head touching the rear wall of the large room. + The street was a hundred and fifty feet away, and he did some quick + thinking. His first thought was to avoid trouble. He had no wish to get + into the papers of this, his childhood town, where many of his relatives + and family friends still lived. + </p> + <p> + So it was that he locked his arms around the man on top of him, held him + close, and waited for the help to come that must come in response to the + crash of the fall. The help came—that is, six men ran in from the + bar and formed about in a semi-circle. + </p> + <p> + “Take him off, fellows,” Watson said. “I haven't struck him, and I don't + want any fight.” + </p> + <p> + But the semi-circle remained silent. Watson held on and waited. Patsy, + after various vain efforts to inflict damage, made an overture. + </p> + <p> + “Leggo o' me an' I'll get off o' yeh,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Watson let go, but when Patsy scrambled to his feet he stood over his + recumbent foe, ready to strike. + </p> + <p> + “Get up,” Patsy commanded. + </p> + <p> + His voice was stern and implacable, like the voice of God calling to + judgment, and Watson knew there was no mercy there. + </p> + <p> + “Stand back and I'll get up,” he countered. + </p> + <p> + “If yer a gentleman, get up,” quoth Patsy, his pale blue eyes aflame with + wrath, his fist ready for a crushing blow. + </p> + <p> + At the same moment he drew his foot back to kick the other in the face. + Watson blocked the kick with his crossed arms and sprang to his feet so + quickly that he was in a clinch with his antagonist before the latter + could strike. Holding him, Watson spoke to the onlookers: + </p> + <p> + “Take him away from me, fellows. You see I am not striking him. I don't + want to fight. I want to get out of here.” + </p> + <p> + The circle did not move nor speak. Its silence was ominous and sent a + chill to Watson's heart. + </p> + <p> + Patsy made an effort to throw him, which culminated in his putting Patsy + on his back. Tearing loose from him, Watson sprang to his feet and made + for the door. But the circle of men was interposed a wall. He noticed the + white, pasty faces, the kind that never see the sun, and knew that the men + who barred his way were the nightprowlers and preying beasts of the city + jungle. By them he was thrust back upon the pursuing, bull-rushing Patsy. + </p> + <p> + Again it was a clinch, in which, in momentary safety, Watson appealed to + the gang. And again his words fell on deaf ears. Then it was that he knew + of many similar knew fear. For he had known of many similar situations, in + low dens like this, when solitary men were man-handled, their ribs and + features caved in, themselves beaten and kicked to death. And he knew, + further, that if he were to escape he must neither strike his assailant + nor any of the men who opposed him. + </p> + <p> + Yet in him was righteous indignation. Under no circumstances could seven + to one be fair. Also, he was angry, and there stirred in him the fighting + beast that is in all men. But he remembered his wife and children, his + unfinished book, the ten thousand rolling acres of the up-country ranch he + loved so well. He even saw in flashing visions the blue of the sky, the + golden sun pouring down on his flower-spangled meadows, the lazy cattle + knee-deep in the brooks, and the flash of trout in the riffles. Life was + good-too good for him to risk it for a moment's sway of the beast. In + short, Carter Watson was cool and scared. + </p> + <p> + His opponent, locked by his masterly clinch, was striving to throw him. + Again Watson put him on the floor, broke away, and was thrust back by the + pasty-faced circle to duck Patsy's swinging right and effect another + clinch. This happened many times. And Watson grew even cooler, while the + baffled Patsy, unable to inflict punishment, raged wildly and more wildly. + He took to batting with his head in the clinches. The first time, he + landed his forehead flush on Watson's nose. After that, the latter, in the + clinches, buried his face in Patsy's breast. But the enraged Patsy batted + on, striking his own eye and nose and cheek on the top of the other's + head. The more he was thus injured, the more and the harder did Patsy bat. + </p> + <p> + This one-sided contest continued for twelve or fifteen minutes. Watson + never struck a blow, and strove only to escape. Sometimes, in the free + moments, circling about among the tables as he tried to win the door, the + pasty-faced men gripped his coat-tails and flung him back at the swinging + right of the on-rushing Patsy. Time upon time, and times without end, he + clinched and put Patsy on his back, each time first whirling him around + and putting him down in the direction of the door and gaining toward that + goal by the length of the fall. + </p> + <p> + In the end, hatless, disheveled, with streaming nose and one eye closed, + Watson won to the sidewalk and into the arms of a policeman. + </p> + <p> + “Arrest that man,” Watson panted. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Patsy,” said the policeman. “What's the mix-up?” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Charley,” was the answer. “This guy comes in—” + </p> + <p> + “Arrest that man, officer,” Watson repeated. + </p> + <p> + “G'wan! Beat it!” said Patsy. + </p> + <p> + “Beat it!” added the policeman. “If you don't, I'll pull you in.” + </p> + <p> + “Not unless you arrest that man. He has committed a violent and unprovoked + assault on me.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it so, Patsy?” was the officer's query. + </p> + <p> + “Nah. Lemme tell you, Charley, an' I got the witnesses to prove it, so + help me God. I was settin' in me kitchen eatin' a bowl of soup, when this + guy comes in an' gets gay wid me. I never seen him in me born days before. + He was drunk—” + </p> + <p> + “Look at me, officer,” protested the indignant sociologist. “Am I drunk?” + </p> + <p> + The officer looked at him with sullen, menacing eyes and nodded to Patsy + to continue. + </p> + <p> + “This guy gets gay wid me. 'I'm Tim McGrath,' says he, 'an' I can do the + like to you,' says he. 'Put up yer hands.' I smiles, an' wid that, biff + biff, he lands me twice an' spills me soup. Look at me eye. I'm fair + murdered.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do, officer?” Watson demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, beat it,” was the answer, “or I'll pull you sure.” + </p> + <p> + The civic righteousness of Carter Watson flamed up. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Officer, I protest—” + </p> + <p> + But at that moment the policeman grabbed his arm with a savage jerk that + nearly overthrew him. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, you're pulled.” + </p> + <p> + “Arrest him, too,” Watson demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Nix on that play,” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + “What did you assault him for, him a peacefully eatin' his soup?” + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + Carter Watson was genuinely angry. Not only had he been wantonly + assaulted, badly battered, and arrested, but the morning papers without + exception came out with lurid accounts of his drunken brawl with the + proprietor of the notorious Vendome. Not one accurate or truthful line was + published. Patsy Horan and his satellites described the battle in detail. + The one incontestable thing was that Carter Watson had been drunk. Thrice + he had been thrown out of the place and into the gutter, and thrice he had + come back, breathing blood and fire and announcing that he was going to + clean out the place. “EMINENT SOCIOLOGIST JAGGED AND JUGGED,” was the + first head-line he read, on the front page, accompanied by a large + portrait of himself. Other headlines were: “CARTER WATSON ASPIRED TO + CHAMPIONSHIP HONORS”; “CARTER WATSON GETS HIS”; “NOTED SOCIOLOGIST + ATTEMPTS TO CLEAN OUT A TENDERLOIN CAFE”; and “CARTER WATSON KNOCKED OUT + BY PATSY HORAN IN THREE ROUNDS.” + </p> + <p> + At the police court, next morning, under bail, appeared Carter Watson to + answer the complaint of the People Versus Carter Watson, for the latter's + assault and battery on one Patsy Horan. But first, the Prosecuting + Attorney, who was paid to prosecute all offenders against the People, drew + him aside and talked with him privately. + </p> + <p> + “Why not let it drop!” said the Prosecuting Attorney. “I tell you what you + do, Mr. Watson: Shake hands with Mr. Horan and make it up, and we'll drop + the case right here. A word to the Judge, and the case against you will be + dismissed.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don't want it dismissed,” was the answer. “Your office being what + it is, you should be prosecuting me instead of asking me to make up with + this—this fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll prosecute you all right,” retorted the Prosecuting Attorney. + </p> + <p> + “Also you will have to prosecute this Patsy Horan,” Watson advised; “for I + shall now have him arrested for assault and battery.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd better shake and make up,” the Prosecuting Attorney repeated, and + this time there was almost a threat in his voice. + </p> + <p> + The trials of both men were set for a week later, on the same morning, in + Police Judge Witberg's court. + </p> + <p> + “You have no chance,” Watson was told by an old friend of his boyhood, the + retired manager of the biggest paper in the city. “Everybody knows you + were beaten up by this man. His reputation is most unsavory. But it won't + help you in the least. Both cases will be dismissed. This will be because + you are you. Any ordinary man would be convicted.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do not understand,” objected the perplexed sociologist. “Without + warning I was attacked by this man; and badly beaten. I did not strike a + blow. I—” + </p> + <p> + “That has nothing to do with it,” the other cut him off. + </p> + <p> + “Then what is there that has anything to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you. You are now up against the local police and political + machine. Who are you? You are not even a legal resident in this town. You + live up in the country. You haven't a vote of your own here. Much less do + you swing any votes. This dive proprietor swings a string of votes in his + precincts—a mighty long string.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me that this Judge Witberg will violate the + sacredness of his office and oath by letting this brute off?” Watson + demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Watch him,” was the grim reply. “Oh, he'll do it nicely enough. He will + give an extra-legal, extra-judicial decision, abounding in every word in + the dictionary that stands for fairness and right.” + </p> + <p> + “But there are the newspapers,” Watson cried. + </p> + <p> + “They are not fighting the administration at present. They'll give it to + you hard. You see what they have already done to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then these snips of boys on the police detail won't write the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “They will write something so near like the truth that the public will + believe it. They write their stories under instruction, you know. They + have their orders to twist and color, and there won't be much left of you + when they get done. Better drop the whole thing right now. You are in + bad.” + </p> + <p> + “But the trials are set.” + </p> + <p> + “Give the word and they'll drop them now. A man can't fight a machine + unless he has a machine behind him.” + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + But Carter Watson was stubborn. He was convinced that the machine would + beat him, but all his days he had sought social experience, and this was + certainly something new. + </p> + <p> + The morning of the trial the Prosecuting Attorney made another attempt to + patch up the affair. + </p> + <p> + “If you feel that way, I should like to get a lawyer to prosecute the + case,” said Watson. + </p> + <p> + “No, you don't,” said the Prosecuting Attorney. “I am paid by the People + to prosecute, and prosecute I will. But let me tell you. You have no + chance. We shall lump both cases into one, and you watch out.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Witberg looked good to Watson. A fairly young man, short, + comfortably stout, smooth-shaven and with an intelligent face, he seemed a + very nice man indeed. This good impression was added to by the smiling + lips and the wrinkles of laughter in the corners of his black eyes. + Looking at him and studying him, Watson felt almost sure that his old + friend's prognostication was wrong. + </p> + <p> + But Watson was soon to learn. Patsy Horan and two of his satellites + testified to a most colossal aggregation of perjuries. Watson could not + have believed it possible without having experienced it. They denied the + existence of the other four men. And of the two that testified, one + claimed to have been in the kitchen, a witness to Watson's unprovoked + assault on Patsy, while the other, remaining in the bar, had witnessed + Watson's second and third rushes into the place as he attempted to + annihilate the unoffending Patsy. The vile language ascribed to Watson was + so voluminously and unspeakably vile, that he felt they were injuring + their own case. It was so impossible that he should utter such things. But + when they described the brutal blows he had rained on poor Patsy's face, + and the chair he demolished when he vainly attempted to kick Patsy, Watson + waxed secretly hilarious and at the same time sad. The trial was a farce, + but such lowness of life was depressing to contemplate when he considered + the long upward climb humanity must make. + </p> + <p> + Watson could not recognize himself, nor could his worst enemy have + recognized him, in the swashbuckling, rough-housing picture that was + painted of him. But, as in all cases of complicated perjury, rifts and + contradictions in the various stories appeared. The Judge somehow failed + to notice them, while the Prosecuting Attorney and Patsy's attorney shied + off from them gracefully. Watson had not bothered to get a lawyer for + himself, and he was now glad that he had not. + </p> + <p> + Still, he retained a semblance of faith in Judge Witberg when he went + himself on the stand and started to tell his story. + </p> + <p> + “I was strolling casually along the street, your Honor,” Watson began, but + was interrupted by the Judge. + </p> + <p> + “We are not here to consider your previous actions,” bellowed Judge + Witberg. “Who struck the first blow?” + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor,” Watson pleaded, “I have no witnesses of the actual fray, and + the truth of my story can only be brought out by telling the story fully—” + </p> + <p> + Again he was interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “We do not care to publish any magazines here,” Judge Witberg roared, + looking at him so fiercely and malevolently that Watson could scarcely + bring himself to believe that this was same man he had studied a few + minutes previously. + </p> + <p> + “Who struck the first blow?” Patsy's attorney asked. + </p> + <p> + The Prosecuting Attorney interposed, demanding to know which of the two + cases lumped together was, and by what right Patsy's lawyer, at that stage + of the proceedings, should take the witness. Patsy's attorney fought back. + Judge Witberg interfered, professing no knowledge of any two cases being + lumped together. All this had to be explained. Battle royal raged, + terminating in both attorneys apologizing to the Court and to each other. + And so it went, and to Watson it had the seeming of a group of pickpockets + ruffling and bustling an honest man as they took his purse. The machine + was working, that was all. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you enter this place of unsavory reputations?” was asked him. + </p> + <p> + “It has been my custom for many years, as a student of economics and + sociology, to acquaint myself—” + </p> + <p> + But this was as far as Watson got. + </p> + <p> + “We want none of your ologies here,” snarled Judge Witberg. “It is a plain + question. Answer it plainly. Is it true or not true that you were drunk? + That is the gist of the question.” + </p> + <p> + When Watson attempted to tell how Patsy had injured his face in his + attempts to bat with his head, Watson was openly scouted and flouted, and + Judge Witberg again took him in hand. + </p> + <p> + “Are you aware of the solemnity of the oath you took to testify to nothing + but the truth on this witness stand?” the Judge demanded. “This is a fairy + story you are telling. It is not reasonable that a man would so injure + himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft and + sensitive parts of his face against your head. You are a sensible man. It + is unreasonable, is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “Men are unreasonable when they are angry,” Watson answered meekly. + </p> + <p> + Then it was that Judge Witberg was deeply outraged and righteously + wrathful. + </p> + <p> + “What right have you to say that?” he cried. “It is gratuitous. It has no + bearing on the case. You are here as a witness, sir, of events that have + transpired. The Court does not wish to hear any expressions of opinion + from you at all.” + </p> + <p> + “I but answered your question, your Honor,” Watson protested humbly. + </p> + <p> + “You did nothing of the sort,” was the next blast. “And let me warn you, + sir, let me warn you, that you are laying yourself liable to contempt by + such insolence. And I will have you know that we know how to observe the + law and the rules of courtesy down here in this little courtroom. I am + ashamed of you.” + </p> + <p> + And, while the next punctilious legal wrangle between the attorneys + interrupted his tale of what happened in the Vendome, Carter Watson, + without bitterness, amused and at the same time sad, saw rise before him + the machine, large and small, that dominated his country, the unpunished + and shameless grafts of a thousand cities perpetrated by the spidery and + vermin-like creatures of the machines. Here it was before him, a courtroom + and a judge, bowed down in subservience by the machine to a dive-keeper + who swung a string of votes. Petty and sordid as it was, it was one face + of the many-faced machine that loomed colossally, in every city and state, + in a thousand guises overshadowing the land. + </p> + <p> + A familiar phrase rang in his ears: “It is to laugh.” At the height of the + wrangle, he giggled, once, aloud, and earned a sullen frown from Judge + Witberg. Worse, a myriad times, he decided, were these bullying lawyers + and this bullying judge then the bucko mates in first quality hell-ships, + who not only did their own bullying but protected themselves as well. + These petty rapscallions, on the other hand, sought protection behind the + majesty of the law. They struck, but no one was permitted to strike back, + for behind them were the prison cells and the clubs of the stupid + policemen—paid and professional fighters and beaters-up of men. Yet + he was not bitter. The grossness and the sliminess of it was forgotten in + the simple grotesqueness of it, and he had the saving sense of humor. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, hectored and heckled though he was, he managed in the end to + give a simple, straightforward version of the affair, and, despite a + belligerent cross-examination, his story was not shaken in any particular. + Quite different it was from the perjuries that had shouted aloud from the + perjuries of Patsy and his two witnesses. + </p> + <p> + Both Patsy's attorney and the Prosecuting Attorney rested their cases, + letting everything go before the Court without argument. Watson protested + against this, but was silenced when the Prosecuting Attorney told him that + Public Prosecutor and knew his business. + </p> + <p> + “Patrick Horan has testified that he was in danger of his life and that he + was compelled to defend himself,” Judge Witberg's verdict began. “Mr. + Watson has testified to the same thing. Each has sworn that the other + struck the first blow; each has sworn that the other made an unprovoked + assault on him. It is an axiom of the law that the defendant should be + given the benefit of the doubt. A very reasonable doubt exists. Therefore, + in the case of the People Versus Carter Watson the benefit of the doubt is + given to said Carter Watson and he is herewith ordered discharged from + custody. The same reasoning applies to the case of the People Versus + Patrick Horan. He is given the benefit of the doubt and discharged from + custody. My recommendation is that both defendants shake hands and make + up.” + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon papers the first headline that caught Watson's eye was: + “CARTER WATSON ACQUITTED.” In the second paper it was: “CARTER WATSON + ESCAPES A FINE.” But what capped everything was the one beginning: “CARTER + WATSON A GOOD FELLOW.” In the text he read how Judge Witberg had advised + both fighters to shake hands, which they promptly did. Further, he read: + </p> + <p> + “'Let's have a nip on it,' said Patsy Horan. + </p> + <p> + “'Sure,' said Carter Watson. + </p> + <p> + “And, arm in arm, they ambled for the nearest saloon.” + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + Now, from the whole adventure, Watson carried away no bitterness. It was a + social experience of a new order, and it led to the writing of another + book, which he entitled, “POLICE COURT PROCEDURE: A Tentative Analysis.” + </p> + <p> + One summer morning a year later, on his ranch, he left his horse and + himself clambered on through a miniature canyon to inspect some rock ferns + he had planted the previous winter. Emerging from the upper end of the + canyon, he came out on one of his flower-spangled meadows, a delightful + isolated spot, screened from the world by low hills and clumps of trees. + And here he found a man, evidently on a stroll from the summer hotel down + at the little town a mile away. They met face to face and the recognition + was mutual. It was Judge Witberg. Also, it was a clear case of trespass, + for Watson had trespass signs upon his boundaries, though he never + enforced them. + </p> + <p> + Judge Witberg held out his hand, which Watson refused to see. + </p> + <p> + “Politics is a dirty trade, isn't it, Judge?” he remarked. “Oh, yes, I see + your hand, but I don't care to take it. The papers said I shook hands with + Patsy Horan after the trial. You know I did not, but let me tell you that + I'd a thousand times rather shake hands with him and his vile following of + curs, than with you.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Witberg was painfully flustered, and as he hemmed and hawed and + essayed to speak, Watson, looking at him, was struck by a sudden whim, and + he determined on a grim and facetious antic. + </p> + <p> + “I should scarcely expect any animus from a man of your acquirements and + knowledge of the world,” the Judge was saying. + </p> + <p> + “Animus?” Watson replied. “Certainly not. I haven't such a thing in my + nature. And to prove it, let me show you something curious, something you + have never seen before.” Casting about him, Watson picked up a rough stone + the size of his fist. “See this. Watch me.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, Carter Watson tapped himself a sharp blow on the cheek. The + stone laid the flesh open to the bone and the blood spurted forth. + </p> + <p> + “The stone was too sharp,” he announced to the astounded police judge, who + thought he had gone mad. + </p> + <p> + “I must bruise it a trifle. There is nothing like being realistic in such + matters.” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon Carter Watson found a smooth stone and with it pounded his cheek + nicely several times. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” he cooed. “That will turn beautifully green and black in a few + hours. It will be most convincing.” + </p> + <p> + “You are insane,” Judge Witberg quavered. + </p> + <p> + “Don't use such vile language to me,” said Watson. “You see my bruised and + bleeding face? You did that, with that right hand of yours. You hit me + twice—biff, biff. It is a brutal and unprovoked assault. I am in + danger of my life. I must protect myself.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Witberg backed away in alarm before the menacing fists of the other. + </p> + <p> + “If you strike me I'll have you arrested,” Judge Witberg threatened. + </p> + <p> + “That is what I told Patsy,” was the answer. “And do you know what he did + when I told him that?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “That!” + </p> + <p> + And at the same moment Watson's right fist landed flush on Judge Witberg's + nose, putting that legal gentleman over on his back on the grass. + </p> + <p> + “Get up!” commanded Watson. “If you are a gentleman, get up—that's + what Patsy told me, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Witberg declined to rise, and was dragged to his feet by the + coat-collar, only to have one eye blacked and be put on his back again. + After that it was a red Indian massacre. Judge Witberg was humanely and + scientifically beaten up. His checks were boxed, his cars cuffed, and his + face was rubbed in the turf. And all the time Watson exposited the way + Patsy Horan had done it. Occasionally, and very carefully, the facetious + sociologist administered a real bruising blow. Once, dragging the poor + Judge to his feet, he deliberately bumped his own nose on the gentleman's + head. The nose promptly bled. + </p> + <p> + “See that!” cried Watson, stepping back and deftly shedding his blood all + down his own shirt front. “You did it. With your fist you did it. It is + awful. I am fair murdered. I must again defend myself.” + </p> + <p> + And once more Judge Witberg impacted his features on a fist and was sent + to grass. + </p> + <p> + “I will have you arrested,” he sobbed as he lay. + </p> + <p> + “That's what Patsy said.” + </p> + <p> + “A brutal—-sniff, sniff,—and unprovoked—sniff, sniff—assault.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what Patsy said.” + </p> + <p> + “I will surely have you arrested.” + </p> + <p> + “Speaking slangily, not if I can beat you to it.” + </p> + <p> + And with that, Carter Watson departed down the canyon, mounted his horse, + and rode to town. + </p> + <p> + An hour later, as Judge Witberg limped up the grounds to his hotel, he was + arrested by a village constable on a charge of assault and battery + preferred by Carter Watson. + </p> + <p> + V + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor,” Watson said next day to the village Justice, a well to do + farmer and graduate, thirty years before, from a cow college, “since this + Sol Witberg has seen fit to charge me with battery, following upon my + charge of battery against him, I would suggest that both cases be lumped + together. The testimony and the facts are the same in both cases.” + </p> + <p> + To this the Justice agreed, and the double case proceeded. Watson, as + prosecuting witness, first took the stand and told his story. + </p> + <p> + “I was picking flowers,” he testified. “Picking flowers on my own land, + never dreaming of danger. Suddenly this man rushed upon me from behind the + trees. 'I am the Dodo,' he says, 'and I can do you to a frazzle. Put up + your hands.' I smiled, but with that, biff, biff, he struck me, knocking + me down and spilling my flowers. The language he used was frightful. It + was an unprovoked and brutal assault. Look at my cheek. Look at my nose—I + could not understand it. He must have been drunk. Before I recovered from + my surprise he had administered this beating. I was in danger of my life + and was compelled to defend himself. That is all, Your Honor, though I + must say, in conclusion, that I cannot get over my perplexity. Why did he + say he was the Dodo? Why did he so wantonly attack me?” + </p> + <p> + And thus was Sol Witberg given a liberal education in the art of perjury. + Often, from his high seat, he had listened indulgently to police court + perjuries in cooked-up cases; but for the first time perjury was directed + against him, and he no longer sat above the court, with the bailiffs, the + Policemen's clubs, and the prison cells behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor,” he cried, “never have I heard such a pack of lies told by so + bare-faced a liar—!” + </p> + <p> + Watson here sprang to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor, I protest. It is for your Honor to decide truth or falsehood. + The witness is on the stand to testify to actual events that have + transpired. His personal opinion upon things in general, and upon me, has + no bearing on the case whatever.” + </p> + <p> + The Justice scratched his head and waxed phlegmatically indignant. + </p> + <p> + “The point is well taken,” he decided. “I am surprised at you, Mr. + Witberg, claiming to be a judge and skilled in the practice of the law, + and yet being guilty of such unlawyerlike conduct. Your manner, sir, and + your methods, remind me of a shyster. This is a simple case of assault and + battery. We are here to determine who struck the first blow, and we are + not interested in your estimates of Mr. Watson's personal character. + Proceed with your story.” + </p> + <p> + Sol Witberg would have bitten his bruised and swollen lip in chagrin, had + it not hurt so much. But he contained himself and told a simple, + straightforward, truthful story. + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor,” Watson said, “I would suggest that you ask him what he was + doing on my premises.” + </p> + <p> + “A very good question. What were you doing, sir, on Mr. Watson's + premises?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not know they were his premises.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a trespass, your Honor,” Watson cried. “The warnings are posted + conspicuously.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw no warnings,” said Sol Witberg. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen them myself,” snapped the Justice. “They are very + conspicuous. And I would warn you, sir, that if you palter with the truth + in such little matters you may darken your more important statements with + suspicion. Why did you strike Mr. Watson?” + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor, as I have testified, I did not strike a blow.” + </p> + <p> + The Justice looked at Carter Watson's bruised and swollen visage, and + turned to glare at Sol Witberg. + </p> + <p> + “Look at that man's cheek!” he thundered. “If you did not strike a blow + how comes it that he is so disfigured and injured?” + </p> + <p> + “As I testified—” + </p> + <p> + “Be careful,” the Justice warned. + </p> + <p> + “I will be careful, sir. I will say nothing but the truth. He struck + himself with a rock. He struck himself with two different rocks.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it stand to reason that a man, any man not a lunatic, would so + injure himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft and + sensitive parts of his face with a stone?” Carter Watson demanded + </p> + <p> + “It sounds like a fairy story,” was the Justice's comment. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Witberg, had you been drinking?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you never drink?” + </p> + <p> + “On occasion.” + </p> + <p> + The Justice meditated on this answer with an air of astute profundity. + </p> + <p> + Watson took advantage of the opportunity to wink at Sol Witberg, but that + much-abused gentleman saw nothing humorous in the situation. + </p> + <p> + “A very peculiar case, a very peculiar case,” the Justice announced, as he + began his verdict. “The evidence of the two parties is flatly + contradictory. There are no witnesses outside the two principals. Each + claims the other committed the assault, and I have no legal way of + determining the truth. But I have my private opinion, Mr. Witberg, and I + would recommend that henceforth you keep off of Mr. Watson's premises and + keep away from this section of the country—” + </p> + <p> + “This is an outrage!” Sol Witberg blurted out. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, sir!” was the Justice's thundered command. “If you interrupt + the Court in this manner again, I shall fine you for contempt. And I warn + you I shall fine you heavily—you, a judge yourself, who should be + conversant with the courtesy and dignity of courts. I shall now give my + verdict: + </p> + <p> + “It is a rule of law that the defendant shall be given the benefit of the + doubt. As I have said, and I repeat, there is no legal way for me to + determine who struck the first blow. Therefore, and much to my regret,”—here + he paused and glared at Sol Witberg—“in each of these cases I am + compelled to give the defendant the benefit of the doubt. Gentlemen, you + are both dismissed.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us have a nip on it,” Watson said to Witberg, as they left the + courtroom; but that outraged person refused to lock arms and amble to the + nearest saloon. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WINGED BLACKMAIL + </h2> + <p> + PETER WINN lay back comfortably in a library chair, with closed eyes, deep + in the cogitation of a scheme of campaign destined in the near future to + make a certain coterie of hostile financiers sit up. The central idea had + come to him the night before, and he was now reveling in the planning of + the remoter, minor details. By obtaining control of a certain up-country + bank, two general stores, and several logging camps, he could come into + control of a certain dinky jerkwater line which shall here be nameless, + but which, in his hands, would prove the key to a vastly larger situation + involving more main-line mileage almost than there were spikes in the + aforesaid dinky jerkwater. It was so simple that he had almost laughed + aloud when it came to him. No wonder those astute and ancient enemies of + his had passed it by. + </p> + <p> + The library door opened, and a slender, middle-aged man, weak-eyed and eye + glassed, entered. In his hands was an envelope and an open letter. As + Peter Winn's secretary it was his task to weed out, sort, and classify his + employer's mail. + </p> + <p> + “This came in the morning post,” he ventured apologetically and with the + hint of a titter. “Of course it doesn't amount to anything, but I thought + you would like to see it.” + </p> + <p> + “Read it,” Peter Winn commanded, without opening his eyes. + </p> + <p> + The secretary cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + “It is dated July seventeenth, but is without address. Postmark San + Francisco. It is also quite illiterate. The spelling is atrocious. Here it + is: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Peter Winn, SIR: I send you respectfully by express a pigeon worth + good money. She's a loo-loo—” + </p> + <p> + “What is a loo-loo?” Peter Winn interrupted. + </p> + <p> + The secretary tittered. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure I don't know, except that it must be a superlative of some sort. + The letter continues: + </p> + <p> + “Please freight it with a couple of thousand-dollar bills and let it go. + If you do I wont never annoy you no more. If you dont you will be sorry. + </p> + <p> + “That is all. It is unsigned. I thought it would amuse you.” + </p> + <p> + “Has the pigeon come?” Peter Winn demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure I never thought to enquire.” + </p> + <p> + “Then do so.” + </p> + <p> + In five minutes the secretary was back. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. It came this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Then bring it in.” + </p> + <p> + The secretary was inclined to take the affair as a practical joke, but + Peter Winn, after an examination of the pigeon, thought otherwise. + </p> + <p> + “Look at it,” he said, stroking and handling it. “See the length of the + body and that elongated neck. A proper carrier. I doubt if I've ever seen + a finer specimen. Powerfully winged and muscled. As our unknown + correspondent remarked, she is a loo-loo. It's a temptation to keep her.” + </p> + <p> + The secretary tittered. + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Surely you will not let it go back to the writer of that + letter.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Winn shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I'll answer. No man can threaten me, even anonymously or in foolery.” + </p> + <p> + On a slip of paper he wrote the succinct message, “Go to hell,” signed it, + and placed it in the carrying apparatus with which the bird had been + thoughtfully supplied. + </p> + <p> + “Now we'll let her loose. Where's my son? I'd like him to see the flight.” + </p> + <p> + “He's down in the workshop. He slept there last night, and had his + breakfast sent down this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “He'll break his neck yet,” Peter Winn remarked, half-fiercely, + half-proudly, as he led the way to the veranda. + </p> + <p> + Standing at the head of the broad steps, he tossed the pretty creature + outward and upward. She caught herself with a quick beat of wings, + fluttered about undecidedly for a space, then rose in the air. + </p> + <p> + Again, high up, there seemed indecision; then, apparently getting her + bearings, she headed east, over the oak-trees that dotted the park-like + grounds. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful, beautiful,” Peter Winn murmured. “I almost wish I had her + back.” + </p> + <p> + But Peter Winn was a very busy man, with such large plans in his head and + with so many reins in his hands that he quickly forgot the incident. Three + nights later the left wing of his country house was blown up. It was not a + heavy explosion, and nobody was hurt, though the wing itself was ruined. + Most of the windows of the rest of the house were broken, and there was a + deal of general damage. By the first ferry boat of the morning half a + dozen San Francisco detectives arrived, and several hours later the + secretary, in high excitement, erupted on Peter Winn. + </p> + <p> + “It's come!” the secretary gasped, the sweat beading his forehead and his + eyes bulging behind their glasses. + </p> + <p> + “What has come?” Peter demanded. “It—the—the loo-loo bird.” + </p> + <p> + Then the financier understood. + </p> + <p> + “Have you gone over the mail yet?” + </p> + <p> + “I was just going over it, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Then continue, and see if you can find another letter from our mysterious + friend, the pigeon fancier.” + </p> + <p> + The letter came to light. It read: + </p> + <p> + Mr. Peter Winn, HONORABLE SIR: Now dont be a fool. If youd came through, + your shack would not have blew up—I beg to inform you respectfully, + am sending same pigeon. Take good care of same, thank you. Put five one + thousand dollar bills on her and let her go. Dont feed her. Dont try to + follow bird. She is wise to the way now and makes better time. If you dont + come through, watch out. + </p> + <p> + Peter Winn was genuinely angry. This time he indited no message for the + pigeon to carry. Instead, he called in the detectives, and, under their + advice, weighted the pigeon heavily with shot. Her previous flight having + been eastward toward the bay, the fastest motor-boat in Tiburon was + commissioned to take up the chase if it led out over the water. + </p> + <p> + But too much shot had been put on the carrier, and she was exhausted + before the shore was reached. Then the mistake was made of putting too + little shot on her, and she rose high in the air, got her bearings and + started eastward across San Francisco Bay. She flew straight over Angel + Island, and here the motor-boat lost her, for it had to go around the + island. + </p> + <p> + That night, armed guards patrolled the grounds. But there was no + explosion. Yet, in the early morning Peter Winn learned by telephone that + his sister's home in Alameda had been burned to the ground. + </p> + <p> + Two days later the pigeon was back again, coming this time by freight in + what had seemed a barrel of potatoes. Also came another letter: + </p> + <p> + Mr. Peter Winn, RESPECTABLE SIR: It was me that fixed yr sisters house. + You have raised hell, aint you. Send ten thousand now. Going up all the + time. Dont put any more handicap weights on that bird. You sure cant + follow her, and its cruelty to animals. + </p> + <p> + Peter Winn was ready to acknowledge himself beaten. The detectives were + powerless, and Peter did not know where next the man would strike—perhaps + at the lives of those near and dear to him. He even telephoned to San + Francisco for ten thousand dollars in bills of large denomination. But + Peter had a son, Peter Winn, Junior, with the same firm-set jaw as his + fathers, and the same knitted, brooding determination in his eyes. He was + only twenty-six, but he was all man, a secret terror and delight to the + financier, who alternated between pride in his son's aeroplane feats and + fear for an untimely and terrible end. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on, father, don't send that money,” said Peter Winn, Junior. “Number + Eight is ready, and I know I've at last got that reefing down fine. It + will work, and it will revolutionize flying. Speed—that's what's + needed, and so are the large sustaining surfaces for getting started and + for altitude. I've got them both. Once I'm up I reef down. There it is. + The smaller the sustaining surface, the higher the speed. That was the law + discovered by Langley. And I've applied it. I can rise when the air is + calm and full of holes, and I can rise when its boiling, and by my control + of my plane areas I can come pretty close to making any speed I want. + Especially with that new Sangster-Endholm engine.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll come pretty close to breaking your neck one of these days,” was + his father's encouraging remark. + </p> + <p> + “Dad, I'll tell you what I'll come pretty close to-ninety miles an hour—Yes, + and a hundred. Now listen! I was going to make a trial tomorrow. But it + won't take two hours to start today. I'll tackle it this afternoon. Keep + that money. Give me the pigeon and I'll follow her to her loft where ever + it is. Hold on, let me talk to the mechanics.” + </p> + <p> + He called up the workshop, and in crisp, terse sentences gave his orders + in a way that went to the older man's heart. Truly, his one son was a chip + off the old block, and Peter Winn had no meek notions concerning the + intrinsic value of said old block. + </p> + <p> + Timed to the minute, the young man, two hours later, was ready for the + start. In a holster at his hip, for instant use, cocked and with the + safety on, was a large-caliber automatic pistol. With a final inspection + and overhauling he took his seat in the aeroplane. He started the engine, + and with a wild burr of gas explosions the beautiful fabric darted down + the launching ways and lifted into the air. Circling, as he rose, to the + west, he wheeled about and jockeyed and maneuvered for the real start of + the race. + </p> + <p> + This start depended on the pigeon. Peter Winn held it. Nor was it weighted + with shot this time. Instead, half a yard of bright ribbon was firmly + attached to its leg—this the more easily to enable its flight being + followed. Peter Winn released it, and it arose easily enough despite the + slight drag of the ribbon. There was no uncertainty about its movements. + This was the third time it had made particular homing passage, and it knew + the course. + </p> + <p> + At an altitude of several hundred feet it straightened out and went due + east. The aeroplane swerved into a straight course from its last curve and + followed. The race was on. Peter Winn, looking up, saw that the pigeon was + outdistancing the machine. Then he saw something else. The aeroplane + suddenly and instantly became smaller. It had reefed. Its high-speed + plane-design was now revealed. Instead of the generous spread of surface + with which it had taken the air, it was now a lean and hawklike monoplane + balanced on long and exceedingly narrow wings. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + When young Winn reefed down so suddenly, he received a surprise. It was + his first trial of the new device, and while he was prepared for increased + speed he was not prepared for such an astonishing increase. It was better + than he dreamed, and, before he knew it, he was hard upon the pigeon. That + little creature, frightened by this, the most monstrous hawk it had ever + seen, immediately darted upward, after the manner of pigeons that strive + always to rise above a hawk. + </p> + <p> + In great curves the monoplane followed upward, higher and higher into the + blue. It was difficult, from underneath to see the pigeon, and young Winn + dared not lose it from his sight. He even shook out his reefs in order to + rise more quickly. Up, up they went, until the pigeon, true to its + instinct, dropped and struck at what it thought to be the back of its + pursuing enemy. Once was enough, for, evidently finding no life in the + smooth cloth surface of the machine, it ceased soaring and straightened + out on its eastward course. + </p> + <p> + A carrier pigeon on a passage can achieve a high rate of speed, and Winn + reefed again. And again, to his satisfaction, he found that he was beating + the pigeon. But this time he quickly shook out a portion of his reefed + sustaining surface and slowed down in time. From then on he knew he had + the chase safely in hand, and from then on a chant rose to his lips which + he continued to sing at intervals, and unconsciously, for the rest of the + passage. It was: “Going some; going some; what did I tell you!—going + some.” + </p> + <p> + Even so, it was not all plain sailing. The air is an unstable medium at + best, and quite without warning, at an acute angle, he entered an aerial + tide which he recognized as the gulf stream of wind that poured through + the drafty-mouthed Golden Gate. His right wing caught it first—a + sudden, sharp puff that lifted and tilted the monoplane and threatened to + capsize it. But he rode with a sensitive “loose curb,” and quickly, but + not too quickly, he shifted the angles of his wing-tips, depressed the + front horizontal rudder, and swung over the rear vertical rudder to meet + the tilting thrust of the wind. As the machine came back to an even keel, + and he knew that he was now wholly in the invisible stream, he readjusted + the wing-tips, rapidly away from him during the several moments of his + discomfiture. + </p> + <p> + The pigeon drove straight on for the Alameda County shore, and it was near + this shore that Winn had another experience. He fell into an air-hole. He + had fallen into air-holes before, in previous flights, but this was a far + larger one than he had ever encountered. With his eyes strained on the + ribbon attached to the pigeon, by that fluttering bit of color he marked + his fall. Down he went, at the pit of his stomach that old sink sensation + which he had known as a boy he first negotiated quick-starting elevators. + But Winn, among other secrets of aviation, had learned that to go up it + was sometimes necessary first to go down. The air had refused to hold him. + Instead of struggling futilely and perilously against this lack of + sustension, he yielded to it. With steady head and hand, he depressed the + forward horizontal rudder—just recklessly enough and not a fraction + more—and the monoplane dived head foremost and sharply down the + void. It was falling with the keenness of a knife-blade. Every instant the + speed accelerated frightfully. Thus he accumulated the momentum that would + save him. But few instants were required, when, abruptly shifting the + double horizontal rudders forward and astern, he shot upward on the tense + and straining plane and out of the pit. + </p> + <p> + At an altitude of five hundred feet, the pigeon drove on over the town of + Berkeley and lifted its flight to the Contra Costa hills. Young Winn noted + the campus and buildings of the University of California—his + university—as he rose after the pigeon. + </p> + <p> + Once more, on these Contra Costa hills, he early came to grief. The pigeon + was now flying low, and where a grove of eucalyptus presented a solid + front to the wind, the bird was suddenly sent fluttering wildly upward for + a distance of a hundred feet. Winn knew what it meant. It had been caught + in an air-surf that beat upward hundreds of feet where the fresh west wind + smote the upstanding wall of the grove. He reefed hastily to the + uttermost, and at the same time depressed the angle of his flight to meet + that upward surge. Nevertheless, the monoplane was tossed fully three + hundred feet before the danger was left astern. + </p> + <p> + Two or more ranges of hills the pigeon crossed, and then Winn saw it + dropping down to a landing where a small cabin stood in a hillside + clearing. He blessed that clearing. Not only was it good for alighting, + but, on account of the steepness of the slope, it was just the thing for + rising again into the air. + </p> + <p> + A man, reading a newspaper, had just started up at the sight of the + returning pigeon, when he heard the burr of Winn's engine and saw the huge + monoplane, with all surfaces set, drop down upon him, stop suddenly on an + air-cushion manufactured on the spur of the moment by a shift of the + horizontal rudders, glide a few yards, strike ground, and come to rest not + a score of feet away from him. But when he saw a young man, calmly sitting + in the machine and leveling a pistol at him, the man turned to run. Before + he could make the corner of the cabin, a bullet through the leg brought + him down in a sprawling fall. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want!” he demanded sullenly, as the other stood over him. + </p> + <p> + “I want to take you for a ride in my new machine,” Winn answered. “Believe + me, she is a loo-loo.” + </p> + <p> + The man did not argue long, for this strange visitor had most convincing + ways. Under Winn's instructions, covered all the time by the pistol, the + man improvised a tourniquet and applied it to his wounded leg. Winn helped + him to a seat in the machine, then went to the pigeon-loft and took + possession of the bird with the ribbon still fast to its leg. + </p> + <p> + A very tractable prisoner, the man proved. Once up in the air, he sat + close, in an ecstasy of fear. An adept at winged blackmail, he had no + aptitude for wings himself, and when he gazed down at the flying land and + water far beneath him, he did not feel moved to attack his captor, now + defenseless, both hands occupied with flight. + </p> + <p> + Instead, the only way the man felt moved was to sit closer. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Peter Winn, Senior, scanning the heavens with powerful glasses, saw the + monoplane leap into view and grow large over the rugged backbone of Angel + Island. Several minutes later he cried out to the waiting detectives that + the machine carried a passenger. Dropping swiftly and piling up an abrupt + air-cushion, the monoplane landed. + </p> + <p> + “That reefing device is a winner!” young Winn cried, as he climbed out. + “Did you see me at the start? I almost ran over the pigeon. Going some, + dad! Going some! What did I tell you? Going some!” + </p> + <p> + “But who is that with you?” his father demanded. + </p> + <p> + The young man looked back at his prisoner and remembered. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that's the pigeon-fancier,” he said. “I guess the officers can take + care of him.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Winn gripped his son's hand in grim silence, and fondled the pigeon + which his son had passed to him. Again he fondled the pretty creature. + Then he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Exhibit A, for the People,” he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES + </h2> + <p> + ARRANGEMENTS quite extensive had been made for the celebration of + Christmas on the yacht Samoset. Not having been in any civilized port for + months, the stock of provisions boasted few delicacies; yet Minnie Duncan + had managed to devise real feasts for cabin and forecastle. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Boyd,” she told her husband. “Here are the menus. For the cabin, + raw bonita native style, turtle soup, omelette a la Samoset—” + </p> + <p> + “What the dickens?” Boyd Duncan interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you must know, I found a tin of mushrooms and a package of + egg-powder which had fallen down behind the locker, and there are other + things as well that will go into it. But don't interrupt. Boiled yam, + fried taro, alligator pear salad—there, you've got me all mixed, + Then I found a last delectable half-pound of dried squid. There will be + baked beans Mexican, if I can hammer it into Toyama's head; also, baked + papaia with Marquesan honey, and, lastly, a wonderful pie the secret of + which Toyama refuses to divulge.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if it is possible to concoct a punch or a cocktail out of trade + rum?” Duncan muttered gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I forgot! Come with me.” + </p> + <p> + His wife caught his hand and led him through the small connecting door to + her tiny stateroom. Still holding his hand, she fished in the depths of a + hat-locker and brought forth a pint bottle of champagne. + </p> + <p> + “The dinner is complete!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “Wait.” + </p> + <p> + She fished again, and was rewarded with a silver-mounted whisky flask. She + held it to the light of a port-hole, and the liquor showed a quarter of + the distance from the bottom. + </p> + <p> + “I've been saving it for weeks,” she explained. “And there's enough for + you and Captain Dettmar.” + </p> + <p> + “Two mighty small drinks,” Duncan complained. + </p> + <p> + “There would have been more, but I gave a drink to Lorenzo when he was + sick.” + </p> + <p> + Duncan growled, “Might have given him rum,” facetiously. + </p> + <p> + “The nasty stuff! For a sick man? Don't be greedy, Boyd. And I'm glad + there isn't any more, for Captain Dettmar's sake. Drinking always makes + him irritable. And now for the men's dinner. Soda crackers, sweet cakes, + candy—” + </p> + <p> + “Substantial, I must say.” + </p> + <p> + “Do hush. Rice, and curry, yam, taro, bonita, of course, a big cake Toyama + is making, young pig—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say,” he protested. + </p> + <p> + “It is all right, Boyd. We'll be in Attu-Attu in three days. Besides, it's + my pig. That old chief what-ever-his-name distinctly presented it to me. + You saw him yourself. And then two tins of bullamacow. That's their + dinner. And now about the presents. Shall we wait until tomorrow, or give + them this evening?” + </p> + <p> + “Christmas Eve, by all means,” was the man's judgment. “We'll call all + hands at eight bells; I'll give them a tot of rum all around, and then you + give the presents. Come on up on deck. It's stifling down here. I hope + Lorenzo has better luck with the dynamo; without the fans there won't be + much sleeping to-night if we're driven below.” + </p> + <p> + They passed through the small main-cabin, climbed a steep companion + ladder, and emerged on deck. The sun was setting, and the promise was for + a clear tropic night. The Samoset, with fore- and main-sail winged out on + either side, was slipping a lazy four-knots through the smooth sea. + Through the engine-room skylight came a sound of hammering. They strolled + aft to where Captain Dettmar, one foot on the rail, was oiling the gear of + the patent log. At the wheel stood a tall South Sea Islander, clad in + white undershirt and scarlet hip-cloth. + </p> + <p> + Boyd Duncan was an original. At least that was the belief of his friends. + Of comfortable fortune, with no need to do anything but take his comfort, + he elected to travel about the world in outlandish and most uncomfortable + ways. Incidentally, he had ideas about coral-reefs, disagreed profoundly + with Darwin on that subject, had voiced his opinion in several monographs + and one book, and was now back at his hobby, cruising the South Seas in a + tiny, thirty-ton yacht and studying reef-formations. + </p> + <p> + His wife, Minnie Duncan, was also declared an original, inasmuch as she + joyfully shared his vagabond wanderings. Among other things, in the six + exciting years of their marriage she had climbed Chimborazo with him, made + a three-thousand-mile winter journey with dogs and sleds in Alaska, ridden + a horse from Canada to Mexico, cruised the Mediterranean in a ten-ton + yawl, and canoed from Germany to the Black Sea across the heart of Europe. + They were a royal pair of wanderlusters, he, big and broad-shouldered, she + a small, brunette, and happy woman, whose one hundred and fifteen pounds + were all grit and endurance, and withal, pleasing to look upon. + </p> + <p> + The Samoset had been a trading schooner, when Duncan bought her in San + Francisco and made alterations. Her interior was wholly rebuilt, so that + the hold became main-cabin and staterooms, while abaft amidships were + installed engines, a dynamo, an ice machine, storage batteries, and, far + in the stern, gasoline tanks. Necessarily, she carried a small crew. Boyd, + Minnie, and Captain Dettmar were the only whites on board, though Lorenzo, + the small and greasy engineer, laid a part claim to white, being a + Portuguese half-caste. A Japanese served as cook, and a Chinese as cabin + boy. Four white sailors had constituted the original crew for'ard, but one + by one they had yielded to the charms of palm-waving South Sea isles and + been replaced by islanders. Thus, one of the dusky sailors hailed from + Easter Island, a second from the Carolines, a third from the Paumotus, + while the fourth was a gigantic Samoan. At sea, Boyd Duncan, himself a + navigator, stood a mate's watch with Captain Dettmar, and both of them + took a wheel or lookout occasionally. On a pinch, Minnie herself could + take a wheel, and it was on pinches that she proved herself more + dependable at steering than did the native sailors. + </p> + <p> + At eight bells, all hands assembled at the wheel, and Boyd Duncan appeared + with a black bottle and a mug. The rum he served out himself, half a mug + of it to each man. They gulped the stuff down with many facial expressions + of delight, followed by loud lip-smackings of approval, though the liquor + was raw enough and corrosive enough to burn their mucous membranes. All + drank except Lee Goom, the abstemious cabin boy. This rite accomplished, + they waited for the next, the present-giving. Generously molded on + Polynesian lines, huge-bodied and heavy-muscled, they were nevertheless + like so many children, laughing merrily at little things, their eager + black eyes flashing in the lantern light as their big bodies swayed to the + heave and roll of the ship. + </p> + <p> + Calling each by name, Minnie gave the presents out, accompanying each + presentation with some happy remark that added to the glee. There were + trade watches, clasp knives, amazing assortments of fish-hooks in + packages, plug tobacco, matches, and gorgeous strips of cotton for + loincloths all around. That Boyd Duncan was liked by them was evidenced by + the roars of laughter with which they greeted his slightest joking + allusion. + </p> + <p> + Captain Dettmar, white-faced, smiling only when his employer chanced to + glance at him, leaned against the wheel-box, looking on. Twice, he left + the group and went below, remaining there but a minute each time. Later, + in the main cabin, when Lorenzo, Lee Goom and Toyama received their + presents, he disappeared into his stateroom twice again. For of all times, + the devil that slumbered in Captain Dettmar's soul chose this particular + time of good cheer to awaken. Perhaps it was not entirely the devil's + fault, for Captain Dettmar, privily cherishing a quart of whisky for many + weeks, had selected Christmas Eve for broaching it. + </p> + <p> + It was still early in the evening—two bells had just gone—when + Duncan and his wife stood by the cabin companionway, gazing to windward + and canvassing the possibility of spreading their beds on deck. A small, + dark blot of cloud, slowly forming on the horizon, carried the threat of a + rain-squall, and it was this they were discussing when Captain Dettmar, + coming from aft and about to go below, glanced at them with sudden + suspicion. He paused, his face working spasmodically. Then he spoke: + </p> + <p> + “You are talking about me.” + </p> + <p> + His voice was hoarse, and there was an excited vibration in it. Minnie + Duncan started, then glanced at her husband's immobile face, took the cue, + and remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “I say you were talking about me,” Captain Dettmar repeated, this time + with almost a snarl. + </p> + <p> + He did not lurch nor betray the liquor on him in any way save by the + convulsive working of his face. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie, you'd better go down,” Duncan said gently. “Tell Lee Goom we'll + sleep below. It won't be long before that squall is drenching things.” + </p> + <p> + She took the hint and left, delaying just long enough to give one anxious + glance at the dim faces of the two men. + </p> + <p> + Duncan puffed at his cigar and waited till his wife's voice, in talk with + the cabin-boy, came up through the open skylight. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” Duncan demanded in a low voice, but sharply. + </p> + <p> + “I said you were talking about me. I say it again. Oh, I haven't been + blind. Day after day I've seen the two of you talking about me. Why don't + you come out and say it to my face! I know you know. And I know your + mind's made up to discharge me at Attu-Attu.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry you are making such a mess of everything,” was Duncan's quiet + reply. + </p> + <p> + But Captain Dettmar's mind was set on trouble. + </p> + <p> + “You know you are going to discharge me. You think you are too good to + associate with the likes of me—you and your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Kindly keep her out of this,” Duncan warned. “What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to know what you are going to do!” + </p> + <p> + “Discharge you, after this, at Attu-Attu.” + </p> + <p> + “You intended to, all along.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary. It is your present conduct that compels me.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't give me that sort of talk.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't retain a captain who calls me a liar.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Dettmar for the moment was taken aback. His face and lips worked, + but he could say nothing. Duncan coolly pulled at his cigar and glanced + aft at the rising cloud of squall. + </p> + <p> + “Lee Goom brought the mail aboard at Tahiti,” Captain Dettmar began. + </p> + <p> + “We were hove short then and leaving. You didn't look at your letters + until we were outside, and then it was too late. That's why you didn't + discharge me at Tahiti. Oh, I know. I saw the long envelope when Lee Goom + came over the side. It was from the Governor of California, printed on the + corner for any one to see. You'd been working behind my back. Some + beachcomber in Honolulu had whispered to you, and you'd written to the + Governor to find out. And that was his answer Lee Goom carried out to you. + Why didn't you come to me like a man! No, you must play underhand with me, + knowing that this billet was the one chance for me to get on my feet + again. And as soon as you read the Governor's letter your mind was made up + to get rid of me. I've seen it on your face ever since for all these + months.. I've seen the two of you, polite as hell to me all the time, and + getting away in corners and talking about me and that affair in 'Frisco.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you done?” Duncan asked, his voice low, and tense. “Quite done?” + </p> + <p> + Captain Dettmar made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll tell you a few things. It was precisely because of that affair + in 'Frisco that I did not discharge you in Tahiti. God knows you gave me + sufficient provocation. I thought that if ever a man needed a chance to + rehabilitate himself, you were that man. Had there been no black mark + against you, I would have discharged you when I learned how you were + robbing me.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Dettmar showed surprise, started to interrupt, then changed his + mind. + </p> + <p> + “There was that matter of the deck-calking, the bronze rudder-irons, the + overhauling of the engine, the new spinnaker boom, the new davits, and the + repairs to the whale-boat. You OKd the shipyard bill. It was four thousand + one hundred and twenty-two francs. By the regular shipyard charges it + ought not to have been a centime over twenty-five hundred francs-” + </p> + <p> + “If you take the word of those alongshore sharks against mine—' the + other began thickly. + </p> + <p> + “Save yourself the trouble of further lying,” Duncan went on coldly. “I + looked it up. I got Flaubin before the Governor himself, and the old + rascal confessed to sixteen hundred overcharge. Said you'd stuck him up + for it. Twelve hundred went to you, and his share was four hundred and the + job. Don't interrupt. I've got his affidavit below. Then was when I would + have put you ashore, except for the cloud you were under. You had to have + this one chance or go clean to hell. I gave you the chance. And what have + you got to say about it?” + </p> + <p> + “What did the Governor say?” Captain Dettmar demanded truculently. + </p> + <p> + “Which governor?” + </p> + <p> + “Of California. Did he lie to you like all the rest?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you what he said. He said that you had been convicted on + circumstantial evidence; that was why you had got life imprisonment + instead of hanging; that you had always stoutly maintained your innocence; + that you were the black sheep of the Maryland Dettmars; that they moved + heaven and earth for your pardon; that your prison conduct was most + exemplary; that he was prosecuting attorney at the time you were + convicted; that after you had served seven years he yielded to your + family's plea and pardoned you; and that in his own mind existed a doubt + that you had killed McSweeny.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause, during which Duncan went on studying the rising squall, + while Captain Dettmar's face worked terribly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the Governor was wrong,” he announced, with a short laugh. “I did + kill McSweeny. I did get the watchman drunk that night. I beat McSweeny to + death in his bunk. I used the iron belaying pin that appeared in the + evidence. He never had a chance. I beat him to a jelly. Do you want the + details?” + </p> + <p> + Duncan looked at him in the curious way one looks at any monstrosity, but + made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm not afraid to tell you,” Captain Dettmar blustered on. “There are + no witnesses. Besides, I am a free man now. I am pardoned, and by God they + can never put me back in that hole again. I broke McSweeny's jaw with the + first blow. He was lying on his back asleep. He said, 'My God, Jim! My + God!' It was funny to see his broken jaw wabble as he said it. Then I + smashed him... I say, do you want the rest of the details?” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all you have to say?” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it enough?” Captain Dettmar retorted. + </p> + <p> + “It is enough.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Put you ashore at Attu-Attu.” + </p> + <p> + “And in the meantime?” + </p> + <p> + “In the meantime...” Duncan paused. An increase of weight in the wind + rippled his hair. The stars overhead vanished, and the Samoset swung four + points off her course in the careless steersman's hands. “In the meantime + throw your halyards down on deck and look to your wheel. I'll call the + men.” + </p> + <p> + The next moment the squall burst upon them. Captain Dettmar, springing + aft, lifted the coiled mainsail halyards from their pins and threw them, + ready to run, on the deck. The three islanders swarmed from the tiny + forecastle, two of them leaping to the halyards and holding by a single + turn, while the third fastened down the engineroom, companion and swung + the ventilators around. Below, Lee Goom and Toyama were lowering skylight + covers and screwing up deadeyes. Duncan pulled shut the cover of the + companion scuttle, and held on, waiting, the first drops of rain pelting + his face, while the Samoset leaped violently ahead, at the same time + heeling first to starboard then to port as the gusty pressures caught her + winged-out sails. + </p> + <p> + All waited. But there was no need to lower away on the run. The power went + out of the wind, and the tropic rain poured a deluge over everything. Then + it was, the danger past, and as the Kanakas began to coil the halyards + back on the pins, that Boyd Duncan went below. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he called in cheerily to his wife. “Only a puff.” + </p> + <p> + “And Captain Dettmar?” she queried. + </p> + <p> + “Has been drinking, that is all. I shall get rid of him at Attu-Attu.” + </p> + <p> + But before Duncan climbed into his bunk, he strapped around himself, + against the skin and under his pajama coat, a heavy automatic pistol. + </p> + <p> + He fell asleep almost immediately, for his was the gift of perfect + relaxation. He did things tensely, in the way savages do, but the instant + the need passed he relaxed, mind and body. So it was that he slept, while + the rain still poured on deck and the yacht plunged and rolled in the + brief, sharp sea caused by the squall. + </p> + <p> + He awoke with a feeling of suffocation and heaviness. The electric fans + had stopped, and the air was thick and stifling. Mentally cursing all + Lorenzos and storage batteries, he heard his wife moving in the adjoining + stateroom and pass out into the main cabin. Evidently heading for the + fresher air on deck, he thought, and decided it was a good example to + imitate. Putting on his slippers and tucking a pillow and a blanket under + his arm, he followed her. As he was about to emerge from the companionway, + the ship's clock in the cabin began to strike and he stopped to listen. + Four bells sounded. It was two in the morning. From without came the + creaking of the gaff-jaw against the mast. The Samoset rolled and righted + on a sea, and in the light breeze her canvas gave forth a hollow thrum. + </p> + <p> + He was just putting his foot out on the damp deck when he heard his wife + scream. It was a startled frightened scream that ended in a splash + overside. He leaped out and ran aft. In the dim starlight he could make + out her head and shoulders disappearing astern in the lazy wake. + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” Captain Dettmar, who was at the wheel, asked. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Duncan,” was Duncan's reply, as he tore the life-buoy from its hook + and flung it aft. “Jibe over to starboard and come up on the wind!” he + commanded. + </p> + <p> + And then Boyd Duncan made a mistake. He dived overboard. + </p> + <p> + When he came up, he glimpsed the blue-light on the buoy, which had ignited + automatically when it struck the water. He swam for it, and found Minnie + had reached it first. + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” he said. “Just trying to keep cool?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Boyd!” was her answer, and one wet hand reached out and touched his. + </p> + <p> + The blue light, through deterioration or damage, flickered out. As they + lifted on the smooth crest of a wave, Duncan turned to look where the + Samoset made a vague blur in the darkness. No lights showed, but there was + noise of confusion. He could hear Captain Dettmar's shouting above the + cries of the others. + </p> + <p> + “I must say he's taking his time,” Duncan grumbled. “Why doesn't he jibe? + There she goes now.” + </p> + <p> + They could hear the rattle of the boom tackle blocks as the sail was eased + across. + </p> + <p> + “That was the mainsail,” he muttered. “Jibed to port when I told him + starboard.” + </p> + <p> + Again they lifted on a wave, and again and again, ere they could make out + the distant green of the Samoset's starboard light. But instead of + remaining stationary, in token that the yacht was coming toward them, it + began moving across their field of vision. Duncan swore. + </p> + <p> + “What's the lubber holding over there for!” he demanded. “He's got his + compass. He knows our bearing.” + </p> + <p> + But the green light, which was all they could see, and which they could + see only when they were on top of a wave, moved steadily away from them, + withal it was working up to windward, and grew dim and dimmer. Duncan + called out loudly and repeatedly, and each time, in the intervals, they + could hear, very faintly, the voice of Captain Dettmar shouting orders. + </p> + <p> + “How can he hear me with such a racket?” Duncan complained. + </p> + <p> + “He's doing it so the crew won't hear you,” was Minnie's answer. + </p> + <p> + There was something in the quiet way she said it that caught her husband's + attention. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that he is not trying to pick us up,” she went on in the same + composed voice. “He threw me overboard.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not making a mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “How could I? I was at the main rigging, looking to see if any more rain + threatened. He must have left the wheel and crept behind me. I was holding + on to a stay with one hand. He gripped my hand free from behind and threw + me over. It's too bad you didn't know, or else you would have staid + aboard.” + </p> + <p> + Duncan groaned, but said nothing for several minutes. The green light + changed the direction of its course. + </p> + <p> + “She's gone about,” he announced. “You are right. He's deliberately + working around us and to windward. Up wind they can never hear me. But + here goes.” + </p> + <p> + He called at minute intervals for a long time. The green light + disappeared, being replaced by the red, showing that the yacht had gone + about again. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie,” he said finally, “it pains me to tell you, but you married a + fool. Only a fool would have gone overboard as I did.” + </p> + <p> + “What chance have we of being picked up... by some other vessel, I mean?” + she asked. + </p> + <p> + “About one in ten thousand, or ten thousand million. Not a steamer route + nor trade route crosses this stretch of ocean. And there aren't any + whalers knocking about the South Seas. There might be a stray trading + schooner running across from Tutuwanga. But I happen to know that island + is visited only once a year. A chance in a million is ours.” + </p> + <p> + “And we'll play that chance,” she rejoined stoutly. + </p> + <p> + “You ARE a joy!” His hand lifted hers to his lips. “And Aunt Elizabeth + always wondered what I saw in you. Of course we'll play that chance. And + we'll win it, too. To happen otherwise would be unthinkable. Here goes.” + </p> + <p> + He slipped the heavy pistol from his belt and let it sink into the sea. + The belt, however, he retained. + </p> + <p> + “Now you get inside the buoy and get some sleep. Duck under.” + </p> + <p> + She ducked obediently, and came up inside the floating circle. He fastened + the straps for her, then, with the pistol belt, buckled himself across one + shoulder to the outside of the buoy. + </p> + <p> + “We're good for all day to-morrow,” he said. “Thank God the water's warm. + It won't be a hardship for the first twenty-hour hours, anyway. And if + we're not picked up by nightfall, we've just got to hang on for another + day, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + For half an hour they maintained silence, Duncan, his head resting on the + arm that was on the buoy, seemed asleep. + </p> + <p> + “Boyd?” Minnie said softly. + </p> + <p> + “Thought you were asleep,” he growled. + </p> + <p> + “Boyd, if we don't come through this—” + </p> + <p> + “Stow that!” he broke in ungallantly. “Of course we're coming through. + There is isn't a doubt of it. Somewhere on this ocean is a ship that's + heading right for us. You wait and see. Just the same I wish my brain were + equipped with wireless. Now I'm going to sleep, if you don't.” + </p> + <p> + But for once, sleep baffled him. An hour later he heard Minnie stir and + knew she was awake. + </p> + <p> + “Say, do you know what I've been thinking!” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No; what?” + </p> + <p> + “That I'll wish you a Merry Christmas.” + </p> + <p> + “By George, I never thought of it. Of course it's Christmas Day. We'll + have many more of them, too. And do you know what I've been thinking? What + a confounded shame we're done out of our Christmas dinner. Wait till I lay + hands on Dettmar. I'll take it out of him. And it won't be with an iron + belaying pin either, Just two bunches of naked knuckles, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + Despite his facetiousness, Boyd Duncan had little hope. He knew well + enough the meaning of one chance in a million, and was calmly certain that + his wife and he had entered upon their last few living hours—hours + that were inevitably bound to be black and terrible with tragedy. + </p> + <p> + The tropic sun rose in a cloudless sky. Nothing was to be seen. The + Samoset was beyond the sea-rim. As the sun rose higher, Duncan ripped his + pajama trousers in halves and fashioned them into two rude turbans. Soaked + in sea-water they offset the heat-rays. + </p> + <p> + “When I think of that dinner, I'm really angry,” he complained, as he + noted an anxious expression threatening to set on his wife's face. “And I + want you to be with me when I settle with Dettmar. I've always been + opposed to women witnessing scenes of blood, but this is different. It + will be a beating.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope I don't break my knuckles on him,” he added, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + Midday came and went, and they floated on, the center of a narrow + sea-circle. A gentle breath of the dying trade-wind fanned them, and they + rose and fell monotonously on the smooth swells of a perfect summer sea. + Once, a gunie spied them, and for half an hour circled about them with + majestic sweeps. And, once, a huge rayfish, measuring a score of feet + across the tips, passed within a few yards. + </p> + <p> + By sunset, Minnie began to rave, softly, babblingly, like a child. + Duncan's face grew haggard as he watched and listened, while in his mind + he revolved plans of how best to end the hours of agony that were coming. + And, so planning, as they rose on a larger swell than usual, he swept the + circle of the sea with his eyes, and saw, what made him cry out. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie!” She did not answer, and he shouted her name again in her ear, + with all the voice he could command. Her eyes opened, in them fluttered + commingled consciousness and delirium. He slapped her hands and wrists + till the sting of the blows roused her. + </p> + <p> + “There she is, the chance in a million!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “A steamer at that, heading straight for us! By George, it's a cruiser! I + have it!—the Annapolis, returning with those astronomers from + Tutuwanga.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + United States Consul Lingford was a fussy, elderly gentleman, and in the + two years of his service at Attu-Attu had never encountered so + unprecedented a case as that laid before him by Boyd Duncan. The latter, + with his wife, had been landed there by the Annapolis, which had promptly + gone on with its cargo of astronomers to Fiji. + </p> + <p> + “It was cold-blooded, deliberate attempt to murder,” said Consul Lingford. + “The law shall take its course. I don't know how precisely to deal with + this Captain Dettmar, but if he comes to Attu-Attu, depend upon it he + shall be dealt with, he—ah—shall be dealt with. In the + meantime, I shall read up the law. And now, won't you and your good lady + stop for lunch!” + </p> + <p> + As Duncan accepted the invitation, Minnie, who had been glancing out of + the window at the harbor, suddenly leaned forward and touched her + husband's arm. He followed her gaze, and saw the Samoset, flag at half + mast, rounding up and dropping anchor scarcely a hundred yards away. + </p> + <p> + “There's my boat now,” Duncan said to the Consul. “And there's the launch + over the side, and Captain Dettmar dropping into it. If I don't miss my + guess, he's coming to report our deaths to you.” + </p> + <p> + The launch landed on the white beach, and leaving Lorenzo tinkering with + the engine, Captain Dettmar strode across the beach and up the path to the + Consulate. + </p> + <p> + “Let him make his report,” Duncan said. “We'll just step into this next + room and listen.” + </p> + <p> + And through the partly open door, he and his wife heard Captain Dettmar, + with tears in his voice, describe the loss of his owners. + </p> + <p> + “I jibed over and went back across the very spot,” he concluded. “There + was not a sign of them. I called and called, but there was never an + answer. I tacked back and forth and wore for two solid hours, then hove to + till daybreak, and cruised back and forth all day, two men at the + mastheads. It is terrible. I am heartbroken. Mr. Duncan was a splendid + man, and I shall never...” + </p> + <p> + But he never completed the sentence, for at that moment his splendid + employer strode out upon him, leaving Minnie standing in the doorway. + Captain Dettmar's white face blanched even whiter. + </p> + <p> + “I did my best to pick you up, sir,” he began. + </p> + <p> + Boyd Duncan's answer was couched in terms of bunched knuckles, two bunches + of them, that landed right and left on Captain Dettmar's face. + </p> + <p> + Captain Dettmar staggered backward, recovered, and rushed with swinging + arms at his employer, only to be met with a blow squarely between the + eyes. This time the Captain went down, bearing the typewriter under him as + he crashed to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “This is not permissible,” Consul Lingford spluttered. “I beg of you, I + beg of you, to desist.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll pay the damages to office furniture,” Duncan answered, and at the + same time landing more bunched knuckles on the eyes and nose of Dettmar. + </p> + <p> + Consul Lingford bobbed around in the turmoil like a wet hen, while his + office furniture went to ruin. Once, he caught Duncan by the arm, but was + flung back, gasping, half-across the room. Another time he appealed to + Minnie. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Duncan, won't you, please, please, restrain your husband?” + </p> + <p> + But she, white-faced and trembling, resolutely shook her head and watched + the fray with all her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It is outrageous,” Consul Lingford cried, dodging the hurtling bodies of + the two men. “It is an affront to the Government, to the United States + Government. Nor will it be overlooked, I warn you. Oh, do pray desist, Mr. + Duncan. You will kill the man. I beg of you. I beg, I beg...” + </p> + <p> + But the crash of a tall vase filled with crimson hibiscus blossoms left + him speechless. + </p> + <p> + The time came when Captain Dettmar could no longer get up. He got as far + as hands and knees, struggled vainly to rise further, then collapsed. + Duncan stirred the groaning wreck with his foot. + </p> + <p> + “He's all right,” he announced. “I've only given him what he has given + many a sailor and worse.” + </p> + <p> + “Great heavens, sir!” Consul Lingford exploded, staring horror-stricken at + the man whom he had invited to lunch. + </p> + <p> + Duncan giggled involuntarily, then controlled himself. + </p> + <p> + “I apologize, Mr. Lingford, I most heartily apologize. I fear I was + slightly carried away by my feelings.” + </p> + <p> + Consul Lingford gulped and sawed the air speechlessly with his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Slightly, sir? Slightly?” he managed to articulate. + </p> + <p> + “Boyd,” Minnie called softly from the doorway. + </p> + <p> + He turned and looked. + </p> + <p> + “You ARE a joy,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “And now, Mr. Lingford, I am done with him,” Duncan said. “I turn over + what is left to you and the law.” + </p> + <p> + “That?” Consul Lingford queried, in accent of horror. + </p> + <p> + “That,” Boyd Duncan replied, looking ruefully at his battered knuckles. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WAR + </h2> + <p> + HE was a young man, not more than twenty-four or five, and he might have + sat his horse with the careless grace of his youth had he not been so + catlike and tense. His black eyes roved everywhere, catching the movements + of twigs and branches where small birds hopped, questing ever onward + through the changing vistas of trees and brush, and returning always to + the clumps of undergrowth on either side. And as he watched, so did he + listen, though he rode on in silence, save for the boom of heavy guns from + far to the west. This had been sounding monotonously in his ears for + hours, and only its cessation could have aroused his notice. For he had + business closer to hand. Across his saddle-bow was balanced a carbine. + </p> + <p> + So tensely was he strung, that a bunch of quail, exploding into flight + from under his horse's nose, startled him to such an extent that + automatically, instantly, he had reined in and fetched the carbine halfway + to his shoulder. He grinned sheepishly, recovered himself, and rode on. So + tense was he, so bent upon the work he had to do, that the sweat stung his + eyes unwiped, and unheeded rolled down his nose and spattered his saddle + pommel. The band of his cavalryman's hat was fresh-stained with sweat. The + roan horse under him was likewise wet. It was high noon of a breathless + day of heat. Even the birds and squirrels did not dare the sun, but + sheltered in shady hiding places among the trees. + </p> + <p> + Man and horse were littered with leaves and dusted with yellow pollen, for + the open was ventured no more than was compulsory. They kept to the brush + and trees, and invariably the man halted and peered out before crossing a + dry glade or naked stretch of upland pasturage. He worked always to the + north, though his way was devious, and it was from the north that he + seemed most to apprehend that for which he was looking. He was no coward, + but his courage was only that of the average civilized man, and he was + looking to live, not die. + </p> + <p> + Up a small hillside he followed a cowpath through such dense scrub that he + was forced to dismount and lead his horse. But when the path swung around + to the west, he abandoned it and headed to the north again along the + oak-covered top of the ridge. + </p> + <p> + The ridge ended in a steep descent-so steep that he zigzagged back and + forth across the face of the slope, sliding and stumbling among the dead + leaves and matted vines and keeping a watchful eye on the horse above that + threatened to fall down upon him. The sweat ran from him, and the + pollen-dust, settling pungently in mouth and nostrils, increased his + thirst. Try as he would, nevertheless the descent was noisy, and + frequently he stopped, panting in the dry heat and listening for any + warning from beneath. + </p> + <p> + At the bottom he came out on a flat, so densely forested that he could not + make out its extent. Here the character of the woods changed, and he was + able to remount. Instead of the twisted hillside oaks, tall straight + trees, big-trunked and prosperous, rose from the damp fat soil. Only here + and there were thickets, easily avoided, while he encountered winding, + park-like glades where the cattle had pastured in the days before war had + run them off. + </p> + <p> + His progress was more rapid now, as he came down into the valley, and at + the end of half an hour he halted at an ancient rail fence on the edge of + a clearing. He did not like the openness of it, yet his path lay across to + the fringe of trees that marked the banks of the stream. It was a mere + quarter of a mile across that open, but the thought of venturing out in it + was repugnant. A rifle, a score of them, a thousand, might lurk in that + fringe by the stream. + </p> + <p> + Twice he essayed to start, and twice he paused. He was appalled by his own + loneliness. The pulse of war that beat from the West suggested the + companionship of battling thousands; here was naught but silence, and + himself, and possible death-dealing bullets from a myriad ambushes. And + yet his task was to find what he feared to find. He must on, and on, till + somewhere, some time, he encountered another man, or other men, from the + other side, scouting, as he was scouting, to make report, as he must make + report, of having come in touch. + </p> + <p> + Changing his mind, he skirted inside the woods for a distance, and again + peeped forth. This time, in the middle of the clearing, he saw a small + farmhouse. There were no signs of life. No smoke curled from the chimney, + not a barnyard fowl clucked and strutted. The kitchen door stood open, and + he gazed so long and hard into the black aperture that it seemed almost + that a farmer's wife must emerge at any moment. + </p> + <p> + He licked the pollen and dust from his dry lips, stiffened himself, mind + and body, and rode out into the blazing sunshine. Nothing stirred. He went + on past the house, and approached the wall of trees and bushes by the + river's bank. One thought persisted maddeningly. It was of the crash into + his body of a high-velocity bullet. It made him feel very fragile and + defenseless, and he crouched lower in the saddle. + </p> + <p> + Tethering his horse in the edge of the wood, he continued a hundred yards + on foot till he came to the stream. Twenty feet wide it was, without + perceptible current, cool and inviting, and he was very thirsty. But he + waited inside his screen of leafage, his eyes fixed on the screen on the + opposite side. To make the wait endurable, he sat down, his carbine + resting on his knees. The minutes passed, and slowly his tenseness + relaxed. At last he decided there was no danger; but just as he prepared + to part the bushes and bend down to the water, a movement among the + opposite bushes caught his eye. + </p> + <p> + It might be a bird. But he waited. Again there was an agitation of the + bushes, and then, so suddenly that it almost startled a cry from him, the + bushes parted and a face peered out. It was a face covered with several + weeks' growth of ginger-colored beard. The eyes were blue and wide apart, + with laughter-wrinkles in the comers that showed despite the tired and + anxious expression of the whole face. + </p> + <p> + All this he could see with microscopic clearness, for the distance was no + more than twenty feet. And all this he saw in such brief time, that he saw + it as he lifted his carbine to his shoulder. He glanced along the sights, + and knew that he was gazing upon a man who was as good as dead. It was + impossible to miss at such point blank range. + </p> + <p> + But he did not shoot. Slowly he lowered the carbine and watched. A hand, + clutching a water-bottle, became visible and the ginger beard bent + downward to fill the bottle. He could hear the gurgle of the water. Then + arm and bottle and ginger beard disappeared behind the closing bushes. A + long time he waited, when, with thirst unslaked, he crept back to his + horse, rode slowly across the sun-washed clearing, and passed into the + shelter of the woods beyond. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + Another day, hot and breathless. A deserted farmhouse, large, with many + outbuildings and an orchard, standing in a clearing. From the Woods, on a + roan horse, carbine across pommel, rode the young man with the quick black + eyes. He breathed with relief as he gained the house. That a fight had + taken place here earlier in the season was evident. Clips and empty + cartridges, tarnished with verdigris, lay on the ground, which, while wet, + had been torn up by the hoofs of horses. Hard by the kitchen garden were + graves, tagged and numbered. From the oak tree by the kitchen door, in + tattered, weatherbeaten garments, hung the bodies of two men. The faces, + shriveled and defaced, bore no likeness to the faces of men. The roan + horse snorted beneath them, and the rider caressed and soothed it and tied + it farther away. + </p> + <p> + Entering the house, he found the interior a wreck. He trod on empty + cartridges as he walked from room to room to reconnoiter from the windows. + Men had camped and slept everywhere, and on the floor of one room he came + upon stains unmistakable where the wounded had been laid down. + </p> + <p> + Again outside, he led the horse around behind the barn and invaded the + orchard. A dozen trees were burdened with ripe apples. He filled his + pockets, eating while he picked. Then a thought came to him, and he + glanced at the sun, calculating the time of his return to camp. He pulled + off his shirt, tying the sleeves and making a bag. This he proceeded to + fill with apples. + </p> + <p> + As he was about to mount his horse, the animal suddenly pricked up its + ears. The man, too, listened, and heard, faintly, the thud of hoofs on + soft earth. He crept to the corner of the barn and peered out. A dozen + mounted men, strung out loosely, approaching from the opposite side of the + clearing, were only a matter of a hundred yards or so away. They rode on + to the house. Some dismounted, while others remained in the saddle as an + earnest that their stay would be short. They seemed to be holding a + council, for he could hear them talking excitedly in the detested tongue + of the alien invader. The time passed, but they seemed unable to reach a + decision. He put the carbine away in its boot, mounted, and waited + impatiently, balancing the shirt of apples on the pommel. + </p> + <p> + He heard footsteps approaching, and drove his spurs so fiercely into the + roan as to force a surprised groan from the animal as it leaped forward. + At the corner of the barn he saw the intruder, a mere boy of nineteen or + twenty for all of his uniform jump back to escape being run down. At the + same moment the roan swerved and its rider caught a glimpse of the aroused + men by the house. Some were springing from their horses, and he could see + the rifles going to their shoulders. He passed the kitchen door and the + dried corpses swinging in the shade, compelling his foes to run around the + front of the house. A rifle cracked, and a second, but he was going fast, + leaning forward, low in the saddle, one hand clutching the shirt of + apples, the other guiding the horse. + </p> + <p> + The top bar of the fence was four feet high, but he knew his roan and + leaped it at full career to the accompaniment of several scattered shots. + Eight hundred yards straight away were the woods, and the roan was + covering the distance with mighty strides. Every man was now firing. + pumping their guns so rapidly that he no longer heard individual shots. A + bullet went through his hat, but he was unaware, though he did know when + another tore through the apples on the pommel. And he winced and ducked + even lower when a third bullet, fired low, struck a stone between his + horse's legs and ricochetted off through the air, buzzing and humming like + some incredible insect. + </p> + <p> + The shots died down as the magazines were emptied, until, quickly, there + was no more shooting. The young man was elated. Through that astonishing + fusillade he had come unscathed. He glanced back. Yes, they had emptied + their magazines. He could see several reloading. Others were running back + behind the house for their horses. As he looked, two already mounted, came + back into view around the corner, riding hard. And at the same moment, he + saw the man with the unmistakable ginger beard kneel down on the ground, + level his gun, and coolly take his time for the long shot. + </p> + <p> + The young man threw his spurs into the horse, crouched very low, and + swerved in his flight in order to distract the other's aim. And still the + shot did not come. With each jump of the horse, the woods sprang nearer. + They were only two hundred yards away and still the shot was delayed. + </p> + <p> + And then he heard it, the last thing he was to hear, for he was dead ere + he hit the ground in the long crashing fall from the saddle. And they, + watching at the house, saw him fall, saw his body bounce when it struck + the earth, and saw the burst of red-cheeked apples that rolled about him. + They laughed at the unexpected eruption of apples, and clapped their hands + in applause of the long shot by the man with the ginger beard. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS + </h2> + <h3> + “CAN any man—a gentleman, I mean—call a woman a pig?” + </h3> + <p> + The little man flung this challenge forth to the whole group, then leaned + back in his deck chair, sipping lemonade with an air commingled of + certitude and watchful belligerence. Nobody made answer. They were used to + the little man and his sudden passions and high elevations. + </p> + <p> + “I repeat, it was in my presence that he said a certain lady, whom none of + you knows, was a pig. He did not say swine. He grossly said that she was a + pig. And I hold that no man who is a man could possibly make such a remark + about any woman.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Dawson puffed stolidly at his black pipe. Matthews, with knees hunched + up and clasped by his arms, was absorbed in the flight of a gunie. Sweet, + finishing his Scotch and soda, was questing about with his eyes for a deck + steward. + </p> + <p> + “I ask you, Mr. Treloar, can any man call any woman a pig?” + </p> + <p> + Treloar, who happened to be sitting next to him, was startled by the + abruptness of the attack, and wondered what grounds he had ever given the + little man to believe that he could call a woman a pig. + </p> + <p> + “I should say,” he began his hesitant answer, “that it—er—depends + on the—er—the lady.” + </p> + <p> + The little man was aghast. + </p> + <p> + “You mean...?” he quavered. + </p> + <p> + “That I have seen female humans who were as bad as pigs—and worse.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long pained silence. The little man seemed withered by the + coarse brutality of the reply. In his face was unutterable hurt and woe. + </p> + <p> + “You have told of a man who made a not nice remark and you have classified + him,” Treloar said in cold, even tones. “I shall now tell you about a + woman—I beg your pardon—a lady, and when I have finished I + shall ask you to classify her. Miss Caruthers I shall call her, + principally for the reason that it is not her name. It was on a P. & + O. boat, and it occurred neither more nor less than several years ago. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Caruthers was charming. No; that is not the word. She was amazing. + She was a young woman, and a lady. Her father was a certain high official + whose name, if I mentioned it, would be immediately recognized by all of + you. She was with her mother and two maids at the time, going out to join + the old gentleman wherever you like to wish in the East. + </p> + <p> + “She, and pardon me for repeating, was amazing. It is the one adequate + word. Even the most minor adjectives applicable to her are bound to be + sheer superlatives. There was nothing she could not do better than any + woman and than most men. Sing, play—bah!—as some rhetorician + once said of old Nap, competition fled from her. Swim! She could have made + a fortune and a name as a public performer. She was one of those rare + women who can strip off all the frills of dress, and in simple swimming + suit be more satisfying beautiful. Dress! She was an artist. + </p> + <p> + “But her swimming. Physically, she was the perfect woman—you know + what I mean, not in the gross, muscular way of acrobats, but in all the + delicacy of line and fragility of frame and texture. And combined with + this, strength. How she could do it was the marvel. You know the wonder of + a woman's arm—the fore arm, I mean; the sweet fading away from + rounded biceps and hint of muscle, down through small elbow and firm soft + swell to the wrist, small, unthinkably small and round and strong. This + was hers. And yet, to see her swimming the sharp quick English overhand + stroke, and getting somewhere with it, too, was—well, I understand + anatomy and athletics and such things, and yet it was a mystery to me how + she could do it. + </p> + <p> + “She could stay under water for two minutes. I have timed her. No man on + board, except Dennitson, could capture as many coins as she with a single + dive. On the forward main-deck was a big canvas tank with six feet of + sea-water. We used to toss small coins into it. I have seen her dive from + the bridge deck—no mean feat in itself—into that six-feet of + water, and fetch up no less than forty-seven coins, scattered willy-nilly + over the whole bottom of the tank. Dennitson, a quiet young Englishman, never + exceeded her in this, though he made it a point always to tie her score. + </p> + <p> + “She was a sea-woman, true. But she was a land-woman, a horsewoman—a—she + was the universal woman. To see her, all softness of soft dress, + surrounded by half a dozen eager men, languidly careless of them all or + flashing brightness and wit on them and at them and through them, one + would fancy she was good for nothing else in the world. At such moments I + have compelled myself to remember her score of forty-seven coins from the + bottom of the swimming tank. But that was she, the everlasting, wonder of + a woman who did all things well. + </p> + <p> + “She fascinated every betrousered human around her. She had me—and I + don't mind confessing it—she bad me to heel along with the rest. + Young puppies and old gray dogs who ought to have known better—oh, + they all came up and crawled around her skirts and whined and fawned when + she whistled. They were all guilty, from young Ardmore, a pink cherub of + nineteen outward bound for some clerkship in the Consular Service, to old + Captain Bentley, grizzled and sea-worn, and as emotional, to look at, as a + Chinese joss. There was a nice middle-aged chap, Perkins, I believe, who + forgot his wife was on board until Miss Caruthers sent him to the right + about and back where he belonged. + </p> + <p> + “Men were wax in her hands. She melted them, or softly molded them, or + incinerated them, as she pleased. There wasn't a steward, even, grand and + remote as she was, who, at her bidding, would have hesitated to souse the + Old Man himself with a plate of soup. You have all seen such women—a + sort of world's desire to all men. As a man-conqueror she was supreme. She + was a whip-lash, a sting and a flame, an electric spark. Oh, believe me, + at times there were flashes of will that scorched through her beauty and + seduction and smote a victim into blank and shivering idiocy and fear. + </p> + <p> + “And don't fail to mark, in the light of what is to come, that she was a + prideful woman. Pride of race, pride of caste, pride of sex, pride of + power—she had it all, a pride strange and wilful and terrible. + </p> + <p> + “She ran the ship, she ran the voyage, she ran everything, and she ran + Dennitson. That he had outdistanced the pack even the least wise of us + admitted. That she liked him, and that this feeling was growing, there was + not a doubt. I am certain that she looked on him with kinder eyes than she + had ever looked with on man before. We still worshiped, and were always + hanging about waiting to be whistled up, though we knew that Dennitson was + laps and laps ahead of us. What might have happened we shall never know, + for we came to Colombo and something else happened. + </p> + <p> + “You know Colombo, and how the native boys dive for coins in the + shark-infested bay. Of course, it is only among the ground sharks and fish + sharks that they venture. It is almost uncanny the way they know sharks + and can sense the presence of a real killer—a tiger shark, for + instance, or a gray nurse strayed up from Australian waters. Let such a + shark appear, and, long before the passengers can guess, every mother's + son of them is out of the water in a wild scramble for safety. + </p> + <p> + “It was after tiffin, and Miss Caruthers was holding her usual court under + the deck-awnings. Old Captain Bentley had just been whistled up, and had + granted her what he never granted before... nor since—permission for + the boys to come up on the promenade deck. You see, Miss Caruthers was a + swimmer, and she was interested. She took up a collection of all our small + change, and herself tossed it overside, singly and in handfuls, arranging + the terms of the contests, chiding a miss, giving extra rewards to clever + wins, in short, managing the whole exhibition. + </p> + <p> + “She was especially keen on their jumping. You know, jumping feet-first + from a height, it is very difficult to hold the body perpendicularly while + in the air. The center of gravity of the male body is high, and the + tendency is to overtopple. But the little beggars employed a method which + she declared was new to her and which she desired to learn. Leaping from + the davits of the boat-deck above, they plunged downward, their faces and + shoulders bowed forward, looking at the water. And only at the last moment + did they abruptly straighten up and enter the water erect and true. + </p> + <p> + “It was a pretty sight. Their diving was not so good, though there was one + of them who was excellent at it, as he was in all the other stunts. Some + white man must have taught him, for he made the proper swan dive and did + it as beautifully as I have ever seen it. You know, headfirst into the + water, from a great height, the problem is to enter the water at the + perfect angle. Miss the angle and it means at the least a twisted back and + injury for life. Also, it has meant death for many a bungler. But this boy + could do it—seventy feet I know he cleared in one dive from the + rigging—clenched hands on chest, head thrown back, sailing more like + a bird, upward and out, and out and down, body flat on the air so that if + it struck the surface in that position it would be split in half like a + herring. But the moment before the water is reached, the head drops + forward, the hands go out and lock the arms in an arch in advance of the + head, and the body curves gracefully downward and enters the water just + right. + </p> + <p> + “This the boy did, again and again, to the delight of all of us, but + particularly of Miss Caruthers. He could not have been a moment over + twelve or thirteen, yet he was by far the cleverest of the gang. He was + the favorite of his crowd, and its leader. Though there were a number + older than he, they acknowledged his chieftaincy. He was a beautiful boy, + a lithe young god in breathing bronze, eyes wide apart, intelligent and + daring, a bubble, a mote, a beautiful flash and sparkle of life. You have + seen wonderful glorious creatures—animals, anything, a leopard, a + horse-restless, eager, too much alive ever to be still, silken of muscle, + each slightest movement a benediction of grace, every action wild, + untrammeled, and over all spilling out that intense vitality, that sheen + and luster of living light. The boy had it. Life poured out of him almost + in an effulgence. His skin glowed with it. It burned in his eyes. I swear + I could almost hear it crackle from him. Looking at him, it was as if a + whiff of ozone came to one's nostrils—so fresh and young was he, so + resplendent with health, so wildly wild. + </p> + <p> + “This was the boy. And it was he who gave the alarm in the midst of the + sport. The boys made a dash of it for the gangway platform, swimming the + fastest strokes they knew, pellmell, floundering and splashing, fright in + their faces, clambering out with jumps and surges, any way to get out, + lending one another a hand to safety, till all were strung along the + gangway and peering down into the water. + </p> + <p> + “'What is the matter?' asked Miss Caruthers. + </p> + <p> + “'A shark, I fancy,' Captain Bentley answered. 'Lucky little beggars that + he didn't get one of them.' + </p> + <p> + “'Are they afraid of sharks?' she asked. + </p> + <p> + “'Aren't you?' he asked back.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered, looked overside at the water, and made a move. + </p> + <p> + “'Not for the world would I venture where a shark might be,' she said, and + shuddered again. 'They are horrible! Horrible!' + </p> + <p> + “The boys came up on the promenade deck, clustering close to the rail and + worshiping Miss Caruthers who had flung them such a wealth of backsheesh. + The performance being over, Captain Bentley motioned to them to clear out. + But she stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “'One moment, please, Captain. I have always understood that the natives + are not afraid of sharks.' + </p> + <p> + “She beckoned the boy of the swan dive nearer to her, and signed to him to + dive over again. He shook his head, and along with all his crew behind him + laughed as if it were a good joke. + </p> + <p> + “'Shark,' he volunteered, pointing to the water. + </p> + <p> + “'No,' she said. 'There is no shark.' + </p> + <p> + “But he nodded his head positively, and the boys behind him nodded with + equal positiveness. + </p> + <p> + “'No, no, no,' she cried. And then to us, 'Who'll lend me a half-crown and + a sovereign!' + </p> + <p> + “Immediately the half dozen of us were presenting her with crowns and + sovereigns, and she accepted the two coins from young Ardmore. + </p> + <p> + “She held up the half-crown for the boys to see. But there was no eager + rush to the rail preparatory to leaping. They stood there grinning + sheepishly. She offered the coin to each one individually, and each, as + his turn came, rubbed his foot against his calf, shook his head, and + grinned. Then she tossed the half-crown overboard. With wistful, regretful + faces they watched its silver flight through the air, but not one moved to + follow it. + </p> + <p> + “'Don't do it with the sovereign,' Dennitson said to her in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “She took no notice, but held up the gold coin before the eyes of the boy + of the swan dive. + </p> + <p> + “'Don't,' said Captain Bentley. 'I wouldn't throw a sick cat overside with + a shark around.' + </p> + <p> + “But she laughed, bent on her purpose, and continued to dazzle the boy. + </p> + <p> + “'Don't tempt him,' Dennitson urged. 'It is a fortune to him, and he might + go over after it.' + </p> + <p> + “'Wouldn't YOU?' she flared at him. 'If I threw it?'” + </p> + <p> + This last more softly. + </p> + <p> + Dennitson shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “'Your price is high,' she said. 'For how many sovereigns would you go?' + </p> + <p> + “'There are not enough coined to get me overside,' was his answer. + </p> + <p> + “She debated a moment, the boy forgotten in her tilt with Dennitson. + </p> + <p> + “'For me?' she said very softly. + </p> + <p> + “'To save your life—yes. But not otherwise.' + </p> + <p> + “She turned back to the boy. Again she held the coin before his eyes, + dazzling him with the vastness of its value. Then she made as to toss it + out, and, involuntarily, he made a half-movement toward the rail, but was + checked by sharp cries of reproof from his companions. There was anger in + their voices as well. + </p> + <p> + “'I know it is only fooling,' Dennitson said. 'Carry it as far as you + like, but for heaven's sake don't throw it.' + </p> + <p> + “Whether it was that strange wilfulness of hers, or whether she doubted + the boy could be persuaded, there is no telling. It was unexpected to all + of us. Out from the shade of the awning the coin flashed golden in the + blaze of sunshine and fell toward the sea in a glittering arch. Before a + hand could stay him, the boy was over the rail and curving beautifully + downward after the coin. Both were in the air at the same time. It was a + pretty sight. The sovereign cut the water sharply, and at the very spot, + almost at the same instant, with scarcely a splash, the boy entered. + </p> + <p> + “From the quicker-eyed black boys watching, came an exclamation. We were + all at the railing. Don't tell me it is necessary for a shark to turn on + its back. That one did not. In the clear water, from the height we were + above it, we saw everything. The shark was a big brute, and with one drive + he cut the boy squarely in half. + </p> + <p> + “There was a murmur or something from among us—who made it I did not + know; it might have been I. And then there was silence. Miss Caruthers was + the first to speak. Her face was deathly white. + </p> + <p> + “'I never dreamed,' she said, and laughed a short, hysterical laugh. + </p> + <p> + “All her pride was at work to give her control. She turned weakly toward + Dennitson, and then, on from one to another of us. In her eyes was a + terrible sickness, and her lips were trembling. We were brutes—oh, I + know it, now that I look back upon it. But we did nothing. + </p> + <p> + “'Mr. Dennitson,' she said, 'Tom, won't you take me below!' + </p> + <p> + “He never changed the direction of his gaze, which was the bleakest I have + ever seen in a man's face, nor did he move an eyelid. He took a cigarette + from his case and lighted it. Captain Bentley made a nasty sound in his + throat and spat overboard. That was all; that and the silence. + </p> + <p> + “She turned away and started to walk firmly down the deck. Twenty feet + away, she swayed and thrust a hand against the wall to save herself. And + so she went on, supporting herself against the cabins and walking very + slowly.” Treloar ceased. He turned his head and favored the little man + with a look of cold inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said finally. “Classify her.” + </p> + <p> + The little man gulped and swallowed. + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing to say,” he said. “I have nothing whatever to say.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO KILL A MAN + </h2> + <p> + THOUGH dim night-lights burned, she moved familiarly through the big rooms + and wide halls, seeking vainly the half-finished book of verse she had + mislaid and only now remembered. When she turned on the lights in the + drawing-room, she disclosed herself clad in a sweeping negligee gown of + soft rose-colored stuff, throat and shoulders smothered in lace. Her rings + were still on her fingers, her massed yellow hair had not yet been taken + down. She was delicately, gracefully beautiful, with slender, oval face, + red lips, a faint color in the cheeks, and blue eyes of the chameleon sort + that at will stare wide with the innocence of childhood, go hard and gray + and brilliantly cold, or flame up in hot wilfulness and mastery. + </p> + <p> + She turned the lights off and passed out and down the hall toward the + morning room. At the entrance she paused and listened. From farther on had + come, not a noise, but an impression of movement. She could have sworn she + had not heard anything, yet something had been different. The atmosphere + of night quietude had been disturbed. She wondered what servant could be + prowling about. Not the butler, who was notorious for retiring early save + on special occasion. Nor could it be her maid, whom she had permitted to + go that evening. + </p> + <p> + Passing on to the dining-room, she found the door closed. Why she opened + it and went on in, she did not know, except for the feeling that the + disturbing factor, whatever it might be, was there. The room was in + darkness, and she felt her way to the button and pressed. As the blaze of + light flashed on, she stepped back and cried out. It was a mere “Oh!” and + it was not loud. + </p> + <p> + Facing her, alongside the button, flat against the wall, was a man. In his + hand, pointed toward her, was a revolver. She noticed, even in the shock + of seeing him, that the weapon was black and exceedingly long-barreled. + She knew black and exceedingly long it for what it was, a Colt's. He was a + medium-sized man, roughly clad, brown-eyed, and swarthy with sunburn. He + seemed very cool. There was no wabble to the revolver and it was directed + toward her stomach, not from an outstretched arm, but from the hip, + against which the forearm rested. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said. “I beg your pardon. You startled me. What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I want to get out,” he answered, with a humorous twitch to the + lips. “I've kind of lost my way in this here shebang, and if you'll kindly + show me the door I'll cause no trouble and sure vamoose.” + </p> + <p> + “But what are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice touched with the + sharpness of one used to authority. + </p> + <p> + “Plain robbing, Miss, that's all. I came snooping around to see what I + could gather up. I thought you wan't to home, seein' as I saw you pull out + with your old man in an auto. I reckon that must a ben your pa, and you're + Miss Setliffe.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Setliffe saw his mistake, appreciated the naive compliment, and + decided not to undeceive him. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know I am Miss Setliffe?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “This is old Setliffe's house, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know he had a daughter, but I reckon you must be her. And now, + if it ain't botherin' you too much, I'd sure be obliged if you'd show me + the way out.” + </p> + <p> + “But why should I? You are a robber, a burglar.” + </p> + <p> + “If I wan't an ornery shorthorn at the business, I'd be accumulatin' them + rings on your fingers instead of being polite,” he retorted. + </p> + <p> + “I come to make a raise outa old Setliffe, and not to be robbing + women-folks. If you get outa the way, I reckon I can find my own way out.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Setliffe was a keen woman, and she felt that from such a man there + was little to fear. That he was not a typical criminal, she was certain. + From his speech she knew he was not of the cities, and she seemed to sense + the wider, homelier air of large spaces. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I screamed?” she queried curiously. “Suppose I made an outcry for + help? You couldn't shoot me?... a woman?” + </p> + <p> + She noted the fleeting bafflement in his brown eyes. He answered slowly + and thoughtfully, as if working out a difficult problem. “I reckon, then, + I'd have to choke you and maul you some bad.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd sure have to,” he answered, and she saw his mouth set grimly. + </p> + <p> + “You're only a soft woman, but you see, Miss, I can't afford to go to + jail. No, Miss, I sure can't. There's a friend of mine waitin' for me out + West. He's in a hole, and I've got to help him out.” The mouth shaped even + more grimly. “I guess I could choke you without hurting you much to speak + of.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes took on a baby stare of innocent incredulity as she watched him. + </p> + <p> + “I never met a burglar before,” she assured him, “and I can't begin to + tell you how interested I am.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not a burglar, Miss. Not a real one,” he hastened to add as she + looked her amused unbelief. “It looks like it, me being here in your + house. But it's the first time I ever tackled such a job. I needed the + money bad. Besides, I kind of look on it like collecting what's coming to + me.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand,” she smiled encouragingly. “You came here to rob, and + to rob is to take what is not yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and no, in this here particular case. But I reckon I'd better be + going now.” + </p> + <p> + He started for the door of the dining-room, but she interposed, and a very + beautiful obstacle she made of herself. His left hand went out as if to + grip her, then hesitated. He was patently awed by her soft womanhood. + </p> + <p> + “There!” she cried triumphantly. “I knew you wouldn't.” + </p> + <p> + The man was embarrassed. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't never manhandled a woman yet,” he explained, “and it don't come + easy. But I sure will, if you set to screaming.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't you stay a few minutes and talk?” she urged. “I'm so interested. I + should like to hear you explain how burglary is collecting what is coming + to you.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her admiringly. + </p> + <p> + “I always thought women-folks were scairt of robbers,” he confessed. “But + you don't seem none.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed gaily. + </p> + <p> + “There are robbers and robbers, you know. I am not afraid of you, because + I am confident you are not the sort of creature that would harm a woman. + Come, talk with me a while. Nobody will disturb us. I am all alone. My—father + caught the night train to New York. The servants are all asleep. I should + like to give you something to eat—women always prepare midnight + suppers for the burglars they catch, at least they do in the magazine + stories. But I don't know where to find the food. Perhaps you will have + something to drink?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, and did not reply; but she could see the admiration for her + growing in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You're not afraid?” she queried. “I won't poison you, I promise. I'll + drink with you to show you it is all right.” + </p> + <p> + “You sure are a surprise package of all right,” he declared, for the first + time lowering the weapon and letting it hang at his side. “No one don't + need to tell me ever again that women-folks in cities is afraid. You ain't + much—just a little soft pretty thing. But you've sure got the spunk. + And you're trustful on top of it. There ain't many women, or men either, + who'd treat a man with a gun the way you're treating me.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled her pleasure in the compliment, and her face, was very earnest + as she said: + </p> + <p> + “That is because I like your appearance. You are too decent-looking a man + to be a robber. You oughtn't to do such things. If you are in bad luck you + should go to work. Come, put away that nasty revolver and let us talk it + over. The thing for you to do is to work.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in this burg,” he commented bitterly. “I've walked two inches off the + bottom of my legs trying to find a job. Honest, I was a fine large man + once... before I started looking for a job.” + </p> + <p> + The merry laughter with which she greeted his sally obviously pleased him, + and she was quick to note and take advantage of it. She moved directly + away from the door and toward the sideboard. + </p> + <p> + “Come, you must tell me all about it while I get that drink for you. What + will it be? Whisky?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” he said, as he followed her, though he still carried the big + revolver at his side, and though he glanced reluctantly at the unguarded + open door. + </p> + <p> + She filled a glass for him at the sideboard. + </p> + <p> + “I promised to drink with you,” she said hesitatingly. “But I don't like + whisky. I... I prefer sherry.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted the sherry bottle tentatively for his consent. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” he answered, with a nod. “Whisky's a man's drink. I never like to + see women at it. Wine's more their stuff.” + </p> + <p> + She raised her glass to his, her eyes meltingly sympathetic. + </p> + <p> + “Here's to finding you a good position—” + </p> + <p> + But she broke off at sight of the expression of surprised disgust on his + face. The glass, barely touched, was removed from his wry lips. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter!” she asked anxiously. “Don't you like it? Have I made + a mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “It's sure funny whisky. Tastes like it got burned and smoked in the + making.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! How silly of me! I gave you Scotch. Of course you are accustomed to + rye. Let me change it.” + </p> + <p> + She was almost solicitiously maternal, as she replaced the glass with + another and sought and found the proper bottle. + </p> + <p> + “Better?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am. No smoke in it. It's sure the real good stuff. I ain't had a + drink in a week. Kind of slick, that; oily, you know; not made in a + chemical factory.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a drinking man?” It was half a question, half a challenge. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'am, not to speak of. I HAVE rared up and ripsnorted at spells, but + most unfrequent. But there is times when a good stiff jolt lands on the + right spot kerchunk, and this is sure one of them. And now, thanking you + for your kindness, ma'am, I'll just be a pulling along.” + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Setliffe did not want to lose her burglar. She was too poised a + woman to possess much romance, but there was a thrill about the present + situation that delighted her. Besides, she knew there was no danger. The + man, despite his jaw and the steady brown eyes, was eminently tractable. + Also, farther back in her consciousness glimmered the thought of an + audience of admiring friends. It was too bad not to have that audience. + </p> + <p> + “You haven't explained how burglary, in your case, is merely collecting + what is your own,” she said. “Come, sit down, and tell me about it here at + the table.” + </p> + <p> + She maneuvered for her own seat, and placed him across the corner from + her. His alertness had not deserted him, as she noted, and his eyes roved + sharply about, returning always with smoldering admiration to hers, but + never resting long. And she noted likewise that while she spoke he was + intent on listening for other sounds than those of her voice. Nor had he + relinquished the revolver, which lay at the corner of the table between + them, the butt close to his right hand. + </p> + <p> + But he was in a new habitat which he did not know. This man from the West, + cunning in woodcraft and plainscraft, with eyes and ears open, tense and + suspicious, did not know that under the table, close to her foot, was the + push button of an electric bell. He had never heard of such a contrivance, + and his keenness and wariness went for naught. + </p> + <p> + “It's like this, Miss,” he began, in response to her urging. “Old Setliffe + done me up in a little deal once. It was raw, but it worked. Anything will + work full and legal when it's got few hundred million behind it. I'm not + squealin', and I ain't taking a slam at your pa. He don't know me from + Adam, and I reckon he don't know he done me outa anything. He's too big, + thinking and dealing in millions, to ever hear of a small potato like me. + He's an operator. He's got all kinds of experts thinking and planning and + working for him, some of them, I hear, getting more cash salary than the + President of the United States. I'm only one of thousands that have been + done up by your pa, that's all. + </p> + <p> + “You see, ma'am, I had a little hole in the ground—a dinky, + hydraulic, one-horse outfit of a mine. And when the Setliffe crowd shook + down Idaho, and reorganized the smelter trust, and roped in the rest of + the landscape, and put through the big hydraulic scheme at Twin Pines, why + I sure got squeezed. I never had a run for my money. I was scratched off + the card before the first heat. And so, to-night, being broke and my + friend needing me bad, I just dropped around to make a raise outa your pa. + Seeing as I needed it, it kinda was coming to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Granting all that you say is so,” she said, “nevertheless it does not + make house-breaking any the less house-breaking. You couldn't make such a + defense in a court of law.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that,” he confessed meekly. “What's right ain't always legal. And + that's why I am so uncomfortable a-settin' here and talking with you. Not + that I ain't enjoying your company—I sure do enjoy it—but I + just can't afford to be caught. I know what they'd do to me in this here + city. There was a young fellow that got fifty years only last week for + holding a man up on the street for two dollars and eighty-five cents. I + read about it in the paper. When times is hard and they ain't no work, men + get desperate. And then the other men who've got something to be robbed of + get desperate, too, and they just sure soak it to the other fellows. If I + got caught, I reckon I wouldn't get a mite less than ten years. That's why + I'm hankering to be on my way.” + </p> + <p> + “No; wait.” She lifted a detaining hand, at the same time removing her + foot from the bell, which she had been pressing intermittently. “You + haven't told me your name yet.” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Call me Dave.” + </p> + <p> + “Then... Dave,” she laughed with pretty confusion. “Something must be done + for you. You are a young man, and you are just at the beginning of a bad + start. If you begin by attempting to collect what you think is coming to + you, later on you will be collecting what you are perfectly sure isn't + coming to you. And you know what the end will be. Instead of this, we must + find something honorable for you to do.” + </p> + <p> + “I need the money, and I need it now,” he replied doggedly. “It's not for + myself, but for that friend I told you about. He's in a peck of trouble, + and he's got to get his lift now or not at all.” + </p> + <p> + “I can find you a position,” she said quickly. “And—yes, the very + thing!—I'll lend you the money you want to send to your friend. This + you can pay back out of your salary.” + </p> + <p> + “About three hundred would do,” he said slowly. “Three hundred would pull + him through. I'd work my fingers off for a year for that, and my keep, and + a few cents to buy Bull Durham with.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! You smoke! I never thought of it.” + </p> + <p> + Her hand went out over the revolver toward his hand, as she pointed to the + tell-tale yellow stain on his fingers. At the same time her eyes measured + the nearness of her own hand and of his to the weapon. She ached to grip + it in one swift movement. She was sure she could do it, and yet she was + not sure; and so it was that she refrained as she withdrew her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you smoke?” she invited. + </p> + <p> + “I'm 'most dying to.” + </p> + <p> + “Then do so. I don't mind. I really like it—cigarettes, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + With his left band he dipped into his side pocket, brought out a loose + wheat-straw paper and shifted it to his right hand close by the revolver. + Again he dipped, transferring to the paper a pinch of brown, flaky + tobacco. Then he proceeded, both hands just over the revolver, to roll the + cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “From the way you hover close to that nasty weapon, you seem to be afraid + of me,” she challenged. + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly afraid of you, ma'am, but, under the circumstances, just a + mite timid.” + </p> + <p> + “But I've not been afraid of you.” + </p> + <p> + “You've got nothing to lose.” + </p> + <p> + “My life,” she retorted. + </p> + <p> + “That's right,” he acknowledged promptly, “and you ain't been scairt of + me. Mebbe I am over anxious.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't cause you any harm.” + </p> + <p> + Even as she spoke, her slipper felt for the bell and pressed it. At the + same time her eyes were earnest with a plea of honesty. + </p> + <p> + “You are a judge of men. I know it. And of women. Surely, when I am trying + to persuade you from a criminal life and to get you honest work to + do....?” + </p> + <p> + He was immediately contrite. + </p> + <p> + “I sure beg your pardon, ma'am,” he said. “I reckon my nervousness ain't + complimentary.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he drew his right hand from the table, and after lighting the + cigarette, dropped it by his side. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for your confidence,” she breathed softly, resolutely keeping + her eyes from measuring the distance to the revolver, and keeping her foot + pressed firmly on the bell. + </p> + <p> + “About that three hundred,” he began. “I can telegraph it West to-night. + And I'll agree to work a year for it and my keep.” + </p> + <p> + “You will earn more than that. I can promise seventy-five dollars a month + at the least. Do you know horses?” + </p> + <p> + His face lighted up and his eyes sparkled. + </p> + <p> + “Then go to work for me—or for my father, rather, though I engage + all the servants. I need a second coachman—” + </p> + <p> + “And wear a uniform?” he interrupted sharply, the sneer of the free-born + West in his voice and on his lips. + </p> + <p> + She smiled tolerantly. + </p> + <p> + “Evidently that won't do. Let me think. Yes. Can you break and handle + colts?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “We have a stock farm, and there's room for just such a man as you. Will + you take it?” + </p> + <p> + “Will I, ma'am?” His voice was rich with gratitude and enthusiasm. “Show + me to it. I'll dig right in to-morrow. And I can sure promise you one + thing, ma'am. You'll never be sorry for lending Hughie Luke a hand in his + trouble—” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said to call you Dave,” she chided forgivingly. + </p> + <p> + “I did, ma'am. I did. And I sure beg your pardon. It was just plain bluff. + My real name is Hughie Luke. And if you'll give me the address of that + stock farm of yours, and the railroad fare, I head for it first thing in + the morning.” + </p> + <p> + Throughout the conversation she had never relaxed her attempts on the + bell. She had pressed it in every alarming way—three shorts and a + long, two and a long, and five. She had tried long series of shorts, and, + once, she had held the button down for a solid three minutes. And she had + been divided between objurgation of the stupid, heavy-sleeping butler and + doubt if the bell were in order. + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad,” she said; “so glad that you are willing. There won't be + much to arrange. But you will first have to trust me while I go upstairs + for my purse.” + </p> + <p> + She saw the doubt flicker momentarily in his eyes, and added hastily, “But + you see I am trusting you with the three hundred dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you, ma'am,” he came back gallantly. “Though I just can't help + this nervousness.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go and get it?” + </p> + <p> + But before she could receive consent, a slight muffled jar from the + distance came to her ear. She knew it for the swing-door of the butler's + pantry. But so slight was it—more a faint vibration than a sound—that + she would not have heard had not her ears been keyed and listening for it. + Yet the man had heard. He was startled in his composed way. + </p> + <p> + “What was that?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + For answer, her left hand flashed out to the revolver and brought it back. + She had had the start of him, and she needed it, for the next instant his + hand leaped up from his side, clutching emptiness where the revolver had + been. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” she commanded sharply, in a voice new to him. “Don't move. + Keep your hands on the table.” + </p> + <p> + She had taken a lesson from him. Instead of holding the heavy weapon + extended, the butt of it and her forearm rested on the table, the muzzle + pointed, not at his head, but his chest. And he, looking coolly and + obeying her commands, knew there was no chance of the kick-up of the + recoil producing a miss. Also, he saw that the revolver did not wabble, + nor the hand shake, and he was thoroughly conversant with the size of hole + the soft-nosed bullets could make. He had eyes, not for her, but for the + hammer, which had risen under the pressure of her forefinger on the + trigger. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I'd best warn you that that there trigger-pull is filed dreadful + fine. Don't press too hard, or I'll have a hole in me the size of a + walnut.” + </p> + <p> + She slacked the hammer partly down. + </p> + <p> + “That's better,” he commented. “You'd best put it down all the way. You + see how easy it works. If you want to, a quick light pull will jiffy her + up and back and make a pretty mess all over your nice floor.” + </p> + <p> + A door opened behind him, and he heard somebody enter the room. But he did + not turn his bead. He was looking at her, and he found it the face of + another woman—hard, cold, pitiless yet brilliant in its beauty. The + eyes, too, were hard, though blazing with a cold light. + </p> + <p> + “Thomas,” she commanded, “go to the telephone and call the police. Why + were you so long in answering?” + </p> + <p> + “I came as soon as I heard the bell, madam,” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + The robber never took his eyes from hers, nor did she from his, but at + mention of the bell she noticed that his eyes were puzzled for the moment. + </p> + <p> + “Beg your pardon,” said the butler from behind, “but wouldn't it be better + for me to get a weapon and arouse the servants?” + </p> + <p> + “No; ring for the police. I can hold this man. Go and do it—quickly.” + </p> + <p> + The butler slippered out of the room, and the man and the woman sat on, + gazing into each other's eyes. To her it was an experience keen with + enjoyment, and in her mind was the gossip of her crowd, and she saw notes + in the society weeklies of the beautiful young Mrs. Setliffe capturing an + armed robber single-handed. It would create a sensation, she was sure. + </p> + <p> + “When you get that sentence you mentioned,” she said coldly, “you will + have time to meditate upon what a fool you have been, taking other + persons' property and threatening women with revolvers. You will have time + to learn your lesson thoroughly. Now tell the truth. You haven't any + friend in trouble. All that you told me was lies.” + </p> + <p> + He did not reply. Though his eyes were upon her, they seemed blank. In + truth, for the instant she was veiled to him, and what he saw was the wide + sunwashed spaces of the West, where men and women were bigger than the + rotten denizens, as he had encountered them, of the thrice rotten cities + of the East. + </p> + <p> + “Go on. Why don't you speak? Why don't you lie some more? Why don't you + beg to be let off?” + </p> + <p> + “I might,” he answered, licking his dry lips. “I might ask to be let off + if...” + </p> + <p> + “If what?” she demanded peremptorily, as he paused. + </p> + <p> + “I was trying to think of a word you reminded me of. As I was saying, I + might if you was a decent woman.” + </p> + <p> + Her face paled. + </p> + <p> + “Be careful,” she warned. + </p> + <p> + “You don't dast kill me,” he sneered. “The world's a pretty low down place + to have a thing like you prowling around in it, but it ain't so plumb low + down, I reckon, as to let you put a hole in me. You're sure bad, but the + trouble with you is that you're weak in your badness. It ain't much to + kill a man, but you ain't got it in you. There's where you lose out.” + </p> + <p> + “Be careful of what you say,” she repeated. “Or else, I warn you, it will + go hard with you. It can be seen to whether your sentence is light or + heavy.” + </p> + <p> + “Something's the matter with God,” he remarked irrelevantly, “to be + letting you around loose. It's clean beyond me what he's up to, playing + such-like tricks on poor humanity. Now if I was God—” + </p> + <p> + His further opinion was interrupted by the entrance of the butler. + </p> + <p> + “Something is wrong with the telephone, madam,” he announced. “The wires + are crossed or something, because I can't get Central.” + </p> + <p> + “Go and call one of the servants,” she ordered. “Send him out for an + officer, and then return here.” + </p> + <p> + Again the pair was left alone. + </p> + <p> + “Will you kindly answer one question, ma'am?” the man said. “That servant + fellow said something about a bell. I watched you like a cat, and you sure + rung no bell.” + </p> + <p> + “It was under the table, you poor fool. I pressed it with my foot.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, ma'am. I reckoned I'd seen your kind before, and now I sure + know I have. I spoke to you true and trusting, and all the time you was + lying like hell to me.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed mockingly. + </p> + <p> + “Go on. Say what you wish. It is very interesting.” + </p> + <p> + “You made eyes at me, looking soft and kind, playing up all the time the + fact that you wore skirts instead of pants—and all the time with + your foot on the bell under the table. Well, there's some consolation. I'd + sooner be poor Hughie Luke, doing his ten years, than be in your skin. + Ma'am, hell is full of women like you.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a space, in which the man, never taking his eyes + from her, studying her, was making up his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” she urged. “Say something.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am, I'll say something. I'll sure say something. Do you know what + I'm going to do? I'm going to get right up from this chair and walk out + that door. I'd take the gun from you, only you might turn foolish and let + it go off. You can have the gun. It's a good one. As I was saying, I am + going right out that door. And you ain't going to pull that gun off + either. It takes guts to shoot a man, and you sure ain't got them. Now get + ready and see if you can pull that trigger. I ain't going to harm you. I'm + going out that door, and I'm starting.” + </p> + <p> + Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he pushed back the chair and slowly stood + erect. The hammer rose halfway. She watched it. So did he. + </p> + <p> + “Pull harder,” he advised. “It ain't half up yet. Go on and pull it and + kill a man. That's what I said, kill a man, spatter his brains out on the + floor, or slap a hole into him the size of your fist. That's what killing + a man means.” + </p> + <p> + The hammer lowered jerkily but gently. The man turned his back and walked + slowly to the door. She swung the revolver around so that it bore on his + back. Twice again the hammer came up halfway and was reluctantly eased + down. + </p> + <p> + At the door the man turned for a moment before passing on. A sneer was on + his lips. He spoke to her in a low voice, almost drawling, but in it was + the quintessence of all loathing, as he called her a name unspeakable and + vile. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MEXICAN + </h2> + <p> + NOBODY knew his history—they of the Junta least of all. He was their + “little mystery,” their “big patriot,” and in his way he worked as hard + for the coming Mexican Revolution as did they. They were tardy in + recognizing this, for not one of the Junta liked him. The day he first + drifted into their crowded, busy rooms, they all suspected him of being a + spy—one of the bought tools of the Diaz secret service. Too many of + the comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the United + States, and others of them, in irons, were even then being taken across + the border to be lined up against adobe walls and shot. + </p> + <p> + At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably. Boy he was, not + more than eighteen and not over large for his years. He announced that he + was Felipe Rivera, and that it was his wish to work for the Revolution. + That was all—not a wasted word, no further explanation. He stood + waiting. There was no smile on his lips, no geniality in his eyes. Big + dashing Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder. Here was something + forbidding, terrible, inscrutable. There was something venomous and + snakelike in the boy's black eyes. They burned like cold fire, as with a + vast, concentrated bitterness. He flashed them from the faces of the + conspirators to the typewriter which little Mrs. Sethby was industriously + operating. His eyes rested on hers but an instant—she had chanced to + look up—and she, too, sensed the nameless something that made her + pause. She was compelled to read back in order to regain the swing of the + letter she was writing. + </p> + <p> + Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos, and + questioningly they looked back and to each other. The indecision of doubt + brooded in their eyes. This slender boy was the Unknown, vested with all + the menace of the Unknown. He was unrecognizable, something quite beyond + the ken of honest, ordinary revolutionists whose fiercest hatred for Diaz + and his tyranny after all was only that of honest and ordinary patriots. + Here was something else, they knew not what. But Vera, always the most + impulsive, the quickest to act, stepped into the breach. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said coldly. “You say you want to work for the Revolution. + Take off your coat. Hang it over there. I will show you, come—where + are the buckets and cloths. The floor is dirty. You will begin by + scrubbing it, and by scrubbing the floors of the other rooms. The + spittoons need to be cleaned. Then there are the windows.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it for the Revolution?” the boy asked. + </p> + <p> + “It is for the Revolution,” Vera answered. + </p> + <p> + Rivera looked cold suspicion at all of them, then proceeded to take off + his coat. + </p> + <p> + “It is well,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And nothing more. Day after day he came to his work—sweeping, + scrubbing, cleaning. He emptied the ashes from the stoves, brought up the + coal and kindling, and lighted the fires before the most energetic one of + them was at his desk. + </p> + <p> + “Can I sleep here?” he asked once. + </p> + <p> + Ah, ha! So that was it—the hand of Diaz showing through! To sleep in + the rooms of the Junta meant access to their secrets, to the lists of + names, to the addresses of comrades down on Mexican soil. The request was + denied, and Rivera never spoke of it again. He slept they knew not where, + and ate they knew not where nor how. Once, Arrellano offered him a couple + of dollars. Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head. When Vera + joined in and tried to press it upon him, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I am working for the Revolution.” + </p> + <p> + It takes money to raise a modern revolution, and always the Junta was + pressed. The members starved and toiled, and the longest day was none too + long, and yet there were times when it appeared as if the Revolution stood + or fell on no more than the matter of a few dollars. Once, the first time, + when the rent of the house was two months behind and the landlord was + threatening dispossession, it was Felipe Rivera, the scrub-boy in the + poor, cheap clothes, worn and threadbare, who laid sixty dollars in gold + on May Sethby's desk. There were other times. Three hundred letters, + clicked out on the busy typewriters (appeals for assistance, for sanctions + from the organized labor groups, requests for square news deals to the + editors of newspapers, protests against the high-handed treatment of + revolutionists by the United States courts), lay unmailed, awaiting + postage. Vera's watch had disappeared—the old-fashioned gold + repeater that had been his father's. Likewise had gone the plain gold band + from May Setbby's third finger. Things were desperate. Ramos and Arrellano + pulled their long mustaches in despair. The letters must go off, and the + Post Office allowed no credit to purchasers of stamps. Then it was that + Rivera put on his hat and went out. When he came back he laid a thousand + two-cent stamps on May Sethby's desk. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if it is the cursed gold of Diaz?” said Vera to the comrades. + </p> + <p> + They elevated their brows and could not decide. And Felipe Rivera, the + scrubber for the Revolution, continued, as occasion arose, to lay down + gold and silver for the Junta's use. + </p> + <p> + And still they could not bring themselves to like him. They did not know + him. His ways were not theirs. He gave no confidences. He repelled all + probing. Youth that he was, they could never nerve themselves to dare to + question him. + </p> + <p> + “A great and lonely spirit, perhaps, I do not know, I do not know,” + Arrellano said helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “He is not human,” said Ramos. + </p> + <p> + “His soul has been seared,” said May Sethby. “Light and laughter have been + burned out of him. He is like one dead, and yet he is fearfully alive.” + </p> + <p> + “He has been through hell,” said Vera. “No man could look like that who + has not been through hell—and he is only a boy.” + </p> + <p> + Yet they could not like him. He never talked, never inquired, never + suggested. He would stand listening, expressionless, a thing dead, save + for his eyes, coldly burning, while their talk of the Revolution ran high + and warm. From face to face and speaker to speaker his eyes would turn, + boring like gimlets of incandescent ice, disconcerting and perturbing. + </p> + <p> + “He is no spy,” Vera confided to May Sethby. “He is a patriot—mark + me, the greatest patriot of us all. I know it, I feel it, here in my heart + and head I feel it. But him I know not at all.” + </p> + <p> + “He has a bad temper,” said May Sethby. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Vera, with a shudder. “He has looked at me with those eyes + of his. They do not love; they threaten; they are savage as a wild + tiger's. I know, if I should prove unfaithful to the Cause, that he would + kill me. He has no heart. He is pitiless as steel, keen and cold as frost. + He is like moonshine in a winter night when a man freezes to death on some + lonely mountain top. I am not afraid of Diaz and all his killers; but this + boy, of him am I afraid. I tell you true. I am afraid. He is the breath of + death.” + </p> + <p> + Yet Vera it was who persuaded the others to give the first trust to + Rivera. The line of communication between Los Angeles and Lower California + had broken down. Three of the comrades had dug their own graves and been + shot into them. Two more were United States prisoners in Los Angeles. Juan + Alvarado, the Federal commander, was a monster. All their plans did he + checkmate. They could no longer gain access to the active revolutionists, + and the incipient ones, in Lower California. + </p> + <p> + Young Rivera was given his instructions and dispatched south. When he + returned, the line of communication was reestablished, and Juan Alvarado + was dead. He had been found in bed, a knife hilt-deep in his breast. This + had exceeded Rivera's instructions, but they of the Junta knew the times + of his movements. They did not ask him. He said nothing. But they looked + at one another and conjectured. + </p> + <p> + “I have told you,” said Vera. “Diaz has more to fear from this youth than + from any man. He is implacable. He is the hand of God.” + </p> + <p> + The bad temper, mentioned by May Sethby, and sensed by them all, was + evidenced by physical proofs. Now he appeared with a cut lip, a blackened + cheek, or a swollen ear. It was patent that he brawled, somewhere in that + outside world where he ate and slept, gained money, and moved in ways + unknown to them. As the time passed, he had come to set type for the + little revolutionary sheet they published weekly. There were occasions + when he was unable to set type, when his knuckles were bruised and + battered, when his thumbs were injured and helpless, when one arm or the + other hung wearily at his side while his face was drawn with unspoken + pain. + </p> + <p> + “A wastrel,” said Arrellano. + </p> + <p> + “A frequenter of low places,” said Ramos. + </p> + <p> + “But where does he get the money?” Vera demanded. “Only to-day, just now, + have I learned that he paid the bill for white paper—one hundred and + forty dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “There are his absences,” said May Sethby. “He never explains them.” + </p> + <p> + “We should set a spy upon him,” Ramos propounded. + </p> + <p> + “I should not care to be that spy,” said Vera. “I fear you would never see + me again, save to bury me. He has a terrible passion. Not even God would + he permit to stand between him and the way of his passion.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel like a child before him,” Ramos confessed. + </p> + <p> + “To me he is power—he is the primitive, the wild wolf, the striking + rattlesnake, the stinging centipede,” said Arrellano. + </p> + <p> + “He is the Revolution incarnate,” said Vera. “He is the flame and the + spirit of it, the insatiable cry for vengeance that makes no cry but that + slays noiselessly. He is a destroying angel in moving through the still + watches of the night.” + </p> + <p> + “I could weep over him,” said May Sethby. “He knows nobody. He hates all + people. Us he tolerates, for we are the way of his desire. He is alone.... + lonely.” Her voice broke in a half sob and there was dimness in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Rivera's ways and times were truly mysterious. There were periods when + they did not see him for a week at a time. Once, he was away a month. + These occasions were always capped by his return, when, without + advertisement or speech, he laid gold coins on May Sethby's desk. Again, + for days and weeks, he spent all his time with the Junta. And yet again, + for irregular periods, he would disappear through the heart of each day, + from early morning until late afternoon. At such times he came early and + remained late. Arrellano had found him at midnight, setting type with + fresh swollen knuckles, or mayhap it was his lip, new-split, that still + bled. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + The time of the crisis approached. Whether or not the Revolution would be + depended upon the Junta, and the Junta was hard-pressed. The need for + money was greater than ever before, while money was harder to get. + Patriots had given their last cent and now could give no more. Section + gang laborers-fugitive peons from Mexico—were contributing half + their scanty wages. But more than that was needed. The heart-breaking, + conspiring, undermining toil of years approached fruition. The time was + ripe. The Revolution hung on the balance. One shove more, one last heroic + effort, and it would tremble across the scales to victory. They knew their + Mexico. Once started, the Revolution would take care of itself. The whole + Diaz machine would go down like a house of cards. The border was ready to + rise. One Yankee, with a hundred I.W.W. men, waited the word to cross over + the border and begin the conquest of Lower California. But he needed guns. + And clear across to the Atlantic, the Junta in touch with them all and all + of them needing guns, mere adventurers, soldiers of fortune, bandits, + disgruntled American union men, socialists, anarchists, rough-necks, + Mexican exiles, peons escaped from bondage, whipped miners from the + bull-pens of Coeur d'Alene and Colorado who desired only the more + vindictively to fight—all the flotsam and jetsam of wild spirits + from the madly complicated modern world. And it was guns and ammunition, + ammunition and guns—the unceasing and eternal cry. + </p> + <p> + Fling this heterogeneous, bankrupt, vindictive mass across the border, and + the Revolution was on. The custom house, the northern ports of entry, + would be captured. Diaz could not resist. He dared not throw the weight of + his armies against them, for he must hold the south. And through the south + the flame would spread despite. The people would rise. The defenses of + city after city would crumple up. State after state would totter down. And + at last, from every side, the victorious armies of the Revolution would + close in on the City of Mexico itself, Diaz's last stronghold. + </p> + <p> + But the money. They had the men, impatient and urgent, who would use the + guns. They knew the traders who would sell and deliver the guns. But to + culture the Revolution thus far had exhausted the Junta. The last dollar + had been spent, the last resource and the last starving patriot milked + dry, and the great adventure still trembled on the scales. Guns and + ammunition! The ragged battalions must be armed. But how? Ramos lamented + his confiscated estates. Arrellano wailed the spendthriftness of his + youth. May Sethby wondered if it would have been different had they of the + Junta been more economical in the past. + </p> + <p> + “To think that the freedom of Mexico should stand or fall on a few paltry + thousands of dollars,” said Paulino Vera. + </p> + <p> + Despair was in all their faces. Jose Amarillo, their last hope, a recent + convert, who had promised money, had been apprehended at his hacienda in + Chihuahua and shot against his own stable wall. The news had just come + through. + </p> + <p> + Rivera, on his knees, scrubbing, looked up, with suspended brush, his bare + arms flecked with soapy, dirty water. + </p> + <p> + “Will five thousand do it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + They looked their amazement. Vera nodded and swallowed. He could not + speak, but he was on the instant invested with a vast faith. + </p> + <p> + “Order the guns,” Rivera said, and thereupon was guilty of the longest + flow of words they had ever heard him utter. “The time is short. In three + weeks I shall bring you the five thousand. It is well. The weather will be + warmer for those who fight. Also, it is the best I can do.” + </p> + <p> + Vera fought his faith. It was incredible. Too many fond hopes had been + shattered since he had begun to play the revolution game. He believed this + threadbare scrubber of the Revolution, and yet he dared not believe. + </p> + <p> + “You are crazy,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “In three weeks,” said Rivera. “Order the guns.” + </p> + <p> + He got up, rolled down his sleeves, and put on his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Order the guns,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I am going now.” + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + After hurrying and scurrying, much telephoning and bad language, a night + session was held in Kelly's office. Kelly was rushed with business; also, + he was unlucky. He had brought Danny Ward out from New York, arranged the + fight for him with Billy Carthey, the date was three weeks away, and for + two days now, carefully concealed from the sporting writers, Carthey had + been lying up, badly injured. There was no one to take his place. Kelly + had been burning the wires East to every eligible lightweight, but they + were tied up with dates and contracts. And now hope had revived, though + faintly. + </p> + <p> + “You've got a hell of a nerve,” Kelly addressed Rivera, after one look, as + soon as they got together. + </p> + <p> + Hate that was malignant was in Rivera's eyes, but his face remained + impassive. + </p> + <p> + “I can lick Ward,” was all he said. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know? Ever see him fight?” + </p> + <p> + Rivera shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “He can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you got anything to say?” the fight promoter snarled. + </p> + <p> + “I can lick him.” + </p> + <p> + “Who'd you ever fight, anyway!” Michael Kelly demanded. Michael was the + promotor's brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms where he made + goodly sums on the fight game. + </p> + <p> + Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare. + </p> + <p> + The promoter's secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, sneered + audibly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know Roberts,” Kelly broke the hostile silence. “He ought to be + here. I've sent for him. Sit down and wait, though f rom the looks of you, + you haven't got a chance. I can't throw the public down with a bum fight. + Ringside seats are selling at fifteen dollars, you know that.” + </p> + <p> + When Roberts arrived, it was patent that he was mildly drunk. He was a + tall, lean, slack-jointed individual, and his walk, like his talk, was a + smooth and languid drawl. + </p> + <p> + Kelly went straight to the point. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Roberts, you've been bragging you discovered this little + Mexican. You know Carthey's broke his arm. Well, this little yellow streak + has the gall to blow in to-day and say he'll take Carthey's place. What + about it?” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, Kelly,” came the slow response. “He can put up a fight.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you'll be sayin' next that he can lick Ward,” Kelly snapped. + </p> + <p> + Roberts considered judicially. + </p> + <p> + “No, I won't say that. Ward's a top-notcher and a ring general. But he + can't hashhouse Rivera in short order. I know Rivera. Nobody can get his + goat. He ain't got a goat that I could ever discover. And he's a + two-handed fighter. He can throw in the sleep-makers from any position.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that. What kind of a show can he put up? You've been + conditioning and training fighters all your life. I take off my hat to + your judgment. Can he give the public a run for its money?” + </p> + <p> + “He sure can, and he'll worry Ward a mighty heap on top of it. You don't + know that boy. I do. I discovered him. He ain't got a goat. He's a devil. + He's a wizzy-wooz if anybody should ask you. He'll make Ward sit up with a + show of local talent that'll make the rest of you sit up. I won't say + he'll lick Ward, but he'll put up such a show that you'll all know he's a + comer.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” Kelly turned to his secretary. “Ring up Ward. I warned him to + show up if I thought it worth while. He's right across at the Yellowstone, + throwin' chests and doing the popular.” + </p> + <p> + Kelly turned back to the conditioner. “Have a drink?” + </p> + <p> + Roberts sipped his highball and unburdened himself. + </p> + <p> + “Never told you how I discovered the little cuss. It was a couple of years + ago he showed up out at the quarters. I was getting Prayne ready for his + fight with Delaney. Prayne's wicked. He ain't got a tickle of mercy in his + make-up. I chopped up his pardner's something cruel, and I couldn't find a + willing boy that'd work with him. I'd noticed this little starved Mexican + kid hanging around, and I was desperate. So I grabbed him, shoved on the + gloves and put him in. He was tougher'n rawhide, but weak. And he didn't + know the first letter in the alphabet of boxing. Prayne chopped him to + ribbons. But he hung on for two sickening rounds, when he fainted. + Starvation, that was all. Battered! You couldn't have recognized him. I + gave him half a dollar and a square meal. You oughta seen him wolf it + down. He hadn't had the end of a bite for a couple of days. That's the end + of him, thinks I. But next day he showed up, stiff an' sore, ready for + another half and a square meal. And he done better as time went by. Just a + born fighter, and tough beyond belief. He hasn't a heart. He's a piece of + ice. And he never talked eleven words in a string since I know him. He + saws wood and does his work.” + </p> + <p> + “I've seen 'm,” the secretary said. “He's worked a lot for you.” + </p> + <p> + “All the big little fellows has tried out on him,” Roberts answered. “And + he's learned from 'em. I've seen some of them he could lick. But his heart + wasn't in it. I reckoned he never liked the game. He seemed to act that + way.” + </p> + <p> + “He's been fighting some before the little clubs the last few months,” + Kelly said. + </p> + <p> + “Sure. But I don't know what struck 'm. All of a sudden his heart got into + it. He just went out like a streak and cleaned up all the little local + fellows. Seemed to want the money, and he's won a bit, though his clothes + don't look it. He's peculiar. Nobody knows his business. Nobody knows how + he spends his time. Even when he's on the job, he plumb up and disappears + most of each day soon as his work is done. Sometimes he just blows away + for weeks at a time. But he don't take advice. There's a fortune in it for + the fellow that gets the job of managin' him, only he won't consider it. + And you watch him hold out for the cash money when you get down to terms.” + </p> + <p> + It was at this stage that Danny Ward arrived. Quite a party it was. His + manager and trainer were with him, and he breezed in like a gusty draught + of geniality, good-nature, and all-conqueringness. Greetings flew about, a + joke here, a retort there, a smile or a laugh for everybody. Yet it was + his way, and only partly sincere. He was a good actor, and he had found + geniality a most valuable asset in the game of getting on in the world. + But down underneath he was the deliberate, cold-blooded fighter and + business man. The rest was a mask. Those who knew him or trafficked with + him said that when it came to brass tacks he was Danny-on-the-Spot. He was + invariably present at all business discussions, and it was urged by some + that his manager was a blind whose only function was to serve as Danny's + mouth-piece. + </p> + <p> + Rivera's way was different. Indian blood, as well as Spanish, was in his + veins, and he sat back in a corner, silent, immobile, only his black eyes + passing from face to face and noting everything. + </p> + <p> + “So that's the guy,” Danny said, running an appraising eye over his + proposed antagonist. “How de do, old chap.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera's eyes burned venomously, but he made no sign of acknowledgment. He + disliked all Gringos, but this Gringo he hated with an immediacy that was + unusual even in him. + </p> + <p> + “Gawd!” Danny protested facetiously to the promoter. “You ain't expectin' + me to fight a deef mute.” When the laughter subsided, he made another hit. + “Los Angeles must be on the dink when this is the best you can scare up. + What kindergarten did you get 'm from?” + </p> + <p> + “He's a good little boy, Danny, take it from me,” Roberts defended. “Not + as easy as he looks.” + </p> + <p> + “And half the house is sold already,” Kelly pleaded. “You'll have to take + 'm on, Danny. It is the best we can do.” + </p> + <p> + Danny ran another careless and unflattering glance over Rivera and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I gotta be easy with 'm, I guess. If only he don't blow up.” + </p> + <p> + Roberts snorted. + </p> + <p> + “You gotta be careful,” Danny's manager warned. “No taking chances with a + dub that's likely to sneak a lucky one across.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll be careful all right, all right,” Danny smiled. “I'll get in at + the start an' nurse 'im along for the dear public's sake. What d' ye say + to fifteen rounds, Kelly—an' then the hay for him?” + </p> + <p> + “That'll do,” was the answer. “As long as you make it realistic.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let's get down to biz.” Danny paused and calculated. “Of course, + sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts, same as with Carthey. But the + split'll be different. Eighty will just about suit me.” And to his + manager, “That right?” + </p> + <p> + The manager nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Here, you, did you get that?” Kelly asked Rivera. + </p> + <p> + Rivera shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is this way,” Kelly exposited. “The purse'll be sixty-five per + cent of the gate receipts. You're a dub, and an unknown. You and Danny + split, twenty per cent goin' to you, an' eighty to Danny. That's fair, + isn't it, Roberts?” + </p> + <p> + “Very fair, Rivera,” Roberts agreed. + </p> + <p> + “You see, you ain't got a reputation yet.” + </p> + <p> + “What will sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts be?” Rivera demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, maybe five thousand, maybe as high as eight thousand,” Danny broke in + to explain. “Something like that. Your share'll come to something like a + thousand or sixteen hundred. Pretty good for takin' a licking from a guy + with my reputation. What d' ye say?” + </p> + <p> + Then Rivera took their breaths away. “Winner takes all,” he said with + finality. + </p> + <p> + A dead silence prevailed. + </p> + <p> + “It's like candy from a baby,” Danny's manager proclaimed. + </p> + <p> + Danny shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I've been in the game too long,” he explained. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not casting reflections on the referee, or the present company. I'm + not sayin' nothing about book-makers an' frame-ups that sometimes happen. + But what I do say is that it's poor business for a fighter like me. I play + safe. There's no tellin'. Mebbe I break my arm, eh? Or some guy slips me a + bunch of dope?” He shook his head solemnly. “Win or lose, eighty is my + split. What d' ye say, Mexican?” + </p> + <p> + Rivera shook his head. + </p> + <p> + Danny exploded. He was getting down to brass tacks now. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you dirty little greaser! I've a mind to knock your block off right + now.” + </p> + <p> + Roberts drawled his body to interposition between hostilities. + </p> + <p> + “Winner takes all,” Rivera repeated sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you stand out that way?” Danny asked. + </p> + <p> + “I can lick you,” was the straight answer. + </p> + <p> + Danny half started to take off his coat. But, as his manager knew, it was + a grand stand play. The coat did not come off, and Danny allowed himself + to be placated by the group. Everybody sympathized with him. Rivera stood + alone. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, you little fool,” Kelly took up the argument. “You're nobody. + We know what you've been doing the last few months—putting away + little local fighters. But Danny is class. His next fight after this will + be for the championship. And you're unknown. Nobody ever heard of you out + of Los Angeles.” + </p> + <p> + “They will,” Rivera answered with a shrug, “after this fight.” + </p> + <p> + “You think for a second you can lick me?” Danny blurted in. + </p> + <p> + Rivera nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come; listen to reason,” Kelly pleaded. “Think of the advertising.” + </p> + <p> + “I want the money,” was Rivera's answer. + </p> + <p> + “You couldn't win from me in a thousand years,” Danny assured him. + </p> + <p> + “Then what are you holdin' out for?” Rivera countered. “If the money's + that easy, why don't you go after it?” + </p> + <p> + “I will, so help me!” Danny cried with abrupt conviction. “I'll beat you + to death in the ring, my boy—you monkeyin' with me this way. Make + out the articles, Kelly. Winner take all. Play it up in the sportin' + columns. Tell 'em it's a grudge fight. I'll show this fresh kid a few.” + </p> + <p> + Kelly's secretary had begun to write, when Danny interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on!” He turned to Rivera. + </p> + <p> + “Weights?” + </p> + <p> + “Ringside,” came the answer. + </p> + <p> + “Not on your life, Fresh Kid. If winner takes all, we weigh in at ten + A.M.” + </p> + <p> + “And winner takes all?” Rivera queried. + </p> + <p> + Danny nodded. That settled it. He would enter the ring in his full + ripeness of strength. + </p> + <p> + “Weigh in at ten,” Rivera said. + </p> + <p> + The secretary's pen went on scratching. + </p> + <p> + “It means five pounds,” Roberts complained to Rivera. + </p> + <p> + “You've given too much away. You've thrown the fight right there. Danny'll + lick you sure. He'll be as strong as a bull. You're a fool. You ain't got + the chance of a dewdrop in hell.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera's answer was a calculated look of hatred. Even this Gringo he + despised, and him had he found the whitest Gringo of them all. + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + Barely noticed was Rivera as he entered the ring. Only a very slight and + very scattering ripple of half-hearted hand-clapping greeted him. The + house did not believe in him. He was the lamb led to slaughter at the + hands of the great Danny. Besides, the house was disappointed. It had + expected a rushing battle between Danny Ward and Billy Carthey, and here + it must put up with this poor little tyro. Still further, it had + manifested its disapproval of the change by betting two, and even three, + to one on Danny. And where a betting audience's money is, there is its + heart. + </p> + <p> + The Mexican boy sat down in his corner and waited. The slow minutes lagged + by. Danny was making him wait. It was an old trick, but ever it worked on + the young, new fighters. They grew frightened, sitting thus and facing + their own apprehensions and a callous, tobacco-smoking audience. But for + once the trick failed. Roberts was right. Rivera had no goat. He, who was + more delicately coordinated, more finely nerved and strung than any of + them, had no nerves of this sort. The atmosphere of foredoomed defeat in + his own corner had no effect on him. His handlers were Gringos and + strangers. Also they were scrubs—the dirty driftage of the fight + game, without honor, without efficiency. And they were chilled, as well, + with certitude that theirs was the losing corner. + </p> + <p> + “Now you gotta be careful,” Spider Hagerty warned him. Spider was his + chief second. “Make it last as long as you can—them's my + instructions from Kelly. If you don't, the papers'll call it another bum + fight and give the game a bigger black eye in Los Angeles.” + </p> + <p> + All of which was not encouraging. But Rivera took no notice. He despised + prize fighting. It was the hated game of the hated Gringo. He had taken up + with it, as a chopping block for others in the training quarters, solely + because he was starving. The fact that he was marvelously made for it had + meant nothing. He hated it. Not until he had come in to the Junta, had he + fought for money, and he had found the money easy. Not first among the + sons of men had he been to find himself successful at a despised vocation. + </p> + <p> + He did not analyze. He merely knew that he must win this fight. There + could be no other outcome. For behind him, nerving him to this belief, + were profounder forces than any the crowded house dreamed. Danny Ward + fought for money, and for the easy ways of life that money would bring. + But the things Rivera fought for burned in his brain—blazing and + terrible visions, that, with eyes wide open, sitting lonely in the corner + of the ring and waiting for his tricky antagonist, he saw as clearly as he + had lived them. + </p> + <p> + He saw the white-walled, water-power factories of Rio Blanco. He saw the + six thousand workers, starved and wan, and the little children, seven and + eight years of age, who toiled long shifts for ten cents a day. He saw the + perambulating corpses, the ghastly death's heads of men who labored in the + dye-rooms. He remembered that he had heard his father call the dye-rooms + the “suicide-holes,” where a year was death. He saw the little patio, and + his mother cooking and moiling at crude housekeeping and finding time to + caress and love him. And his father he saw, large, big-moustached and + deep-chested, kindly above all men, who loved all men and whose heart was + so large that there was love to overflowing still left for the mother and + the little muchacho playing in the corner of the patio. In those days his + name had not been Felipe Rivera. It had been Fernandez, his father's and + mother's name. Him had they called Juan. Later, he had changed it himself, + for he had found the name of Fernandez hated by prefects of police, jefes + politicos, and rurales. + </p> + <p> + Big, hearty Joaquin Fernandez! A large place he occupied in Rivera's + visions. He had not understood at the time, but looking back he could + understand. He could see him setting type in the little printery, or + scribbling endless hasty, nervous lines on the much-cluttered desk. And he + could see the strange evenings, when workmen, coming secretly in the dark + like men who did ill deeds, met with his father and talked long hours + where he, the muchacho, lay not always asleep in the corner. + </p> + <p> + As from a remote distance he could hear Spider Hagerty saying to him: “No + layin' down at the start. Them's instructions. Take a beatin' and earn + your dough.” + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes had passed, and he still sat in his corner. There were no + signs of Danny, who was evidently playing the trick to the limit. + </p> + <p> + But more visions burned before the eye of Rivera's memory. The strike, or, + rather, the lockout, because the workers of Rio Blanco had helped their + striking brothers of Puebla. The hunger, the expeditions in the hills for + berries, the roots and herbs that all ate and that twisted and pained the + stomachs of all of them. And then, the nightmare; the waste of ground + before the company's store; the thousands of starving workers; General + Rosalio Martinez and the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz, and the death-spitting + rifles that seemed never to cease spitting, while the workers' wrongs were + washed and washed again in their own blood. And that night! He saw the + flat cars, piled high with the bodies of the slain, consigned to Vera + Cruz, food for the sharks of the bay. Again he crawled over the grisly + heaps, seeking and finding, stripped and mangled, his father and his + mother. His mother he especially remembered—only her face + projecting, her body burdened by the weight of dozens of bodies. Again the + rifles of the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz cracked, and again he dropped to + the ground and slunk away like some hunted coyote of the hills. + </p> + <p> + To his ears came a great roar, as of the sea, and he saw Danny Ward, + leading his retinue of trainers and seconds, coming down the center aisle. + The house was in wild uproar for the popular hero who was bound to win. + Everybody proclaimed him. Everybody was for him. Even Rivera's own seconds + warmed to something akin to cheerfulness when Danny ducked jauntily + through the ropes and entered the ring. His face continually spread to an + unending succession of smiles, and when Danny smiled he smiled in every + feature, even to the laughter-wrinkles of the corners of the eyes and into + the depths of the eyes themselves. Never was there so genial a fighter. + His face was a running advertisement of good feeling, of good fellowship. + He knew everybody. He joked, and laughed, and greeted his friends through + the ropes. Those farther away, unable to suppress their admiration, cried + loudly: “Oh, you Danny!” It was a joyous ovation of affection that lasted + a full five minutes. + </p> + <p> + Rivera was disregarded. For all that the audience noticed, he did not + exist. Spider Lagerty's bloated face bent down close to his. + </p> + <p> + “No gettin' scared,” the Spider warned. + </p> + <p> + “An' remember instructions. You gotta last. No layin' down. If you lay + down, we got instructions to beat you up in the dressing rooms. Savve? You + just gotta fight.” + </p> + <p> + The house began to applaud. Danny was crossing the ring to him. Danny bent + over, caught Rivera's right hand in both his own and shook it with + impulsive heartiness. Danny's smile-wreathed face was close to his. The + audience yelled its appreciation of Danny's display of sporting spirit. He + was greeting his opponent with the fondness of a brother. Danny's lips + moved, and the audience, interpreting the unheard words to be those of a + kindly-natured sport, yelled again. Only Rivera heard the low words. + </p> + <p> + “You little Mexican rat,” hissed from between Danny's gaily smiling lips, + “I'll fetch the yellow outa you.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera made no move. He did not rise. He merely hated with his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Get up, you dog!” some man yelled through the ropes from behind. + </p> + <p> + The crowd began to hiss and boo him for his unsportsmanlike conduct, but + he sat unmoved. Another great outburst of applause was Danny's as he + walked back across the ring. + </p> + <p> + When Danny stripped, there was ohs! and ahs! of delight. His body was + perfect, alive with easy suppleness and health and strength. The skin was + white as a woman's, and as smooth. All grace, and resilience, and power + resided therein. He had proved it in scores of battles. His photographs + were in all the physical culture magazines. + </p> + <p> + A groan went up as Spider Hagerty peeled Rivera's sweater over his head. + His body seemed leaner, because of the swarthiness of the skin. He had + muscles, but they made no display like his opponent's. What the audience + neglected to see was the deep chest. Nor could it guess the toughness of + the fiber of the flesh, the instantaneousness of the cell explosions of + the muscles, the fineness of the nerves that wired every part of him into + a splendid fighting mechanism. All the audience saw was a brown-skinned + boy of eighteen with what seemed the body of a boy. With Danny it was + different. Danny was a man of twenty-four, and his body was a man's body. + The contrast was still more striking as they stood together in the center + of the ring receiving the referee's last instructions. + </p> + <p> + Rivera noticed Roberts sitting directly behind the newspaper men. He was + drunker than usual, and his speech was correspondingly slower. + </p> + <p> + “Take it easy, Rivera,” Roberts drawled. + </p> + <p> + “He can't kill you, remember that. He'll rush you at the go-off, but don't + get rattled. You just and stall, and clinch. He can't hurt cover up, much. + Just make believe to yourself that he's choppin' out on you at the + trainin' quarters.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera made no sign that he had heard. + </p> + <p> + “Sullen little devil,” Roberts muttered to the man next to him. “He always + was that way.” + </p> + <p> + But Rivera forgot to look his usual hatred. A vision of countless rifles + blinded his eyes. Every face in the audience, far as he could see, to the + high dollar-seats, was transformed into a rifle. And he saw the long + Mexican border arid and sun-washed and aching, and along it he saw the + ragged bands that delayed only for the guns. + </p> + <p> + Back in his corner he waited, standing up. His seconds had crawled out + through the ropes, taking the canvas stool with them. Diagonally across + the squared ring, Danny faced him. The gong struck, and the battle was on. + The audience howled its delight. Never had it seen a battle open more + convincingly. The papers were right. It was a grudge fight. Three-quarters + of the distance Danny covered in the rush to get together, his intention + to eat up the Mexican lad plainly advertised. He assailed with not one + blow, nor two, nor a dozen. He was a gyroscope of blows, a whirlwind of + destruction. Rivera was nowhere. He was overwhelmed, buried beneath + avalanches of punches delivered from every angle and position by a past + master in the art. He was overborne, swept back against the ropes, + separated by the referee, and swept back against the ropes again. + </p> + <p> + It was not a fight. It was a slaughter, a massacre. Any audience, save a + prize fighting one, would have exhausted its emotions in that first + minute. Danny was certainly showing what he could do—a splendid + exhibition. Such was the certainty of the audience, as well as its + excitement and favoritism, that it failed to take notice that the Mexican + still stayed on his feet. It forgot Rivera. It rarely saw him, so closely + was he enveloped in Danny's man-eating attack. A minute of this went by, + and two minutes. Then, in a separation, it caught a clear glimpse of the + Mexican. His lip was cut, his nose was bleeding. As he turned and + staggered into a clinch, the welts of oozing blood, from his contacts with + the ropes, showed in red bars across his back. But what the audience did + not notice was that his chest was not heaving and that his eyes were + coldly burning as ever. Too many aspiring champions, in the cruel welter + of the training camps, had practiced this man-eating attack on him. He had + learned to live through for a compensation of from half a dollar a go up + to fifteen dollars a week—a hard school, and he was schooled hard. + </p> + <p> + Then happened the amazing thing. The whirling, blurring mix-up ceased + suddenly. Rivera stood alone. Danny, the redoubtable Danny, lay on his + back. His body quivered as consciousness strove to return to it. He had + not staggered and sunk down, nor had he gone over in a long slumping fall. + The right hook of Rivera had dropped him in midair with the abruptness of + death. The referee shoved Rivera back with one hand, and stood over the + fallen gladiator counting the seconds. It is the custom of prize-fighting + audiences to cheer a clean knock-down blow. But this audience did not + cheer. The thing had been too unexpected. It watched the toll of the + seconds in tense silence, and through this silence the voice of Roberts + rose exultantly: + </p> + <p> + “I told you he was a two-handed fighter!” + </p> + <p> + By the fifth second, Danny was rolling over on his face, and when seven + was counted, he rested on one knee, ready to rise after the count of nine + and before the count of ten. If his knee still touched the floor at “ten,” + he was considered “down,” and also “out.” The instant his knee left the + floor, he was considered “up,” and in that instant it was Rivera's right + to try and put him down again. Rivera took no chances. The moment that + knee left the floor he would strike again. He circled around, but the + referee circled in between, and Rivera knew that the seconds he counted + were very slow. All Gringos were against him, even the referee. + </p> + <p> + At “nine” the referee gave Rivera a sharp thrust back. It was unfair, but + it enabled Danny to rise, the smile back on his lips. Doubled partly over, + with arms wrapped about face and abdomen, he cleverly stumbled into a + clinch. By all the rules of the game the referee should have broken it, + but he did not, and Danny clung on like a surf-battered barnacle and + moment by moment recuperated. The last minute of the round was going fast. + If he could live to the end, he would have a full minute in his corner to + revive. And live to the end he did, smiling through all desperateness and + extremity. + </p> + <p> + “The smile that won't come off!” somebody yelled, and the audience laughed + loudly in its relief. + </p> + <p> + “The kick that Greaser's got is something God-awful,” Danny gasped in his + corner to his adviser while his handlers worked frantically over him. + </p> + <p> + The second and third rounds were tame. Danny, a tricky and consummate ring + general, stalled and blocked and held on, devoting himself to recovering + from that dazing first-round blow. In the fourth round he was himself + again. Jarred and shaken, nevertheless his good condition had enabled him + to regain his vigor. But he tried no man-eating tactics. The Mexican had + proved a tartar. Instead, he brought to bear his best fighting powers. In + tricks and skill and experience he was the master, and though he could + land nothing vital, he proceeded scientifically to chop and wear down his + opponent. He landed three blows to Rivera's one, but they were punishing + blows only, and not deadly. It was the sum of many of them that + constituted deadliness. He was respectful of this two-handed dub with the + amazing short-arm kicks in both his fists. + </p> + <p> + In defense, Rivera developed a disconcerting straight-left. Again and + again, attack after attack he straight-lefted away from him with + accumulated damage to Danny's mouth and nose. But Danny was protean. That + was why he was the coming champion. He could change from style to style of + fighting at will. He now devoted himself to infighting. In this he was + particularly wicked, and it enabled him to avoid the other's + straight-left. Here he set the house wild repeatedly, capping it with a + marvelous lockbreak and lift of an inside upper-cut that raised the + Mexican in the air and dropped him to the mat. Rivera rested on one knee, + making the most of the count, and in the soul of him he knew the referee + was counting short seconds on him. + </p> + <p> + Again, in the seventh, Danny achieved the diabolical inside uppercut. He + succeeded only in staggering Rivera, but, in the ensuing moment of + defenseless helplessness, he smashed him with another blow through the + ropes. Rivera's body bounced on the heads of the newspaper men below, and + they boosted him back to the edge of the platform outside the ropes. Here + he rested on one knee, while the referee raced off the seconds. Inside the + ropes, through which he must duck to enter the ring, Danny waited for him. + Nor did the referee intervene or thrust Danny back. + </p> + <p> + The house was beside itself with delight. + </p> + <p> + “Kill'm, Danny, kill'm!” was the cry. + </p> + <p> + Scores of voices took it up until it was like a war-chant of wolves. + </p> + <p> + Danny did his best, but Rivera, at the count of eight, instead of nine, + came unexpectedly through the ropes and safely into a clinch. Now the + referee worked, tearing him away so that he could be hit, giving Danny + every advantage that an unfair referee can give. + </p> + <p> + But Rivera lived, and the daze cleared from his brain. It was all of a + piece. They were the hated Gringos and they were all unfair. And in the + worst of it visions continued to flash and sparkle in his brain—long + lines of railroad track that simmered across the desert; rurales and + American constables, prisons and calabooses; tramps at water tanks—all + the squalid and painful panorama of his odyssey after Rio Blanca and the + strike. And, resplendent and glorious, he saw the great, red Revolution + sweeping across his land. The guns were there before him. Every hated face + was a gun. It was for the guns he fought. He was the guns. He was the + Revolution. He fought for all Mexico. + </p> + <p> + The audience began to grow incensed with Rivera. Why didn't he take the + licking that was appointed him? Of course he was going to be licked, but + why should he be so obstinate about it? Very few were interested in him, + and they were the certain, definite percentage of a gambling crowd that + plays long shots. Believing Danny to be the winner, nevertheless they had + put their money on the Mexican at four to ten and one to three. More than + a trifle was up on the point of how many rounds Rivera could last. Wild + money had appeared at the ringside proclaiming that he could not last + seven rounds, or even six. The winners of this, now that their cash risk + was happily settled, had joined in cheering on the favorite. + </p> + <p> + Rivera refused to be licked. Through the eighth round his opponent strove + vainly to repeat the uppercut. In the ninth, Rivera stunned the house + again. In the midst of a clinch he broke the lock with a quick, lithe + movement, and in the narrow space between their bodies his right lifted + from the waist. Danny went to the floor and took the safety of the count. + The crowd was appalled. He was being bested at his own game. His famous + right-uppercut had been worked back on him. Rivera made no attempt to + catch him as he arose at “nine.” The referee was openly blocking that + play, though he stood clear when the situation was reversed and it was + Rivera who desired to rise. + </p> + <p> + Twice in the tenth, Rivera put through the right-uppercut, lifted from + waist to opponent's chin. Danny grew desperate. The smile never left his + face, but he went back to his man-eating rushes. Whirlwind as he would, he + could not damage Rivera, while Rivera through the blur and whirl, dropped + him to the mat three times in succession. Danny did not recuperate so + quickly now, and by the eleventh round he was in a serious way. But from + then till the fourteenth he put up the gamest exhibition of his career. He + stalled and blocked, fought parsimoniously, and strove to gather strength. + Also, he fought as foully as a successful fighter knows how. Every trick + and device he employed, butting in the clinches with the seeming of + accident, pinioning Rivera's glove between arm and body, heeling his glove + on Rivera's mouth to clog his breathing. Often, in the clinches, through + his cut and smiling lips he snarled insults unspeakable and vile in + Rivera's ear. Everybody, from the referee to the house, was with Danny and + was helping Danny. And they knew what he had in mind. Bested by this + surprise-box of an unknown, he was pinning all on a single punch. He + offered himself for punishment, fished, and feinted, and drew, for that + one opening that would enable him to whip a blow through with all his + strength and turn the tide. As another and greater fighter had done before + him, he might do a right and left, to solar plexus and across the jaw. He + could do it, for he was noted for the strength of punch that remained in + his arms as long as he could keep his feet. + </p> + <p> + Rivera's seconds were not half-caring for him in the intervals between + rounds. Their towels made a showing, but drove little air into his panting + lungs. Spider Hagerty talked advice to him, but Rivera knew it was wrong + advice. Everybody was against him. He was surrounded by treachery. In the + fourteenth round he put Danny down again, and himself stood resting, hands + dropped at side, while the referee counted. In the other corner Rivera had + been noting suspicious whisperings. He saw Michael Kelly make his way to + Roberts and bend and whisper. Rivera's ears were a cat's, desert-trained, + and he caught snatches of what was said. He wanted to hear more, and when + his opponent arose he maneuvered the fight into a clinch over against the + ropes. + </p> + <p> + “Got to,” he could hear Michael, while Roberts nodded. “Danny's got to win—I + stand to lose a mint—I've got a ton of money covered—my own. + If he lasts the fifteenth I'm bust—the boy'll mind you. Put + something across.” + </p> + <p> + And thereafter Rivera saw no more visions. They were trying to job him. + Once again he dropped Danny and stood resting, his hands at his slide. + Roberts stood up. + </p> + <p> + “That settled him,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Go to your corner.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with authority, as he had often spoken to Rivera at the training + quarters. But Rivera looked hatred at him and waited for Danny to rise. + Back in his corner in the minute interval, Kelly, the promoter, came and + talked to Rivera. + </p> + <p> + “Throw it, damn you,” he rasped in, a harsh low voice. “You gotta lay + down, Rivera. Stick with me and I'll make your future. I'll let you lick + Danny next time. But here's where you lay down.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera showed with his eyes that he heard, but he made neither sign of + assent nor dissent. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you speak?” Kelly demanded angrily. + </p> + <p> + “You lose, anyway,” Spider Hagerty supplemented. “The referee'll take it + away from you. Listen to Kelly, and lay down.” + </p> + <p> + “Lay down, kid,” Kelly pleaded, “and I'll help you to the championship.” + </p> + <p> + Rivera did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “I will, so help me, kid.” + </p> + <p> + At the strike of the gong Rivera sensed something impending. The house did + not. Whatever it was it was there inside the ring with him and very close. + Danny's earlier surety seemed returned to him. The confidence of his + advance frightened Rivera. Some trick was about to be worked. Danny + rushed, but Rivera refused the encounter. He side-stepped away into + safety. What the other wanted was a clinch. It was in some way necessary + to the trick. Rivera backed and circled away, yet he knew, sooner or + later, the clinch and the trick would come. Desperately he resolved to + draw it. He made as if to effect the clinch with Danny's next rush. + Instead, at the last instant, just as their bodies should have come + together, Rivera darted nimbly back. And in the same instant Danny's + corner raised a cry of foul. Rivera had fooled them. The referee paused + irresolutely. The decision that trembled on his lips was never uttered, + for a shrill, boy's voice from the gallery piped, “Raw work!” + </p> + <p> + Danny cursed Rivera openly, and forced him, while Rivera danced away. + Also, Rivera made up his mind to strike no more blows at the body. In this + he threw away half his chance of winning, but he knew if he was to win at + all it was with the outfighting that remained to him. Given the least + opportunity, they would lie a foul on him. Danny threw all caution to the + winds. For two rounds he tore after and into the boy who dared not meet + him at close quarters. Rivera was struck again and again; he took blows by + the dozens to avoid the perilous clinch. During this supreme final rally + of Danny's the audience rose to its feet and went mad. It did not + understand. All it could see was that its favorite was winning, after all. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you fight?” it demanded wrathfully of Rivera. + </p> + <p> + “You're yellow! You're yellow!” “Open up, you cur! Open up!” “Kill'm, + Danny! Kill 'm!” “You sure got 'm! Kill 'm!” + </p> + <p> + In all the house, bar none, Rivera was the only cold man. By temperament + and blood he was the hottest-passioned there; but he had gone through such + vastly greater heats that this collective passion of ten thousand throats, + rising surge on surge, was to his brain no more than the velvet cool of a + summer twilight. + </p> + <p> + Into the seventeenth round Danny carried his rally. Rivera, under a heavy + blow, drooped and sagged. His hands dropped helplessly as he reeled + backward. Danny thought it was his chance. The boy was at, his mercy. Thus + Rivera, feigning, caught him off his guard, lashing out a clean drive to + the mouth. Danny went down. When he arose, Rivera felled him with a + down-chop of the right on neck and jaw. Three times he repeated this. It + was impossible for any referee to call these blows foul. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill! Bill!” Kelly pleaded to the referee. + </p> + <p> + “I can't,” that official lamented back. “He won't give me a chance.” + </p> + <p> + Danny, battered and heroic, still kept coming up. Kelly and others near to + the ring began to cry out to the police to stop it, though Danny's corner + refused to throw in the towel. Rivera saw the fat police captain starting + awkwardly to climb through the ropes, and was not sure what it meant. + There were so many ways of cheating in this game of the Gringos. Danny, on + his feet, tottered groggily and helplessly before him. The referee and the + captain were both reaching for Rivera when he struck the last blow. There + was no need to stop the fight, for Danny did not rise. + </p> + <p> + “Count!” Rivera cried hoarsely to the referee. + </p> + <p> + And when the count was finished, Danny's seconds gathered him up and + carried him to his corner. + </p> + <p> + “Who wins?” Rivera demanded. + </p> + <p> + Reluctantly, the referee caught his gloved hand and held it aloft. + </p> + <p> + There were no congratulations for Rivera. He walked to his corner + unattended, where his seconds had not yet placed his stool. He leaned + backward on the ropes and looked his hatred at them, swept it on and about + him till the whole ten thousand Gringos were included. His knees trembled + under him, and he was sobbing from exhaustion. Before his eyes the hated + faces swayed back and forth in the giddiness of nausea. Then he remembered + they were the guns. The guns were his. The Revolution could go on. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Night-Born, by Jack London + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NIGHT-BORN *** + +***** This file should be named 1029-h.htm or 1029-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/1029/ + +Produced by J.R. Wright, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + </body> +</html> diff --git a/old/1029.txt b/old/1029.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..54c314d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1029.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6272 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Night-Born, by Jack London + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Night-Born + +Author: Jack London + +Last Updated: January 3, 2009 +Posting Date: August 2, 2008 [EBook #1029] +Release Date: September, 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NIGHT-BORN *** + + + + +Produced by J.R. Wright + + + + + +THE NIGHT-BORN + +By Jack London + + + +CONTENTS: + + THE NIGHT-BORN + THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED + WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG + THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT + WINGED BLACKMAIL + BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES + WAR + UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS + TO KILL A MAN + THE MEXICAN + + + + +THE NIGHT-BORN + +It was in the old Alta-Inyo Club--a warm night for San Francisco--and +through the open windows, hushed and far, came the brawl of the streets. +The talk had led on from the Graft Prosecution and the latest signs +that the town was to be run wide open, down through all the grotesque +sordidness and rottenness of man-hate and man-meanness, until the name +of O'Brien was mentioned--O'Brien, the promising young pugilist who +had been killed in the prize-ring the night before. At once the air +had seemed to freshen. O'Brien had been a clean-living young man with +ideals. He neither drank, smoked, nor swore, and his had been the body +of a beautiful young god. He had even carried his prayer-book to the +ringside. They found it in his coat pocket in the dressing-room... +afterward. + +Here was Youth, clean and wholesome, unsullied--the thing of glory and +wonder for men to conjure with..... after it has been lost to them and +they have turned middle-aged. And so well did we conjure, that Romance +came and for an hour led us far from the man-city and its snarling roar. +Bardwell, in a way, started it by quoting from Thoreau; but it was old +Trefethan, bald-headed and dewlapped, who took up the quotation and for +the hour to come was romance incarnate. At first we wondered how many +Scotches he had consumed since dinner, but very soon all that was +forgotten. + +"It was in 1898--I was thirty-five then," he said. "Yes, I know you are +adding it up. You're right. I'm forty-seven now; look ten years more; +and the doctors say--damn the doctors anyway!" + +He lifted the long glass to his lips and sipped it slowly to soothe away +his irritation. + +"But I was young... once. I was young twelve years ago, and I had +hair on top of my head, and my stomach was lean as a runner's, and the +longest day was none too long for me. I was a husky back there in '98. +You remember me, Milner. You knew me then. Wasn't I a pretty good bit of +all right?" + +Milner nodded and agreed. Like Trefethan, he was another mining engineer +who had cleaned up a fortune in the Klondike. + +"You certainly were, old man," Milner said. "I'll never forget when +you cleaned out those lumberjacks in the M. & M. that night that +little newspaper man started the row. Slavin was in the country at +the time,"--this to us--"and his manager wanted to get up a match with +Trefethan." + +"Well, look at me now," Trefethan commanded angrily. "That's what the +Goldstead did to me--God knows how many millions, but nothing left in my +soul..... nor in my veins. The good red blood is gone. I am a jellyfish, +a huge, gross mass of oscillating protoplasm, a--a..." + +But language failed him, and he drew solace from the long glass. + +"Women looked at me then; and turned their heads to look a second time. +Strange that I never married. But the girl. That's what I started to +tell you about. I met her a thousand miles from anywhere, and then some. +And she quoted to me those very words of Thoreau that Bardwell quoted a +moment ago--the ones about the day-born gods and the night-born." + +"It was after I had made my locations on Goldstead--and didn't know what +a treasure-pot that that trip creek was going to prove--that I made that +trip east over the Rockies, angling across to the Great Up North there +the Rockies are something more than a back-bone. They are a boundary, +a dividing line, a wall impregnable and unscalable. There is no +intercourse across them, though, on occasion, from the early days, +wandering trappers have crossed them, though more were lost by the way +than ever came through. And that was precisely why I tackled the job. It +was a traverse any man would be proud to make. I am prouder of it right +now than anything else I have ever done. + +"It is an unknown land. Great stretches of it have never been explored. +There are big valleys there where the white man has never set foot, and +Indian tribes as primitive as ten thousand years... almost, for they +have had some contact with the whites. Parties of them come out once in +a while to trade, and that is all. Even the Hudson Bay Company failed to +find them and farm them. + +"And now the girl. I was coming up a stream--you'd call it a river in +California--uncharted--and unnamed. It was a noble valley, now shut in +by high canyon walls, and again opening out into beautiful stretches, +wide and long, with pasture shoulder-high in the bottoms, meadows dotted +with flowers, and with clumps of timberspruce--virgin and magnificent. +The dogs were packing on their backs, and were sore-footed and played +out; while I was looking for any bunch of Indians to get sleds and +drivers from and go on with the first snow. It was late fall, but +the way those flowers persisted surprised me. I was supposed to be in +sub-arctic America, and high up among the buttresses of the Rockies, +and yet there was that everlasting spread of flowers. Some day the white +settlers will be in there and growing wheat down all that valley. + +"And then I lifted a smoke, and heard the barking of the dogs--Indian +dogs--and came into camp. There must have been five hundred of them, +proper Indians at that, and I could see by the jerking-frames that the +fall hunting had been good. And then I met her--Lucy. That was her name. +Sign language--that was all we could talk with, till they led me to a +big fly--you know, half a tent, open on the one side where a campfire +burned. It was all of moose-skins, this fly--moose-skins, smoke-cured, +hand-rubbed, and golden-brown. Under it everything was neat and orderly +as no Indian camp ever was. The bed was laid on fresh spruce boughs. +There were furs galore, and on top of all was a robe of swanskins--white +swan-skins--I have never seen anything like that robe. And on top of it, +sitting cross-legged, was Lucy. She was nut-brown. I have called her a +girl. But she was not. She was a woman, a nut-brown woman, an Amazon, a +full-blooded, full-bodied woman, and royal ripe. And her eyes were blue. + +"That's what took me off my feet--her eyes--blue, not China blue, but +deep blue, like the sea and sky all melted into one, and very wise. More +than that, they had laughter in them--warm laughter, sun-warm and human, +very human, and... shall I say feminine? They were. They were a woman's +eyes, a proper woman's eyes. You know what that means. Can I say more? +Also, in those blue eyes were, at the same time, a wild unrest, a +wistful yearning, and a repose, an absolute repose, a sort of all-wise +and philosophical calm." + +Trefethan broke off abruptly. + +"You fellows think I am screwed. I'm not. This is only my fifth since +dinner. I am dead sober. I am solemn. I sit here now side by side with +my sacred youth. It is not I--'old' Trefethan--that talks; it is my +youth, and it is my youth that says those were the most wonderful eyes +I have ever seen--so very calm, so very restless; so very wise, so very +curious; so very old, so very young; so satisfied and yet yearning so +wistfully. Boys, I can't describe them. When I have told you about her, +you may know better for yourselves." + +"She did not stand up. But she put out her hand." + +"'Stranger,' she said, 'I'm real glad to see you.' + +"I leave it to you--that sharp, frontier, Western tang of speech. +Picture my sensations. It was a woman, a white woman, but that tang! +It was amazing that it should be a white woman, here, beyond the last +boundary of the world--but the tang. I tell you, it hurt. It was like +the stab of a flatted note. And yet, let me tell you, that woman was a +poet. You shall see." + +"She dismissed the Indians. And, by Jove, they went. They took her +orders and followed her blind. She was hi-yu skookam chief. She told the +bucks to make a camp for me and to take care of my dogs. And they +did, too. And they knew enough not to get away with as much as a +moccasin-lace of my outfit. She was a regular She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, +and I want to tell you it chilled me to the marrow, sent those little +thrills Marathoning up and down my spinal column, meeting a white woman +out there at the head of a tribe of savages a thousand miles the other +side of No Man's Land. + +"'Stranger," she said, 'I reckon you're sure the first white that ever +set foot in this valley. Set down an' talk a spell, and then we'll have +a bite to eat. Which way might you be comin'?' + +"There it was, that tang again. But from now to the end of the yarn I +want you to forget it. I tell you I forgot it, sitting there on the edge +of that swan-skin robe and listening and looking at the most wonderful +woman that ever stepped out of the pages of Thoreau or of any other +man's book. + +"I stayed on there a week. It was on her invitation. She promised to fit +me out with dogs and sleds and with Indians that would put me across +the best pass of the Rockies in five hundred miles. Her fly was pitched +apart from the others, on the high bank by the river, and a couple of +Indian girls did her cooking for her and the camp work. And so we talked +and talked, while the first snow fell and continued to fall and make a +surface for my sleds. And this was her story. + +"She was frontier-born, of poor settlers, and you know what that +means--work, work, always work, work in plenty and without end. + +"'I never seen the glory of the world,' she said. 'I had no time. I knew +it was right out there, anywhere, all around the cabin, but there was +always the bread to set, the scrubbin' and the washin' and the work that +was never done. I used to be plumb sick at times, jes' to get out into +it all, especially in the spring when the songs of the birds drove me +most clean crazy. I wanted to run out through the long pasture grass, +wetting my legs with the dew of it, and to climb the rail fence, and +keep on through the timber and up and up over the divide so as to get a +look around. Oh, I had all kinds of hankerings--to follow up the +canyon beds and slosh around from pool to pool, making friends with +the water-dogs and the speckly trout; to peep on the sly and watch the +squirrels and rabbits and small furry things and see what they was doing +and learn the secrets of their ways. Seemed to me, if I had time, I +could crawl among the flowers, and, if I was good and quiet, catch them +whispering with themselves, telling all kinds of wise things that mere +humans never know.'" + +Trefethan paused to see that his glass had been refilled. + +"Another time she said: 'I wanted to run nights like a wild thing, just +to run through the moonshine and under the stars, to run white and naked +in the darkness that I knew must feel like cool velvet, and to run and +run and keep on running. One evening, plumb tuckered out--it had been a +dreadful hard hot day, and the bread wouldn't raise and the churning had +gone wrong, and I was all irritated and jerky--well, that evening I +made mention to dad of this wanting to run of mine. He looked at me +curious-some and a bit scared. And then he gave me two pills to take. +Said to go to bed and get a good sleep and I'd be all hunky-dory in +the morning. So I never mentioned my hankerings to him, or any one any +more.' + +"The mountain home broke up--starved out, I imagine--and the family came +to Seattle to live. There she worked in a factory--long hours, you +know, and all the rest, deadly work. And after a year of that she became +waitress in a cheap restaurant--hash-slinger, she called it. She said +to me once, 'Romance I guess was what I wanted. But there wan't no +romance floating around in dishpans and washtubs, or in factories and +hash-joints.' + +"When she was eighteen she married--a man who was going up to Juneau to +start a restaurant. He had a few dollars saved, and appeared prosperous. +She didn't love him--she was emphatic about that, but she was all tired +out, and she wanted to get away from the unending drudgery. Besides, +Juneau was in Alaska, and her yearning took the form of a desire to see +that wonderland. But little she saw of it. He started the restaurant, +a little cheap one, and she quickly learned what he had married her +for..... to save paying wages. She came pretty close to running the +joint and doing all the work from waiting to dishwashing. She cooked +most of the time as well. And she had four years of it. + +"Can't you picture her, this wild woods creature, quick with every old +primitive instinct, yearning for the free open, and mowed up in a vile +little hash-joint and toiling and moiling for four mortal years? + +"'There was no meaning in anything,' she said. 'What was it all about! +Why was I born! Was that all the meaning of life--just to work and work +and be always tired!--to go to bed tired and to wake up tired, with +every day like every other day unless it was harder?' She had heard talk +of immortal life from the gospel sharps, she said, but she could +not reckon that what she was doin' was a likely preparation for her +immortality. + +"But she still had her dreams, though more rarely. She had read a few +books--what, it is pretty hard to imagine, Seaside Library novels most +likely; yet they had been food for fancy. 'Sometimes,' she said, 'when +I was that dizzy from the heat of the cooking that if I didn't take +a breath of fresh air I'd faint, I'd stick my head out of the kitchen +window, and close my eyes and see most wonderful things. All of a sudden +I'd be traveling down a country road, and everything clean and quiet, +no dust, no dirt; just streams ripplin' down sweet meadows, and lambs +playing, breezes blowing the breath of flowers, and soft sunshine over +everything; and lovely cows lazying knee-deep in quiet pools, and young +girls bathing in a curve of stream all white and slim and natural--and +I'd know I was in Arcady. I'd read about that country once, in a book. +And maybe knights, all flashing in the sun, would come riding around a +bend in the road, or a lady on a milk-white mare, and in the distance +I could see the towers of a castle rising, or I just knew, on the next +turn, that I'd come upon some palace, all white and airy and fairy-like, +with fountains playing, and flowers all over everything, and peacocks +on the lawn..... and then I'd open my eyes, and the heat of the +cooking range would strike on me, and I'd hear Jake sayin'--he was my +husband--I'd hear Jake sayin', "Why ain't you served them beans? Think I +can wait here all day!" Romance!--I reckon the nearest I ever come to +it was when a drunken Armenian cook got the snakes and tried to cut my +throat with a potato knife and I got my arm burned on the stove before I +could lay him out with the potato stomper. + +"'I wanted easy ways, and lovely things, and Romance and all that; but +it just seemed I had no luck nohow and was only and expressly born for +cooking and dishwashing. There was a wild crowd in Juneau them days, but +I looked at the other women, and their way of life didn't excite me. +I reckon I wanted to be clean. I don't know why; I just wanted to, I +guess; and I reckoned I might as well die dishwashing as die their way." + +Trefethan halted in his tale for a moment, completing to himself some +thread of thought. + +"And this is the woman I met up there in the Arctic, running a tribe of +wild Indians and a few thousand square miles of hunting territory. And +it happened, simply enough, though, for that matter, she might have +lived and died among the pots and pans. But 'Came the whisper, came the +vision.' That was all she needed, and she got it. + +"'I woke up one day,' she said. 'Just happened on it in a scrap of +newspaper. I remember every word of it, and I can give it to you.' And +then she quoted Thoreau's Cry of the Human: + +"'The young pines springing up, in the corn field from year to year are +to me a refreshing fact. We talk of civilizing the Indian, but that is +not the name for his improvement. By the wary independence and aloofness +of his dim forest life he preserves his intercourse with his native gods +and is admitted from time to time to a rare and peculiar society with +nature. He has glances of starry recognition, to which our saloons +are strangers. The steady illumination of his qenius, dim only because +distant, is like the faint but satisfying light of the stars compared +with the dazzling but ineffectual and short-lived blaze of candles. The +Society Islanders had their day-born gods, but they were not supposed to +be of equal antiquity with the..... night-born gods.' + +"That's what she did, repeated it word for word, and I forgot the tang, +for it was solemn, a declaration of religion--pagan, if you will; and +clothed in the living garmenture of herself. + +"'And the rest of it was torn away,' she added, a great emptiness in her +voice. 'It was only a scrap of newspaper. But that Thoreau was a wise +man. I wish I knew more about him.' She stopped a moment, and I swear +her face was ineffably holy as she said, 'I could have made him a good +wife.' + +"And then she went on. 'I knew right away, as soon as I read that, what +was the matter with me. I was a night-born. I, who had lived all my +life with the day-born, was a night-born. That was why I had never been +satisfied with cooking and dishwashing; that was why I had hankered to +run naked in the moonlight. And I knew that this dirty little Juneau +hash-joint was no place for me. And right there and then I said, "I +quit." I packed up my few rags of clothes, and started. Jake saw me and +tried to stop me. + +"'What you doing?" he says. + +"'Divorcin' you and me,' I says. 'I'm headin' for tall timber and where +I belong.'" + +"'No you don't,' he says, reaching for me to stop me. 'The cooking has +got on your head. You listen to me talk before you up and do anything +brash.' + +"But I pulled a gun-a little Colt's forty-four--and says, 'This does my +talkin' for me.' + +"And I left." + +Trefethan emptied his glass and called for another. + +"Boys, do you know what that girl did? She was twenty-two. She had spent +her life over the dish-pan and she knew no more about the world than I +do of the fourth dimension, or the fifth. All roads led to her desire. +No; she didn't head for the dance-halls. On the Alaskan Pan-handle it +is preferable to travel by water. She went down to the beach. An Indian +canoe was starting for Dyea--you know the kind, carved out of a single +tree, narrow and deep and sixty feet long. She gave them a couple of +dollars and got on board. + +"'Romance?' she told me. 'It was Romance from the jump. There were three +families altogether in that canoe, and that crowded there wasn't room to +turn around, with dogs and Indian babies sprawling over everything, and +everybody dipping a paddle and making that canoe go.' And all around the +great solemn mountains, and tangled drifts of clouds and sunshine. And +oh, the silence! the great wonderful silence! And, once, the smoke of +a hunter's camp, away off in the distance, trailing among the trees. +It was like a picnic, a grand picnic, and I could see my dreams coming +true, and I was ready for something to happen 'most any time. And it +did. + +"'And that first camp, on the island! And the boys spearing fish in the +mouth of the creek, and the big deer one of the bucks shot just around +the point. And there were flowers everywhere, and in back from the beach +the grass was thick and lush and neck-high. And some of the girls went +through this with me, and we climbed the hillside behind and picked +berries and roots that tasted sour and were good to eat. And we came +upon a big bear in the berries making his supper, and he said "Oof!" and +ran away as scared as we were. And then the camp, and the camp smoke, +and the smell of fresh venison cooking. It was beautiful. I was with the +night-born at last, and I knew that was where I belonged. And for the +first time in my life, it seemed to me, I went to bed happy that night, +looking out under a corner of the canvas at the stars cut off black by a +big shoulder of mountain, and listening to the night-noises, and knowing +that the same thing would go on next day and forever and ever, for I +wasn't going back. And I never did go back.' + +"'Romance! I got it next day. We had to cross a big arm of the +ocean--twelve or fifteen miles, at least; and it came on to blow when we +were in the middle. That night I was along on shore, with one wolf-dog, +and I was the only one left alive.' + +"Picture it yourself," Trefethan broke off to say. "The canoe was +wrecked and lost, and everybody pounded to death on the rocks except +her. She went ashore hanging on to a dog's tail, escaping the rocks and +washing up on a tiny beach, the only one in miles. + +"'Lucky for me it was the mainland,' she said. 'So I headed right away +back, through the woods and over the mountains and straight on anywhere. +Seemed I was looking for something and knew I'd find it. I wasn't +afraid. I was night-born, and the big timber couldn't kill me. And on +the second day I found it. I came upon a small clearing and a tumbledown +cabin. Nobody had been there for years and years. The roof had fallen +in. Rotted blankets lay in the bunks, and pots and pans were on the +stove. But that was not the most curious thing. Outside, along the +edge of the trees, you can't guess what I found. The skeletons of eight +horses, each tied to a tree. They had starved to death, I reckon, and +left only little piles of bones scattered some here and there. And each +horse had had a load on its back. There the loads lay, in among the +bones--painted canvas sacks, and inside moosehide sacks, and inside the +moosehide sacks--what do you think?'" + +She stopped, reached under a corner of the bed among the spruce boughs, +and pulled out a leather sack. She untied the mouth and ran out into my +hand as pretty a stream of gold as I have ever seen--coarse gold, placer +gold, some large dust, but mostly nuggets, and it was so fresh and rough +that it scarcely showed signs of water-wash. + +"'You say you're a mining engineer,' she said, 'and you know this +country. Can you name a pay-creek that has the color of that gold!' + +"I couldn't! There wasn't a trace of silver. It was almost pure, and I +told her so. + +"'You bet,' she said. 'I sell that for nineteen dollars an ounce. You +can't get over seventeen for Eldorado gold, and Minook gold don't fetch +quite eighteen. Well, that was what I found among the bones--eight +horse-loads of it, one hundred and fifty pounds to the load.' + +"'A quarter of a million dollars!' I cried out. + +"'That's what I reckoned it roughly,' she answered. 'Talk about Romance! +And me a slaving the way I had all the years, when as soon as I ventured +out, inside three days, this was what happened. And what became of the +men that mined all that gold? Often and often I wonder about it. They +left their horses, loaded and tied, and just disappeared off the face of +the earth, leaving neither hide nor hair behind them. I never heard tell +of them. Nobody knows anything about them. Well, being the night-born, I +reckon I was their rightful heir.'" + +Trefethan stopped to light a cigar. + +"Do you know what that girl did? She cached the gold, saving out thirty +pounds, which she carried back to the coast. Then she signaled a passing +canoe, made her way to Pat Healy's trading post at Dyea, outfitted, +and went over Chilcoot Pass. That was in '88--eight years before the +Klondike strike, and the Yukon was a howling wilderness. She was afraid +of the bucks, but she took two young squaws with her, crossed the lakes, +and went down the river and to all the early camps on the Lower Yukon. +She wandered several years over that country and then on in to where I +met her. Liked the looks of it, she said, seeing, in her own words, 'a +big bull caribou knee-deep in purple iris on the valley-bottom.' She +hooked up with the Indians, doctored them, gained their confidence, and +gradually took them in charge. She had only left that country once, and +then, with a bunch of the young bucks, she went over Chilcoot, cleaned +up her gold-cache, and brought it back with her. + +"'And here I be, stranger,' she concluded her yarn, 'and here's the most +precious thing I own.' + +"She pulled out a little pouch of buckskin, worn on her neck like a +locket, and opened it. And inside, wrapped in oiled silk, yellowed with +age and worn and thumbed, was the original scrap of newspaper containing +the quotation from Thoreau. + +"'And are you happy... satisfied?' I asked her. 'With a quarter of a +million you wouldn't have to work down in the States. You must miss a +lot.' + +"'Not much,' she answered. 'I wouldn't swop places with any woman down +in the States. These are my people; this is where I belong. But there +are times--and in her eyes smoldered up that hungry yearning I've +mentioned--'there are times when I wish most awful bad for that Thoreau +man to happen along.' + +"'Why?' I asked. + +"'So as I could marry him. I do get mighty lonesome at spells. I'm just +a woman--a real woman. I've heard tell of the other kind of women that +gallivanted off like me and did queer things--the sort that become +soldiers in armies, and sailors on ships. But those women are queer +themselves. They're more like men than women; they look like men and +they don't have ordinary women's needs. They don't want love, nor little +children in their arms and around their knees. I'm not that sort. I +leave it to you, stranger. Do I look like a man?' + +"She didn't. She was a woman, a beautiful, nut-brown woman, with a +sturdy, health-rounded woman's body and with wonderful deep-blue woman's +eyes. + +"'Ain't I woman?' she demanded. 'I am. I'm 'most all woman, and then +some. And the funny thing is, though I'm night-born in everything else, +I'm not when it comes to mating. I reckon that kind likes its own kind +best. That's the way it is with me, anyway, and has been all these +years.' + +"'You mean to tell me--' I began. + +"'Never,' she said, and her eyes looked into mine with the straightness +of truth. 'I had one husband, only--him I call the Ox; and I reckon he's +still down in Juneau running the hash-joint. Look him up, if you ever +get back, and you'll find he's rightly named.' + +"And look him up I did, two years afterward. He was all she said--solid +and stolid, the Ox--shuffling around and waiting on the tables. + +"'You need a wife to help you,' I said. + +"'I had one once,' was his answer. + +"'Widower?' + +"'Yep. She went loco. She always said the heat of the cooking would +get her, and it did. Pulled a gun on me one day and ran away with some +Siwashes in a canoe. Caught a blow up the coast and all hands drowned.'" + +Trefethan devoted himself to his glass and remained silent. + +"But the girl?" Milner reminded him. + +"You left your story just as it was getting interesting, tender. Did +it?" + +"It did," Trefethan replied. "As she said herself, she was savage in +everything except mating, and then she wanted her own kind. She was very +nice about it, but she was straight to the point. She wanted to marry +me. + +"'Stranger,' she said, 'I want you bad. You like this sort of life or +you wouldn't be here trying to cross the Rockies in fall weather. It's +a likely spot. You'll find few likelier. Why not settle down! I'll make +you a good wife.' + +"And then it was up to me. And she waited. I don't mind confessing that +I was sorely tempted. I was half in love with her as it was. You know I +have never married. And I don't mind adding, looking back over my life, +that she is the only woman that ever affected me that way. But it was +too preposterous, the whole thing, and I lied like a gentleman. I told +her I was already married. + +"'Is your wife waiting for you?' she asked. + +"I said yes. + +"'And she loves you?' + +"I said yes. + +"And that was all. She never pressed her point... except once, and then +she showed a bit of fire. + +"'All I've got to do,' she said, 'is to give the word, and you don't get +away from here. If I give the word, you stay on... But I ain't going to +give it. I wouldn't want you if you didn't want to be wanted... and if +you didn't want me.' + +"She went ahead and outfitted me and started me on my way. + +"'It's a darned shame, stranger," she said, at parting. 'I like your +looks, and I like you. If you ever change your mind, come back.' + +"Now there was one thing I wanted to do, and that was to kiss her +good-bye, but I didn't know how to go about it nor how she would take +it.--I tell you I was half in love with her. But she settled it herself. + +"'Kiss me,' she said. 'Just something to go on and remember.' + +"And we kissed, there in the snow, in that valley by the Rockies, and +I left her standing by the trail and went on after my dogs. I was six +weeks in crossing over the pass and coming down to the first post on +Great Slave Lake." + +The brawl of the streets came up to us like a distant surf. A +steward, moving noiselessly, brought fresh siphons. And in the silence +Trefethan's voice fell like a funeral bell: + +"It would have been better had I stayed. Look at me." + +We saw his grizzled mustache, the bald spot on his head, the puff-sacks +under his eyes, the sagging cheeks, the heavy dewlap, the general +tiredness and staleness and fatness, all the collapse and ruin of a man +who had once been strong but who had lived too easily and too well. + +"It's not too late, old man," Bardwell said, almost in a whisper. + +"By God! I wish I weren't a coward!" was Trefethan's answering cry. "I +could go back to her. She's there, now. I could shape up and live many a +long year... with her... up there. To remain here is to commit suicide. +But I am an old man--forty-seven--look at me. The trouble is," he lifted +his glass and glanced at it, "the trouble is that suicide of this sort +is so easy. I am soft and tender. The thought of the long day's travel +with the dogs appalls me; the thought of the keen frost in the morning +and of the frozen sled-lashings frightens me--" + +Automatically the glass was creeping toward his lips. With a swift +surge of anger he made as if to crash it down upon the floor. Next came +hesitancy and second thought. The glass moved upward to his lips and +paused. He laughed harshly and bitterly, but his words were solemn: + +"Well, here's to the Night-Born. She WAS a wonder." + + + + +THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED + +I TELL this for a fact. It happened in the bull-ring at Quito. I sat +in the box with John Harned, and with Maria Valenzuela, and with Luis +Cervallos. I saw it happen. I saw it all from first to last. I was on +the steamer Ecuadore from Panama to Guayaquil. Maria Valenzuela is +my cousin. I have known her always. She is very beautiful. I am a +Spaniard--an Ecuadoriano, true, but I am descended from Pedro Patino, +who was one of Pizarro's captains. They were brave men. They were +heroes. Did not Pizarro lead three hundred and fifty Spanish cavaliers +and four thousand Indians into the far Cordilleras in search of +treasure? And did not all the four thousand Indians and three hundred +of the brave cavaliers die on that vain quest? But Pedro Patino did +not die. He it was that lived to found the family of the Patino. I am +Ecuadoriano, true, but I am Spanish. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. I own +many haciendas, and ten thousand Indians are my slaves, though the law +says they are free men who work by freedom of contract. The law is a +funny thing. We Ecuadorianos laugh at it. It is our law. We make it for +ourselves. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. Remember that name. It will be +written some day in history. There are revolutions in Ecuador. We call +them elections. It is a good joke is it not?--what you call a pun? + +John Harned was an American. I met him first at the Tivoli hotel in +Panama. He had much money--this I have heard. He was going to Lima, +but he met Maria Valenzuela in the Tivoli hotel. Maria Valenzuela is +my cousin, and she is beautiful. It is true, she is the most beautiful +woman in Ecuador. But also is she most beautiful in every country--in +Paris, in Madrid, in New York, in Vienna. Always do all men look at her, +and John Harned looked long at her at Panama. He loved her, that I know +for a fact. She was Ecuadoriano, true--but she was of all countries; she +was of all the world. She spoke many languages. She sang--ah! like an +artiste. Her smile--wonderful, divine. Her eyes--ah! have I not seen +men look in her eyes? They were what you English call amazing. They were +promises of paradise. Men drowned themselves in her eyes. + +Maria Valenzuela was rich--richer than I, who am accounted very rich in +Ecuador. But John Harned did not care for her money. He had a heart--a +funny heart. He was a fool. He did not go to Lima. He left the steamer +at Guayaquil and followed her to Quito. She was coming home from Europe +and other places. I do not see what she found in him, but she liked him. +This I know for a fact, else he would not have followed her to Quito. +She asked him to come. Well do I remember the occasion. She said: + +"Come to Quito and I will show you the bullfight--brave, clever, +magnificent!" + +But he said: "I go to Lima, not Quito. Such is my passage engaged on the +steamer." + +"You travel for pleasure--no?" said Maria Valenzuela; and she looked at +him as only Maria Valenzuela could look, her eyes warm with the promise. + +And he came. No; he did not come for the bull-fight. He came because of +what he had seen in her eyes. Women like Maria Valenzuela are born once +in a hundred years. They are of no country and no time. They are what +you call goddesses. Men fall down at their feet. They play with men and +run them through their pretty fingers like sand. Cleopatra was such a +woman they say; and so was Circe. She turned men into swine. Ha! ha! It +is true--no? + +It all came about because Maria Valenzuela said: + +"You English people are--what shall I say?--savage--no? You prize-fight. +Two men each hit the other with their fists till their eyes are blinded +and their noses are broken. Hideous! And the other men who look on cry +out loudly and are made glad. It is barbarous--no?" + +"But they are men," said John Harned; "and they prize-fight out of +desire. No one makes them prize-fight. They do it because they desire it +more than anything else in the world." + +Maria Valenzuela--there was scorn in her smile as she said: "They kill +each other often--is it not so? I have read it in the papers." + +"But the bull," said John Harned. + +"The bull is killed many times in the bull-fight, and the bull does not +come into the the ring out of desire. It is not fair to the bull. He +is compelled to fight. But the man in the prize-fight--no; he is not +compelled." + +"He is the more brute therefore," said Maria Valenzuela. + +"He is savage. He is primitive. He is animal. He strikes with his paws +like a bear from a cave, and he is ferocious. But the bull-fight--ah! +You have not seen the bullfight--no? The toreador is clever. He must +have skill. He is modern. He is romantic. He is only a man, soft and +tender, and he faces the wild bull in conflict. And he kills with a +sword, a slender sword, with one thrust, so, to the heart of the great +beast. It is delicious. It makes the heart beat to behold--the small +man, the great beast, the wide level sand, the thousands that look on +without breath; the great beast rushes to the attack, the small man +stands like a statue; he does not move, he is unafraid, and in his hand +is the slender sword flashing like silver in the sun; nearer and nearer +rushes the great beast with its sharp horns, the man does not move, and +then--so--the sword flashes, the thrust is made, to the heart, to the +hilt, the bull falls to the sand and is dead, and the man is unhurt. It +is brave. It is magnificent! Ah!--I could love the toreador. But the +man of the prize-fight--he is the brute, the human beast, the savage +primitive, the maniac that receives many blows in his stupid face and +rejoices. Come to Quito and I will show you the brave sport of men, the +toreador and the bull." + +But John Harned did not go to Quito for the bull-fight. He went because +of Maria Valenzuela. He was a large man, more broad of shoulder than +we Ecuadorianos, more tall, more heavy of limb and bone. True, he was +larger of his own race. His eyes were blue, though I have seen them +gray, and, sometimes, like cold steel. His features were large, too--not +delicate like ours, and his jaw was very strong to look at. Also, his +face was smooth-shaven like a priest's. Why should a man feel shame for +the hair on his face? Did not God put it there? Yes, I believe in God--I +am not a pagan like many of you English. God is good. He made me an +Ecuadoriano with ten thousand slaves. And when I die I shall go to God. +Yes, the priests are right. + +But John Harned. He was a quiet man. He talked always in a low voice, +and he never moved his hands when he talked. One would have thought his +heart was a piece of ice; yet did he have a streak of warm in his blood, +for he followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito. Also, and for all that he +talked low without moving his hands, he was an animal, as you shall +see--the beast primitive, the stupid, ferocious savage of the long ago +that dressed in wild skins and lived in the caves along with the bears +and wolves. + +Luis Cervallos is my friend, the best of Ecuadorianos. He owns three +cacao plantations at Naranjito and Chobo. At Milagro is his big sugar +plantation. He has large haciendas at Ambato and Latacunga, and down +the coast is he interested in oil-wells. Also has he spent much money +in planting rubber along the Guayas. He is modern, like the Yankee; and, +like the Yankee, full of business. He has much money, but it is in many +ventures, and ever he needs more money for new ventures and for the old +ones. He has been everywhere and seen everything. When he was a very +young man he was in the Yankee military academy what you call West +Point. There was trouble. He was made to resign. He does not like +Americans. But he did like Maria Valenzuela, who was of his own country. +Also, he needed her money for his ventures and for his gold mine in +Eastern Ecuador where the painted Indians live. I was his friend. It +was my desire that he should marry Maria Valenzuela. Further, much of my +money had I invested in his ventures, more so in his gold mine which was +very rich but which first required the expense of much money before it +would yield forth its riches. If Luis Cervallos married Maria Valenzuela +I should have more money very immediately. + +But John Harned followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito, and it was quickly +clear to us--to Luis Cervallos and me that she looked upon John Harned +with great kindness. It is said that a woman will have her will, but +this is a case not in point, for Maria Valenzuela did not have her +will--at least not with John Harned. Perhaps it would all have happened +as it did, even if Luis Cervallos and I had not sat in the box that day +at the bull-ring in Quito. But this I know: we DID sit in the box that +day. And I shall tell you what happened. + +The four of us were in the one box, guests of Luis Cervallos. I was next +to the Presidente's box. On the other side was the box of General Jose +Eliceo Salazar. With him were Joaquin Endara and Urcisino Castillo, +both generals, and Colonel Jacinto Fierro and Captain Baltazar de +Echeverria. Only Luis Cervallos had the position and the influence +to get that box next to the Presidente. I know for a fact that the +Presidente himself expressed the desire to the management that Luis +Cervallos should have that box. + +The band finished playing the national hymn of Ecuador. The procession +of the toreadors was over. The Presidente nodded to begin. The bugles +blew, and the bull dashed in--you know the way, excited, bewildered, the +darts in its shoulder burning like fire, itself seeking madly whatever +enemy to destroy. The toreadors hid behind their shelters and waited. +Suddenly they appeared forth, the capadores, five of them, from every +side, their colored capes flinging wide. The bull paused at sight of +such a generosity of enemies, unable in his own mind to know which to +attack. Then advanced one of the capadors alone to meet the bull. The +bull was very angry. With its fore-legs it pawed the sand of the arena +till the dust rose all about it. Then it charged, with lowered head, +straight for the lone capador. + +It is always of interest, the first charge of the first bull. After a +time it is natural that one should grow tired, trifle, that the keenness +should lose its edge. But that first charge of the first bull! John +Harned was seeing it for the first time, and he could not escape the +excitement--the sight of the man, armed only with a piece of cloth, +and of the bull rushing upon him across the sand with sharp horns, +widespreading. + +"See!" cried Maria Valenzuela. "Is it not superb?" + +John Harned nodded, but did not look at her. His eyes were sparkling, +and they were only for the bull-ring. The capador stepped to the side, +with a twirl of the cape eluding the bull and spreading the cape on his +own shoulders. + +"What do you think?" asked Maria Venzuela. "Is it not +a--what-you-call--sporting proposition--no?" + +"It is certainly," said John Harned. "It is very clever." + +She clapped her hands with delight. They were little hands. The audience +applauded. The bull turned and came back. Again the capadore eluded him, +throwing the cape on his shoulders, and again the audience applauded. +Three times did this happen. The capadore was very excellent. Then he +retired, and the other capadore played with the bull. After that they +placed the banderillos in the bull, in the shoulders, on each side of +the back-bone, two at a time. Then stepped forward Ordonez, the chief +matador, with the long sword and the scarlet cape. The bugles blew for +the death. He is not so good as Matestini. Still he is good, and with +one thrust he drove the sword to the heart, and the bull doubled his +legs under him and lay down and died. It was a pretty thrust, clean and +sure; and there was much applause, and many of the common people threw +their hats into the ring. Maria Valenzuela clapped her hands with the +rest, and John Harned, whose cold heart was not touched by the event, +looked at her with curiosity. + +"You like it?" he asked. + +"Always," she said, still clapping her hands. + +"From a little girl," said Luis Cervallos. "I remember her first fight. +She was four years old. She sat with her mother, and just like now she +clapped her hands. She is a proper Spanish woman. + +"You have seen it," said Maria Valenzuela to John Harned, as they +fastened the mules to the dead bull and dragged it out. "You have seen +the bull-fight and you like it--no? What do you think? + +"I think the bull had no chance," he said. "The bull was doomed from +the first. The issue was not in doubt. Every one knew, before the bull +entered the ring, that it was to die. To be a sporting proposition, the +issue must be in doubt. It was one stupid bull who had never fought +a man against five wise men who had fought many bulls. It would be +possibly a little bit fair if it were one man against one bull." + +"Or one man against five bulls," said Maria Valenzuela; and we all +laughed, and Luis Ceryallos laughed loudest. + +"Yes," said John Harned, "against five bulls, and the man, like the +bulls, never in the bull ring before--a man like yourself, Senor +Crevallos." + +"Yet we Spanish like the bull-fight," said Luis Cervallos; and I swear +the devil was whispering then in his ear, telling him to do that which I +shall relate. + +"Then must it be a cultivated taste," John Harned made answer. "We kill +bulls by the thousand every day in Chicago, yet no one cares to pay +admittance to see." + +"That is butchery," said I; "but this--ah, this is an art. It is +delicate. It is fine. It is rare." + +"Not always," said Luis Cervallos. "I have seen clumsy matadors, and I +tell you it is not nice." + +He shuddered, and his face betrayed such what-you-call disgust, that I +knew, then, that the devil was whispering and that he was beginning to +play a part. + +"Senor Harned may be right," said Luis Cervallos. "It may not be fair +to the bull. For is it not known to all of us that for twenty-four hours +the bull is given no water, and that immediately before the fight he is +permitted to drink his fill?" + +"And he comes into the ring heavy with water?" said John Harned quickly; +and I saw that his eyes were very gray and very sharp and very cold. + +"It is necessary for the sport," said Luis Cervallos. "Would you have +the bull so strong that he would kill the toreadors?" + +"I would that he had a fighting chance," said John Harned, facing the +ring to see the second bull come in. + +It was not a good bull. It was frightened. It ran around the ring in +search of a way to get out. The capadors stepped forth and flared their +capes, but he refused to charge upon them. + +"It is a stupid bull," said Maria Valenzuela. + +"I beg pardon," said John Harned; "but it would seem to me a wise bull. +He knows he must not fight man. See! He smells death there in the ring." + +True. The bull, pausing where the last one had died, was smelling the +wet sand and snorting. Again he ran around the ring, with raised head, +looking at the faces of the thousands that hissed him, that threw +orange-peel at him and called him names. But the smell of blood decided +him, and he charged a capador, so without warning that the man just +escaped. He dropped his cape and dodged into the shelter. The bull +struck the wall of the ring with a crash. And John Harned said, in a +quiet voice, as though he talked to himself: + +"I will give one thousand sucres to the lazar-house of Quito if a bull +kills a man this day." + +"You like bulls?" said Maria Valenzuela with a smile. + +"I like such men less," said John Harned. "A toreador is not a brave +man. He surely cannot be a brave man. See, the bull's tongue is already +out. He is tired and he has not yet begun." + +"It is the water," said Luis Cervallos. + +"Yes, it is the water," said John Harned. "Would it not be safer to +hamstring the bull before he comes on?" + +Maria Valenzuela was made angry by this sneer in John Harned's words. +But Luis Cervallos smiled so that only I could see him, and then it +broke upon my mind surely the game he was playing. He and I were to be +banderilleros. The big American bull was there in the box with us. We +were to stick the darts in him till he became angry, and then there +might be no marriage with Maria Valenzuela. It was a good sport. And the +spirit of bull-fighters was in our blood. + +The bull was now angry and excited. The capadors had great game with +him. He was very quick, and sometimes he turned with such sharpness +that his hind legs lost their footing and he plowed the sand with his +quarter. But he charged always the flung capes and committed no harm. + +"He has no chance," said John Harned. "He is fighting wind." + +"He thinks the cape is his enemy," explained Maria Valenzuela. "See how +cleverly the capador deceives him." + +"It is his nature to be deceived," said John Harned. "Wherefore he is +doomed to fight wind. The toreadors know it, you know it, I know it--we +all know from the first that he will fight wind. He only does not know +it. It is his stupid beast-nature. He has no chance." + +"It is very simple," said Luis Cervallos. "The bull shuts his eyes when +he charges. Therefore--" + +"The man steps, out of the way and the bull rushes by," Harned +interrupted. + +"Yes," said Luis Cervallos; "that is it. The bull shuts his eyes, and +the man knows it." + +"But cows do not shut their eyes," said John Harned. "I know a cow at +home that is a Jersey and gives milk, that would whip the whole gang of +them." + +"But the toreadors do not fight cows," said I. + +"They are afraid to fight cows," said John Harned. + +"Yes," said Luis Cervallos, "they are afraid to fight cows. There would +be no sport in killing toreadors." + +"There would be some sport," said John Harned, "if a toreador were +killed once in a while. When I become an old man, and mayhap a cripple, +and should I need to make a living and be unable to do hard work, +then would I become a bull-fighter. It is a light vocation for elderly +gentlemen and pensioners." + +"But see!" said Maria Valenzuela, as the bull charged bravely and the +capador eluded it with a fling of his cape. "It requires skill so to +avoid the beast." + +"True," said John Harned. "But believe me, it requires a thousand times +more skill to avoid the many and quick punches of a prize-fighter who +keeps his eyes open and strikes with intelligence. Furthermore, this +bull does not want to fight. Behold, he runs away." + +It was not a good bull, for again it ran around the ring, seeking to +find a way out. + +"Yet these bulls are sometimes the most dangerous," said Luis Cervallos. +"It can never be known what they will do next. They are wise. They are +half cow. The bull-fighters never like them.--See! He has turned!" + +Once again, baffled and made angry by the walls of the ring that would +not let him out, the bull was attacking his enemies valiantly. + +"His tongue is hanging out," said John Harned. "First, they fill him +with water. Then they tire him out, one man and then another, persuading +him to exhaust himself by fighting wind. While some tire him, others +rest. But the bull they never let rest. Afterward, when he is quite +tired and no longer quick, the matador sticks the sword into him." + +The time had now come for the banderillos. Three times one of the +fighters endeavored to place the darts, and three times did he fail. +He but stung the bull and maddened it. The banderillos must go in, you +know, two at a time, into the shoulders, on each side the backbone and +close to it. If but one be placed, it is a failure. The crowd hissed and +called for Ordonez. And then Ordonez did a great thing. Four times +he stood forth, and four times, at the first attempt, he stuck in the +banderillos, so that eight of them, well placed, stood out of the back +of the bull at one time. The crowd went mad, and a rain of hats and +money fell on the sand of the ring. + +And just then the bull charged unexpectedly one of the capadors. The man +slipped and lost his head. The bull caught him--fortunately, between his +wide horns. And while the audience watched, breathless and silent, John +Harned stood up and yelled with gladness. Alone, in that hush of all of +us, John Harned yelled. And he yelled for the bull. As you see yourself, +John Harned wanted the man killed. His was a brutal heart. This bad +conduct made those angry that sat in the box of General Salazar, and +they cried out against John Harned. And Urcisino Castillo told him to +his face that he was a dog of a Gringo and other things. Only it was +in Spanish, and John Harned did not understand. He stood and yelled, +perhaps for the time of ten seconds, when the bull was enticed into +charging the other capadors and the man arose unhurt. + +"The bull has no chance," John Harned said with sadness as he sat down. +"The man was uninjured. They fooled the bull away from him." Then he +turned to Maria Valenzuela and said: "I beg your pardon. I was excited." + +She smiled and in reproof tapped his arm with her fan. + +"It is your first bull-fight," she said. "After you have seen more you +will not cry for the death of the man. You Americans, you see, are more +brutal than we. It is because of your prize-fighting. We come only to +see the bull killed." + +"But I would the bull had some chance," he answered. "Doubtless, in +time, I shall cease to be annoyed by the men who take advantage of the +bull." + +The bugles blew for the death of the bull. Ordonez stood forth with the +sword and the scarlet cloth. But the bull had changed again, and did not +want to fight. Ordonez stamped his foot in the sand, and cried out, and +waved the scarlet cloth. Then the bull charged, but without heart. There +was no weight to the charge. It was a poor thrust. The sword struck +a bone and bent. Ordonez took a fresh sword. The bull, again stung to +fight, charged once more. Five times Ordonez essayed the thrust, and +each time the sword went but part way in or struck bone. The sixth time, +the sword went in to the hilt. But it was a bad thrust. The sword missed +the heart and stuck out half a yard through the ribs on the opposite +side. The audience hissed the matador. I glanced at John Harned. He sat +silent, without movement; but I could see his teeth were set, and his +hands were clenched tight on the railing of the box. + +All fight was now out of the bull, and, though it was no vital thrust, +he trotted lamely what of the sword that stuck through him, in one side +and out the other. He ran away from the matador and the capadors, and +circled the edge of the ring, looking up at the many faces. + +"He is saying: 'For God's sake let me out of this; I don't want to +fight,'" said John Harned. + +That was all. He said no more, but sat and watched, though sometimes +he looked sideways at Maria Valenzuela to see how she took it. She was +angry with the matador. He was awkward, and she had desired a clever +exhibition. + +The bull was now very tired, and weak from loss of blood, though far +from dying. He walked slowly around the wall of the ring, seeking a +way out. He would not charge. He had had enough. But he must be killed. +There is a place, in the neck of a bull behind the horns, where the +cord of the spine is unprotected and where a short stab will immediately +kill. Ordonez stepped in front of the bull and lowered his scarlet cloth +to the ground. The bull would not charge. He stood still and smelled the +cloth, lowering his head to do so. Ordonez stabbed between the horns at +the spot in the neck. The bull jerked his head up. The stab had missed. +Then the bull watched the sword. When Ordonez moved the cloth on the +ground, the bull forgot the sword and lowered his head to smell the +cloth. Again Ordonez stabbed, and again he failed. He tried many times. +It was stupid. And John Harned said nothing. At last a stab went home, +and the bull fell to the sand, dead immediately, and the mules were made +fast and he was dragged out. + +"The Gringos say it is a cruel sport--no?" said Luis Cervallos. "That it +is not humane. That it is bad for the bull. No?" + +"No," said John Harned. "The bull does not count for much. It is bad for +those that look on. It is degrading to those that look on. It teaches +them to delight in animal suffering. It is cowardly for five men to +fight one stupid bull. Therefore those that look on learn to be cowards. +The bull dies, but those that look on live and the lesson is learned. +The bravery of men is not nourished by scenes of cowardice." + +Maria Valenzuela said nothing. Neither did she look at him. But she +heard every word and her cheeks were white with anger. She looked out +across the ring and fanned herself, but I saw that her hand trembled. +Nor did John Harned look at her. He went on as though she were not +there. He, too, was angry, coldly angry. + +"It is the cowardly sport of a cowardly people," he said. + +"Ah," said Luis Cervallos softly, "you think you understand us." + +"I understand now the Spanish Inquisition," said John Harned. "It must +have been more delightful than bull-fighting." + +Luis Cervallos smiled but said nothing. He glanced at Maria Valenzuela, +and knew that the bull-fight in the box was won. Never would she have +further to do with the Gringo who spoke such words. But neither Luis +Cervallos nor I was prepared for the outcome of the day. I fear we do +not understand the Gringos. How were we to know that John Harned, who +was so coldly angry, should go suddenly mad! But mad he did go, as you +shall see. The bull did not count for much--he said so himself. Then why +should the horse count for so much? That I cannot understand. The mind +of John Harned lacked logic. That is the only explanation. + +"It is not usual to have horses in the bull-ring at Quito," said Luis +Cervallos, looking up from the program. "In Spain they always have them. +But to-day, by special permission we shall have them. When the next bull +comes on there will be horses and picadors-you know, the men who carry +lances and ride the horses." + +"The bull is doomed from the first," said John Harned. "Are the horses +then likewise doomed!" + +"They are blindfolded so that they may not see the bull," said Luis +Cervallos. "I have seen many horses killed. It is a brave sight." + +"I have seen the bull slaughtered," said John Harned "I will now see the +horse slaughtered, so that I may understand more fully the fine points +of this noble sport." + +"They are old horses," said Luis Cervallos, "that are not good for +anything else." + +"I see," said John Harned. + +The third bull came on, and soon against it were both capadors and +picadors. One picador took his stand directly below us. I agree, it was +a thin and aged horse he rode, a bag of bones covered with mangy hide. + +"It is a marvel that the poor brute can hold up the weight of the +rider," said John Harned. "And now that the horse fights the bull, what +weapons has it?" + +"The horse does not fight the bull," said Luis Cervallos. + +"Oh," said John Harned, "then is the horse there to be gored? That must +be why it is blindfolded, so that it shall not see the bull coming to +gore it." + +"Not quite so," said I. "The lance of the picador is to keep the bull +from goring the horse." + +"Then are horses rarely gored?" asked John Harned. + +"No," said Luis Cervallos. "I have seen, at Seville, eighteen horses +killed in one day, and the people clamored for more horses." + +"Were they blindfolded like this horse?" asked John Harned. + +"Yes," said Luis Cervallos. + +After that we talked no more, but watched the fight. And John Harned was +going mad all the time, and we did not know. The bull refused to charge +the horse. And the horse stood still, and because it could not see it +did not know that the capadors were trying to make the bull charge upon +it. The capadors teased the bull their capes, and when it charged them +they ran toward the horse and into their shelters. At last the bull was +angry, and it saw the horse before it. + +"The horse does not know, the horse does not know," John Harned +whispered to himself, unaware that he voiced his thought aloud. + +The bull charged, and of course the horse knew nothing till the picador +failed and the horse found himself impaled on the bull's horns from +beneath. The bull was magnificently strong. The sight of its strength +was splendid to see. It lifted the horse clear into the air; and as the +horse fell to its side on on the ground the picador landed on his feet +and escaped, while the capadors lured the bull away. The horse was +emptied of its essential organs. Yet did it rise to its feet screaming. +It was the scream of the horse that did it, that made John Harned +completely mad; for he, too, started to rise to his feet, I heard +him curse low and deep. He never took his eyes from the horse, which, +screaming, strove to run, but fell down instead and rolled on its back +so that all its four legs were kicking in the air. Then the bull charged +it and gored it again and again until it was dead. + +John Harned was now on his feet. His eyes were no longer cold like +steel. They were blue flames. He looked at Maria Valenzuela, and she +looked at him, and in his face was a great loathing. The moment of his +madness was upon him. Everybody was looking, now that the horse was +dead; and John Harned was a large man and easy to be seen. + +"Sit down," said Luis Cervallos, "or you will make a fool of yourself." + +John Harned replied nothing. He struck out his fist. He smote Luis +Cervallos in the face so that he fell like a dead man across the chairs +and did not rise again. He saw nothing of what followed. But I saw much. +Urcisino Castillo, leaning forward from the next box, with his cane +struck John Harned full across the face. And John Harned smote him with +his fist so that in falling he overthrew General Salazar. John Harned +was now in what-you-call Berserker rage--no? The beast primitive in him +was loose and roaring--the beast primitive of the holes and caves of the +long ago. + +"You came for a bull-fight," I heard him say, "And by God I'll show you +a man-fight!" + +It was a fight. The soldiers guarding the Presidente's box leaped +across, but from one of them he took a rifle and beat them on their +heads with it. From the other box Colonel Jacinto Fierro was shooting at +him with a revolver. The first shot killed a soldier. This I know for +a fact. I saw it. But the second shot struck John Harned in the side. +Whereupon he swore, and with a lunge drove the bayonet of his rifle into +Colonel Jacinto Fierro's body. It was horrible to behold. The Americans +and the English are a brutal race. They sneer at our bull-fighting, yet +do they delight in the shedding of blood. More men were killed that day +because of John Harned than were ever killed in all the history of the +bull-ring of Quito, yes, and of Guayaquil and all Ecuador. + +It was the scream of the horse that did it, yet why did not John Harned +go mad when the bull was killed? A beast is a beast, be it bull or +horse. John Harned was mad. There is no other explanation. He was +blood-mad, a beast himself. I leave it to your judgment. Which is +worse--the goring of the horse by the bull, or the goring of Colonel +Jacinto Fierro by the bayonet in the hands of John Harned! And John +Harned gored others with that bayonet. He was full of devils. He fought +with many bullets in him, and he was hard to kill. And Maria Valenzuela +was a brave woman. Unlike the other women, she did not cry out nor +faint. She sat still in her box, gazing out across the bull-ring. Her +face was white and she fanned herself, but she never looked around. + +From all sides came the soldiers and officers and the common people +bravely to subdue the mad Gringo. It is true--the cry went up from +the crowd to kill all the Gringos. It is an old cry in Latin-American +countries, what of the dislike for the Gringos and their uncouth ways. +It is true, the cry went up. But the brave Ecuadorianos killed only +John Harned, and first he killed seven of them. Besides, there were many +hurt. I have seen many bull-fights, but never have I seen anything so +abominable as the scene in the boxes when the fight was over. It was +like a field of battle. The dead lay around everywhere, while the +wounded sobbed and groaned and some of them died. One man, whom John +Harned had thrust through the belly with the bayonet, clutched at +himself with both his hands and screamed. I tell you for a fact it was +more terrible than the screaming of a thousand horses. + +No, Maria Valenzuela did not marry Luis Cervallos. I am sorry for that. +He was my friend, and much of my money was invested in his ventures. It +was five weeks before the surgeons took the bandages from his face. And +there is a scar there to this day, on the cheek, under the eye. Yet +John Harned struck him but once and struck him only with his naked +fist. Maria Valenzuela is in Austria now. It is said she is to marry an +Arch-Duke or some high nobleman. I do not know. I think she liked John +Harned before he followed her to Quito to see the bull-fight. But why +the horse? That is what I desire to know. Why should he watch the bull +and say that it did not count, and then go immediately and most horribly +mad because a horse screamed? There is no understanding the Gringos. +They are barbarians. + + + + +WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG + +HE was a very quiet, self-possessed sort of man, sitting a moment on top +of the wall to sound the damp darkness for warnings of the dangers it +might conceal. But the plummet of his hearing brought nothing to him +save the moaning of wind through invisible trees and the rustling of +leaves on swaying branches. A heavy fog drifted and drove before the +wind, and though he could not see this fog, the wet of it blew upon his +face, and the wall on which he sat was wet. + +Without noise he had climbed to the top of the wall from the outside, +and without noise he dropped to the ground on the inside. From his +pocket he drew an electric night-stick, but he did not use it. Dark as +the way was, he was not anxious for light. Carrying the night-stick in +his hand, his finger on the button, he advanced through the darkness. +The ground was velvety and springy to his feet, being carpeted with dead +pine-needles and leaves and mold which evidently had been undisturbed +for years. Leaves and branches brushed against his body, but so dark was +it that he could not avoid them. Soon he walked with his hand stretched +out gropingly before him, and more than once the hand fetched up against +the solid trunks of massive trees. All about him he knew were these +trees; he sensed the loom of them everywhere; and he experienced a +strange feeling of microscopic smallness in the midst of great bulks +leaning toward him to crush him. Beyond, he knew, was the house, and he +expected to find some trail or winding path that would lead easily to +it. + +Once, he found himself trapped. On every side he groped against trees +and branches, or blundered into thickets of underbrush, until there +seemed no way out. Then he turned on his light, circumspectly, directing +its rays to the ground at his feet. Slowly and carefully he moved +it about him, the white brightness showing in sharp detail all the +obstacles to his progress. He saw, an opening between huge-trunked +trees, and advanced through it, putting out the light and treading +on dry footing as yet protected from the drip of the fog by the dense +foliage overhead. His sense of direction was good, and he knew he was +going toward the house. + +And then the thing happened--the thing unthinkable and unexpected. His +descending foot came down upon something that was soft and alive, and +that arose with a snort under the weight of his body. He sprang clear, +and crouched for another spring, anywhere, tense and expectant, keyed +for the onslaught of the unknown. He waited a moment, wondering what +manner of animal it was that had arisen from under his foot and that now +made no sound nor movement and that must be crouching and waiting just +as tensely and expectantly as he. The strain became unbearable. Holding +the night-stick before him, he pressed the button, saw, and screamed +aloud in terror. He was prepared for anything, from a frightened calf or +fawn to a belligerent lion, but he was not prepared for what he saw. In +that instant his tiny searchlight, sharp and white, had shown him what a +thousand years would not enable him to forget--a man, huge and blond, +yellow-haired and yellow-bearded, naked except for soft-tanned moccasins +and what seemed a goat-skin about his middle. Arms and legs were bare, +as were his shoulders and most of his chest. The skin was smooth and +hairless, but browned by sun and wind, while under it heavy muscles were +knotted like fat snakes. Still, this alone, unexpected as it well was, +was not what had made the man scream out. What had caused his terror was +the unspeakable ferocity of the face, the wild-animal glare of the blue +eyes scarcely dazzled by the light, the pine-needles matted and clinging +in the beard and hair, and the whole formidable body crouched and in the +act of springing at him. Practically in the instant he saw all this, and +while his scream still rang, the thing leaped, he flung his night-stick +full at it, and threw himself to the ground. He felt its feet and shins +strike against his ribs, and he bounded up and away while the thing +itself hurled onward in a heavy crashing fall into the underbrush. + +As the noise of the fall ceased, the man stopped and on hands and knees +waited. He could hear the thing moving about, searching for him, and he +was afraid to advertise his location by attempting further flight. He +knew that inevitably he would crackle the underbrush and be pursued. +Once he drew out his revolver, then changed his mind. He had recovered +his composure and hoped to get away without noise. Several times he +heard the thing beating up the thickets for him, and there were moments +when it, too, remained still and listened. This gave an idea to the man. +One of his hands was resting on a chunk of dead wood. Carefully, first +feeling about him in the darkness to know that the full swing of his arm +was clear, he raised the chunk of wood and threw it. It was not a large +piece, and it went far, landing noisily in a bush. He heard the thing +bound into the bush, and at the same time himself crawled steadily away. +And on hands and knees, slowly and cautiously, he crawled on, till his +knees were wet on the soggy mold, When he listened he heard naught but +the moaning wind and the drip-drip of the fog from the branches. Never +abating his caution, he stood erect and went on to the stone wall, over +which he climbed and dropped down to the road outside. + +Feeling his way in a clump of bushes, he drew out a bicycle and prepared +to mount. He was in the act of driving the gear around with his foot for +the purpose of getting the opposite pedal in position, when he heard the +thud of a heavy body that landed lightly and evidently on its feet. +He did not wait for more, but ran, with hands on the handles of his +bicycle, until he was able to vault astride the saddle, catch the +pedals, and start a spurt. Behind he could hear the quick thud-thud +of feet on the dust of the road, but he drew away from it and lost it. +Unfortunately, he had started away from the direction of town and was +heading higher up into the hills. He knew that on this particular road +there were no cross roads. The only way back was past that terror, +and he could not steel himself to face it. At the end of half an hour, +finding himself on an ever increasing grade, he dismounted. For still +greater safety, leaving the wheel by the roadside, he climbed through a +fence into what he decided was a hillside pasture, spread a newspaper on +the ground, and sat down. + +"Gosh!" he said aloud, mopping the sweat and fog from his face. + +And "Gosh!" he said once again, while rolling a cigarette and as he +pondered the problem of getting back. + +But he made no attempt to go back. He was resolved not to face that +road in the dark, and with head bowed on knees, he dozed, waiting for +daylight. + +How long afterward he did not know, he was awakened by the yapping bark +of a young coyote. As he looked about and located it on the brow of the +hill behind him, he noted the change that had come over the face of the +night. The fog was gone; the stars and moon were out; even the wind had +died down. It had transformed into a balmy California summer night. +He tried to doze again, but the yap of the coyote disturbed him. Half +asleep, he heard a wild and eery chant. Looking about him, he noticed +that the coyote had ceased its noise and was running away along the +crest of the hill, and behind it, in full pursuit, no longer chanting, +ran the naked creature he had encountered in the garden. It was a young +coyote, and it was being overtaken when the chase passed from view. The +man trembled as with a chill as he started to his feet, clambered over +the fence, and mounted his wheel. But it was his chance and he knew it. +The terror was no longer between him and Mill Valley. + +He sped at a breakneck rate down the hill, but in the turn at the +bottom, in the deep shadows, he encountered a chuck-hole and pitched +headlong over the handle bar. + +"It's sure not my night," he muttered, as he examined the broken fork of +the machine. + +Shouldering the useless wheel, he trudged on. In time he came to the +stone wall, and, half disbelieving his experience, he sought in the road +for tracks, and found them--moccasin tracks, large ones, deep-bitten +into the dust at the toes. It was while bending over them, examining, +that again he heard the eery chant. He had seen the thing pursue the +coyote, and he knew he had no chance on a straight run. He did not +attempt it, contenting himself with hiding in the shadows on the off +side of the road. + +And again he saw the thing that was like a naked man, running swiftly +and lightly and singing as it ran. Opposite him it paused, and his heart +stood still. But instead of coming toward his hiding-place, it leaped +into the air, caught the branch of a roadside tree, and swung swiftly +upward, from limb to limb, like an ape. It swung across the wall, and a +dozen feet above the top, into the branches of another tree, and dropped +out of sight to the ground. The man waited a few wondering minutes, then +started on. + +II + +Dave Slotter leaned belligerently against the desk that barred the way +to the private office of James Ward, senior partner of the firm of Ward, +Knowles & Co. Dave was angry. Every one in the outer office had looked +him over suspiciously, and the man who faced him was excessively +suspicious. + +"You just tell Mr. Ward it's important," he urged. + +"I tell you he is dictating and cannot be disturbed," was the answer. +"Come to-morrow." + +"To-morrow will be too late. You just trot along and tell Mr. Ward it's +a matter of life and death." + +The secretary hesitated and Dave seized the advantage. + +"You just tell him I was across the bay in Mill Valley last night, and +that I want to put him wise to something." + +"What name?" was the query. + +"Never mind the name. He don't know me." + +When Dave was shown into the private office, he was still in the +belligerent frame of mind, but when he saw a large fair man whirl in +a revolving chair from dictating to a stenographer to face him, Dave's +demeanor abruptly changed. He did not know why it changed, and he was +secretly angry with himself. + +"You are Mr. Ward?" Dave asked with a fatuousness that still further +irritated him. He had never intended it at all. + +"Yes," came the answer. + +"And who are you?" + +"Harry Bancroft," Dave lied. "You don't know me, and my name don't +matter." + +"You sent in word that you were in Mill Valley last night?" + +"You live there, don't you?" Dave countered, looking suspiciously at the +stenographer. + +"Yes. What do you mean to see me about? I am very busy." + +"I'd like to see you alone, sir." + +Mr. Ward gave him a quick, penetrating look, hesitated, then made up his +mind. + +"That will do for a few minutes, Miss Potter." + +The girl arose, gathered her notes together, and passed out. Dave looked +at Mr. James Ward wonderingly, until that gentleman broke his train of +inchoate thought. + +"Well?" + +"I was over in Mill Valley last night," Dave began confusedly. + +"I've heard that before. What do you want?" + +And Dave proceeded in the face of a growing conviction that was +unbelievable. "I was at your house, or in the grounds, I mean." + +"What were you doing there?" + +"I came to break in," Dave answered in all frankness. + +"I heard you lived all alone with a Chinaman for cook, and it looked +good to me. Only I didn't break in. Something happened that prevented. +That's why I'm here. I come to warn you. I found a wild man loose in +your grounds--a regular devil. He could pull a guy like me to pieces. +He gave me the run of my life. He don't wear any clothes to speak of, he +climbs trees like a monkey, and he runs like a deer. I saw him chasing a +coyote, and the last I saw of it, by God, he was gaining on it." + +Dave paused and looked for the effect that would follow his words. But +no effect came. James Ward was quietly curious, and that was all. + +"Very remarkable, very remarkable," he murmured. "A wild man, you say. +Why have you come to tell me?" + +"To warn you of your danger. I'm something of a hard proposition myself, +but I don't believe in killing people... that is, unnecessarily. I +realized that you was in danger. I thought I'd warn you. Honest, that's +the game. Of course, if you wanted to give me anything for my trouble, +I'd take it. That was in my mind, too. But I don't care whether you give +me anything or not. I've warned you any way, and done my duty." + +Mr. Ward meditated and drummed on the surface of his desk. Dave noticed +they were large, powerful hands, withal well-cared for despite their +dark sunburn. Also, he noted what had already caught his eye before--a +tiny strip of flesh-colored courtplaster on the forehead over one eye. +And still the thought that forced itself into his mind was unbelievable. + +Mr. Ward took a wallet from his inside coat pocket, drew out a +greenback, and passed it to Dave, who noted as he pocketed it that it +was for twenty dollars. + +"Thank you," said Mr. Ward, indicating that the interview was at an end. + +"I shall have the matter investigated. A wild man running loose IS +dangerous." + +But so quiet a man was Mr. Ward, that Dave's courage returned. Besides, +a new theory had suggested itself. The wild man was evidently Mr. Ward's +brother, a lunatic privately confined. Dave had heard of such things. +Perhaps Mr. Ward wanted it kept quiet. That was why he had given him the +twenty dollars. + +"Say," Dave began, "now I come to think of it that wild man looked a lot +like you--" + +That was as far as Dave got, for at that moment he witnessed a +transformation and found himself gazing into the same unspeakably +ferocious blue eyes of the night before, at the same clutching +talon-like hands, and at the same formidable bulk in the act of +springing upon him. But this time Dave had no night-stick to throw, and +he was caught by the biceps of both arms in a grip so terrific that it +made him groan with pain. He saw the large white teeth exposed, for all +the world as a dog's about to bite. Mr. Ward's beard brushed his face +as the teeth went in for the grip on his throat. But the bite was not +given. Instead, Dave felt the other's body stiffen as with an iron +restraint, and then he was flung aside, without effort but with such +force that only the wall stopped his momentum and dropped him gasping to +the floor. + +"What do you mean by coming here and trying to blackmail me?" Mr. Ward +was snarling at him. "Here, give me back that money." + +Dave passed the bill back without a word. + +"I thought you came here with good intentions. I know you now. Let me +see and hear no more of you, or I'll put you in prison where you belong. +Do you understand?" + +"Yes, sir," Dave gasped. + +"Then go." + +And Dave went, without further word, both his biceps aching intolerably +from the bruise of that tremendous grip. As his hand rested on the door +knob, he was stopped. + +"You were lucky," Mr. Ward was saying, and Dave noted that his face and +eyes were cruel and gloating and proud. + +"You were lucky. Had I wanted, I could have torn your muscles out of +your arms and thrown them in the waste basket there." + +"Yes, sir," said Dave; and absolute conviction vibrated in his voice. + +He opened the door and passed out. The secretary looked at him +interrogatively. + +"Gosh!" was all Dave vouchsafed, and with this utterance passed out of +the offices and the story. + +III + +James G. Ward was forty years of age, a successful business man, and +very unhappy. For forty years he had vainly tried to solve a problem +that was really himself and that with increasing years became more +and more a woeful affliction. In himself he was two men, and, +chronologically speaking, these men were several thousand years or so +apart. He had studied the question of dual personality probably more +profoundly than any half dozen of the leading specialists in that +intricate and mysterious psychological field. In himself he was a +different case from any that had been recorded. Even the most fanciful +flights of the fiction-writers had not quite hit upon him. He was not +a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, nor was he like the unfortunate young man in +Kipling's "Greatest Story in the World." His two personalities were so +mixed that they were practically aware of themselves and of each other +all the time. + +His other self he had located as a savage and a barbarian living under +the primitive conditions of several thousand years before. But which +self was he, and which was the other, he could never tell. For he was +both selves, and both selves all the time. Very rarely indeed did it +happen that one self did not know what the other was doing. Another +thing was that he had no visions nor memories of the past in which that +early self had lived. That early self lived in the present; but while +it lived in the present, it was under the compulsion to live the way of +life that must have been in that distant past. + +In his childhood he had been a problem to his father and mother, and to +the family doctors, though never had they come within a thousand miles +of hitting upon the clue to his erratic, conduct. Thus, they could not +understand his excessive somnolence in the forenoon, nor his excessive +activity at night. When they found him wandering along the hallways +at night, or climbing over giddy roofs, or running in the hills, they +decided he was a somnambulist. In reality he was wide-eyed awake and +merely under the nightroaming compulsion of his early self. Questioned +by an obtuse medico, he once told the truth and suffered the ignominy of +having the revelation contemptuously labeled and dismissed as "dreams." + +The point was, that as twilight and evening came on he became wakeful. +The four walls of a room were an irk and a restraint. He heard a +thousand voices whispering to him through the darkness. The night +called to him, for he was, for that period of the twenty-four hours, +essentially a night-prowler. But nobody understood, and never again did +he attempt to explain. They classified him as a sleep-walker and took +precautions accordingly--precautions that very often were futile. As his +childhood advanced, he grew more cunning, so that the major portion of +all his nights were spent in the open at realizing his other self. As +a result, he slept in the forenoons. Morning studies and schools were +impossible, and it was discovered that only in the afternoons, under +private teachers, could he be taught anything. Thus was his modern self +educated and developed. + +But a problem, as a child, he ever remained. He was known as a little +demon, of insensate cruelty and viciousness. The family medicos +privately adjudged him a mental monstrosity and degenerate. Such few +boy companions as he had, hailed him as a wonder, though they were all +afraid of him. He could outclimb, outswim, outrun, outdevil any of +them; while none dared fight with him. He was too terribly strong, madly +furious. + +When nine years of age he ran away to the hills, where he flourished, +night-prowling, for seven weeks before he was discovered and brought +home. The marvel was how he had managed to subsist and keep in condition +during that time. They did not know, and he never told them, of the +rabbits he had killed, of the quail, young and old, he had captured +and devoured, of the farmers' chicken-roosts he had raided, nor of the +cave-lair he had made and carpeted with dry leaves and grasses and in +which he had slept in warmth and comfort through the forenoons of many +days. + +At college he was notorious for his sleepiness and stupidity during the +morning lectures and for his brilliance in the afternoon. By collateral +reading and by borrowing the notebook of his fellow students he managed +to scrape through the detestable morning courses, while his afternoon +courses were triumphs. In football he proved a giant and a terror, and, +in almost every form of track athletics, save for strange Berserker +rages that were sometimes displayed, he could be depended upon to win. +But his fellows were afraid to box with him, and he signalized his last +wrestling bout by sinking his teeth into the shoulder of his opponent. + +After college, his father, in despair, sent him among the cow-punchers +of a Wyoming ranch. Three months later the doughty cowmen confessed he +was too much for them and telegraphed his father to come and take the +wild man away. Also, when the father arrived to take him away, the +cowmen allowed that they would vastly prefer chumming with howling +cannibals, gibbering lunatics, cavorting gorillas, grizzly bears, and +man-eating tigers than with this particular Young college product with +hair parted in the middle. + +There was one exception to the lack of memory of the life of his early +self, and that was language. By some quirk of atavism, a certain portion +of that early self's language had come down to him as a racial memory. +In moments of happiness, exaltation, or battle, he was prone to burst +out in wild barbaric songs or chants. It was by this means that he +located in time and space that strayed half of him who should have been +dead and dust for thousands of years. He sang, once, and deliberately, +several of the ancient chants in the presence of Professor Wertz, who +gave courses in old Saxon and who was a philogist of repute and passion. +At the first one, the professor pricked up his ears and demanded to +know what mongrel tongue or hog-German it was. When the second chant was +rendered, the professor was highly excited. James Ward then concluded +the performance by giving a song that always irresistibly rushed to his +lips when he was engaged in fierce struggling or fighting. Then it was +that Professor Wertz proclaimed it no hog-German, but early German, or +early Teuton, of a date that must far precede anything that had ever +been discovered and handed down by the scholars. So early was it that +it was beyond him; yet it was filled with haunting reminiscences of +word-forms he knew and which his trained intuition told him were true +and real. He demanded the source of the songs, and asked to borrow the +precious book that contained them. Also, he demanded to know why +young Ward had always posed as being profoundly ignorant of the German +language. And Ward could neither explain his ignorance nor lend the +book. Whereupon, after pleadings and entreaties that extended through +weeks, Professor Wert took a dislike to the young man, believed him +a liar, and classified him as a man of monstrous selfishness for not +giving him a glimpse of this wonderful screed that was older than the +oldest any philologist had ever known or dreamed. + +But little good did it do this much-mixed young man to know that half of +him was late American and the other half early Teuton. Nevertheless, the +late American in him was no weakling, and he (if he were a he and had +a shred of existence outside of these two) compelled an adjustment or +compromise between his one self that was a nightprowling savage that +kept his other self sleepy of mornings, and that other self that was +cultured and refined and that wanted to be normal and live and love and +prosecute business like other people. The afternoons and early evenings +he gave to the one, the nights to the other; the forenoons and parts of +the nights were devoted to sleep for the twain. But in the mornings he +slept in bed like a civilized man. In the night time he slept like a +wild animal, as he had slept Dave Slotter stepped on him in the woods. + +Persuading his father to advance the capital, he went into business +and keen and successful business he made of it, devoting his afternoons +whole-souled to it, while his partner devoted the mornings. The early +evenings he spent socially, but, as the hour grew to nine or ten, an +irresistible restlessness overcame him and he disappeared from the +haunts of men until the next afternoon. Friends and acquaintances +thought that he spent much of his time in sport. And they were right, +though they never would have dreamed of the nature of the sport, even if +they had seen him running coyotes in night-chases over the hills of Mill +Valley. Neither were the schooner captains believed when they reported +seeing, on cold winter mornings, a man swimming in the tide-rips of +Raccoon Straits or in the swift currents between Goat island and Angel +Island miles from shore. + +In the bungalow at Mill Valley he lived alone, save for Lee Sing, the +Chinese cook and factotum, who knew much about the strangeness of his +master, who was paid well for saying nothing, and who never did say +anything. After the satisfaction of his nights, a morning's sleep, and a +breakfast of Lee Sing's, James Ward crossed the bay to San Francisco on +a midday ferryboat and went to the club and on to his office, as normal +and conventional a man of business as could be found in the city. But as +the evening lengthened, the night called to him. There came a quickening +of all his perceptions and a restlessness. His hearing was suddenly +acute; the myriad night-noises told him a luring and familiar story; +and, if alone, he would begin to pace up and down the narrow room like +any caged animal from the wild. + +Once, he ventured to fall in love. He never permitted himself that +diversion again. He was afraid. And for many a day the young lady, +scared at least out of a portion of her young ladyhood, bore on her +arms and shoulders and wrists divers black-and-blue bruises--tokens of +caresses which he had bestowed in all fond gentleness but too late +at night. There was the mistake. Had he ventured love-making in the +afternoon, all would have been well, for it would have been as the quiet +gentleman that he would have made love--but at night it was the uncouth, +wife-stealing savage of the dark German forests. Out of his wisdom, he +decided that afternoon love-making could be prosecuted successfully; but +out of the same wisdom he was convinced that marriage as would prove +a ghastly failure. He found it appalling to imagine being married and +encountering his wife after dark. + +So he had eschewed all love-making, regulated his dual life, cleaned up +a million in business, fought shy of match-making mamas and bright-eyed +and eager young ladies of various ages, met Lilian Gersdale and made +it a rigid observance never to see her later than eight o'clock in the +evening, run of nights after his coyotes, and slept in forest lairs--and +through it all had kept his secret safe save Lee Sing... and now, +Dave Slotter. It was the latter's discovery of both his selves that +frightened him. In spite of the counter fright he had given the burglar, +the latter might talk. And even if he did not, sooner or later he would +be found out by some one else. + +Thus it was that James Ward made a fresh and heroic effort to control +the Teutonic barbarian that was half of him. So well did he make it +a point to see Lilian in the afternoons, that the time came when +she accepted him for better or worse, and when he prayed privily and +fervently that it was not for worse. During this period no prize-fighter +ever trained more harshly and faithfully for a contest than he trained +to subdue the wild savage in him. Among other things, he strove to +exhaust himself during the day, so that sleep would render him deaf to +the call of the night. He took a vacation from the office and went on +long hunting trips, following the deer through the most inaccessible and +rugged country he could find--and always in the daytime. Night found him +indoors and tired. At home he installed a score of exercise machines, +and where other men might go through a particular movement ten times, he +went hundreds. Also, as a compromise, he built a sleeping porch on the +second story. Here he at least breathed the blessed night air. Double +screens prevented him from escaping into the woods, and each night Lee +Sing locked him in and each morning let him out. + +The time came, in the month of August, when he engaged additional +servants to assist Lee Sing and dared a house party in his Mill Valley +bungalow. Lilian, her mother and brother, and half a dozen mutual +friends, were the guests. For two days and nights all went well. And on +the third night, playing bridge till eleven o'clock, he had reason to be +proud of himself. His restlessness fully hid, but as luck would have it, +Lilian Gersdale was his opponent on his right. She was a frail delicate +flower of a woman, and in his night-mood her very frailty incensed +him. Not that he loved her less, but that he felt almost irresistibly +impelled to reach out and paw and maul her. Especially was this true +when she was engaged in playing a winning hand against him. + +He had one of the deer-hounds brought in and, when it seemed he must fly +to pieces with the tension, a caressing hand laid on the animal brought +him relief. These contacts with the hairy coat gave him instant easement +and enabled him to play out the evening. Nor did anyone guess the +while terrible struggle their host was making, the while he laughed so +carelessly and played so keenly and deliberately. + +When they separated for the night, he saw to it that he parted from +Lilian in the presence or the others. Once on his sleeping porch +and safely locked in, he doubled and tripled and even quadrupled his +exercises until, exhausted, he lay down on the couch to woo sleep and to +ponder two problems that especially troubled him. One was this matter +of exercise. It was a paradox. The more he exercised in this excessive +fashion, the stronger he became. While it was true that he thus quite +tired out his night-running Teutonic self, it seemed that he was merely +setting back the fatal day when his strength would be too much for him +and overpower him, and then it would be a strength more terrible than +he had yet known. The other problem was that of his marriage and of the +stratagems he must employ in order to avoid his wife after dark. And +thus, fruitlessly pondering, he fell asleep. + +Now, where the huge grizzly bear came from that night was long a +mystery, while the people of the Springs Brothers' Circus, showing at +Sausalito, searched long and vainly for "Big Ben, the Biggest Grizzly +in Captivity." But Big Ben escaped, and, out of the mazes of half a +thousand bungalows and country estates, selected the grounds of James J. +Ward for visitation. The self first Mr. Ward knew was when he found him +on his feet, quivering and tense, a surge of battle in his breast and +on his lips the old war-chant. From without came a wild baying and +bellowing of the hounds. And sharp as a knife-thrust through the +pandemonium came the agony of a stricken dog--his dog, he knew. + +Not stopping for slippers, pajama-clad, he burst through the door Lee +Sing had so carefully locked, and sped down the stairs and out into +the night. As his naked feet struck the graveled driveway, he stopped +abruptly, reached under the steps to a hiding-place he knew well, and +pulled forth a huge knotty club--his old companion on many a mad night +adventure on the hills. The frantic hullabaloo of the dogs was coming +nearer, and, swinging the club, he sprang straight into the thickets to +meet it. + +The aroused household assembled on the wide veranda. Somebody turned +on the electric lights, but they could see nothing but one another's +frightened faces. Beyond the brightly illuminated driveway the trees +formed a wall of impenetrable blackness. Yet somewhere in that blackness +a terrible struggle was going on. There was an infernal outcry of +animals, a great snarling and growling, the sound of blows being struck +and a smashing and crashing of underbrush by heavy bodies. + +The tide of battle swept out from among the trees and upon the driveway +just beneath the onlookers. Then they saw. Mrs. Gersdale cried out +and clung fainting to her son. Lilian, clutching the railing so +spasmodically that a bruising hurt was left in her finger-ends for +days, gazed horror-stricken at a yellow-haired, wild-eyed giant whom she +recognized as the man who was to be her husband. He was swinging a great +club, and fighting furiously and calmly with a shaggy monster that was +bigger than any bear she had ever seen. One rip of the beast's claws had +dragged away Ward's pajama-coat and streaked his flesh with blood. + +While most of Lilian Gersdale's fright was for the man beloved, there +was a large portion of it due to the man himself. Never had she dreamed +so formidable and magnificent a savage lurked under the starched shirt +and conventional garb of her betrothed. And never had she had any +conception of how a man battled. Such a battle was certainly not modern; +nor was she there beholding a modern man, though she did not know it. +For this was not Mr. James J. Ward, the San Francisco business man, but +one, unnamed and unknown, a crude, rude savage creature who, by some +freak of chance, lived again after thrice a thousand years. + +The hounds, ever maintaining their mad uproar, circled about the fight, +or dashed in and out, distracting the bear. When the animal turned to +meet such flanking assaults, the man leaped in and the club came down. +Angered afresh by every such blow, the bear would rush, and the man, +leaping and skipping, avoiding the dogs, went backwards or circled +to one side or the other. Whereupon the dogs, taking advantage of the +opening, would again spring in and draw the animal's wrath to them. + +The end came suddenly. Whirling, the grizzly caught a hound with a +wide sweeping cuff that sent the brute, its ribs caved in and its back +broken, hurtling twenty feet. Then the human brute went mad. A foaming +rage flecked the lips that parted with a wild inarticulate cry, as it +sprang in, swung the club mightily in both hands, and brought it down +full on the head of the uprearing grizzly. Not even the skull of a +grizzly could withstand the crushing force of such a blow, and the +animal went down to meet the worrying of the hounds. And through their +scurrying leaped the man, squarely upon the body, where, in the white +electric light, resting on his club, he chanted a triumph in an unknown +tongue--a song so ancient that Professor Wertz would have given ten +years of his life for it. + +His guests rushed to possess him and acclaim him, but James Ward, +suddenly looking out of the eyes of the early Teuton, saw the fair frail +Twentieth Century girl he loved, and felt something snap in his brain. +He staggered weakly toward her, dropped the club, and nearly fell. +Something had gone wrong with him. Inside his brain was an intolerable +agony. It seemed as if the soul of him were flying asunder. Following +the excited gaze of the others, he glanced back and saw the carcass of +the bear. The sight filled him with fear. He uttered a cry and would +have fled, had they not restrained him and led him into the bungalow. + +***** + +James J. Ward is still at the head of the firm of Ward, Knowles & Co. +But he no longer lives in the country; nor does he run of nights after +the coyotes under the moon. The early Teuton in him died the night of +the Mill Valley fight with the bear. James J. Ward is now wholly +James J. Ward, and he shares no part of his being with any vagabond +anachronism from the younger world. And so wholly is James J. Ward +modern, that he knows in all its bitter fullness the curse of civilized +fear. He is now afraid of the dark, and night in the forest is to him a +thing of abysmal terror. His city house is of the spick and span order, +and he evinces a great interest in burglarproof devices. His home is +a tangle of electric wires, and after bed-time a guest can scarcely +breathe without setting off an alarm. Also, he had invented a +combination keyless door-lock that travelers may carry in their vest +pockets and apply immediately and successfully under all circumstances. +But his wife does not deem him a coward. She knows better. And, like +any hero, he is content to rest on his laurels. His bravery is never +questioned by those friends who are aware of the Mill Valley episode. + + + + +THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT + +CARTER WATSON, a current magazine under his arm, strolled slowly along, +gazing about him curiously. Twenty years had elapsed since he had been +on this particular street, and the changes were great and stupefying. +This Western city of three hundred thousand souls had contained but +thirty thousand, when, as a boy, he had been wont to ramble along +its streets. In those days the street he was now on had been a quiet +residence street in the respectable workingclass quarter. On this late +afternoon he found that it had been submerged by a vast and vicious +tenderloin. Chinese and Japanese shops and dens abounded, all confusedly +intermingled with low white resorts and boozing dens. This quiet street +of his youth had become the toughest quarter of the city. + +He looked at his watch. It was half-past five. It was the slack time of +the day in such a region, as he well knew, yet he was curious to see. In +all his score of years of wandering and studying social conditions over +the world, he had carried with him the memory of his old town as a sweet +and wholesome place. The metamorphosis he now beheld was startling. He +certainly must continue his stroll and glimpse the infamy to which his +town had descended. + +Another thing: Carter Watson had a keen social and civic consciousness. +Independently wealthy, he had been loath to dissipate his energies +in the pink teas and freak dinners of society, while actresses, +race-horses, and kindred diversions had left him cold. He had the +ethical bee in his bonnet and was a reformer of no mean pretension, +though his work had been mainly in the line of contributions to the +heavier reviews and quarterlies and to the publication over his name +of brightly, cleverly written books on the working classes and the +slum-dwellers. Among the twenty-seven to his credit occurred titles such +as, "If Christ Came to New Orleans," "The Worked-out Worker," "Tenement +Reform in Berlin," "The Rural Slums of England," "The people of the East +Side," "Reform Versus Revolution," "The University Settlement as a Hot +Bed of Radicalism" and "The Cave Man of Civilization." + +But Carter Watson was neither morbid nor fanatic. He did not lose his +head over the horrors he encountered, studied, and exposed. No hair +brained enthusiasm branded him. His humor saved him, as did his wide +experience and his conservative philosophic temperament. Nor did he +have any patience with lightning change reform theories. As he saw it, +society would grow better only through the painfully slow and arduously +painful processes of evolution. There were no short cuts, no sudden +regenerations. The betterment of mankind must be worked out in agony and +misery just as all past social betterments had been worked out. + +But on this late summer afternoon, Carter Watson was curious. As he +moved along he paused before a gaudy drinking place. The sign above +read, "The Vendome." There were two entrances. One evidently led to the +bar. This he did not explore. The other was a narrow hallway. +Passing through this he found himself in a huge room, filled with +chair-encircled tables and quite deserted. In the dim light he made out +a piano in the distance. Making a mental note that he would come back +some time and study the class of persons that must sit and drink at +those multitudinous tables, he proceeded to circumnavigate the room. + +Now, at the rear, a short hallway led off to a small kitchen, and here, +at a table, alone, sat Patsy Horan, proprietor of the Vendome, consuming +a hasty supper ere the evening rush of business. Also, Patsy Horan +was angry with the world. He had got out of the wrong side of bed that +morning, and nothing had gone right all day. Had his barkeepers been +asked, they would have described his mental condition as a grouch. But +Carter Watson did not know this. As he passed the little hallway, Patsy +Horan's sullen eyes lighted on the magazine he carried under his arm. +Patsy did not know Carter Watson, nor did he know that what he carried +under his arm was a magazine. Patsy, out of the depths of his grouch, +decided that this stranger was one of those pests who marred and scarred +the walls of his back rooms by tacking up or pasting up advertisements. +The color on the front cover of the magazine convinced him that it was +such an advertisement. Thus the trouble began. Knife and fork in hand, +Patsy leaped for Carter Watson. + +"Out wid yeh!" Patsy bellowed. "I know yer game!" + +Carter Watson was startled. The man had come upon him like the eruption +of a jack-in-the-box. + +"A defacin' me walls," cried Patsy, at the same time emitting a string +of vivid and vile, rather than virile, epithets of opprobrium. + +"If I have given any offense I did not mean to--" + +But that was as far as the visitor got. Patsy interrupted. + +"Get out wid yeh; yeh talk too much wid yer mouth," quoted Patsy, +emphasizing his remarks with flourishes of the knife and fork. + +Carter Watson caught a quick vision of that eating-fork inserted +uncomfortably between his ribs, knew that it would be rash to talk +further with his mouth, and promptly turned to go. The sight of his +meekly retreating back must have further enraged Patsy Horan, for that +worthy, dropping the table implements, sprang upon him. + +Patsy weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. So did Watson. In this they +were equal. But Patsy was a rushing, rough-and-tumble saloon-fighter, +while Watson was a boxer. In this the latter had the advantage, for +Patsy came in wide open, swinging his right in a perilous sweep. All +Watson had to do was to straight-left him and escape. But Watson had +another advantage. His boxing, and his experience in the slums and +ghettos of the world, had taught him restraint. + +He pivoted on his feet, and, instead of striking, ducked the other's +swinging blow and went into a clinch. But Patsy, charging like a bull, +had the momentum of his rush, while Watson, whirling to meet him, had no +momentum. As a result, the pair of them went down, with all their three +hundred and sixty pounds of weight, in a long crashing fall, Watson +underneath. He lay with his head touching the rear wall of the large +room. The street was a hundred and fifty feet away, and he did some +quick thinking. His first thought was to avoid trouble. He had no wish +to get into the papers of this, his childhood town, where many of his +relatives and family friends still lived. + +So it was that he locked his arms around the man on top of him, held him +close, and waited for the help to come that must come in response to the +crash of the fall. The help came--that is, six men ran in from the bar +and formed about in a semi-circle. + +"Take him off, fellows," Watson said. "I haven't struck him, and I don't +want any fight." + +But the semi-circle remained silent. Watson held on and waited. Patsy, +after various vain efforts to inflict damage, made an overture. + +"Leggo o' me an' I'll get off o' yeh," said he. + +Watson let go, but when Patsy scrambled to his feet he stood over his +recumbent foe, ready to strike. + +"Get up," Patsy commanded. + +His voice was stern and implacable, like the voice of God calling to +judgment, and Watson knew there was no mercy there. + +"Stand back and I'll get up," he countered. + +"If yer a gentleman, get up," quoth Patsy, his pale blue eyes aflame +with wrath, his fist ready for a crushing blow. + +At the same moment he drew his foot back to kick the other in the face. +Watson blocked the kick with his crossed arms and sprang to his feet so +quickly that he was in a clinch with his antagonist before the latter +could strike. Holding him, Watson spoke to the onlookers: + +"Take him away from me, fellows. You see I am not striking him. I don't +want to fight. I want to get out of here." + +The circle did not move nor speak. Its silence was ominous and sent a +chill to Watson's heart. + +Patsy made an effort to throw him, which culminated in his putting Patsy +on his back. Tearing loose from him, Watson sprang to his feet and made +for the door. But the circle of men was interposed a wall. He noticed +the white, pasty faces, the kind that never see the sun, and knew that +the men who barred his way were the nightprowlers and preying beasts +of the city jungle. By them he was thrust back upon the pursuing, +bull-rushing Patsy. + +Again it was a clinch, in which, in momentary safety, Watson appealed +to the gang. And again his words fell on deaf ears. Then it was that +he knew of many similar knew fear. For he had known of many similar +situations, in low dens like this, when solitary men were man-handled, +their ribs and features caved in, themselves beaten and kicked to death. +And he knew, further, that if he were to escape he must neither strike +his assailant nor any of the men who opposed him. + +Yet in him was righteous indignation. Under no circumstances could +seven to one be fair. Also, he was angry, and there stirred in him +the fighting beast that is in all men. But he remembered his wife and +children, his unfinished book, the ten thousand rolling acres of the +up-country ranch he loved so well. He even saw in flashing visions the +blue of the sky, the golden sun pouring down on his flower-spangled +meadows, the lazy cattle knee-deep in the brooks, and the flash of trout +in the riffles. Life was good-too good for him to risk it for a moment's +sway of the beast. In short, Carter Watson was cool and scared. + +His opponent, locked by his masterly clinch, was striving to throw him. +Again Watson put him on the floor, broke away, and was thrust back by +the pasty-faced circle to duck Patsy's swinging right and effect another +clinch. This happened many times. And Watson grew even cooler, while +the baffled Patsy, unable to inflict punishment, raged wildly and more +wildly. He took to batting with his head in the clinches. The first +time, he landed his forehead flush on Watson's nose. After that, the +latter, in the clinches, buried his face in Patsy's breast. But the +enraged Patsy batted on, striking his own eye and nose and cheek on the +top of the other's head. The more he was thus injured, the more and the +harder did Patsy bat. + +This one-sided contest continued for twelve or fifteen minutes. Watson +never struck a blow, and strove only to escape. Sometimes, in the free +moments, circling about among the tables as he tried to win the door, +the pasty-faced men gripped his coat-tails and flung him back at the +swinging right of the on-rushing Patsy. Time upon time, and times +without end, he clinched and put Patsy on his back, each time first +whirling him around and putting him down in the direction of the door +and gaining toward that goal by the length of the fall. + +In the end, hatless, disheveled, with streaming nose and one eye closed, +Watson won to the sidewalk and into the arms of a policeman. + +"Arrest that man," Watson panted. + +"Hello, Patsy," said the policeman. "What's the mix-up?" + +"Hello, Charley," was the answer. "This guy comes in--" + +"Arrest that man, officer," Watson repeated. + +"G'wan! Beat it!" said Patsy. + +"Beat it!" added the policeman. "If you don't, I'll pull you in." + +"Not unless you arrest that man. He has committed a violent and +unprovoked assault on me." + +"Is it so, Patsy?" was the officer's query. + +"Nah. Lemme tell you, Charley, an' I got the witnesses to prove it, so +help me God. I was settin' in me kitchen eatin' a bowl of soup, when +this guy comes in an' gets gay wid me. I never seen him in me born days +before. He was drunk--" + +"Look at me, officer," protested the indignant sociologist. "Am I +drunk?" + +The officer looked at him with sullen, menacing eyes and nodded to Patsy +to continue. + +"This guy gets gay wid me. 'I'm Tim McGrath,' says he, 'an' I can do the +like to you,' says he. 'Put up yer hands.' I smiles, an' wid that, biff +biff, he lands me twice an' spills me soup. Look at me eye. I'm fair +murdered." + +"What are you going to do, officer?" Watson demanded. + +"Go on, beat it," was the answer, "or I'll pull you sure." + +The civic righteousness of Carter Watson flamed up. + +"Mr. Officer, I protest--" + +But at that moment the policeman grabbed his arm with a savage jerk that +nearly overthrew him. + +"Come on, you're pulled." + +"Arrest him, too," Watson demanded. + +"Nix on that play," was the reply. + +"What did you assault him for, him a peacefully eatin' his soup?" + +II + +Carter Watson was genuinely angry. Not only had he been wantonly +assaulted, badly battered, and arrested, but the morning papers without +exception came out with lurid accounts of his drunken brawl with the +proprietor of the notorious Vendome. Not one accurate or truthful line +was published. Patsy Horan and his satellites described the battle in +detail. The one incontestable thing was that Carter Watson had been +drunk. Thrice he had been thrown out of the place and into the gutter, +and thrice he had come back, breathing blood and fire and announcing +that he was going to clean out the place. "EMINENT SOCIOLOGIST JAGGED +AND JUGGED," was the first head-line he read, on the front page, +accompanied by a large portrait of himself. Other headlines were: +"CARTER WATSON ASPIRED TO CHAMPIONSHIP HONORS"; "CARTER WATSON GETS +HIS"; "NOTED SOCIOLOGIST ATTEMPTS TO CLEAN OUT A TENDERLOIN CAFE"; and +"CARTER WATSON KNOCKED OUT BY PATSY HORAN IN THREE ROUNDS." + +At the police court, next morning, under bail, appeared Carter Watson +to answer the complaint of the People Versus Carter Watson, for +the latter's assault and battery on one Patsy Horan. But first, the +Prosecuting Attorney, who was paid to prosecute all offenders against +the People, drew him aside and talked with him privately. + +"Why not let it drop!" said the Prosecuting Attorney. "I tell you what +you do, Mr. Watson: Shake hands with Mr. Horan and make it up, and we'll +drop the case right here. A word to the Judge, and the case against you +will be dismissed." + +"But I don't want it dismissed," was the answer. "Your office being what +it is, you should be prosecuting me instead of asking me to make up with +this--this fellow." + +"Oh, I'll prosecute you all right," retorted the Prosecuting Attorney. + +"Also you will have to prosecute this Patsy Horan," Watson advised; "for +I shall now have him arrested for assault and battery." + +"You'd better shake and make up," the Prosecuting Attorney repeated, and +this time there was almost a threat in his voice. + +The trials of both men were set for a week later, on the same morning, +in Police Judge Witberg's court. + +"You have no chance," Watson was told by an old friend of his boyhood, +the retired manager of the biggest paper in the city. "Everybody knows +you were beaten up by this man. His reputation is most unsavory. But it +won't help you in the least. Both cases will be dismissed. This will be +because you are you. Any ordinary man would be convicted." + +"But I do not understand," objected the perplexed sociologist. "Without +warning I was attacked by this man; and badly beaten. I did not strike a +blow. I--" + +"That has nothing to do with it," the other cut him off. + +"Then what is there that has anything to do with it?" + +"I'll tell you. You are now up against the local police and political +machine. Who are you? You are not even a legal resident in this town. +You live up in the country. You haven't a vote of your own here. Much +less do you swing any votes. This dive proprietor swings a string of +votes in his precincts--a mighty long string." + +"Do you mean to tell me that this Judge Witberg will violate the +sacredness of his office and oath by letting this brute off?" Watson +demanded. + +"Watch him," was the grim reply. "Oh, he'll do it nicely enough. He will +give an extra-legal, extra-judicial decision, abounding in every word in +the dictionary that stands for fairness and right." + +"But there are the newspapers," Watson cried. + +"They are not fighting the administration at present. They'll give it to +you hard. You see what they have already done to you." + +"Then these snips of boys on the police detail won't write the truth?" + +"They will write something so near like the truth that the public will +believe it. They write their stories under instruction, you know. They +have their orders to twist and color, and there won't be much left of +you when they get done. Better drop the whole thing right now. You are +in bad." + +"But the trials are set." + +"Give the word and they'll drop them now. A man can't fight a machine +unless he has a machine behind him." + +III + +But Carter Watson was stubborn. He was convinced that the machine would +beat him, but all his days he had sought social experience, and this was +certainly something new. + +The morning of the trial the Prosecuting Attorney made another attempt +to patch up the affair. + +"If you feel that way, I should like to get a lawyer to prosecute the +case," said Watson. + +"No, you don't," said the Prosecuting Attorney. "I am paid by the People +to prosecute, and prosecute I will. But let me tell you. You have no +chance. We shall lump both cases into one, and you watch out." + +Judge Witberg looked good to Watson. A fairly young man, short, +comfortably stout, smooth-shaven and with an intelligent face, he seemed +a very nice man indeed. This good impression was added to by the smiling +lips and the wrinkles of laughter in the corners of his black eyes. +Looking at him and studying him, Watson felt almost sure that his old +friend's prognostication was wrong. + +But Watson was soon to learn. Patsy Horan and two of his satellites +testified to a most colossal aggregation of perjuries. Watson could not +have believed it possible without having experienced it. They denied +the existence of the other four men. And of the two that testified, one +claimed to have been in the kitchen, a witness to Watson's unprovoked +assault on Patsy, while the other, remaining in the bar, had witnessed +Watson's second and third rushes into the place as he attempted to +annihilate the unoffending Patsy. The vile language ascribed to Watson +was so voluminously and unspeakably vile, that he felt they were +injuring their own case. It was so impossible that he should utter such +things. But when they described the brutal blows he had rained on poor +Patsy's face, and the chair he demolished when he vainly attempted to +kick Patsy, Watson waxed secretly hilarious and at the same time sad. +The trial was a farce, but such lowness of life was depressing to +contemplate when he considered the long upward climb humanity must make. + +Watson could not recognize himself, nor could his worst enemy have +recognized him, in the swashbuckling, rough-housing picture that was +painted of him. But, as in all cases of complicated perjury, rifts and +contradictions in the various stories appeared. The Judge somehow failed +to notice them, while the Prosecuting Attorney and Patsy's attorney +shied off from them gracefully. Watson had not bothered to get a lawyer +for himself, and he was now glad that he had not. + +Still, he retained a semblance of faith in Judge Witberg when he went +himself on the stand and started to tell his story. + +"I was strolling casually along the street, your Honor," Watson began, +but was interrupted by the Judge. + +"We are not here to consider your previous actions," bellowed Judge +Witberg. "Who struck the first blow?" + +"Your Honor," Watson pleaded, "I have no witnesses of the actual fray, +and the truth of my story can only be brought out by telling the story +fully--" + +Again he was interrupted. + +"We do not care to publish any magazines here," Judge Witberg roared, +looking at him so fiercely and malevolently that Watson could scarcely +bring himself to believe that this was same man he had studied a few +minutes previously. + +"Who struck the first blow?" Patsy's attorney asked. + +The Prosecuting Attorney interposed, demanding to know which of the two +cases lumped together was, and by what right Patsy's lawyer, at that +stage of the proceedings, should take the witness. Patsy's attorney +fought back. Judge Witberg interfered, professing no knowledge of any +two cases being lumped together. All this had to be explained. Battle +royal raged, terminating in both attorneys apologizing to the Court and +to each other. And so it went, and to Watson it had the seeming of a +group of pickpockets ruffling and bustling an honest man as they took +his purse. The machine was working, that was all. + +"Why did you enter this place of unsavory reputations?" was asked him. + +"It has been my custom for many years, as a student of economics and +sociology, to acquaint myself--" + +But this was as far as Watson got. + +"We want none of your ologies here," snarled Judge Witberg. "It is a +plain question. Answer it plainly. Is it true or not true that you were +drunk? That is the gist of the question." + +When Watson attempted to tell how Patsy had injured his face in his +attempts to bat with his head, Watson was openly scouted and flouted, +and Judge Witberg again took him in hand. + +"Are you aware of the solemnity of the oath you took to testify to +nothing but the truth on this witness stand?" the Judge demanded. "This +is a fairy story you are telling. It is not reasonable that a man would +so injure himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft +and sensitive parts of his face against your head. You are a sensible +man. It is unreasonable, is it not?" + +"Men are unreasonable when they are angry," Watson answered meekly. + +Then it was that Judge Witberg was deeply outraged and righteously +wrathful. + +"What right have you to say that?" he cried. "It is gratuitous. It has +no bearing on the case. You are here as a witness, sir, of events that +have transpired. The Court does not wish to hear any expressions of +opinion from you at all." + +"I but answered your question, your Honor," Watson protested humbly. + +"You did nothing of the sort," was the next blast. "And let me warn you, +sir, let me warn you, that you are laying yourself liable to contempt by +such insolence. And I will have you know that we know how to observe the +law and the rules of courtesy down here in this little courtroom. I am +ashamed of you." + +And, while the next punctilious legal wrangle between the attorneys +interrupted his tale of what happened in the Vendome, Carter Watson, +without bitterness, amused and at the same time sad, saw rise before him +the machine, large and small, that dominated his country, the unpunished +and shameless grafts of a thousand cities perpetrated by the spidery +and vermin-like creatures of the machines. Here it was before him, a +courtroom and a judge, bowed down in subservience by the machine to a +dive-keeper who swung a string of votes. Petty and sordid as it was, it +was one face of the many-faced machine that loomed colossally, in every +city and state, in a thousand guises overshadowing the land. + +A familiar phrase rang in his ears: "It is to laugh." At the height of +the wrangle, he giggled, once, aloud, and earned a sullen frown from +Judge Witberg. Worse, a myriad times, he decided, were these bullying +lawyers and this bullying judge then the bucko mates in first quality +hell-ships, who not only did their own bullying but protected themselves +as well. These petty rapscallions, on the other hand, sought protection +behind the majesty of the law. They struck, but no one was permitted to +strike back, for behind them were the prison cells and the clubs of the +stupid policemen--paid and professional fighters and beaters-up of +men. Yet he was not bitter. The grossness and the sliminess of it was +forgotten in the simple grotesqueness of it, and he had the saving sense +of humor. + +Nevertheless, hectored and heckled though he was, he managed in the end +to give a simple, straightforward version of the affair, and, despite +a belligerent cross-examination, his story was not shaken in any +particular. Quite different it was from the perjuries that had shouted +aloud from the perjuries of Patsy and his two witnesses. + +Both Patsy's attorney and the Prosecuting Attorney rested their +cases, letting everything go before the Court without argument. Watson +protested against this, but was silenced when the Prosecuting Attorney +told him that Public Prosecutor and knew his business. + +"Patrick Horan has testified that he was in danger of his life and that +he was compelled to defend himself," Judge Witberg's verdict began. "Mr. +Watson has testified to the same thing. Each has sworn that the other +struck the first blow; each has sworn that the other made an unprovoked +assault on him. It is an axiom of the law that the defendant should +be given the benefit of the doubt. A very reasonable doubt exists. +Therefore, in the case of the People Versus Carter Watson the benefit +of the doubt is given to said Carter Watson and he is herewith ordered +discharged from custody. The same reasoning applies to the case of the +People Versus Patrick Horan. He is given the benefit of the doubt and +discharged from custody. My recommendation is that both defendants shake +hands and make up." + +In the afternoon papers the first headline that caught Watson's eye was: +"CARTER WATSON ACQUITTED." In the second paper it was: "CARTER WATSON +ESCAPES A FINE." But what capped everything was the one beginning: +"CARTER WATSON A GOOD FELLOW." In the text he read how Judge Witberg had +advised both fighters to shake hands, which they promptly did. Further, +he read: + +"'Let's have a nip on it,' said Patsy Horan. + +"'Sure,' said Carter Watson. + +"And, arm in arm, they ambled for the nearest saloon." + +IV + +Now, from the whole adventure, Watson carried away no bitterness. It was +a social experience of a new order, and it led to the writing of another +book, which he entitled, "POLICE COURT PROCEDURE: A Tentative Analysis." + +One summer morning a year later, on his ranch, he left his horse and +himself clambered on through a miniature canyon to inspect some rock +ferns he had planted the previous winter. Emerging from the upper end +of the canyon, he came out on one of his flower-spangled meadows, a +delightful isolated spot, screened from the world by low hills and +clumps of trees. And here he found a man, evidently on a stroll from the +summer hotel down at the little town a mile away. They met face to face +and the recognition was mutual. It was Judge Witberg. Also, it was +a clear case of trespass, for Watson had trespass signs upon his +boundaries, though he never enforced them. + +Judge Witberg held out his hand, which Watson refused to see. + +"Politics is a dirty trade, isn't it, Judge?" he remarked. "Oh, yes, +I see your hand, but I don't care to take it. The papers said I shook +hands with Patsy Horan after the trial. You know I did not, but let me +tell you that I'd a thousand times rather shake hands with him and his +vile following of curs, than with you." + +Judge Witberg was painfully flustered, and as he hemmed and hawed and +essayed to speak, Watson, looking at him, was struck by a sudden whim, +and he determined on a grim and facetious antic. + +"I should scarcely expect any animus from a man of your acquirements and +knowledge of the world," the Judge was saying. + +"Animus?" Watson replied. "Certainly not. I haven't such a thing in my +nature. And to prove it, let me show you something curious, something +you have never seen before." Casting about him, Watson picked up a rough +stone the size of his fist. "See this. Watch me." + +So saying, Carter Watson tapped himself a sharp blow on the cheek. The +stone laid the flesh open to the bone and the blood spurted forth. + +"The stone was too sharp," he announced to the astounded police judge, +who thought he had gone mad. + +"I must bruise it a trifle. There is nothing like being realistic in +such matters." + +Whereupon Carter Watson found a smooth stone and with it pounded his +cheek nicely several times. + +"Ah," he cooed. "That will turn beautifully green and black in a few +hours. It will be most convincing." + +"You are insane," Judge Witberg quavered. + +"Don't use such vile language to me," said Watson. "You see my bruised +and bleeding face? You did that, with that right hand of yours. You hit +me twice--biff, biff. It is a brutal and unprovoked assault. I am in +danger of my life. I must protect myself." + +Judge Witberg backed away in alarm before the menacing fists of the +other. + +"If you strike me I'll have you arrested," Judge Witberg threatened. + +"That is what I told Patsy," was the answer. "And do you know what he +did when I told him that?" + +"No." + +"That!" + +And at the same moment Watson's right fist landed flush on Judge +Witberg's nose, putting that legal gentleman over on his back on the +grass. + +"Get up!" commanded Watson. "If you are a gentleman, get up--that's what +Patsy told me, you know." + +Judge Witberg declined to rise, and was dragged to his feet by the +coat-collar, only to have one eye blacked and be put on his back again. +After that it was a red Indian massacre. Judge Witberg was humanely and +scientifically beaten up. His checks were boxed, his cars cuffed, and +his face was rubbed in the turf. And all the time Watson exposited +the way Patsy Horan had done it. Occasionally, and very carefully, the +facetious sociologist administered a real bruising blow. Once, dragging +the poor Judge to his feet, he deliberately bumped his own nose on the +gentleman's head. The nose promptly bled. + +"See that!" cried Watson, stepping back and deftly shedding his blood +all down his own shirt front. "You did it. With your fist you did it. It +is awful. I am fair murdered. I must again defend myself." + +And once more Judge Witberg impacted his features on a fist and was sent +to grass. + +"I will have you arrested," he sobbed as he lay. + +"That's what Patsy said." + +"A brutal---sniff, sniff,--and unprovoked--sniff, sniff--assault." + +"That's what Patsy said." + +"I will surely have you arrested." + +"Speaking slangily, not if I can beat you to it." + +And with that, Carter Watson departed down the canyon, mounted his +horse, and rode to town. + +An hour later, as Judge Witberg limped up the grounds to his hotel, he +was arrested by a village constable on a charge of assault and battery +preferred by Carter Watson. + +V + +"Your Honor," Watson said next day to the village Justice, a well to +do farmer and graduate, thirty years before, from a cow college, "since +this Sol Witberg has seen fit to charge me with battery, following upon +my charge of battery against him, I would suggest that both cases +be lumped together. The testimony and the facts are the same in both +cases." + +To this the Justice agreed, and the double case proceeded. Watson, as +prosecuting witness, first took the stand and told his story. + +"I was picking flowers," he testified. "Picking flowers on my own land, +never dreaming of danger. Suddenly this man rushed upon me from behind +the trees. 'I am the Dodo,' he says, 'and I can do you to a frazzle. +Put up your hands.' I smiled, but with that, biff, biff, he struck +me, knocking me down and spilling my flowers. The language he used was +frightful. It was an unprovoked and brutal assault. Look at my cheek. +Look at my nose--I could not understand it. He must have been drunk. +Before I recovered from my surprise he had administered this beating. +I was in danger of my life and was compelled to defend himself. That +is all, Your Honor, though I must say, in conclusion, that I cannot +get over my perplexity. Why did he say he was the Dodo? Why did he so +wantonly attack me?" + +And thus was Sol Witberg given a liberal education in the art of +perjury. Often, from his high seat, he had listened indulgently to +police court perjuries in cooked-up cases; but for the first time +perjury was directed against him, and he no longer sat above the court, +with the bailiffs, the Policemen's clubs, and the prison cells behind +him. + +"Your Honor," he cried, "never have I heard such a pack of lies told by +so bare-faced a liar--!" + +Watson here sprang to his feet. + +"Your Honor, I protest. It is for your Honor to decide truth or +falsehood. The witness is on the stand to testify to actual events that +have transpired. His personal opinion upon things in general, and upon +me, has no bearing on the case whatever." + +The Justice scratched his head and waxed phlegmatically indignant. + +"The point is well taken," he decided. "I am surprised at you, Mr. +Witberg, claiming to be a judge and skilled in the practice of the law, +and yet being guilty of such unlawyerlike conduct. Your manner, sir, and +your methods, remind me of a shyster. This is a simple case of assault +and battery. We are here to determine who struck the first blow, and we +are not interested in your estimates of Mr. Watson's personal character. +Proceed with your story." + +Sol Witberg would have bitten his bruised and swollen lip in chagrin, +had it not hurt so much. But he contained himself and told a simple, +straightforward, truthful story. + +"Your Honor," Watson said, "I would suggest that you ask him what he was +doing on my premises." + +"A very good question. What were you doing, sir, on Mr. Watson's +premises?" + +"I did not know they were his premises." + +"It was a trespass, your Honor," Watson cried. "The warnings are posted +conspicuously." + +"I saw no warnings," said Sol Witberg. + +"I have seen them myself," snapped the Justice. "They are very +conspicuous. And I would warn you, sir, that if you palter with +the truth in such little matters you may darken your more important +statements with suspicion. Why did you strike Mr. Watson?" + +"Your Honor, as I have testified, I did not strike a blow." + +The Justice looked at Carter Watson's bruised and swollen visage, and +turned to glare at Sol Witberg. + +"Look at that man's cheek!" he thundered. "If you did not strike a blow +how comes it that he is so disfigured and injured?" + +"As I testified--" + +"Be careful," the Justice warned. + +"I will be careful, sir. I will say nothing but the truth. He struck +himself with a rock. He struck himself with two different rocks." + +"Does it stand to reason that a man, any man not a lunatic, would so +injure himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft and +sensitive parts of his face with a stone?" Carter Watson demanded + +"It sounds like a fairy story," was the Justice's comment. + +"Mr. Witberg, had you been drinking?" + +"No, sir." + +"Do you never drink?" + +"On occasion." + +The Justice meditated on this answer with an air of astute profundity. + +Watson took advantage of the opportunity to wink at Sol Witberg, but +that much-abused gentleman saw nothing humorous in the situation. + +"A very peculiar case, a very peculiar case," the Justice announced, +as he began his verdict. "The evidence of the two parties is flatly +contradictory. There are no witnesses outside the two principals. Each +claims the other committed the assault, and I have no legal way of +determining the truth. But I have my private opinion, Mr. Witberg, and +I would recommend that henceforth you keep off of Mr. Watson's premises +and keep away from this section of the country--" + +"This is an outrage!" Sol Witberg blurted out. + +"Sit down, sir!" was the Justice's thundered command. "If you interrupt +the Court in this manner again, I shall fine you for contempt. And I +warn you I shall fine you heavily--you, a judge yourself, who should be +conversant with the courtesy and dignity of courts. I shall now give my +verdict: + +"It is a rule of law that the defendant shall be given the benefit of +the doubt. As I have said, and I repeat, there is no legal way for me +to determine who struck the first blow. Therefore, and much to my +regret,"--here he paused and glared at Sol Witberg--"in each of these +cases I am compelled to give the defendant the benefit of the doubt. +Gentlemen, you are both dismissed." + +"Let us have a nip on it," Watson said to Witberg, as they left the +courtroom; but that outraged person refused to lock arms and amble to +the nearest saloon. + + + + +WINGED BLACKMAIL + +PETER WINN lay back comfortably in a library chair, with closed eyes, +deep in the cogitation of a scheme of campaign destined in the near +future to make a certain coterie of hostile financiers sit up. The +central idea had come to him the night before, and he was now reveling +in the planning of the remoter, minor details. By obtaining control of a +certain up-country bank, two general stores, and several logging camps, +he could come into control of a certain dinky jerkwater line which shall +here be nameless, but which, in his hands, would prove the key to a +vastly larger situation involving more main-line mileage almost than +there were spikes in the aforesaid dinky jerkwater. It was so simple +that he had almost laughed aloud when it came to him. No wonder those +astute and ancient enemies of his had passed it by. + +The library door opened, and a slender, middle-aged man, weak-eyed and +eye glassed, entered. In his hands was an envelope and an open letter. +As Peter Winn's secretary it was his task to weed out, sort, and +classify his employer's mail. + +"This came in the morning post," he ventured apologetically and with +the hint of a titter. "Of course it doesn't amount to anything, but I +thought you would like to see it." + +"Read it," Peter Winn commanded, without opening his eyes. + +The secretary cleared his throat. + +"It is dated July seventeenth, but is without address. Postmark San +Francisco. It is also quite illiterate. The spelling is atrocious. Here +it is: + +"Mr. Peter Winn, SIR: I send you respectfully by express a pigeon worth +good money. She's a loo-loo--" + +"What is a loo-loo?" Peter Winn interrupted. + +The secretary tittered. + +"I'm sure I don't know, except that it must be a superlative of some +sort. The letter continues: + +"Please freight it with a couple of thousand-dollar bills and let it go. +If you do I wont never annoy you no more. If you dont you will be sorry. + +"That is all. It is unsigned. I thought it would amuse you." + +"Has the pigeon come?" Peter Winn demanded. + +"I'm sure I never thought to enquire." + +"Then do so." + +In five minutes the secretary was back. + +"Yes, sir. It came this morning." + +"Then bring it in." + +The secretary was inclined to take the affair as a practical joke, but +Peter Winn, after an examination of the pigeon, thought otherwise. + +"Look at it," he said, stroking and handling it. "See the length of the +body and that elongated neck. A proper carrier. I doubt if I've ever +seen a finer specimen. Powerfully winged and muscled. As our unknown +correspondent remarked, she is a loo-loo. It's a temptation to keep +her." + +The secretary tittered. + +"Why not? Surely you will not let it go back to the writer of that +letter." + +Peter Winn shook his head. + +"I'll answer. No man can threaten me, even anonymously or in foolery." + +On a slip of paper he wrote the succinct message, "Go to hell," signed +it, and placed it in the carrying apparatus with which the bird had been +thoughtfully supplied. + +"Now we'll let her loose. Where's my son? I'd like him to see the +flight." + +"He's down in the workshop. He slept there last night, and had his +breakfast sent down this morning." + +"He'll break his neck yet," Peter Winn remarked, half-fiercely, +half-proudly, as he led the way to the veranda. + +Standing at the head of the broad steps, he tossed the pretty creature +outward and upward. She caught herself with a quick beat of wings, +fluttered about undecidedly for a space, then rose in the air. + +Again, high up, there seemed indecision; then, apparently getting her +bearings, she headed east, over the oak-trees that dotted the park-like +grounds. + +"Beautiful, beautiful," Peter Winn murmured. "I almost wish I had her +back." + +But Peter Winn was a very busy man, with such large plans in his head +and with so many reins in his hands that he quickly forgot the incident. +Three nights later the left wing of his country house was blown up. It +was not a heavy explosion, and nobody was hurt, though the wing itself +was ruined. Most of the windows of the rest of the house were broken, +and there was a deal of general damage. By the first ferry boat of the +morning half a dozen San Francisco detectives arrived, and several hours +later the secretary, in high excitement, erupted on Peter Winn. + +"It's come!" the secretary gasped, the sweat beading his forehead and +his eyes bulging behind their glasses. + +"What has come?" Peter demanded. "It--the--the loo-loo bird." + +Then the financier understood. + +"Have you gone over the mail yet?" + +"I was just going over it, sir." + +"Then continue, and see if you can find another letter from our +mysterious friend, the pigeon fancier." + +The letter came to light. It read: + +Mr. Peter Winn, HONORABLE SIR: Now dont be a fool. If youd came through, +your shack would not have blew up--I beg to inform you respectfully, +am sending same pigeon. Take good care of same, thank you. Put five one +thousand dollar bills on her and let her go. Dont feed her. Dont try to +follow bird. She is wise to the way now and makes better time. If you +dont come through, watch out. + +Peter Winn was genuinely angry. This time he indited no message for the +pigeon to carry. Instead, he called in the detectives, and, under their +advice, weighted the pigeon heavily with shot. Her previous flight +having been eastward toward the bay, the fastest motor-boat in Tiburon +was commissioned to take up the chase if it led out over the water. + +But too much shot had been put on the carrier, and she was exhausted +before the shore was reached. Then the mistake was made of putting too +little shot on her, and she rose high in the air, got her bearings and +started eastward across San Francisco Bay. She flew straight over Angel +Island, and here the motor-boat lost her, for it had to go around the +island. + +That night, armed guards patrolled the grounds. But there was no +explosion. Yet, in the early morning Peter Winn learned by telephone +that his sister's home in Alameda had been burned to the ground. + +Two days later the pigeon was back again, coming this time by freight in +what had seemed a barrel of potatoes. Also came another letter: + +Mr. Peter Winn, RESPECTABLE SIR: It was me that fixed yr sisters house. +You have raised hell, aint you. Send ten thousand now. Going up all the +time. Dont put any more handicap weights on that bird. You sure cant +follow her, and its cruelty to animals. + +Peter Winn was ready to acknowledge himself beaten. The detectives +were powerless, and Peter did not know where next the man would +strike--perhaps at the lives of those near and dear to him. He even +telephoned to San Francisco for ten thousand dollars in bills of large +denomination. But Peter had a son, Peter Winn, Junior, with the +same firm-set jaw as his fathers, and the same knitted, brooding +determination in his eyes. He was only twenty-six, but he was all man, a +secret terror and delight to the financier, who alternated between pride +in his son's aeroplane feats and fear for an untimely and terrible end. + +"Hold on, father, don't send that money," said Peter Winn, Junior. +"Number Eight is ready, and I know I've at last got that reefing down +fine. It will work, and it will revolutionize flying. Speed--that's +what's needed, and so are the large sustaining surfaces for getting +started and for altitude. I've got them both. Once I'm up I reef down. +There it is. The smaller the sustaining surface, the higher the speed. +That was the law discovered by Langley. And I've applied it. I can rise +when the air is calm and full of holes, and I can rise when its boiling, +and by my control of my plane areas I can come pretty close to making +any speed I want. Especially with that new Sangster-Endholm engine." + +"You'll come pretty close to breaking your neck one of these days," was +his father's encouraging remark. + +"Dad, I'll tell you what I'll come pretty close to-ninety miles an +hour--Yes, and a hundred. Now listen! I was going to make a trial +tomorrow. But it won't take two hours to start today. I'll tackle it +this afternoon. Keep that money. Give me the pigeon and I'll follow her +to her loft where ever it is. Hold on, let me talk to the mechanics." + +He called up the workshop, and in crisp, terse sentences gave his orders +in a way that went to the older man's heart. Truly, his one son was a +chip off the old block, and Peter Winn had no meek notions concerning +the intrinsic value of said old block. + +Timed to the minute, the young man, two hours later, was ready for the +start. In a holster at his hip, for instant use, cocked and with the +safety on, was a large-caliber automatic pistol. With a final inspection +and overhauling he took his seat in the aeroplane. He started the +engine, and with a wild burr of gas explosions the beautiful fabric +darted down the launching ways and lifted into the air. Circling, as he +rose, to the west, he wheeled about and jockeyed and maneuvered for the +real start of the race. + +This start depended on the pigeon. Peter Winn held it. Nor was it +weighted with shot this time. Instead, half a yard of bright ribbon was +firmly attached to its leg--this the more easily to enable its flight +being followed. Peter Winn released it, and it arose easily enough +despite the slight drag of the ribbon. There was no uncertainty about +its movements. This was the third time it had made particular homing +passage, and it knew the course. + +At an altitude of several hundred feet it straightened out and went due +east. The aeroplane swerved into a straight course from its last curve +and followed. The race was on. Peter Winn, looking up, saw that the +pigeon was outdistancing the machine. Then he saw something else. The +aeroplane suddenly and instantly became smaller. It had reefed. Its +high-speed plane-design was now revealed. Instead of the generous +spread of surface with which it had taken the air, it was now a lean and +hawklike monoplane balanced on long and exceedingly narrow wings. + +***** + +When young Winn reefed down so suddenly, he received a surprise. It +was his first trial of the new device, and while he was prepared for +increased speed he was not prepared for such an astonishing increase. It +was better than he dreamed, and, before he knew it, he was hard upon +the pigeon. That little creature, frightened by this, the most monstrous +hawk it had ever seen, immediately darted upward, after the manner of +pigeons that strive always to rise above a hawk. + +In great curves the monoplane followed upward, higher and higher into +the blue. It was difficult, from underneath to see the pigeon, and young +Winn dared not lose it from his sight. He even shook out his reefs in +order to rise more quickly. Up, up they went, until the pigeon, true +to its instinct, dropped and struck at what it thought to be the back of +its pursuing enemy. Once was enough, for, evidently finding no life in +the smooth cloth surface of the machine, it ceased soaring and +straightened out on its eastward course. + +A carrier pigeon on a passage can achieve a high rate of speed, and +Winn reefed again. And again, to his satisfaction, he found that he was +beating the pigeon. But this time he quickly shook out a portion of his +reefed sustaining surface and slowed down in time. From then on he knew +he had the chase safely in hand, and from then on a chant rose to his +lips which he continued to sing at intervals, and unconsciously, for the +rest of the passage. It was: "Going some; going some; what did I tell +you!--going some." + +Even so, it was not all plain sailing. The air is an unstable medium at +best, and quite without warning, at an acute angle, he entered an aerial +tide which he recognized as the gulf stream of wind that poured through +the drafty-mouthed Golden Gate. His right wing caught it first--a +sudden, sharp puff that lifted and tilted the monoplane and threatened +to capsize it. But he rode with a sensitive "loose curb," and quickly, +but not too quickly, he shifted the angles of his wing-tips, depressed +the front horizontal rudder, and swung over the rear vertical rudder to +meet the tilting thrust of the wind. As the machine came back to an even +keel, and he knew that he was now wholly in the invisible stream, he +readjusted the wing-tips, rapidly away from him during the several +moments of his discomfiture. + +The pigeon drove straight on for the Alameda County shore, and it +was near this shore that Winn had another experience. He fell into an +air-hole. He had fallen into air-holes before, in previous flights, but +this was a far larger one than he had ever encountered. With his eyes +strained on the ribbon attached to the pigeon, by that fluttering bit of +color he marked his fall. Down he went, at the pit of his stomach that +old sink sensation which he had known as a boy he first negotiated +quick-starting elevators. But Winn, among other secrets of aviation, had +learned that to go up it was sometimes necessary first to go down. +The air had refused to hold him. Instead of struggling futilely and +perilously against this lack of sustension, he yielded to it. With +steady head and hand, he depressed the forward horizontal rudder--just +recklessly enough and not a fraction more--and the monoplane dived head +foremost and sharply down the void. It was falling with the keenness of +a knife-blade. Every instant the speed accelerated frightfully. Thus +he accumulated the momentum that would save him. But few instants were +required, when, abruptly shifting the double horizontal rudders forward +and astern, he shot upward on the tense and straining plane and out of +the pit. + +At an altitude of five hundred feet, the pigeon drove on over the town +of Berkeley and lifted its flight to the Contra Costa hills. Young Winn +noted the campus and buildings of the University of California--his +university--as he rose after the pigeon. + +Once more, on these Contra Costa hills, he early came to grief. The +pigeon was now flying low, and where a grove of eucalyptus presented a +solid front to the wind, the bird was suddenly sent fluttering wildly +upward for a distance of a hundred feet. Winn knew what it meant. It had +been caught in an air-surf that beat upward hundreds of feet where +the fresh west wind smote the upstanding wall of the grove. He reefed +hastily to the uttermost, and at the same time depressed the angle of +his flight to meet that upward surge. Nevertheless, the monoplane was +tossed fully three hundred feet before the danger was left astern. + +Two or more ranges of hills the pigeon crossed, and then Winn saw it +dropping down to a landing where a small cabin stood in a hillside +clearing. He blessed that clearing. Not only was it good for alighting, +but, on account of the steepness of the slope, it was just the thing for +rising again into the air. + +A man, reading a newspaper, had just started up at the sight of the +returning pigeon, when he heard the burr of Winn's engine and saw the +huge monoplane, with all surfaces set, drop down upon him, stop suddenly +on an air-cushion manufactured on the spur of the moment by a shift of +the horizontal rudders, glide a few yards, strike ground, and come to +rest not a score of feet away from him. But when he saw a young man, +calmly sitting in the machine and leveling a pistol at him, the man +turned to run. Before he could make the corner of the cabin, a bullet +through the leg brought him down in a sprawling fall. + +"What do you want!" he demanded sullenly, as the other stood over him. + +"I want to take you for a ride in my new machine," Winn answered. +"Believe me, she is a loo-loo." + +The man did not argue long, for this strange visitor had most convincing +ways. Under Winn's instructions, covered all the time by the pistol, +the man improvised a tourniquet and applied it to his wounded leg. Winn +helped him to a seat in the machine, then went to the pigeon-loft and +took possession of the bird with the ribbon still fast to its leg. + +A very tractable prisoner, the man proved. Once up in the air, he sat +close, in an ecstasy of fear. An adept at winged blackmail, he had no +aptitude for wings himself, and when he gazed down at the flying land +and water far beneath him, he did not feel moved to attack his captor, +now defenseless, both hands occupied with flight. + +Instead, the only way the man felt moved was to sit closer. + +***** + +Peter Winn, Senior, scanning the heavens with powerful glasses, saw +the monoplane leap into view and grow large over the rugged backbone +of Angel Island. Several minutes later he cried out to the waiting +detectives that the machine carried a passenger. Dropping swiftly and +piling up an abrupt air-cushion, the monoplane landed. + +"That reefing device is a winner!" young Winn cried, as he climbed out. +"Did you see me at the start? I almost ran over the pigeon. Going some, +dad! Going some! What did I tell you? Going some!" + +"But who is that with you?" his father demanded. + +The young man looked back at his prisoner and remembered. + +"Why, that's the pigeon-fancier," he said. "I guess the officers can +take care of him." + +Peter Winn gripped his son's hand in grim silence, and fondled the +pigeon which his son had passed to him. Again he fondled the pretty +creature. Then he spoke. + +"Exhibit A, for the People," he said. + + + + +BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES + +ARRANGEMENTS quite extensive had been made for the celebration of +Christmas on the yacht Samoset. Not having been in any civilized port +for months, the stock of provisions boasted few delicacies; yet Minnie +Duncan had managed to devise real feasts for cabin and forecastle. + +"Listen, Boyd," she told her husband. "Here are the menus. For the cabin, +raw bonita native style, turtle soup, omelette a la Samoset--" + +"What the dickens?" Boyd Duncan interrupted. + +"Well, if you must know, I found a tin of mushrooms and a package of +egg-powder which had fallen down behind the locker, and there are other +things as well that will go into it. But don't interrupt. Boiled yam, +fried taro, alligator pear salad--there, you've got me all mixed, Then +I found a last delectable half-pound of dried squid. There will be baked +beans Mexican, if I can hammer it into Toyama's head; also, baked papaia +with Marquesan honey, and, lastly, a wonderful pie the secret of which +Toyama refuses to divulge." + +"I wonder if it is possible to concoct a punch or a cocktail out of +trade rum?" Duncan muttered gloomily. + +"Oh! I forgot! Come with me." + +His wife caught his hand and led him through the small connecting door +to her tiny stateroom. Still holding his hand, she fished in the depths +of a hat-locker and brought forth a pint bottle of champagne. + +"The dinner is complete!" he cried. + +"Wait." + +She fished again, and was rewarded with a silver-mounted whisky flask. +She held it to the light of a port-hole, and the liquor showed a quarter +of the distance from the bottom. + +"I've been saving it for weeks," she explained. "And there's enough for +you and Captain Dettmar." + +"Two mighty small drinks," Duncan complained. + +"There would have been more, but I gave a drink to Lorenzo when he was +sick." + +Duncan growled, "Might have given him rum," facetiously. + +"The nasty stuff! For a sick man? Don't be greedy, Boyd. And I'm glad +there isn't any more, for Captain Dettmar's sake. Drinking always makes +him irritable. And now for the men's dinner. Soda crackers, sweet cakes, +candy--" + +"Substantial, I must say." + +"Do hush. Rice, and curry, yam, taro, bonita, of course, a big cake +Toyama is making, young pig--" + +"Oh, I say," he protested. + +"It is all right, Boyd. We'll be in Attu-Attu in three days. Besides, +it's my pig. That old chief what-ever-his-name distinctly presented it +to me. You saw him yourself. And then two tins of bullamacow. That's +their dinner. And now about the presents. Shall we wait until tomorrow, +or give them this evening?" + +"Christmas Eve, by all means," was the man's judgment. "We'll call all +hands at eight bells; I'll give them a tot of rum all around, and then +you give the presents. Come on up on deck. It's stifling down here. I +hope Lorenzo has better luck with the dynamo; without the fans there +won't be much sleeping to-night if we're driven below." + +They passed through the small main-cabin, climbed a steep companion +ladder, and emerged on deck. The sun was setting, and the promise was +for a clear tropic night. The Samoset, with fore- and main-sail winged +out on either side, was slipping a lazy four-knots through the smooth +sea. Through the engine-room skylight came a sound of hammering. They +strolled aft to where Captain Dettmar, one foot on the rail, was +oiling the gear of the patent log. At the wheel stood a tall South Sea +Islander, clad in white undershirt and scarlet hip-cloth. + +Boyd Duncan was an original. At least that was the belief of his +friends. Of comfortable fortune, with no need to do anything but take +his comfort, he elected to travel about the world in outlandish and +most uncomfortable ways. Incidentally, he had ideas about coral-reefs, +disagreed profoundly with Darwin on that subject, had voiced his opinion +in several monographs and one book, and was now back at his hobby, +cruising the South Seas in a tiny, thirty-ton yacht and studying +reef-formations. + +His wife, Minnie Duncan, was also declared an original, inasmuch as she +joyfully shared his vagabond wanderings. Among other things, in the six +exciting years of their marriage she had climbed Chimborazo with him, +made a three-thousand-mile winter journey with dogs and sleds in Alaska, +ridden a horse from Canada to Mexico, cruised the Mediterranean in a +ten-ton yawl, and canoed from Germany to the Black Sea across the +heart of Europe. They were a royal pair of wanderlusters, he, big and +broad-shouldered, she a small, brunette, and happy woman, whose one +hundred and fifteen pounds were all grit and endurance, and withal, +pleasing to look upon. + +The Samoset had been a trading schooner, when Duncan bought her in San +Francisco and made alterations. Her interior was wholly rebuilt, so that +the hold became main-cabin and staterooms, while abaft amidships were +installed engines, a dynamo, an ice machine, storage batteries, and, +far in the stern, gasoline tanks. Necessarily, she carried a small crew. +Boyd, Minnie, and Captain Dettmar were the only whites on board, though +Lorenzo, the small and greasy engineer, laid a part claim to white, +being a Portuguese half-caste. A Japanese served as cook, and a Chinese +as cabin boy. Four white sailors had constituted the original crew +for'ard, but one by one they had yielded to the charms of palm-waving +South Sea isles and been replaced by islanders. Thus, one of the dusky +sailors hailed from Easter Island, a second from the Carolines, a third +from the Paumotus, while the fourth was a gigantic Samoan. At sea, Boyd +Duncan, himself a navigator, stood a mate's watch with Captain Dettmar, +and both of them took a wheel or lookout occasionally. On a pinch, +Minnie herself could take a wheel, and it was on pinches that she proved +herself more dependable at steering than did the native sailors. + +At eight bells, all hands assembled at the wheel, and Boyd Duncan +appeared with a black bottle and a mug. The rum he served out himself, +half a mug of it to each man. They gulped the stuff down with many +facial expressions of delight, followed by loud lip-smackings of +approval, though the liquor was raw enough and corrosive enough to burn +their mucous membranes. All drank except Lee Goom, the abstemious +cabin boy. This rite accomplished, they waited for the next, the +present-giving. Generously molded on Polynesian lines, huge-bodied and +heavy-muscled, they were nevertheless like so many children, laughing +merrily at little things, their eager black eyes flashing in the lantern +light as their big bodies swayed to the heave and roll of the ship. + +Calling each by name, Minnie gave the presents out, accompanying each +presentation with some happy remark that added to the glee. There +were trade watches, clasp knives, amazing assortments of fish-hooks +in packages, plug tobacco, matches, and gorgeous strips of cotton for +loincloths all around. That Boyd Duncan was liked by them was evidenced +by the roars of laughter with which they greeted his slightest joking +allusion. + +Captain Dettmar, white-faced, smiling only when his employer chanced to +glance at him, leaned against the wheel-box, looking on. Twice, he left +the group and went below, remaining there but a minute each time. Later, +in the main cabin, when Lorenzo, Lee Goom and Toyama received their +presents, he disappeared into his stateroom twice again. For of all +times, the devil that slumbered in Captain Dettmar's soul chose this +particular time of good cheer to awaken. Perhaps it was not entirely the +devil's fault, for Captain Dettmar, privily cherishing a quart of whisky +for many weeks, had selected Christmas Eve for broaching it. + +It was still early in the evening--two bells had just gone--when Duncan +and his wife stood by the cabin companionway, gazing to windward and +canvassing the possibility of spreading their beds on deck. A small, +dark blot of cloud, slowly forming on the horizon, carried the threat +of a rain-squall, and it was this they were discussing when Captain +Dettmar, coming from aft and about to go below, glanced at them with +sudden suspicion. He paused, his face working spasmodically. Then he +spoke: + +"You are talking about me." + +His voice was hoarse, and there was an excited vibration in it. Minnie +Duncan started, then glanced at her husband's immobile face, took the +cue, and remained silent. + +"I say you were talking about me," Captain Dettmar repeated, this time +with almost a snarl. + +He did not lurch nor betray the liquor on him in any way save by the +convulsive working of his face. + +"Minnie, you'd better go down," Duncan said gently. "Tell Lee Goom we'll +sleep below. It won't be long before that squall is drenching things." + +She took the hint and left, delaying just long enough to give one +anxious glance at the dim faces of the two men. + +Duncan puffed at his cigar and waited till his wife's voice, in talk +with the cabin-boy, came up through the open skylight. + +"Well?" Duncan demanded in a low voice, but sharply. + +"I said you were talking about me. I say it again. Oh, I haven't been +blind. Day after day I've seen the two of you talking about me. Why +don't you come out and say it to my face! I know you know. And I know +your mind's made up to discharge me at Attu-Attu." + +"I am sorry you are making such a mess of everything," was Duncan's +quiet reply. + +But Captain Dettmar's mind was set on trouble. + +"You know you are going to discharge me. You think you are too good to +associate with the likes of me--you and your wife." + +"Kindly keep her out of this," Duncan warned. "What do you want?" + +"I want to know what you are going to do!" + +"Discharge you, after this, at Attu-Attu." + +"You intended to, all along." + +"On the contrary. It is your present conduct that compels me." + +"You can't give me that sort of talk." + +"I can't retain a captain who calls me a liar." + +Captain Dettmar for the moment was taken aback. His face and lips +worked, but he could say nothing. Duncan coolly pulled at his cigar and +glanced aft at the rising cloud of squall. + +"Lee Goom brought the mail aboard at Tahiti," Captain Dettmar began. + +"We were hove short then and leaving. You didn't look at your letters +until we were outside, and then it was too late. That's why you didn't +discharge me at Tahiti. Oh, I know. I saw the long envelope when Lee +Goom came over the side. It was from the Governor of California, printed +on the corner for any one to see. You'd been working behind my back. +Some beachcomber in Honolulu had whispered to you, and you'd written to +the Governor to find out. And that was his answer Lee Goom carried +out to you. Why didn't you come to me like a man! No, you must play +underhand with me, knowing that this billet was the one chance for me to +get on my feet again. And as soon as you read the Governor's letter your +mind was made up to get rid of me. I've seen it on your face ever since +for all these months.. I've seen the two of you, polite as hell to me +all the time, and getting away in corners and talking about me and that +affair in 'Frisco." + +"Are you done?" Duncan asked, his voice low, and tense. "Quite done?" + +Captain Dettmar made no answer. + +"Then I'll tell you a few things. It was precisely because of that +affair in 'Frisco that I did not discharge you in Tahiti. God knows you +gave me sufficient provocation. I thought that if ever a man needed a +chance to rehabilitate himself, you were that man. Had there been no +black mark against you, I would have discharged you when I learned how +you were robbing me." + +Captain Dettmar showed surprise, started to interrupt, then changed his +mind. + +"There was that matter of the deck-calking, the bronze rudder-irons, the +overhauling of the engine, the new spinnaker boom, the new davits, and +the repairs to the whale-boat. You OKd the shipyard bill. It was four +thousand one hundred and twenty-two francs. By the regular shipyard +charges it ought not to have been a centime over twenty-five hundred +francs-" + +"If you take the word of those alongshore sharks against mine--' the +other began thickly. + +"Save yourself the trouble of further lying," Duncan went on coldly. +"I looked it up. I got Flaubin before the Governor himself, and the old +rascal confessed to sixteen hundred overcharge. Said you'd stuck him up +for it. Twelve hundred went to you, and his share was four hundred and +the job. Don't interrupt. I've got his affidavit below. Then was when I +would have put you ashore, except for the cloud you were under. You had +to have this one chance or go clean to hell. I gave you the chance. And +what have you got to say about it?" + +"What did the Governor say?" Captain Dettmar demanded truculently. + +"Which governor?" + +"Of California. Did he lie to you like all the rest?" + +"I'll tell you what he said. He said that you had been convicted on +circumstantial evidence; that was why you had got life imprisonment +instead of hanging; that you had always stoutly maintained your +innocence; that you were the black sheep of the Maryland Dettmars; that +they moved heaven and earth for your pardon; that your prison conduct +was most exemplary; that he was prosecuting attorney at the time you +were convicted; that after you had served seven years he yielded to your +family's plea and pardoned you; and that in his own mind existed a doubt +that you had killed McSweeny." + +There was a pause, during which Duncan went on studying the rising +squall, while Captain Dettmar's face worked terribly. + +"Well, the Governor was wrong," he announced, with a short laugh. "I did +kill McSweeny. I did get the watchman drunk that night. I beat McSweeny +to death in his bunk. I used the iron belaying pin that appeared in the +evidence. He never had a chance. I beat him to a jelly. Do you want the +details?" + +Duncan looked at him in the curious way one looks at any monstrosity, +but made no reply. + +"Oh, I'm not afraid to tell you," Captain Dettmar blustered on. "There +are no witnesses. Besides, I am a free man now. I am pardoned, and by +God they can never put me back in that hole again. I broke McSweeny's +jaw with the first blow. He was lying on his back asleep. He said, 'My +God, Jim! My God!' It was funny to see his broken jaw wabble as he said +it. Then I smashed him... I say, do you want the rest of the details?" + +"Is that all you have to say?" was the answer. + +"Isn't it enough?" Captain Dettmar retorted. + +"It is enough." + +"What are you going to do about it?" + +"Put you ashore at Attu-Attu." + +"And in the meantime?" + +"In the meantime..." Duncan paused. An increase of weight in the wind +rippled his hair. The stars overhead vanished, and the Samoset swung +four points off her course in the careless steersman's hands. "In the +meantime throw your halyards down on deck and look to your wheel. I'll +call the men." + +The next moment the squall burst upon them. Captain Dettmar, springing +aft, lifted the coiled mainsail halyards from their pins and threw them, +ready to run, on the deck. The three islanders swarmed from the tiny +forecastle, two of them leaping to the halyards and holding by a single +turn, while the third fastened down the engineroom, companion and +swung the ventilators around. Below, Lee Goom and Toyama were lowering +skylight covers and screwing up deadeyes. Duncan pulled shut the cover +of the companion scuttle, and held on, waiting, the first drops of rain +pelting his face, while the Samoset leaped violently ahead, at the same +time heeling first to starboard then to port as the gusty pressures +caught her winged-out sails. + +All waited. But there was no need to lower away on the run. The +power went out of the wind, and the tropic rain poured a deluge over +everything. Then it was, the danger past, and as the Kanakas began to +coil the halyards back on the pins, that Boyd Duncan went below. + +"All right," he called in cheerily to his wife. "Only a puff." + +"And Captain Dettmar?" she queried. + +"Has been drinking, that is all. I shall get rid of him at Attu-Attu." + +But before Duncan climbed into his bunk, he strapped around himself, +against the skin and under his pajama coat, a heavy automatic pistol. + +He fell asleep almost immediately, for his was the gift of perfect +relaxation. He did things tensely, in the way savages do, but the +instant the need passed he relaxed, mind and body. So it was that he +slept, while the rain still poured on deck and the yacht plunged and +rolled in the brief, sharp sea caused by the squall. + +He awoke with a feeling of suffocation and heaviness. The electric fans +had stopped, and the air was thick and stifling. Mentally cursing +all Lorenzos and storage batteries, he heard his wife moving in the +adjoining stateroom and pass out into the main cabin. Evidently heading +for the fresher air on deck, he thought, and decided it was a good +example to imitate. Putting on his slippers and tucking a pillow and a +blanket under his arm, he followed her. As he was about to emerge from +the companionway, the ship's clock in the cabin began to strike and he +stopped to listen. Four bells sounded. It was two in the morning. From +without came the creaking of the gaff-jaw against the mast. The Samoset +rolled and righted on a sea, and in the light breeze her canvas gave +forth a hollow thrum. + +He was just putting his foot out on the damp deck when he heard his +wife scream. It was a startled frightened scream that ended in a splash +overside. He leaped out and ran aft. In the dim starlight he could make +out her head and shoulders disappearing astern in the lazy wake. + +"What was it?" Captain Dettmar, who was at the wheel, asked. + +"Mrs. Duncan," was Duncan's reply, as he tore the life-buoy from its +hook and flung it aft. "Jibe over to starboard and come up on the wind!" +he commanded. + +And then Boyd Duncan made a mistake. He dived overboard. + +When he came up, he glimpsed the blue-light on the buoy, which had +ignited automatically when it struck the water. He swam for it, and +found Minnie had reached it first. + +"Hello," he said. "Just trying to keep cool?" + +"Oh, Boyd!" was her answer, and one wet hand reached out and touched +his. + +The blue light, through deterioration or damage, flickered out. As they +lifted on the smooth crest of a wave, Duncan turned to look where the +Samoset made a vague blur in the darkness. No lights showed, but there +was noise of confusion. He could hear Captain Dettmar's shouting above +the cries of the others. + +"I must say he's taking his time," Duncan grumbled. "Why doesn't he +jibe? There she goes now." + +They could hear the rattle of the boom tackle blocks as the sail was +eased across. + +"That was the mainsail," he muttered. "Jibed to port when I told him +starboard." + +Again they lifted on a wave, and again and again, ere they could make +out the distant green of the Samoset's starboard light. But instead of +remaining stationary, in token that the yacht was coming toward them, it +began moving across their field of vision. Duncan swore. + +"What's the lubber holding over there for!" he demanded. "He's got his +compass. He knows our bearing." + +But the green light, which was all they could see, and which they could +see only when they were on top of a wave, moved steadily away from them, +withal it was working up to windward, and grew dim and dimmer. Duncan +called out loudly and repeatedly, and each time, in the intervals, they +could hear, very faintly, the voice of Captain Dettmar shouting orders. + +"How can he hear me with such a racket?" Duncan complained. + +"He's doing it so the crew won't hear you," was Minnie's answer. + +There was something in the quiet way she said it that caught her +husband's attention. + +"What do you mean?" + +"I mean that he is not trying to pick us up," she went on in the same +composed voice. "He threw me overboard." + +"You are not making a mistake?" + +"How could I? I was at the main rigging, looking to see if any more +rain threatened. He must have left the wheel and crept behind me. I was +holding on to a stay with one hand. He gripped my hand free from behind +and threw me over. It's too bad you didn't know, or else you would have +staid aboard." + +Duncan groaned, but said nothing for several minutes. The green light +changed the direction of its course. + +"She's gone about," he announced. "You are right. He's deliberately +working around us and to windward. Up wind they can never hear me. But +here goes." + +He called at minute intervals for a long time. The green light +disappeared, being replaced by the red, showing that the yacht had gone +about again. + +"Minnie," he said finally, "it pains me to tell you, but you married a +fool. Only a fool would have gone overboard as I did." + +"What chance have we of being picked up... by some other vessel, I +mean?" she asked. + +"About one in ten thousand, or ten thousand million. Not a steamer route +nor trade route crosses this stretch of ocean. And there aren't any +whalers knocking about the South Seas. There might be a stray trading +schooner running across from Tutuwanga. But I happen to know that island +is visited only once a year. A chance in a million is ours." + +"And we'll play that chance," she rejoined stoutly. + +"You ARE a joy!" His hand lifted hers to his lips. "And Aunt Elizabeth +always wondered what I saw in you. Of course we'll play that chance. And +we'll win it, too. To happen otherwise would be unthinkable. Here goes." + +He slipped the heavy pistol from his belt and let it sink into the sea. +The belt, however, he retained. + +"Now you get inside the buoy and get some sleep. Duck under." + +She ducked obediently, and came up inside the floating circle. He +fastened the straps for her, then, with the pistol belt, buckled himself +across one shoulder to the outside of the buoy. + +"We're good for all day to-morrow," he said. "Thank God the water's +warm. It won't be a hardship for the first twenty-hour hours, anyway. +And if we're not picked up by nightfall, we've just got to hang on for +another day, that's all." + +For half an hour they maintained silence, Duncan, his head resting on +the arm that was on the buoy, seemed asleep. + +"Boyd?" Minnie said softly. + +"Thought you were asleep," he growled. + +"Boyd, if we don't come through this--" + +"Stow that!" he broke in ungallantly. "Of course we're coming through. +There is isn't a doubt of it. Somewhere on this ocean is a ship that's +heading right for us. You wait and see. Just the same I wish my brain +were equipped with wireless. Now I'm going to sleep, if you don't." + +But for once, sleep baffled him. An hour later he heard Minnie stir and +knew she was awake. + +"Say, do you know what I've been thinking!" she asked. + +"No; what?" + +"That I'll wish you a Merry Christmas." + +"By George, I never thought of it. Of course it's Christmas Day. We'll +have many more of them, too. And do you know what I've been thinking? +What a confounded shame we're done out of our Christmas dinner. Wait +till I lay hands on Dettmar. I'll take it out of him. And it won't be +with an iron belaying pin either, Just two bunches of naked knuckles, +that's all." + +Despite his facetiousness, Boyd Duncan had little hope. He knew well +enough the meaning of one chance in a million, and was calmly certain +that his wife and he had entered upon their last few living hours--hours +that were inevitably bound to be black and terrible with tragedy. + +The tropic sun rose in a cloudless sky. Nothing was to be seen. The +Samoset was beyond the sea-rim. As the sun rose higher, Duncan ripped +his pajama trousers in halves and fashioned them into two rude turbans. +Soaked in sea-water they offset the heat-rays. + +"When I think of that dinner, I'm really angry," he complained, as he +noted an anxious expression threatening to set on his wife's face. "And +I want you to be with me when I settle with Dettmar. I've always been +opposed to women witnessing scenes of blood, but this is different. It +will be a beating." + +"I hope I don't break my knuckles on him," he added, after a pause. + +Midday came and went, and they floated on, the center of a narrow +sea-circle. A gentle breath of the dying trade-wind fanned them, and +they rose and fell monotonously on the smooth swells of a perfect summer +sea. Once, a gunie spied them, and for half an hour circled about them +with majestic sweeps. And, once, a huge rayfish, measuring a score of +feet across the tips, passed within a few yards. + +By sunset, Minnie began to rave, softly, babblingly, like a child. +Duncan's face grew haggard as he watched and listened, while in his +mind he revolved plans of how best to end the hours of agony that were +coming. And, so planning, as they rose on a larger swell than usual, +he swept the circle of the sea with his eyes, and saw, what made him cry +out. + +"Minnie!" She did not answer, and he shouted her name again in her ear, +with all the voice he could command. Her eyes opened, in them fluttered +commingled consciousness and delirium. He slapped her hands and wrists +till the sting of the blows roused her. + +"There she is, the chance in a million!" he cried. + +"A steamer at that, heading straight for us! By George, it's a cruiser! +I have it!--the Annapolis, returning with those astronomers from +Tutuwanga." + +***** + +United States Consul Lingford was a fussy, elderly gentleman, and in +the two years of his service at Attu-Attu had never encountered so +unprecedented a case as that laid before him by Boyd Duncan. The +latter, with his wife, had been landed there by the Annapolis, which had +promptly gone on with its cargo of astronomers to Fiji. + +"It was cold-blooded, deliberate attempt to murder," said Consul +Lingford. "The law shall take its course. I don't know how precisely +to deal with this Captain Dettmar, but if he comes to Attu-Attu, depend +upon it he shall be dealt with, he--ah--shall be dealt with. In the +meantime, I shall read up the law. And now, won't you and your good lady +stop for lunch!" + +As Duncan accepted the invitation, Minnie, who had been glancing out +of the window at the harbor, suddenly leaned forward and touched her +husband's arm. He followed her gaze, and saw the Samoset, flag at half +mast, rounding up and dropping anchor scarcely a hundred yards away. + +"There's my boat now," Duncan said to the Consul. "And there's the +launch over the side, and Captain Dettmar dropping into it. If I don't +miss my guess, he's coming to report our deaths to you." + +The launch landed on the white beach, and leaving Lorenzo tinkering with +the engine, Captain Dettmar strode across the beach and up the path to +the Consulate. + +"Let him make his report," Duncan said. "We'll just step into this next +room and listen." + +And through the partly open door, he and his wife heard Captain Dettmar, +with tears in his voice, describe the loss of his owners. + +"I jibed over and went back across the very spot," he concluded. "There +was not a sign of them. I called and called, but there was never an +answer. I tacked back and forth and wore for two solid hours, then hove +to till daybreak, and cruised back and forth all day, two men at the +mastheads. It is terrible. I am heartbroken. Mr. Duncan was a splendid +man, and I shall never..." + +But he never completed the sentence, for at that moment his splendid +employer strode out upon him, leaving Minnie standing in the doorway. +Captain Dettmar's white face blanched even whiter. + +"I did my best to pick you up, sir," he began. + +Boyd Duncan's answer was couched in terms of bunched knuckles, two +bunches of them, that landed right and left on Captain Dettmar's face. + +Captain Dettmar staggered backward, recovered, and rushed with swinging +arms at his employer, only to be met with a blow squarely between the +eyes. This time the Captain went down, bearing the typewriter under him +as he crashed to the floor. + +"This is not permissible," Consul Lingford spluttered. "I beg of you, I +beg of you, to desist." + +"I'll pay the damages to office furniture," Duncan answered, and at the +same time landing more bunched knuckles on the eyes and nose of Dettmar. + +Consul Lingford bobbed around in the turmoil like a wet hen, while his +office furniture went to ruin. Once, he caught Duncan by the arm, but +was flung back, gasping, half-across the room. Another time he appealed +to Minnie. + +"Mrs. Duncan, won't you, please, please, restrain your husband?" + +But she, white-faced and trembling, resolutely shook her head and +watched the fray with all her eyes. + +"It is outrageous," Consul Lingford cried, dodging the hurtling bodies +of the two men. "It is an affront to the Government, to the United +States Government. Nor will it be overlooked, I warn you. Oh, do pray +desist, Mr. Duncan. You will kill the man. I beg of you. I beg, I +beg..." + +But the crash of a tall vase filled with crimson hibiscus blossoms left +him speechless. + +The time came when Captain Dettmar could no longer get up. He got as far +as hands and knees, struggled vainly to rise further, then collapsed. +Duncan stirred the groaning wreck with his foot. + +"He's all right," he announced. "I've only given him what he has given +many a sailor and worse." + +"Great heavens, sir!" Consul Lingford exploded, staring horror-stricken +at the man whom he had invited to lunch. + +Duncan giggled involuntarily, then controlled himself. + +"I apologize, Mr. Lingford, I most heartily apologize. I fear I was +slightly carried away by my feelings." + +Consul Lingford gulped and sawed the air speechlessly with his arms. + +"Slightly, sir? Slightly?" he managed to articulate. + +"Boyd," Minnie called softly from the doorway. + +He turned and looked. + +"You ARE a joy," she said. + +"And now, Mr. Lingford, I am done with him," Duncan said. "I turn over +what is left to you and the law." + +"That?" Consul Lingford queried, in accent of horror. + +"That," Boyd Duncan replied, looking ruefully at his battered knuckles. + + + + +WAR + +HE was a young man, not more than twenty-four or five, and he might have +sat his horse with the careless grace of his youth had he not been +so catlike and tense. His black eyes roved everywhere, catching the +movements of twigs and branches where small birds hopped, questing ever +onward through the changing vistas of trees and brush, and returning +always to the clumps of undergrowth on either side. And as he watched, +so did he listen, though he rode on in silence, save for the boom of +heavy guns from far to the west. This had been sounding monotonously +in his ears for hours, and only its cessation could have aroused his +notice. For he had business closer to hand. Across his saddle-bow was +balanced a carbine. + +So tensely was he strung, that a bunch of quail, exploding into flight +from under his horse's nose, startled him to such an extent that +automatically, instantly, he had reined in and fetched the carbine +halfway to his shoulder. He grinned sheepishly, recovered himself, and +rode on. So tense was he, so bent upon the work he had to do, that the +sweat stung his eyes unwiped, and unheeded rolled down his nose and +spattered his saddle pommel. The band of his cavalryman's hat was +fresh-stained with sweat. The roan horse under him was likewise wet. It +was high noon of a breathless day of heat. Even the birds and squirrels +did not dare the sun, but sheltered in shady hiding places among the +trees. + +Man and horse were littered with leaves and dusted with yellow pollen, +for the open was ventured no more than was compulsory. They kept to the +brush and trees, and invariably the man halted and peered out before +crossing a dry glade or naked stretch of upland pasturage. He worked +always to the north, though his way was devious, and it was from the +north that he seemed most to apprehend that for which he was looking. +He was no coward, but his courage was only that of the average civilized +man, and he was looking to live, not die. + +Up a small hillside he followed a cowpath through such dense scrub that +he was forced to dismount and lead his horse. But when the path swung +around to the west, he abandoned it and headed to the north again along +the oak-covered top of the ridge. + +The ridge ended in a steep descent-so steep that he zigzagged back and +forth across the face of the slope, sliding and stumbling among the dead +leaves and matted vines and keeping a watchful eye on the horse above +that threatened to fall down upon him. The sweat ran from him, and the +pollen-dust, settling pungently in mouth and nostrils, increased +his thirst. Try as he would, nevertheless the descent was noisy, and +frequently he stopped, panting in the dry heat and listening for any +warning from beneath. + +At the bottom he came out on a flat, so densely forested that he could +not make out its extent. Here the character of the woods changed, and he +was able to remount. Instead of the twisted hillside oaks, tall straight +trees, big-trunked and prosperous, rose from the damp fat soil. Only +here and there were thickets, easily avoided, while he encountered +winding, park-like glades where the cattle had pastured in the days +before war had run them off. + +His progress was more rapid now, as he came down into the valley, and at +the end of half an hour he halted at an ancient rail fence on the edge +of a clearing. He did not like the openness of it, yet his path lay +across to the fringe of trees that marked the banks of the stream. +It was a mere quarter of a mile across that open, but the thought of +venturing out in it was repugnant. A rifle, a score of them, a thousand, +might lurk in that fringe by the stream. + +Twice he essayed to start, and twice he paused. He was appalled by his +own loneliness. The pulse of war that beat from the West suggested the +companionship of battling thousands; here was naught but silence, and +himself, and possible death-dealing bullets from a myriad ambushes. And +yet his task was to find what he feared to find. He must on, and on, +till somewhere, some time, he encountered another man, or other men, +from the other side, scouting, as he was scouting, to make report, as he +must make report, of having come in touch. + +Changing his mind, he skirted inside the woods for a distance, and again +peeped forth. This time, in the middle of the clearing, he saw a +small farmhouse. There were no signs of life. No smoke curled from the +chimney, not a barnyard fowl clucked and strutted. The kitchen door +stood open, and he gazed so long and hard into the black aperture that +it seemed almost that a farmer's wife must emerge at any moment. + +He licked the pollen and dust from his dry lips, stiffened himself, mind +and body, and rode out into the blazing sunshine. Nothing stirred. He +went on past the house, and approached the wall of trees and bushes by +the river's bank. One thought persisted maddeningly. It was of the crash +into his body of a high-velocity bullet. It made him feel very fragile +and defenseless, and he crouched lower in the saddle. + +Tethering his horse in the edge of the wood, he continued a hundred +yards on foot till he came to the stream. Twenty feet wide it was, +without perceptible current, cool and inviting, and he was very thirsty. +But he waited inside his screen of leafage, his eyes fixed on the screen +on the opposite side. To make the wait endurable, he sat down, his +carbine resting on his knees. The minutes passed, and slowly his +tenseness relaxed. At last he decided there was no danger; but just as +he prepared to part the bushes and bend down to the water, a movement +among the opposite bushes caught his eye. + +It might be a bird. But he waited. Again there was an agitation of the +bushes, and then, so suddenly that it almost startled a cry from him, +the bushes parted and a face peered out. It was a face covered with +several weeks' growth of ginger-colored beard. The eyes were blue and +wide apart, with laughter-wrinkles in the comers that showed despite the +tired and anxious expression of the whole face. + +All this he could see with microscopic clearness, for the distance was +no more than twenty feet. And all this he saw in such brief time, that +he saw it as he lifted his carbine to his shoulder. He glanced along the +sights, and knew that he was gazing upon a man who was as good as dead. +It was impossible to miss at such point blank range. + +But he did not shoot. Slowly he lowered the carbine and watched. A +hand, clutching a water-bottle, became visible and the ginger beard bent +downward to fill the bottle. He could hear the gurgle of the water. Then +arm and bottle and ginger beard disappeared behind the closing bushes. +A long time he waited, when, with thirst unslaked, he crept back to his +horse, rode slowly across the sun-washed clearing, and passed into the +shelter of the woods beyond. + +II + +Another day, hot and breathless. A deserted farmhouse, large, with many +outbuildings and an orchard, standing in a clearing. From the Woods, on +a roan horse, carbine across pommel, rode the young man with the quick +black eyes. He breathed with relief as he gained the house. That a fight +had taken place here earlier in the season was evident. Clips and empty +cartridges, tarnished with verdigris, lay on the ground, which, while +wet, had been torn up by the hoofs of horses. Hard by the kitchen garden +were graves, tagged and numbered. From the oak tree by the kitchen door, +in tattered, weatherbeaten garments, hung the bodies of two men. The +faces, shriveled and defaced, bore no likeness to the faces of men. The +roan horse snorted beneath them, and the rider caressed and soothed it +and tied it farther away. + +Entering the house, he found the interior a wreck. He trod on empty +cartridges as he walked from room to room to reconnoiter from the +windows. Men had camped and slept everywhere, and on the floor of one +room he came upon stains unmistakable where the wounded had been laid +down. + +Again outside, he led the horse around behind the barn and invaded the +orchard. A dozen trees were burdened with ripe apples. He filled his +pockets, eating while he picked. Then a thought came to him, and he +glanced at the sun, calculating the time of his return to camp. He +pulled off his shirt, tying the sleeves and making a bag. This he +proceeded to fill with apples. + +As he was about to mount his horse, the animal suddenly pricked up its +ears. The man, too, listened, and heard, faintly, the thud of hoofs on +soft earth. He crept to the corner of the barn and peered out. A dozen +mounted men, strung out loosely, approaching from the opposite side of +the clearing, were only a matter of a hundred yards or so away. They +rode on to the house. Some dismounted, while others remained in the +saddle as an earnest that their stay would be short. They seemed to +be holding a council, for he could hear them talking excitedly in the +detested tongue of the alien invader. The time passed, but they seemed +unable to reach a decision. He put the carbine away in its boot, +mounted, and waited impatiently, balancing the shirt of apples on the +pommel. + +He heard footsteps approaching, and drove his spurs so fiercely into the +roan as to force a surprised groan from the animal as it leaped forward. +At the corner of the barn he saw the intruder, a mere boy of nineteen or +twenty for all of his uniform jump back to escape being run down. At +the same moment the roan swerved and its rider caught a glimpse of the +aroused men by the house. Some were springing from their horses, and +he could see the rifles going to their shoulders. He passed the kitchen +door and the dried corpses swinging in the shade, compelling his foes to +run around the front of the house. A rifle cracked, and a second, but he +was going fast, leaning forward, low in the saddle, one hand clutching +the shirt of apples, the other guiding the horse. + +The top bar of the fence was four feet high, but he knew his roan and +leaped it at full career to the accompaniment of several scattered +shots. Eight hundred yards straight away were the woods, and the roan +was covering the distance with mighty strides. Every man was now firing. +pumping their guns so rapidly that he no longer heard individual shots. +A bullet went through his hat, but he was unaware, though he did know +when another tore through the apples on the pommel. And he winced and +ducked even lower when a third bullet, fired low, struck a stone between +his horse's legs and ricochetted off through the air, buzzing and +humming like some incredible insect. + +The shots died down as the magazines were emptied, until, quickly, there +was no more shooting. The young man was elated. Through that astonishing +fusillade he had come unscathed. He glanced back. Yes, they had emptied +their magazines. He could see several reloading. Others were running +back behind the house for their horses. As he looked, two already +mounted, came back into view around the corner, riding hard. And at the +same moment, he saw the man with the unmistakable ginger beard kneel +down on the ground, level his gun, and coolly take his time for the long +shot. + +The young man threw his spurs into the horse, crouched very low, and +swerved in his flight in order to distract the other's aim. And still +the shot did not come. With each jump of the horse, the woods sprang +nearer. They were only two hundred yards away and still the shot was +delayed. + +And then he heard it, the last thing he was to hear, for he was dead ere +he hit the ground in the long crashing fall from the saddle. And they, +watching at the house, saw him fall, saw his body bounce when it struck +the earth, and saw the burst of red-cheeked apples that rolled about +him. They laughed at the unexpected eruption of apples, and clapped +their hands in applause of the long shot by the man with the ginger +beard. + + + + +UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS + +"CAN any man--a gentleman, I mean--call a woman a pig?" + +The little man flung this challenge forth to the whole group, then +leaned back in his deck chair, sipping lemonade with an air commingled +of certitude and watchful belligerence. Nobody made answer. They were +used to the little man and his sudden passions and high elevations. + +"I repeat, it was in my presence that he said a certain lady, whom none +of you knows, was a pig. He did not say swine. He grossly said that she +was a pig. And I hold that no man who is a man could possibly make such +a remark about any woman." + +Dr. Dawson puffed stolidly at his black pipe. Matthews, with knees +hunched up and clasped by his arms, was absorbed in the flight of a +gunie. Sweet, finishing his Scotch and soda, was questing about with his +eyes for a deck steward. + +"I ask you, Mr. Treloar, can any man call any woman a pig?" + +Treloar, who happened to be sitting next to him, was startled by the +abruptness of the attack, and wondered what grounds he had ever given +the little man to believe that he could call a woman a pig. + +"I should say," he began his hesitant answer, "that it--er--depends on +the--er--the lady." + +The little man was aghast. + +"You mean...?" he quavered. + +"That I have seen female humans who were as bad as pigs--and worse." + +There was a long pained silence. The little man seemed withered by the +coarse brutality of the reply. In his face was unutterable hurt and woe. + +"You have told of a man who made a not nice remark and you have +classified him," Treloar said in cold, even tones. "I shall now tell +you about a woman--I beg your pardon--a lady, and when I have finished +I shall ask you to classify her. Miss Caruthers I shall call her, +principally for the reason that it is not her name. It was on a P. & O. +boat, and it occurred neither more nor less than several years ago. + +"Miss Caruthers was charming. No; that is not the word. She was amazing. +She was a young woman, and a lady. Her father was a certain high +official whose name, if I mentioned it, would be immediately recognized +by all of you. She was with her mother and two maids at the time, going +out to join the old gentleman wherever you like to wish in the East. + +"She, and pardon me for repeating, was amazing. It is the one adequate +word. Even the most minor adjectives applicable to her are bound to be +sheer superlatives. There was nothing she could not do better than any +woman and than most men. Sing, play--bah!--as some rhetorician once +said of old Nap, competition fled from her. Swim! She could have made +a fortune and a name as a public performer. She was one of those rare +women who can strip off all the frills of dress, and in simple swimming +suit be more satisfying beautiful. Dress! She was an artist. + +"But her swimming. Physically, she was the perfect woman--you know +what I mean, not in the gross, muscular way of acrobats, but in all the +delicacy of line and fragility of frame and texture. And combined with +this, strength. How she could do it was the marvel. You know the wonder +of a woman's arm--the fore arm, I mean; the sweet fading away from +rounded biceps and hint of muscle, down through small elbow and firm +soft swell to the wrist, small, unthinkably small and round and strong. +This was hers. And yet, to see her swimming the sharp quick English +overhand stroke, and getting somewhere with it, too, was--well, I +understand anatomy and athletics and such things, and yet it was a +mystery to me how she could do it. + +"She could stay under water for two minutes. I have timed her. No man +on board, except Dennitson, could capture as many coins as she with a +single dive. On the forward main-deck was a big canvas tank with six +feet of sea-water. We used to toss small coins into it. I have seen her +dive from the bridge deck--no mean feat in itself--into that six-feet +of water, and fetch up no less than forty-seven coins, scattered +willy-nilly over the whole bottom of the tank. Dennitson, a quiet young +Englishman, never exceeded her in this, though he made it a point always +to tie her score. + +"She was a sea-woman, true. But she was a land-woman, a +horsewoman--a--she was the universal woman. To see her, all softness of +soft dress, surrounded by half a dozen eager men, languidly careless of +them all or flashing brightness and wit on them and at them and through +them, one would fancy she was good for nothing else in the world. +At such moments I have compelled myself to remember her score of +forty-seven coins from the bottom of the swimming tank. But that was +she, the everlasting, wonder of a woman who did all things well. + +"She fascinated every betrousered human around her. She had me--and I +don't mind confessing it--she bad me to heel along with the rest. Young +puppies and old gray dogs who ought to have known better--oh, they all +came up and crawled around her skirts and whined and fawned when she +whistled. They were all guilty, from young Ardmore, a pink cherub of +nineteen outward bound for some clerkship in the Consular Service, to +old Captain Bentley, grizzled and sea-worn, and as emotional, to look +at, as a Chinese joss. There was a nice middle-aged chap, Perkins, I +believe, who forgot his wife was on board until Miss Caruthers sent him +to the right about and back where he belonged. + +"Men were wax in her hands. She melted them, or softly molded them, or +incinerated them, as she pleased. There wasn't a steward, even, grand +and remote as she was, who, at her bidding, would have hesitated to +souse the Old Man himself with a plate of soup. You have all seen such +women--a sort of world's desire to all men. As a man-conqueror she was +supreme. She was a whip-lash, a sting and a flame, an electric spark. +Oh, believe me, at times there were flashes of will that scorched +through her beauty and seduction and smote a victim into blank and +shivering idiocy and fear. + +"And don't fail to mark, in the light of what is to come, that she was +a prideful woman. Pride of race, pride of caste, pride of sex, pride of +power--she had it all, a pride strange and wilful and terrible. + +"She ran the ship, she ran the voyage, she ran everything, and she ran +Dennitson. That he had outdistanced the pack even the least wise of us +admitted. That she liked him, and that this feeling was growing, there +was not a doubt. I am certain that she looked on him with kinder eyes +than she had ever looked with on man before. We still worshiped, and +were always hanging about waiting to be whistled up, though we knew that +Dennitson was laps and laps ahead of us. What might have happened we +shall never know, for we came to Colombo and something else happened. + +"You know Colombo, and how the native boys dive for coins in the +shark-infested bay. Of course, it is only among the ground sharks and +fish sharks that they venture. It is almost uncanny the way they know +sharks and can sense the presence of a real killer--a tiger shark, for +instance, or a gray nurse strayed up from Australian waters. Let such a +shark appear, and, long before the passengers can guess, every mother's +son of them is out of the water in a wild scramble for safety. + +"It was after tiffin, and Miss Caruthers was holding her usual court +under the deck-awnings. Old Captain Bentley had just been whistled +up, and had granted her what he never granted before... nor +since--permission for the boys to come up on the promenade deck. You +see, Miss Caruthers was a swimmer, and she was interested. She took up +a collection of all our small change, and herself tossed it overside, +singly and in handfuls, arranging the terms of the contests, chiding a +miss, giving extra rewards to clever wins, in short, managing the whole +exhibition. + +"She was especially keen on their jumping. You know, jumping feet-first +from a height, it is very difficult to hold the body perpendicularly +while in the air. The center of gravity of the male body is high, and +the tendency is to overtopple. But the little beggars employed a method +which she declared was new to her and which she desired to learn. +Leaping from the davits of the boat-deck above, they plunged downward, +their faces and shoulders bowed forward, looking at the water. And only +at the last moment did they abruptly straighten up and enter the water +erect and true. + +"It was a pretty sight. Their diving was not so good, though there was +one of them who was excellent at it, as he was in all the other stunts. +Some white man must have taught him, for he made the proper swan dive +and did it as beautifully as I have ever seen it. You know, headfirst +into the water, from a great height, the problem is to enter the water +at the perfect angle. Miss the angle and it means at the least a twisted +back and injury for life. Also, it has meant death for many a bungler. +But this boy could do it--seventy feet I know he cleared in one dive +from the rigging--clenched hands on chest, head thrown back, sailing +more like a bird, upward and out, and out and down, body flat on the air +so that if it struck the surface in that position it would be split in +half like a herring. But the moment before the water is reached, the +head drops forward, the hands go out and lock the arms in an arch in +advance of the head, and the body curves gracefully downward and enters +the water just right. + +"This the boy did, again and again, to the delight of all of us, but +particularly of Miss Caruthers. He could not have been a moment over +twelve or thirteen, yet he was by far the cleverest of the gang. He was +the favorite of his crowd, and its leader. Though there were a number +older than he, they acknowledged his chieftaincy. He was a beautiful +boy, a lithe young god in breathing bronze, eyes wide apart, intelligent +and daring, a bubble, a mote, a beautiful flash and sparkle of life. You +have seen wonderful glorious creatures--animals, anything, a leopard, +a horse-restless, eager, too much alive ever to be still, silken of +muscle, each slightest movement a benediction of grace, every action +wild, untrammeled, and over all spilling out that intense vitality, that +sheen and luster of living light. The boy had it. Life poured out of him +almost in an effulgence. His skin glowed with it. It burned in his eyes. +I swear I could almost hear it crackle from him. Looking at him, it was +as if a whiff of ozone came to one's nostrils--so fresh and young was +he, so resplendent with health, so wildly wild. + +"This was the boy. And it was he who gave the alarm in the midst of the +sport. The boys made a dash of it for the gangway platform, swimming the +fastest strokes they knew, pellmell, floundering and splashing, fright +in their faces, clambering out with jumps and surges, any way to get +out, lending one another a hand to safety, till all were strung along +the gangway and peering down into the water. + +"'What is the matter?' asked Miss Caruthers. + +"'A shark, I fancy,' Captain Bentley answered. 'Lucky little beggars +that he didn't get one of them.' + +"'Are they afraid of sharks?' she asked. + +"'Aren't you?' he asked back." + +She shuddered, looked overside at the water, and made a move. + +"'Not for the world would I venture where a shark might be,' she said, +and shuddered again. 'They are horrible! Horrible!' + +"The boys came up on the promenade deck, clustering close to the rail +and worshiping Miss Caruthers who had flung them such a wealth of +backsheesh. The performance being over, Captain Bentley motioned to them +to clear out. But she stopped him. + +"'One moment, please, Captain. I have always understood that the natives +are not afraid of sharks.' + +"She beckoned the boy of the swan dive nearer to her, and signed to +him to dive over again. He shook his head, and along with all his crew +behind him laughed as if it were a good joke. + +"'Shark,' he volunteered, pointing to the water. + +"'No,' she said. 'There is no shark.' + +"But he nodded his head positively, and the boys behind him nodded with +equal positiveness. + +"'No, no, no,' she cried. And then to us, 'Who'll lend me a half-crown +and a sovereign!' + +"Immediately the half dozen of us were presenting her with crowns and +sovereigns, and she accepted the two coins from young Ardmore. + +"She held up the half-crown for the boys to see. But there was no eager +rush to the rail preparatory to leaping. They stood there grinning +sheepishly. She offered the coin to each one individually, and each, +as his turn came, rubbed his foot against his calf, shook his head, +and grinned. Then she tossed the half-crown overboard. With wistful, +regretful faces they watched its silver flight through the air, but not +one moved to follow it. + +"'Don't do it with the sovereign,' Dennitson said to her in a low voice. + +"She took no notice, but held up the gold coin before the eyes of the +boy of the swan dive. + +"'Don't,' said Captain Bentley. 'I wouldn't throw a sick cat overside +with a shark around.' + +"But she laughed, bent on her purpose, and continued to dazzle the boy. + +"'Don't tempt him,' Dennitson urged. 'It is a fortune to him, and he +might go over after it.' + +"'Wouldn't YOU?' she flared at him. 'If I threw it?'" + +This last more softly. + +Dennitson shook his head. + +"'Your price is high,' she said. 'For how many sovereigns would you go?' + +"'There are not enough coined to get me overside,' was his answer. + +"She debated a moment, the boy forgotten in her tilt with Dennitson. + +"'For me?' she said very softly. + +"'To save your life--yes. But not otherwise.' + +"She turned back to the boy. Again she held the coin before his eyes, +dazzling him with the vastness of its value. Then she made as to toss +it out, and, involuntarily, he made a half-movement toward the rail, +but was checked by sharp cries of reproof from his companions. There was +anger in their voices as well. + +"'I know it is only fooling,' Dennitson said. 'Carry it as far as you +like, but for heaven's sake don't throw it.' + +"Whether it was that strange wilfulness of hers, or whether she doubted +the boy could be persuaded, there is no telling. It was unexpected to +all of us. Out from the shade of the awning the coin flashed golden +in the blaze of sunshine and fell toward the sea in a glittering arch. +Before a hand could stay him, the boy was over the rail and curving +beautifully downward after the coin. Both were in the air at the same +time. It was a pretty sight. The sovereign cut the water sharply, and at +the very spot, almost at the same instant, with scarcely a splash, the +boy entered. + +"From the quicker-eyed black boys watching, came an exclamation. We were +all at the railing. Don't tell me it is necessary for a shark to turn on +its back. That one did not. In the clear water, from the height we were +above it, we saw everything. The shark was a big brute, and with one +drive he cut the boy squarely in half. + +"There was a murmur or something from among us--who made it I did not +know; it might have been I. And then there was silence. Miss Caruthers +was the first to speak. Her face was deathly white. + +"'I never dreamed,' she said, and laughed a short, hysterical laugh. + +"All her pride was at work to give her control. She turned weakly toward +Dennitson, and then, on from one to another of us. In her eyes was a +terrible sickness, and her lips were trembling. We were brutes--oh, I +know it, now that I look back upon it. But we did nothing. + +"'Mr. Dennitson,' she said, 'Tom, won't you take me below!' + +"He never changed the direction of his gaze, which was the bleakest I +have ever seen in a man's face, nor did he move an eyelid. He took a +cigarette from his case and lighted it. Captain Bentley made a nasty +sound in his throat and spat overboard. That was all; that and the +silence. + +"She turned away and started to walk firmly down the deck. Twenty feet +away, she swayed and thrust a hand against the wall to save herself. And +so she went on, supporting herself against the cabins and walking very +slowly." Treloar ceased. He turned his head and favored the little man +with a look of cold inquiry. + +"Well," he said finally. "Classify her." + +The little man gulped and swallowed. + +"I have nothing to say," he said. "I have nothing whatever to say." + + + + +TO KILL A MAN + +THOUGH dim night-lights burned, she moved familiarly through the big +rooms and wide halls, seeking vainly the half-finished book of verse she +had mislaid and only now remembered. When she turned on the lights in +the drawing-room, she disclosed herself clad in a sweeping negligee gown +of soft rose-colored stuff, throat and shoulders smothered in lace. Her +rings were still on her fingers, her massed yellow hair had not yet been +taken down. She was delicately, gracefully beautiful, with slender, +oval face, red lips, a faint color in the cheeks, and blue eyes of the +chameleon sort that at will stare wide with the innocence of childhood, +go hard and gray and brilliantly cold, or flame up in hot wilfulness and +mastery. + +She turned the lights off and passed out and down the hall toward the +morning room. At the entrance she paused and listened. From farther on +had come, not a noise, but an impression of movement. She could have +sworn she had not heard anything, yet something had been different. +The atmosphere of night quietude had been disturbed. She wondered what +servant could be prowling about. Not the butler, who was notorious +for retiring early save on special occasion. Nor could it be her maid, +whom she had permitted to go that evening. + +Passing on to the dining-room, she found the door closed. Why she opened +it and went on in, she did not know, except for the feeling that the +disturbing factor, whatever it might be, was there. The room was in +darkness, and she felt her way to the button and pressed. As the blaze +of light flashed on, she stepped back and cried out. It was a mere "Oh!" +and it was not loud. + + +Facing her, alongside the button, flat against the wall, was a man. In +his hand, pointed toward her, was a revolver. She noticed, even in +the shock of seeing him, that the weapon was black and exceedingly +long-barreled. She knew black and exceedingly long it for what it was, a +Colt's. He was a medium-sized man, roughly clad, brown-eyed, and swarthy +with sunburn. He seemed very cool. There was no wabble to the revolver +and it was directed toward her stomach, not from an outstretched arm, +but from the hip, against which the forearm rested. + +"Oh," she said. "I beg your pardon. You startled me. What do you want?" + +"I reckon I want to get out," he answered, with a humorous twitch to +the lips. "I've kind of lost my way in this here shebang, and if you'll +kindly show me the door I'll cause no trouble and sure vamoose." + +"But what are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice touched with the +sharpness of one used to authority. + +"Plain robbing, Miss, that's all. I came snooping around to see what I +could gather up. I thought you wan't to home, seein' as I saw you pull +out with your old man in an auto. I reckon that must a ben your pa, and +you're Miss Setliffe." + +Mrs. Setliffe saw his mistake, appreciated the naive compliment, and +decided not to undeceive him. + +"How do you know I am Miss Setliffe?" she asked. + +"This is old Setliffe's house, ain't it?" + +She nodded. + +"I didn't know he had a daughter, but I reckon you must be her. And now, +if it ain't botherin' you too much, I'd sure be obliged if you'd show me +the way out." + +"But why should I? You are a robber, a burglar." + +"If I wan't an ornery shorthorn at the business, I'd be accumulatin' +them rings on your fingers instead of being polite," he retorted. + +"I come to make a raise outa old Setliffe, and not to be robbing +women-folks. If you get outa the way, I reckon I can find my own way +out." + +Mrs. Setliffe was a keen woman, and she felt that from such a man there +was little to fear. That he was not a typical criminal, she was certain. +From his speech she knew he was not of the cities, and she seemed to +sense the wider, homelier air of large spaces. + +"Suppose I screamed?" she queried curiously. "Suppose I made an outcry +for help? You couldn't shoot me?... a woman?" + +She noted the fleeting bafflement in his brown eyes. He answered slowly +and thoughtfully, as if working out a difficult problem. "I reckon, +then, I'd have to choke you and maul you some bad." + +"A woman?" + +"I'd sure have to," he answered, and she saw his mouth set grimly. + +"You're only a soft woman, but you see, Miss, I can't afford to go to +jail. No, Miss, I sure can't. There's a friend of mine waitin' for +me out West. He's in a hole, and I've got to help him out." The mouth +shaped even more grimly. "I guess I could choke you without hurting you +much to speak of." + +Her eyes took on a baby stare of innocent incredulity as she watched +him. + +"I never met a burglar before," she assured him, "and I can't begin to +tell you how interested I am." + +"I'm not a burglar, Miss. Not a real one," he hastened to add as she +looked her amused unbelief. "It looks like it, me being here in your +house. But it's the first time I ever tackled such a job. I needed the +money bad. Besides, I kind of look on it like collecting what's coming +to me." + +"I don't understand," she smiled encouragingly. "You came here to rob, +and to rob is to take what is not yours." + +"Yes, and no, in this here particular case. But I reckon I'd better be +going now." + +He started for the door of the dining-room, but she interposed, and a +very beautiful obstacle she made of herself. His left hand went out +as if to grip her, then hesitated. He was patently awed by her soft +womanhood. + +"There!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew you wouldn't." + +The man was embarrassed. + +"I ain't never manhandled a woman yet," he explained, "and it don't come +easy. But I sure will, if you set to screaming." + +"Won't you stay a few minutes and talk?" she urged. "I'm so interested. +I should like to hear you explain how burglary is collecting what is +coming to you." + +He looked at her admiringly. + +"I always thought women-folks were scairt of robbers," he confessed. +"But you don't seem none." + +She laughed gaily. + +"There are robbers and robbers, you know. I am not afraid of you, +because I am confident you are not the sort of creature that would harm +a woman. Come, talk with me a while. Nobody will disturb us. I am all +alone. My--father caught the night train to New York. The servants are +all asleep. I should like to give you something to eat--women always +prepare midnight suppers for the burglars they catch, at least they +do in the magazine stories. But I don't know where to find the food. +Perhaps you will have something to drink?" + +He hesitated, and did not reply; but she could see the admiration for +her growing in his eyes. + +"You're not afraid?" she queried. "I won't poison you, I promise. I'll +drink with you to show you it is all right." + +"You sure are a surprise package of all right," he declared, for the +first time lowering the weapon and letting it hang at his side. "No one +don't need to tell me ever again that women-folks in cities is afraid. +You ain't much--just a little soft pretty thing. But you've sure got the +spunk. And you're trustful on top of it. There ain't many women, or men +either, who'd treat a man with a gun the way you're treating me." + +She smiled her pleasure in the compliment, and her face, was very +earnest as she said: + +"That is because I like your appearance. You are too decent-looking a +man to be a robber. You oughtn't to do such things. If you are in bad +luck you should go to work. Come, put away that nasty revolver and let +us talk it over. The thing for you to do is to work." + +"Not in this burg," he commented bitterly. "I've walked two inches off +the bottom of my legs trying to find a job. Honest, I was a fine large +man once... before I started looking for a job." + +The merry laughter with which she greeted his sally obviously pleased +him, and she was quick to note and take advantage of it. She moved +directly away from the door and toward the sideboard. + +"Come, you must tell me all about it while I get that drink for you. +What will it be? Whisky?" + +"Yes, ma'am," he said, as he followed her, though he still carried +the big revolver at his side, and though he glanced reluctantly at the +unguarded open door. + +She filled a glass for him at the sideboard. + +"I promised to drink with you," she said hesitatingly. "But I don't like +whisky. I... I prefer sherry." + +She lifted the sherry bottle tentatively for his consent. + +"Sure," he answered, with a nod. "Whisky's a man's drink. I never like +to see women at it. Wine's more their stuff." + +She raised her glass to his, her eyes meltingly sympathetic. + +"Here's to finding you a good position--" + +But she broke off at sight of the expression of surprised disgust on his +face. The glass, barely touched, was removed from his wry lips. + +"What is the matter!" she asked anxiously. "Don't you like it? Have I +made a mistake?" + +"It's sure funny whisky. Tastes like it got burned and smoked in the +making." + +"Oh! How silly of me! I gave you Scotch. Of course you are accustomed to +rye. Let me change it." + +She was almost solicitiously maternal, as she replaced the glass with +another and sought and found the proper bottle. + +"Better?" she asked. + +"Yes, ma'am. No smoke in it. It's sure the real good stuff. I ain't had +a drink in a week. Kind of slick, that; oily, you know; not made in a +chemical factory." + +"You are a drinking man?" It was half a question, half a challenge. + +"No, ma'am, not to speak of. I HAVE rared up and ripsnorted at spells, +but most unfrequent. But there is times when a good stiff jolt lands on +the right spot kerchunk, and this is sure one of them. And now, thanking +you for your kindness, ma'am, I'll just be a pulling along." + +But Mrs. Setliffe did not want to lose her burglar. She was too poised a +woman to possess much romance, but there was a thrill about the present +situation that delighted her. Besides, she knew there was no danger. The +man, despite his jaw and the steady brown eyes, was eminently tractable. +Also, farther back in her consciousness glimmered the thought of an +audience of admiring friends. It was too bad not to have that audience. + +"You haven't explained how burglary, in your case, is merely collecting +what is your own," she said. "Come, sit down, and tell me about it here +at the table." + +She maneuvered for her own seat, and placed him across the corner from +her. His alertness had not deserted him, as she noted, and his eyes +roved sharply about, returning always with smoldering admiration to +hers, but never resting long. And she noted likewise that while she +spoke he was intent on listening for other sounds than those of her +voice. Nor had he relinquished the revolver, which lay at the corner of +the table between them, the butt close to his right hand. + +But he was in a new habitat which he did not know. This man from the +West, cunning in woodcraft and plainscraft, with eyes and ears open, +tense and suspicious, did not know that under the table, close to her +foot, was the push button of an electric bell. He had never heard of +such a contrivance, and his keenness and wariness went for naught. + +"It's like this, Miss," he began, in response to her urging. "Old +Setliffe done me up in a little deal once. It was raw, but it worked. +Anything will work full and legal when it's got few hundred million +behind it. I'm not squealin', and I ain't taking a slam at your pa. +He don't know me from Adam, and I reckon he don't know he done me outa +anything. He's too big, thinking and dealing in millions, to ever hear +of a small potato like me. He's an operator. He's got all kinds of +experts thinking and planning and working for him, some of them, I hear, +getting more cash salary than the President of the United States. I'm +only one of thousands that have been done up by your pa, that's all. + +"You see, ma'am, I had a little hole in the ground--a dinky, hydraulic, +one-horse outfit of a mine. And when the Setliffe crowd shook down +Idaho, and reorganized the smelter trust, and roped in the rest of the +landscape, and put through the big hydraulic scheme at Twin Pines, why +I sure got squeezed. I never had a run for my money. I was scratched +off the card before the first heat. And so, to-night, being broke and my +friend needing me bad, I just dropped around to make a raise outa your +pa. Seeing as I needed it, it kinda was coming to me." + +"Granting all that you say is so," she said, "nevertheless it does not +make house-breaking any the less house-breaking. You couldn't make such +a defense in a court of law." + +"I know that," he confessed meekly. "What's right ain't always legal. +And that's why I am so uncomfortable a-settin' here and talking with +you. Not that I ain't enjoying your company--I sure do enjoy it--but I +just can't afford to be caught. I know what they'd do to me in this here +city. There was a young fellow that got fifty years only last week for +holding a man up on the street for two dollars and eighty-five cents. I +read about it in the paper. When times is hard and they ain't no work, +men get desperate. And then the other men who've got something to be +robbed of get desperate, too, and they just sure soak it to the other +fellows. If I got caught, I reckon I wouldn't get a mite less than ten +years. That's why I'm hankering to be on my way." + +"No; wait." She lifted a detaining hand, at the same time removing her +foot from the bell, which she had been pressing intermittently. "You +haven't told me your name yet." + +He hesitated. + +"Call me Dave." + +"Then... Dave," she laughed with pretty confusion. "Something must be +done for you. You are a young man, and you are just at the beginning +of a bad start. If you begin by attempting to collect what you think is +coming to you, later on you will be collecting what you are perfectly +sure isn't coming to you. And you know what the end will be. Instead of +this, we must find something honorable for you to do." + +"I need the money, and I need it now," he replied doggedly. "It's not +for myself, but for that friend I told you about. He's in a peck of +trouble, and he's got to get his lift now or not at all." + +"I can find you a position," she said quickly. "And--yes, the very +thing!--I'll lend you the money you want to send to your friend. This +you can pay back out of your salary." + +"About three hundred would do," he said slowly. "Three hundred would +pull him through. I'd work my fingers off for a year for that, and my +keep, and a few cents to buy Bull Durham with." + +"Ah! You smoke! I never thought of it." + +Her hand went out over the revolver toward his hand, as she pointed to +the tell-tale yellow stain on his fingers. At the same time her eyes +measured the nearness of her own hand and of his to the weapon. She +ached to grip it in one swift movement. She was sure she could do +it, and yet she was not sure; and so it was that she refrained as she +withdrew her hand. + +"Won't you smoke?" she invited. + +"I'm 'most dying to." + +"Then do so. I don't mind. I really like it--cigarettes, I mean." + +With his left band he dipped into his side pocket, brought out a +loose wheat-straw paper and shifted it to his right hand close by the +revolver. Again he dipped, transferring to the paper a pinch of brown, +flaky tobacco. Then he proceeded, both hands just over the revolver, to +roll the cigarette. + +"From the way you hover close to that nasty weapon, you seem to be +afraid of me," she challenged. + +"Not exactly afraid of you, ma'am, but, under the circumstances, just a +mite timid." + +"But I've not been afraid of you." + +"You've got nothing to lose." + +"My life," she retorted. + +"That's right," he acknowledged promptly, "and you ain't been scairt of +me. Mebbe I am over anxious." + +"I wouldn't cause you any harm." + +Even as she spoke, her slipper felt for the bell and pressed it. At the +same time her eyes were earnest with a plea of honesty. + +"You are a judge of men. I know it. And of women. Surely, when I am +trying to persuade you from a criminal life and to get you honest work +to do....?" + +He was immediately contrite. + +"I sure beg your pardon, ma'am," he said. "I reckon my nervousness ain't +complimentary." + +As he spoke, he drew his right hand from the table, and after lighting +the cigarette, dropped it by his side. + +"Thank you for your confidence," she breathed softly, resolutely keeping +her eyes from measuring the distance to the revolver, and keeping her +foot pressed firmly on the bell. + +"About that three hundred," he began. "I can telegraph it West to-night. +And I'll agree to work a year for it and my keep." + +"You will earn more than that. I can promise seventy-five dollars a +month at the least. Do you know horses?" + +His face lighted up and his eyes sparkled. + +"Then go to work for me--or for my father, rather, though I engage all +the servants. I need a second coachman--" + +"And wear a uniform?" he interrupted sharply, the sneer of the free-born +West in his voice and on his lips. + +She smiled tolerantly. + +"Evidently that won't do. Let me think. Yes. Can you break and handle +colts?" + +He nodded. + +"We have a stock farm, and there's room for just such a man as you. Will +you take it?" + +"Will I, ma'am?" His voice was rich with gratitude and enthusiasm. "Show +me to it. I'll dig right in to-morrow. And I can sure promise you one +thing, ma'am. You'll never be sorry for lending Hughie Luke a hand in +his trouble--" + +"I thought you said to call you Dave," she chided forgivingly. + +"I did, ma'am. I did. And I sure beg your pardon. It was just plain +bluff. My real name is Hughie Luke. And if you'll give me the address +of that stock farm of yours, and the railroad fare, I head for it first +thing in the morning." + +Throughout the conversation she had never relaxed her attempts on the +bell. She had pressed it in every alarming way--three shorts and a long, +two and a long, and five. She had tried long series of shorts, and, +once, she had held the button down for a solid three minutes. And she +had been divided between objurgation of the stupid, heavy-sleeping +butler and doubt if the bell were in order. + +"I am so glad," she said; "so glad that you are willing. There won't be +much to arrange. But you will first have to trust me while I go upstairs +for my purse." + +She saw the doubt flicker momentarily in his eyes, and added hastily, +"But you see I am trusting you with the three hundred dollars." + +"I believe you, ma'am," he came back gallantly. "Though I just can't +help this nervousness." + +"Shall I go and get it?" + +But before she could receive consent, a slight muffled jar from the +distance came to her ear. She knew it for the swing-door of the butler's +pantry. But so slight was it--more a faint vibration than a sound--that +she would not have heard had not her ears been keyed and listening for +it. Yet the man had heard. He was startled in his composed way. + +"What was that?" he demanded. + +For answer, her left hand flashed out to the revolver and brought it +back. She had had the start of him, and she needed it, for the next +instant his hand leaped up from his side, clutching emptiness where the +revolver had been. + +"Sit down!" she commanded sharply, in a voice new to him. "Don't move. +Keep your hands on the table." + +She had taken a lesson from him. Instead of holding the heavy weapon +extended, the butt of it and her forearm rested on the table, the muzzle +pointed, not at his head, but his chest. And he, looking coolly and +obeying her commands, knew there was no chance of the kick-up of the +recoil producing a miss. Also, he saw that the revolver did not wabble, +nor the hand shake, and he was thoroughly conversant with the size of +hole the soft-nosed bullets could make. He had eyes, not for her, but +for the hammer, which had risen under the pressure of her forefinger on +the trigger. + +"I reckon I'd best warn you that that there trigger-pull is filed +dreadful fine. Don't press too hard, or I'll have a hole in me the size +of a walnut." + +She slacked the hammer partly down. + +"That's better," he commented. "You'd best put it down all the way. You +see how easy it works. If you want to, a quick light pull will jiffy her +up and back and make a pretty mess all over your nice floor." + +A door opened behind him, and he heard somebody enter the room. But he +did not turn his bead. He was looking at her, and he found it the face +of another woman--hard, cold, pitiless yet brilliant in its beauty. The +eyes, too, were hard, though blazing with a cold light. + +"Thomas," she commanded, "go to the telephone and call the police. Why +were you so long in answering?" + +"I came as soon as I heard the bell, madam," was the answer. + +The robber never took his eyes from hers, nor did she from his, but +at mention of the bell she noticed that his eyes were puzzled for the +moment. + +"Beg your pardon," said the butler from behind, "but wouldn't it be +better for me to get a weapon and arouse the servants?" + +"No; ring for the police. I can hold this man. Go and do it--quickly." + +The butler slippered out of the room, and the man and the woman sat on, +gazing into each other's eyes. To her it was an experience keen with +enjoyment, and in her mind was the gossip of her crowd, and she saw +notes in the society weeklies of the beautiful young Mrs. Setliffe +capturing an armed robber single-handed. It would create a sensation, +she was sure. + +"When you get that sentence you mentioned," she said coldly, "you will +have time to meditate upon what a fool you have been, taking other +persons' property and threatening women with revolvers. You will have +time to learn your lesson thoroughly. Now tell the truth. You haven't +any friend in trouble. All that you told me was lies." + +He did not reply. Though his eyes were upon her, they seemed blank. In +truth, for the instant she was veiled to him, and what he saw was the +wide sunwashed spaces of the West, where men and women were bigger than +the rotten denizens, as he had encountered them, of the thrice rotten +cities of the East. + +"Go on. Why don't you speak? Why don't you lie some more? Why don't you +beg to be let off?" + +"I might," he answered, licking his dry lips. "I might ask to be let off +if..." + +"If what?" she demanded peremptorily, as he paused. + +"I was trying to think of a word you reminded me of. As I was saying, I +might if you was a decent woman." + +Her face paled. + +"Be careful," she warned. + +"You don't dast kill me," he sneered. "The world's a pretty low down +place to have a thing like you prowling around in it, but it ain't so +plumb low down, I reckon, as to let you put a hole in me. You're sure +bad, but the trouble with you is that you're weak in your badness. It +ain't much to kill a man, but you ain't got it in you. There's where you +lose out." + +"Be careful of what you say," she repeated. "Or else, I warn you, it +will go hard with you. It can be seen to whether your sentence is light +or heavy." + +"Something's the matter with God," he remarked irrelevantly, "to be +letting you around loose. It's clean beyond me what he's up to, playing +such-like tricks on poor humanity. Now if I was God--" + +His further opinion was interrupted by the entrance of the butler. + +"Something is wrong with the telephone, madam," he announced. "The wires +are crossed or something, because I can't get Central." + +"Go and call one of the servants," she ordered. "Send him out for an +officer, and then return here." + +Again the pair was left alone. + +"Will you kindly answer one question, ma'am?" the man said. "That +servant fellow said something about a bell. I watched you like a cat, +and you sure rung no bell." + +"It was under the table, you poor fool. I pressed it with my foot." + +"Thank you, ma'am. I reckoned I'd seen your kind before, and now I sure +know I have. I spoke to you true and trusting, and all the time you was +lying like hell to me." + +She laughed mockingly. + +"Go on. Say what you wish. It is very interesting." + +"You made eyes at me, looking soft and kind, playing up all the time the +fact that you wore skirts instead of pants--and all the time with your +foot on the bell under the table. Well, there's some consolation. I'd +sooner be poor Hughie Luke, doing his ten years, than be in your skin. +Ma'am, hell is full of women like you." + +There was silence for a space, in which the man, never taking his eyes +from her, studying her, was making up his mind. + +"Go on," she urged. "Say something." + +"Yes, ma'am, I'll say something. I'll sure say something. Do you know +what I'm going to do? I'm going to get right up from this chair and walk +out that door. I'd take the gun from you, only you might turn foolish +and let it go off. You can have the gun. It's a good one. As I was +saying, I am going right out that door. And you ain't going to pull that +gun off either. It takes guts to shoot a man, and you sure ain't got +them. Now get ready and see if you can pull that trigger. I ain't going +to harm you. I'm going out that door, and I'm starting." + +Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he pushed back the chair and slowly stood +erect. The hammer rose halfway. She watched it. So did he. + +"Pull harder," he advised. "It ain't half up yet. Go on and pull it and +kill a man. That's what I said, kill a man, spatter his brains out on +the floor, or slap a hole into him the size of your fist. That's what +killing a man means." + +The hammer lowered jerkily but gently. The man turned his back and +walked slowly to the door. She swung the revolver around so that it bore +on his back. Twice again the hammer came up halfway and was reluctantly +eased down. + +At the door the man turned for a moment before passing on. A sneer was +on his lips. He spoke to her in a low voice, almost drawling, but in +it was the quintessence of all loathing, as he called her a name +unspeakable and vile. + + + + +THE MEXICAN + +NOBODY knew his history--they of the Junta least of all. He was their +"little mystery," their "big patriot," and in his way he worked as +hard for the coming Mexican Revolution as did they. They were tardy in +recognizing this, for not one of the Junta liked him. The day he first +drifted into their crowded, busy rooms, they all suspected him of being +a spy--one of the bought tools of the Diaz secret service. Too many of +the comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the United +States, and others of them, in irons, were even then being taken across +the border to be lined up against adobe walls and shot. + +At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably. Boy he was, +not more than eighteen and not over large for his years. He announced +that he was Felipe Rivera, and that it was his wish to work for the +Revolution. That was all--not a wasted word, no further explanation. He +stood waiting. There was no smile on his lips, no geniality in his eyes. +Big dashing Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder. Here was something +forbidding, terrible, inscrutable. There was something venomous and +snakelike in the boy's black eyes. They burned like cold fire, as with +a vast, concentrated bitterness. He flashed them from the faces of +the conspirators to the typewriter which little Mrs. Sethby was +industriously operating. His eyes rested on hers but an instant--she +had chanced to look up--and she, too, sensed the nameless something that +made her pause. She was compelled to read back in order to regain the +swing of the letter she was writing. + +Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos, and +questioningly they looked back and to each other. The indecision of +doubt brooded in their eyes. This slender boy was the Unknown, vested +with all the menace of the Unknown. He was unrecognizable, something +quite beyond the ken of honest, ordinary revolutionists whose fiercest +hatred for Diaz and his tyranny after all was only that of honest and +ordinary patriots. Here was something else, they knew not what. But +Vera, always the most impulsive, the quickest to act, stepped into the +breach. + +"Very well," he said coldly. "You say you want to work for the +Revolution. Take off your coat. Hang it over there. I will show you, +come--where are the buckets and cloths. The floor is dirty. You will +begin by scrubbing it, and by scrubbing the floors of the other rooms. +The spittoons need to be cleaned. Then there are the windows." + +"Is it for the Revolution?" the boy asked. + +"It is for the Revolution," Vera answered. + +Rivera looked cold suspicion at all of them, then proceeded to take off +his coat. + +"It is well," he said. + +And nothing more. Day after day he came to his work--sweeping, +scrubbing, cleaning. He emptied the ashes from the stoves, brought up +the coal and kindling, and lighted the fires before the most energetic +one of them was at his desk. + +"Can I sleep here?" he asked once. + +Ah, ha! So that was it--the hand of Diaz showing through! To sleep in +the rooms of the Junta meant access to their secrets, to the lists of +names, to the addresses of comrades down on Mexican soil. The request +was denied, and Rivera never spoke of it again. He slept they knew not +where, and ate they knew not where nor how. Once, Arrellano offered him +a couple of dollars. Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head. +When Vera joined in and tried to press it upon him, he said: + +"I am working for the Revolution." + +It takes money to raise a modern revolution, and always the Junta was +pressed. The members starved and toiled, and the longest day was none +too long, and yet there were times when it appeared as if the Revolution +stood or fell on no more than the matter of a few dollars. Once, the +first time, when the rent of the house was two months behind and the +landlord was threatening dispossession, it was Felipe Rivera, the +scrub-boy in the poor, cheap clothes, worn and threadbare, who laid +sixty dollars in gold on May Sethby's desk. There were other times. +Three hundred letters, clicked out on the busy typewriters (appeals for +assistance, for sanctions from the organized labor groups, requests for +square news deals to the editors of newspapers, protests against the +high-handed treatment of revolutionists by the United States courts), +lay unmailed, awaiting postage. Vera's watch had disappeared--the +old-fashioned gold repeater that had been his father's. Likewise had +gone the plain gold band from May Setbby's third finger. Things were +desperate. Ramos and Arrellano pulled their long mustaches in despair. +The letters must go off, and the Post Office allowed no credit to +purchasers of stamps. Then it was that Rivera put on his hat and +went out. When he came back he laid a thousand two-cent stamps on May +Sethby's desk. + +"I wonder if it is the cursed gold of Diaz?" said Vera to the comrades. + +They elevated their brows and could not decide. And Felipe Rivera, the +scrubber for the Revolution, continued, as occasion arose, to lay down +gold and silver for the Junta's use. + +And still they could not bring themselves to like him. They did not know +him. His ways were not theirs. He gave no confidences. He repelled all +probing. Youth that he was, they could never nerve themselves to dare to +question him. + +"A great and lonely spirit, perhaps, I do not know, I do not know," +Arrellano said helplessly. + +"He is not human," said Ramos. + +"His soul has been seared," said May Sethby. "Light and laughter have +been burned out of him. He is like one dead, and yet he is fearfully +alive." + +"He has been through hell," said Vera. "No man could look like that who +has not been through hell--and he is only a boy." + +Yet they could not like him. He never talked, never inquired, never +suggested. He would stand listening, expressionless, a thing dead, save +for his eyes, coldly burning, while their talk of the Revolution ran +high and warm. From face to face and speaker to speaker his eyes +would turn, boring like gimlets of incandescent ice, disconcerting and +perturbing. + +"He is no spy," Vera confided to May Sethby. "He is a patriot--mark me, +the greatest patriot of us all. I know it, I feel it, here in my heart +and head I feel it. But him I know not at all." + +"He has a bad temper," said May Sethby. + +"I know," said Vera, with a shudder. "He has looked at me with those +eyes of his. They do not love; they threaten; they are savage as a wild +tiger's. I know, if I should prove unfaithful to the Cause, that he +would kill me. He has no heart. He is pitiless as steel, keen and cold +as frost. He is like moonshine in a winter night when a man freezes to +death on some lonely mountain top. I am not afraid of Diaz and all his +killers; but this boy, of him am I afraid. I tell you true. I am afraid. +He is the breath of death." + +Yet Vera it was who persuaded the others to give the first trust +to Rivera. The line of communication between Los Angeles and Lower +California had broken down. Three of the comrades had dug their own +graves and been shot into them. Two more were United States prisoners +in Los Angeles. Juan Alvarado, the Federal commander, was a monster. All +their plans did he checkmate. They could no longer gain access to the +active revolutionists, and the incipient ones, in Lower California. + +Young Rivera was given his instructions and dispatched south. When he +returned, the line of communication was reestablished, and Juan Alvarado +was dead. He had been found in bed, a knife hilt-deep in his breast. +This had exceeded Rivera's instructions, but they of the Junta knew the +times of his movements. They did not ask him. He said nothing. But they +looked at one another and conjectured. + +"I have told you," said Vera. "Diaz has more to fear from this youth +than from any man. He is implacable. He is the hand of God." + +The bad temper, mentioned by May Sethby, and sensed by them all, +was evidenced by physical proofs. Now he appeared with a cut lip, +a blackened cheek, or a swollen ear. It was patent that he brawled, +somewhere in that outside world where he ate and slept, gained money, +and moved in ways unknown to them. As the time passed, he had come to +set type for the little revolutionary sheet they published weekly. There +were occasions when he was unable to set type, when his knuckles were +bruised and battered, when his thumbs were injured and helpless, when +one arm or the other hung wearily at his side while his face was drawn +with unspoken pain. + +"A wastrel," said Arrellano. + +"A frequenter of low places," said Ramos. + +"But where does he get the money?" Vera demanded. "Only to-day, just +now, have I learned that he paid the bill for white paper--one hundred +and forty dollars." + +"There are his absences," said May Sethby. "He never explains them." + +"We should set a spy upon him," Ramos propounded. + +"I should not care to be that spy," said Vera. "I fear you would never +see me again, save to bury me. He has a terrible passion. Not even God +would he permit to stand between him and the way of his passion." + +"I feel like a child before him," Ramos confessed. + +"To me he is power--he is the primitive, the wild wolf, the striking +rattlesnake, the stinging centipede," said Arrellano. + +"He is the Revolution incarnate," said Vera. "He is the flame and the +spirit of it, the insatiable cry for vengeance that makes no cry but +that slays noiselessly. He is a destroying angel in moving through the +still watches of the night." + +"I could weep over him," said May Sethby. "He knows nobody. He hates +all people. Us he tolerates, for we are the way of his desire. He is +alone.... lonely." Her voice broke in a half sob and there was dimness +in her eyes. + +Rivera's ways and times were truly mysterious. There were periods when +they did not see him for a week at a time. Once, he was away a month. +These occasions were always capped by his return, when, without +advertisement or speech, he laid gold coins on May Sethby's desk. Again, +for days and weeks, he spent all his time with the Junta. And yet again, +for irregular periods, he would disappear through the heart of each day, +from early morning until late afternoon. At such times he came early and +remained late. Arrellano had found him at midnight, setting type with +fresh swollen knuckles, or mayhap it was his lip, new-split, that still +bled. + +II + +The time of the crisis approached. Whether or not the Revolution would +be depended upon the Junta, and the Junta was hard-pressed. The need +for money was greater than ever before, while money was harder to get. +Patriots had given their last cent and now could give no more. Section +gang laborers-fugitive peons from Mexico--were contributing half +their scanty wages. But more than that was needed. The heart-breaking, +conspiring, undermining toil of years approached fruition. The time +was ripe. The Revolution hung on the balance. One shove more, one last +heroic effort, and it would tremble across the scales to victory. They +knew their Mexico. Once started, the Revolution would take care of +itself. The whole Diaz machine would go down like a house of cards. The +border was ready to rise. One Yankee, with a hundred I.W.W. men, waited +the word to cross over the border and begin the conquest of Lower +California. But he needed guns. And clear across to the Atlantic, +the Junta in touch with them all and all of them needing guns, mere +adventurers, soldiers of fortune, bandits, disgruntled American union +men, socialists, anarchists, rough-necks, Mexican exiles, peons escaped +from bondage, whipped miners from the bull-pens of Coeur d'Alene and +Colorado who desired only the more vindictively to fight--all the +flotsam and jetsam of wild spirits from the madly complicated modern +world. And it was guns and ammunition, ammunition and guns--the +unceasing and eternal cry. + +Fling this heterogeneous, bankrupt, vindictive mass across the border, +and the Revolution was on. The custom house, the northern ports of +entry, would be captured. Diaz could not resist. He dared not throw +the weight of his armies against them, for he must hold the south. And +through the south the flame would spread despite. The people would rise. +The defenses of city after city would crumple up. State after state +would totter down. And at last, from every side, the victorious armies +of the Revolution would close in on the City of Mexico itself, Diaz's +last stronghold. + +But the money. They had the men, impatient and urgent, who would use the +guns. They knew the traders who would sell and deliver the guns. But to +culture the Revolution thus far had exhausted the Junta. The last dollar +had been spent, the last resource and the last starving patriot milked +dry, and the great adventure still trembled on the scales. Guns and +ammunition! The ragged battalions must be armed. But how? Ramos lamented +his confiscated estates. Arrellano wailed the spendthriftness of his +youth. May Sethby wondered if it would have been different had they of +the Junta been more economical in the past. + +"To think that the freedom of Mexico should stand or fall on a few +paltry thousands of dollars," said Paulino Vera. + +Despair was in all their faces. Jose Amarillo, their last hope, a recent +convert, who had promised money, had been apprehended at his hacienda in +Chihuahua and shot against his own stable wall. The news had just come +through. + +Rivera, on his knees, scrubbing, looked up, with suspended brush, his +bare arms flecked with soapy, dirty water. + +"Will five thousand do it?" he asked. + +They looked their amazement. Vera nodded and swallowed. He could not +speak, but he was on the instant invested with a vast faith. + +"Order the guns," Rivera said, and thereupon was guilty of the longest +flow of words they had ever heard him utter. "The time is short. In +three weeks I shall bring you the five thousand. It is well. The weather +will be warmer for those who fight. Also, it is the best I can do." + +Vera fought his faith. It was incredible. Too many fond hopes had been +shattered since he had begun to play the revolution game. He believed +this threadbare scrubber of the Revolution, and yet he dared not +believe. + +"You are crazy," he said. + +"In three weeks," said Rivera. "Order the guns." + +He got up, rolled down his sleeves, and put on his coat. + +"Order the guns," he said. + +"I am going now." + +III + +After hurrying and scurrying, much telephoning and bad language, a night +session was held in Kelly's office. Kelly was rushed with business; +also, he was unlucky. He had brought Danny Ward out from New York, +arranged the fight for him with Billy Carthey, the date was three +weeks away, and for two days now, carefully concealed from the sporting +writers, Carthey had been lying up, badly injured. There was no one to +take his place. Kelly had been burning the wires East to every eligible +lightweight, but they were tied up with dates and contracts. And now +hope had revived, though faintly. + +"You've got a hell of a nerve," Kelly addressed Rivera, after one look, +as soon as they got together. + +Hate that was malignant was in Rivera's eyes, but his face remained +impassive. + +"I can lick Ward," was all he said. + +"How do you know? Ever see him fight?" + +Rivera shook his head. + +"He can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed." + +Rivera shrugged his shoulders. + +"Haven't you got anything to say?" the fight promoter snarled. + +"I can lick him." + +"Who'd you ever fight, anyway!" Michael Kelly demanded. Michael was the +promotor's brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms where he made +goodly sums on the fight game. + +Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare. + +The promoter's secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, sneered +audibly. + +"Well, you know Roberts," Kelly broke the hostile silence. "He ought to +be here. I've sent for him. Sit down and wait, though f rom the looks of +you, you haven't got a chance. I can't throw the public down with a bum +fight. Ringside seats are selling at fifteen dollars, you know that." + +When Roberts arrived, it was patent that he was mildly drunk. He was a +tall, lean, slack-jointed individual, and his walk, like his talk, was a +smooth and languid drawl. + +Kelly went straight to the point. + +"Look here, Roberts, you've been bragging you discovered this little +Mexican. You know Carthey's broke his arm. Well, this little yellow +streak has the gall to blow in to-day and say he'll take Carthey's +place. What about it?" + +"It's all right, Kelly," came the slow response. "He can put up a +fight." + +"I suppose you'll be sayin' next that he can lick Ward," Kelly snapped. + +Roberts considered judicially. + +"No, I won't say that. Ward's a top-notcher and a ring general. But he +can't hashhouse Rivera in short order. I know Rivera. Nobody can get +his goat. He ain't got a goat that I could ever discover. And he's a +two-handed fighter. He can throw in the sleep-makers from any position." + +"Never mind that. What kind of a show can he put up? You've been +conditioning and training fighters all your life. I take off my hat to +your judgment. Can he give the public a run for its money?" + +"He sure can, and he'll worry Ward a mighty heap on top of it. You +don't know that boy. I do. I discovered him. He ain't got a goat. He's a +devil. He's a wizzy-wooz if anybody should ask you. He'll make Ward sit +up with a show of local talent that'll make the rest of you sit up. I +won't say he'll lick Ward, but he'll put up such a show that you'll all +know he's a comer." + +"All right." Kelly turned to his secretary. "Ring up Ward. I warned +him to show up if I thought it worth while. He's right across at the +Yellowstone, throwin' chests and doing the popular." + +Kelly turned back to the conditioner. "Have a drink?" + +Roberts sipped his highball and unburdened himself. + +"Never told you how I discovered the little cuss. It was a couple of +years ago he showed up out at the quarters. I was getting Prayne ready +for his fight with Delaney. Prayne's wicked. He ain't got a tickle of +mercy in his make-up. I chopped up his pardner's something cruel, and +I couldn't find a willing boy that'd work with him. I'd noticed this +little starved Mexican kid hanging around, and I was desperate. So +I grabbed him, shoved on the gloves and put him in. He was tougher'n +rawhide, but weak. And he didn't know the first letter in the alphabet +of boxing. Prayne chopped him to ribbons. But he hung on for two +sickening rounds, when he fainted. Starvation, that was all. Battered! +You couldn't have recognized him. I gave him half a dollar and a square +meal. You oughta seen him wolf it down. He hadn't had the end of a bite +for a couple of days. That's the end of him, thinks I. But next day he +showed up, stiff an' sore, ready for another half and a square meal. And +he done better as time went by. Just a born fighter, and tough beyond +belief. He hasn't a heart. He's a piece of ice. And he never talked +eleven words in a string since I know him. He saws wood and does his +work." + +"I've seen 'm," the secretary said. "He's worked a lot for you." + +"All the big little fellows has tried out on him," Roberts answered. +"And he's learned from 'em. I've seen some of them he could lick. But +his heart wasn't in it. I reckoned he never liked the game. He seemed to +act that way." + +"He's been fighting some before the little clubs the last few months," +Kelly said. + +"Sure. But I don't know what struck 'm. All of a sudden his heart got +into it. He just went out like a streak and cleaned up all the little +local fellows. Seemed to want the money, and he's won a bit, though his +clothes don't look it. He's peculiar. Nobody knows his business. Nobody +knows how he spends his time. Even when he's on the job, he plumb up and +disappears most of each day soon as his work is done. Sometimes he just +blows away for weeks at a time. But he don't take advice. There's a +fortune in it for the fellow that gets the job of managin' him, only he +won't consider it. And you watch him hold out for the cash money when +you get down to terms." + +It was at this stage that Danny Ward arrived. Quite a party it was. +His manager and trainer were with him, and he breezed in like a gusty +draught of geniality, good-nature, and all-conqueringness. Greetings +flew about, a joke here, a retort there, a smile or a laugh for +everybody. Yet it was his way, and only partly sincere. He was a good +actor, and he had found geniality a most valuable asset in the game +of getting on in the world. But down underneath he was the deliberate, +cold-blooded fighter and business man. The rest was a mask. Those who +knew him or trafficked with him said that when it came to brass tacks +he was Danny-on-the-Spot. He was invariably present at all business +discussions, and it was urged by some that his manager was a blind whose +only function was to serve as Danny's mouth-piece. + +Rivera's way was different. Indian blood, as well as Spanish, was in +his veins, and he sat back in a corner, silent, immobile, only his black +eyes passing from face to face and noting everything. + +"So that's the guy," Danny said, running an appraising eye over his +proposed antagonist. "How de do, old chap." + +Rivera's eyes burned venomously, but he made no sign of acknowledgment. +He disliked all Gringos, but this Gringo he hated with an immediacy that +was unusual even in him. + +"Gawd!" Danny protested facetiously to the promoter. "You ain't +expectin' me to fight a deef mute." When the laughter subsided, he made +another hit. "Los Angeles must be on the dink when this is the best you +can scare up. What kindergarten did you get 'm from?" + +"He's a good little boy, Danny, take it from me," Roberts defended. "Not +as easy as he looks." + +"And half the house is sold already," Kelly pleaded. "You'll have to +take 'm on, Danny. It is the best we can do." + +Danny ran another careless and unflattering glance over Rivera and +sighed. + +"I gotta be easy with 'm, I guess. If only he don't blow up." + +Roberts snorted. + +"You gotta be careful," Danny's manager warned. "No taking chances with +a dub that's likely to sneak a lucky one across." + +"Oh, I'll be careful all right, all right," Danny smiled. "I'll get in +at the start an' nurse 'im along for the dear public's sake. What d' ye +say to fifteen rounds, Kelly--an' then the hay for him?" + +"That'll do," was the answer. "As long as you make it realistic." + +"Then let's get down to biz." Danny paused and calculated. "Of course, +sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts, same as with Carthey. But +the split'll be different. Eighty will just about suit me." And to his +manager, "That right?" + +The manager nodded. + +"Here, you, did you get that?" Kelly asked Rivera. + +Rivera shook his head. + +"Well, it is this way," Kelly exposited. "The purse'll be sixty-five per +cent of the gate receipts. You're a dub, and an unknown. You and Danny +split, twenty per cent goin' to you, an' eighty to Danny. That's fair, +isn't it, Roberts?" + +"Very fair, Rivera," Roberts agreed. + +"You see, you ain't got a reputation yet." + +"What will sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts be?" Rivera +demanded. + +"Oh, maybe five thousand, maybe as high as eight thousand," Danny broke +in to explain. "Something like that. Your share'll come to something +like a thousand or sixteen hundred. Pretty good for takin' a licking +from a guy with my reputation. What d' ye say?" + +Then Rivera took their breaths away. "Winner takes all," he said with +finality. + +A dead silence prevailed. + +"It's like candy from a baby," Danny's manager proclaimed. + +Danny shook his head. + +"I've been in the game too long," he explained. + +"I'm not casting reflections on the referee, or the present company. +I'm not sayin' nothing about book-makers an' frame-ups that sometimes +happen. But what I do say is that it's poor business for a fighter like +me. I play safe. There's no tellin'. Mebbe I break my arm, eh? Or some +guy slips me a bunch of dope?" He shook his head solemnly. "Win or lose, +eighty is my split. What d' ye say, Mexican?" + +Rivera shook his head. + +Danny exploded. He was getting down to brass tacks now. + +"Why, you dirty little greaser! I've a mind to knock your block off +right now." + +Roberts drawled his body to interposition between hostilities. + +"Winner takes all," Rivera repeated sullenly. + +"Why do you stand out that way?" Danny asked. + +"I can lick you," was the straight answer. + +Danny half started to take off his coat. But, as his manager knew, it +was a grand stand play. The coat did not come off, and Danny allowed +himself to be placated by the group. Everybody sympathized with him. +Rivera stood alone. + +"Look here, you little fool," Kelly took up the argument. "You're +nobody. We know what you've been doing the last few months--putting away +little local fighters. But Danny is class. His next fight after this +will be for the championship. And you're unknown. Nobody ever heard of +you out of Los Angeles." + +"They will," Rivera answered with a shrug, "after this fight." + +"You think for a second you can lick me?" Danny blurted in. + +Rivera nodded. + +"Oh, come; listen to reason," Kelly pleaded. "Think of the advertising." + +"I want the money," was Rivera's answer. + +"You couldn't win from me in a thousand years," Danny assured him. + +"Then what are you holdin' out for?" Rivera countered. "If the money's +that easy, why don't you go after it?" + +"I will, so help me!" Danny cried with abrupt conviction. "I'll beat you +to death in the ring, my boy--you monkeyin' with me this way. Make +out the articles, Kelly. Winner take all. Play it up in the sportin' +columns. Tell 'em it's a grudge fight. I'll show this fresh kid a few." + +Kelly's secretary had begun to write, when Danny interrupted. + +"Hold on!" He turned to Rivera. + +"Weights?" + +"Ringside," came the answer. + +"Not on your life, Fresh Kid. If winner takes all, we weigh in at ten +A.M." + +"And winner takes all?" Rivera queried. + +Danny nodded. That settled it. He would enter the ring in his full +ripeness of strength. + +"Weigh in at ten," Rivera said. + +The secretary's pen went on scratching. + +"It means five pounds," Roberts complained to Rivera. + +"You've given too much away. You've thrown the fight right there. +Danny'll lick you sure. He'll be as strong as a bull. You're a fool. You +ain't got the chance of a dewdrop in hell." + +Rivera's answer was a calculated look of hatred. Even this Gringo he +despised, and him had he found the whitest Gringo of them all. + +IV + +Barely noticed was Rivera as he entered the ring. Only a very slight and +very scattering ripple of half-hearted hand-clapping greeted him. The +house did not believe in him. He was the lamb led to slaughter at the +hands of the great Danny. Besides, the house was disappointed. It had +expected a rushing battle between Danny Ward and Billy Carthey, and +here it must put up with this poor little tyro. Still further, it had +manifested its disapproval of the change by betting two, and even three, +to one on Danny. And where a betting audience's money is, there is its +heart. + +The Mexican boy sat down in his corner and waited. The slow minutes +lagged by. Danny was making him wait. It was an old trick, but ever it +worked on the young, new fighters. They grew frightened, sitting thus +and facing their own apprehensions and a callous, tobacco-smoking +audience. But for once the trick failed. Roberts was right. Rivera had +no goat. He, who was more delicately coordinated, more finely nerved and +strung than any of them, had no nerves of this sort. The atmosphere of +foredoomed defeat in his own corner had no effect on him. His handlers +were Gringos and strangers. Also they were scrubs--the dirty driftage +of the fight game, without honor, without efficiency. And they were +chilled, as well, with certitude that theirs was the losing corner. + +"Now you gotta be careful," Spider Hagerty warned him. Spider was his +chief second. "Make it last as long as you can--them's my instructions +from Kelly. If you don't, the papers'll call it another bum fight and +give the game a bigger black eye in Los Angeles." + +All of which was not encouraging. But Rivera took no notice. He despised +prize fighting. It was the hated game of the hated Gringo. He had taken +up with it, as a chopping block for others in the training quarters, +solely because he was starving. The fact that he was marvelously made +for it had meant nothing. He hated it. Not until he had come in to the +Junta, had he fought for money, and he had found the money easy. Not +first among the sons of men had he been to find himself successful at a +despised vocation. + +He did not analyze. He merely knew that he must win this fight. There +could be no other outcome. For behind him, nerving him to this belief, +were profounder forces than any the crowded house dreamed. Danny Ward +fought for money, and for the easy ways of life that money would bring. +But the things Rivera fought for burned in his brain--blazing and +terrible visions, that, with eyes wide open, sitting lonely in the +corner of the ring and waiting for his tricky antagonist, he saw as +clearly as he had lived them. + +He saw the white-walled, water-power factories of Rio Blanco. He saw the +six thousand workers, starved and wan, and the little children, seven +and eight years of age, who toiled long shifts for ten cents a day. +He saw the perambulating corpses, the ghastly death's heads of men who +labored in the dye-rooms. He remembered that he had heard his father +call the dye-rooms the "suicide-holes," where a year was death. He +saw the little patio, and his mother cooking and moiling at crude +housekeeping and finding time to caress and love him. And his father he +saw, large, big-moustached and deep-chested, kindly above all men, +who loved all men and whose heart was so large that there was love to +overflowing still left for the mother and the little muchacho playing +in the corner of the patio. In those days his name had not been Felipe +Rivera. It had been Fernandez, his father's and mother's name. Him had +they called Juan. Later, he had changed it himself, for he had found +the name of Fernandez hated by prefects of police, jefes politicos, and +rurales. + +Big, hearty Joaquin Fernandez! A large place he occupied in Rivera's +visions. He had not understood at the time, but looking back he could +understand. He could see him setting type in the little printery, or +scribbling endless hasty, nervous lines on the much-cluttered desk. And +he could see the strange evenings, when workmen, coming secretly in the +dark like men who did ill deeds, met with his father and talked long +hours where he, the muchacho, lay not always asleep in the corner. + +As from a remote distance he could hear Spider Hagerty saying to him: +"No layin' down at the start. Them's instructions. Take a beatin' and +earn your dough." + +Ten minutes had passed, and he still sat in his corner. There were no +signs of Danny, who was evidently playing the trick to the limit. + +But more visions burned before the eye of Rivera's memory. The strike, +or, rather, the lockout, because the workers of Rio Blanco had helped +their striking brothers of Puebla. The hunger, the expeditions in the +hills for berries, the roots and herbs that all ate and that twisted and +pained the stomachs of all of them. And then, the nightmare; the waste +of ground before the company's store; the thousands of starving workers; +General Rosalio Martinez and the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz, and the +death-spitting rifles that seemed never to cease spitting, while the +workers' wrongs were washed and washed again in their own blood. And +that night! He saw the flat cars, piled high with the bodies of the +slain, consigned to Vera Cruz, food for the sharks of the bay. Again +he crawled over the grisly heaps, seeking and finding, stripped +and mangled, his father and his mother. His mother he especially +remembered--only her face projecting, her body burdened by the weight +of dozens of bodies. Again the rifles of the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz +cracked, and again he dropped to the ground and slunk away like some +hunted coyote of the hills. + +To his ears came a great roar, as of the sea, and he saw Danny Ward, +leading his retinue of trainers and seconds, coming down the center +aisle. The house was in wild uproar for the popular hero who was bound +to win. Everybody proclaimed him. Everybody was for him. Even Rivera's +own seconds warmed to something akin to cheerfulness when Danny ducked +jauntily through the ropes and entered the ring. His face continually +spread to an unending succession of smiles, and when Danny smiled he +smiled in every feature, even to the laughter-wrinkles of the corners of +the eyes and into the depths of the eyes themselves. Never was there so +genial a fighter. His face was a running advertisement of good feeling, +of good fellowship. He knew everybody. He joked, and laughed, and +greeted his friends through the ropes. Those farther away, unable to +suppress their admiration, cried loudly: "Oh, you Danny!" It was a +joyous ovation of affection that lasted a full five minutes. + +Rivera was disregarded. For all that the audience noticed, he did not +exist. Spider Lagerty's bloated face bent down close to his. + +"No gettin' scared," the Spider warned. + +"An' remember instructions. You gotta last. No layin' down. If you lay +down, we got instructions to beat you up in the dressing rooms. Savve? +You just gotta fight." + +The house began to applaud. Danny was crossing the ring to him. Danny +bent over, caught Rivera's right hand in both his own and shook it with +impulsive heartiness. Danny's smile-wreathed face was close to his. The +audience yelled its appreciation of Danny's display of sporting spirit. +He was greeting his opponent with the fondness of a brother. Danny's +lips moved, and the audience, interpreting the unheard words to be +those of a kindly-natured sport, yelled again. Only Rivera heard the low +words. + +"You little Mexican rat," hissed from between Danny's gaily smiling +lips, "I'll fetch the yellow outa you." + +Rivera made no move. He did not rise. He merely hated with his eyes. + +"Get up, you dog!" some man yelled through the ropes from behind. + +The crowd began to hiss and boo him for his unsportsmanlike conduct, +but he sat unmoved. Another great outburst of applause was Danny's as he +walked back across the ring. + +When Danny stripped, there was ohs! and ahs! of delight. His body was +perfect, alive with easy suppleness and health and strength. The skin +was white as a woman's, and as smooth. All grace, and resilience, +and power resided therein. He had proved it in scores of battles. His +photographs were in all the physical culture magazines. + +A groan went up as Spider Hagerty peeled Rivera's sweater over his head. +His body seemed leaner, because of the swarthiness of the skin. He had +muscles, but they made no display like his opponent's. What the audience +neglected to see was the deep chest. Nor could it guess the toughness of +the fiber of the flesh, the instantaneousness of the cell explosions +of the muscles, the fineness of the nerves that wired every part of +him into a splendid fighting mechanism. All the audience saw was a +brown-skinned boy of eighteen with what seemed the body of a boy. With +Danny it was different. Danny was a man of twenty-four, and his body +was a man's body. The contrast was still more striking as they stood +together in the center of the ring receiving the referee's last +instructions. + +Rivera noticed Roberts sitting directly behind the newspaper men. He was +drunker than usual, and his speech was correspondingly slower. + +"Take it easy, Rivera," Roberts drawled. + +"He can't kill you, remember that. He'll rush you at the go-off, but +don't get rattled. You just and stall, and clinch. He can't hurt cover +up, much. Just make believe to yourself that he's choppin' out on you at +the trainin' quarters." + +Rivera made no sign that he had heard. + +"Sullen little devil," Roberts muttered to the man next to him. "He +always was that way." + +But Rivera forgot to look his usual hatred. A vision of countless rifles +blinded his eyes. Every face in the audience, far as he could see, to +the high dollar-seats, was transformed into a rifle. And he saw the long +Mexican border arid and sun-washed and aching, and along it he saw the +ragged bands that delayed only for the guns. + +Back in his corner he waited, standing up. His seconds had crawled out +through the ropes, taking the canvas stool with them. Diagonally across +the squared ring, Danny faced him. The gong struck, and the battle was +on. The audience howled its delight. Never had it seen a battle open +more convincingly. The papers were right. It was a grudge fight. +Three-quarters of the distance Danny covered in the rush to get +together, his intention to eat up the Mexican lad plainly advertised. He +assailed with not one blow, nor two, nor a dozen. He was a gyroscope +of blows, a whirlwind of destruction. Rivera was nowhere. He was +overwhelmed, buried beneath avalanches of punches delivered from every +angle and position by a past master in the art. He was overborne, swept +back against the ropes, separated by the referee, and swept back against +the ropes again. + +It was not a fight. It was a slaughter, a massacre. Any audience, save +a prize fighting one, would have exhausted its emotions in that first +minute. Danny was certainly showing what he could do--a splendid +exhibition. Such was the certainty of the audience, as well as its +excitement and favoritism, that it failed to take notice that the +Mexican still stayed on his feet. It forgot Rivera. It rarely saw him, +so closely was he enveloped in Danny's man-eating attack. A minute of +this went by, and two minutes. Then, in a separation, it caught a clear +glimpse of the Mexican. His lip was cut, his nose was bleeding. As he +turned and staggered into a clinch, the welts of oozing blood, from his +contacts with the ropes, showed in red bars across his back. But what +the audience did not notice was that his chest was not heaving and that +his eyes were coldly burning as ever. Too many aspiring champions, in +the cruel welter of the training camps, had practiced this man-eating +attack on him. He had learned to live through for a compensation of from +half a dollar a go up to fifteen dollars a week--a hard school, and he +was schooled hard. + +Then happened the amazing thing. The whirling, blurring mix-up ceased +suddenly. Rivera stood alone. Danny, the redoubtable Danny, lay on his +back. His body quivered as consciousness strove to return to it. He had +not staggered and sunk down, nor had he gone over in a long slumping +fall. The right hook of Rivera had dropped him in midair with the +abruptness of death. The referee shoved Rivera back with one hand, and +stood over the fallen gladiator counting the seconds. It is the custom +of prize-fighting audiences to cheer a clean knock-down blow. But this +audience did not cheer. The thing had been too unexpected. It watched +the toll of the seconds in tense silence, and through this silence the +voice of Roberts rose exultantly: + +"I told you he was a two-handed fighter!" + +By the fifth second, Danny was rolling over on his face, and when seven +was counted, he rested on one knee, ready to rise after the count of +nine and before the count of ten. If his knee still touched the floor +at "ten," he was considered "down," and also "out." The instant his +knee left the floor, he was considered "up," and in that instant it was +Rivera's right to try and put him down again. Rivera took no chances. +The moment that knee left the floor he would strike again. He circled +around, but the referee circled in between, and Rivera knew that the +seconds he counted were very slow. All Gringos were against him, even +the referee. + +At "nine" the referee gave Rivera a sharp thrust back. It was unfair, +but it enabled Danny to rise, the smile back on his lips. Doubled partly +over, with arms wrapped about face and abdomen, he cleverly stumbled +into a clinch. By all the rules of the game the referee should have +broken it, but he did not, and Danny clung on like a surf-battered +barnacle and moment by moment recuperated. The last minute of the round +was going fast. If he could live to the end, he would have a full minute +in his corner to revive. And live to the end he did, smiling through all +desperateness and extremity. + +"The smile that won't come off!" somebody yelled, and the audience +laughed loudly in its relief. + +"The kick that Greaser's got is something God-awful," Danny gasped in +his corner to his adviser while his handlers worked frantically over +him. + +The second and third rounds were tame. Danny, a tricky and consummate +ring general, stalled and blocked and held on, devoting himself to +recovering from that dazing first-round blow. In the fourth round he was +himself again. Jarred and shaken, nevertheless his good condition had +enabled him to regain his vigor. But he tried no man-eating tactics. +The Mexican had proved a tartar. Instead, he brought to bear his best +fighting powers. In tricks and skill and experience he was the master, +and though he could land nothing vital, he proceeded scientifically to +chop and wear down his opponent. He landed three blows to Rivera's one, +but they were punishing blows only, and not deadly. It was the sum of +many of them that constituted deadliness. He was respectful of this +two-handed dub with the amazing short-arm kicks in both his fists. + +In defense, Rivera developed a disconcerting straight-left. Again +and again, attack after attack he straight-lefted away from him with +accumulated damage to Danny's mouth and nose. But Danny was protean. +That was why he was the coming champion. He could change from style to +style of fighting at will. He now devoted himself to infighting. In +this he was particularly wicked, and it enabled him to avoid the other's +straight-left. Here he set the house wild repeatedly, capping it with +a marvelous lockbreak and lift of an inside upper-cut that raised the +Mexican in the air and dropped him to the mat. Rivera rested on one +knee, making the most of the count, and in the soul of him he knew the +referee was counting short seconds on him. + +Again, in the seventh, Danny achieved the diabolical inside uppercut. +He succeeded only in staggering Rivera, but, in the ensuing moment of +defenseless helplessness, he smashed him with another blow through the +ropes. Rivera's body bounced on the heads of the newspaper men below, +and they boosted him back to the edge of the platform outside the ropes. +Here he rested on one knee, while the referee raced off the seconds. +Inside the ropes, through which he must duck to enter the ring, Danny +waited for him. Nor did the referee intervene or thrust Danny back. + +The house was beside itself with delight. + +"Kill'm, Danny, kill'm!" was the cry. + +Scores of voices took it up until it was like a war-chant of wolves. + +Danny did his best, but Rivera, at the count of eight, instead of nine, +came unexpectedly through the ropes and safely into a clinch. Now the +referee worked, tearing him away so that he could be hit, giving Danny +every advantage that an unfair referee can give. + +But Rivera lived, and the daze cleared from his brain. It was all of a +piece. They were the hated Gringos and they were all unfair. And in the +worst of it visions continued to flash and sparkle in his brain--long +lines of railroad track that simmered across the desert; rurales and +American constables, prisons and calabooses; tramps at water tanks--all +the squalid and painful panorama of his odyssey after Rio Blanca and the +strike. And, resplendent and glorious, he saw the great, red Revolution +sweeping across his land. The guns were there before him. Every hated +face was a gun. It was for the guns he fought. He was the guns. He was +the Revolution. He fought for all Mexico. + +The audience began to grow incensed with Rivera. Why didn't he take the +licking that was appointed him? Of course he was going to be licked, but +why should he be so obstinate about it? Very few were interested in him, +and they were the certain, definite percentage of a gambling crowd that +plays long shots. Believing Danny to be the winner, nevertheless they +had put their money on the Mexican at four to ten and one to three. More +than a trifle was up on the point of how many rounds Rivera could last. +Wild money had appeared at the ringside proclaiming that he could not +last seven rounds, or even six. The winners of this, now that their cash +risk was happily settled, had joined in cheering on the favorite. + +Rivera refused to be licked. Through the eighth round his opponent +strove vainly to repeat the uppercut. In the ninth, Rivera stunned the +house again. In the midst of a clinch he broke the lock with a quick, +lithe movement, and in the narrow space between their bodies his right +lifted from the waist. Danny went to the floor and took the safety of +the count. The crowd was appalled. He was being bested at his own game. +His famous right-uppercut had been worked back on him. Rivera made +no attempt to catch him as he arose at "nine." The referee was openly +blocking that play, though he stood clear when the situation was +reversed and it was Rivera who desired to rise. + +Twice in the tenth, Rivera put through the right-uppercut, lifted from +waist to opponent's chin. Danny grew desperate. The smile never left his +face, but he went back to his man-eating rushes. Whirlwind as he would, +he could not damage Rivera, while Rivera through the blur and whirl, +dropped him to the mat three times in succession. Danny did not +recuperate so quickly now, and by the eleventh round he was in a serious +way. But from then till the fourteenth he put up the gamest exhibition +of his career. He stalled and blocked, fought parsimoniously, and strove +to gather strength. Also, he fought as foully as a successful fighter +knows how. Every trick and device he employed, butting in the clinches +with the seeming of accident, pinioning Rivera's glove between arm and +body, heeling his glove on Rivera's mouth to clog his breathing. Often, +in the clinches, through his cut and smiling lips he snarled insults +unspeakable and vile in Rivera's ear. Everybody, from the referee to the +house, was with Danny and was helping Danny. And they knew what he had +in mind. Bested by this surprise-box of an unknown, he was pinning +all on a single punch. He offered himself for punishment, fished, and +feinted, and drew, for that one opening that would enable him to whip +a blow through with all his strength and turn the tide. As another and +greater fighter had done before him, he might do a right and left, to +solar plexus and across the jaw. He could do it, for he was noted for +the strength of punch that remained in his arms as long as he could keep +his feet. + +Rivera's seconds were not half-caring for him in the intervals between +rounds. Their towels made a showing, but drove little air into his +panting lungs. Spider Hagerty talked advice to him, but Rivera knew +it was wrong advice. Everybody was against him. He was surrounded by +treachery. In the fourteenth round he put Danny down again, and himself +stood resting, hands dropped at side, while the referee counted. In +the other corner Rivera had been noting suspicious whisperings. He saw +Michael Kelly make his way to Roberts and bend and whisper. Rivera's +ears were a cat's, desert-trained, and he caught snatches of what was +said. He wanted to hear more, and when his opponent arose he maneuvered +the fight into a clinch over against the ropes. + +"Got to," he could hear Michael, while Roberts nodded. "Danny's got to +win--I stand to lose a mint--I've got a ton of money covered--my own. +If he lasts the fifteenth I'm bust--the boy'll mind you. Put something +across." + +And thereafter Rivera saw no more visions. They were trying to job him. +Once again he dropped Danny and stood resting, his hands at his slide. +Roberts stood up. + +"That settled him," he said. + +"Go to your corner." + +He spoke with authority, as he had often spoken to Rivera at the +training quarters. But Rivera looked hatred at him and waited for Danny +to rise. Back in his corner in the minute interval, Kelly, the promoter, +came and talked to Rivera. + +"Throw it, damn you," he rasped in, a harsh low voice. "You gotta lay +down, Rivera. Stick with me and I'll make your future. I'll let you lick +Danny next time. But here's where you lay down." + +Rivera showed with his eyes that he heard, but he made neither sign of +assent nor dissent. + +"Why don't you speak?" Kelly demanded angrily. + +"You lose, anyway," Spider Hagerty supplemented. "The referee'll take it +away from you. Listen to Kelly, and lay down." + +"Lay down, kid," Kelly pleaded, "and I'll help you to the championship." + +Rivera did not answer. + +"I will, so help me, kid." + +At the strike of the gong Rivera sensed something impending. The house +did not. Whatever it was it was there inside the ring with him and very +close. Danny's earlier surety seemed returned to him. The confidence of +his advance frightened Rivera. Some trick was about to be worked. Danny +rushed, but Rivera refused the encounter. He side-stepped away into +safety. What the other wanted was a clinch. It was in some way necessary +to the trick. Rivera backed and circled away, yet he knew, sooner or +later, the clinch and the trick would come. Desperately he resolved +to draw it. He made as if to effect the clinch with Danny's next rush. +Instead, at the last instant, just as their bodies should have come +together, Rivera darted nimbly back. And in the same instant Danny's +corner raised a cry of foul. Rivera had fooled them. The referee paused +irresolutely. The decision that trembled on his lips was never uttered, +for a shrill, boy's voice from the gallery piped, "Raw work!" + +Danny cursed Rivera openly, and forced him, while Rivera danced away. +Also, Rivera made up his mind to strike no more blows at the body. In +this he threw away half his chance of winning, but he knew if he was to +win at all it was with the outfighting that remained to him. Given the +least opportunity, they would lie a foul on him. Danny threw all caution +to the winds. For two rounds he tore after and into the boy who dared +not meet him at close quarters. Rivera was struck again and again; +he took blows by the dozens to avoid the perilous clinch. During this +supreme final rally of Danny's the audience rose to its feet and went +mad. It did not understand. All it could see was that its favorite was +winning, after all. + +"Why don't you fight?" it demanded wrathfully of Rivera. + +"You're yellow! You're yellow!" "Open up, you cur! Open up!" "Kill'm, +Danny! Kill 'm!" "You sure got 'm! Kill 'm!" + +In all the house, bar none, Rivera was the only cold man. By temperament +and blood he was the hottest-passioned there; but he had gone through +such vastly greater heats that this collective passion of ten thousand +throats, rising surge on surge, was to his brain no more than the velvet +cool of a summer twilight. + +Into the seventeenth round Danny carried his rally. Rivera, under a +heavy blow, drooped and sagged. His hands dropped helplessly as he +reeled backward. Danny thought it was his chance. The boy was at, his +mercy. Thus Rivera, feigning, caught him off his guard, lashing out a +clean drive to the mouth. Danny went down. When he arose, Rivera felled +him with a down-chop of the right on neck and jaw. Three times he +repeated this. It was impossible for any referee to call these blows +foul. + +"Oh, Bill! Bill!" Kelly pleaded to the referee. + +"I can't," that official lamented back. "He won't give me a chance." + +Danny, battered and heroic, still kept coming up. Kelly and others near +to the ring began to cry out to the police to stop it, though Danny's +corner refused to throw in the towel. Rivera saw the fat police captain +starting awkwardly to climb through the ropes, and was not sure what it +meant. There were so many ways of cheating in this game of the Gringos. +Danny, on his feet, tottered groggily and helplessly before him. The +referee and the captain were both reaching for Rivera when he struck the +last blow. There was no need to stop the fight, for Danny did not rise. + +"Count!" Rivera cried hoarsely to the referee. + +And when the count was finished, Danny's seconds gathered him up and +carried him to his corner. + +"Who wins?" Rivera demanded. + +Reluctantly, the referee caught his gloved hand and held it aloft. + +There were no congratulations for Rivera. He walked to his corner +unattended, where his seconds had not yet placed his stool. He leaned +backward on the ropes and looked his hatred at them, swept it on and +about him till the whole ten thousand Gringos were included. His knees +trembled under him, and he was sobbing from exhaustion. Before his eyes +the hated faces swayed back and forth in the giddiness of nausea. Then +he remembered they were the guns. The guns were his. The Revolution +could go on. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Night-Born, by Jack London + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NIGHT-BORN *** + +***** This file should be named 1029.txt or 1029.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/1029/ + +Produced by J.R. Wright + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/1029.zip b/old/1029.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..dc8cc60 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1029.zip diff --git a/old/old/ntbrn10.txt b/old/old/ntbrn10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ce67bc5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/ntbrn10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6724 @@ +*The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Night-Born, by Jack London* +#9 in our series by Jack London + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +The Night-Born + +by Jack London* + +September, 1997 [Etext #1029] + + +*The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Night-Born, by Jack London* +******This file should be named ntbrn10.txt or ntbrn10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, ntbrn11.txt. +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, ntbrn10a.txt. + + +This etext was prepared by J.R. Wright of Springfield, MO. + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, for time for better editing. + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an +up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes +in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has +a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a +look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a +new copy has at least one byte more or less. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take +to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text +files per month, or 384 more Etexts in 1997 for a total of 1000+ +If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the +total should reach over 100 billion Etexts given away. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext +Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion] +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only 10% of the present number of computer users. 2001 +should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it +will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001. + + +We need your donations more than ever! + + +All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are +tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie- +Mellon University). + +For these and other matters, please mail to: + +Project Gutenberg +P. O. Box 2782 +Champaign, IL 61825 + +When all other email fails try our Executive Director: +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +We would prefer to send you this information by email +(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail). + +****** +If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please +FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives: +[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type] + +ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu +login: anonymous +password: your@login +cd etext/etext90 through /etext96 +or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information] +dir [to see files] +get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] +GET INDEX?00.GUT +for a list of books +and +GET NEW GUT for general information +and +MGET GUT* for newsletters. + +**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** +(Three Pages) + + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- +tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor +Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at +Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other +things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext +under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this +etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, +officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost +and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or +indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: +[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, +or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- + cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the etext (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the + net profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +The Night-Born by Jack London +This etext was prepared by J.R. Wright of Springfield, MO. + + + + + +THE NIGHT-BORN + + +CONTENTS: + +THE NIGHT-BORN +THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED +WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG +THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT +WINGED BLACKMAIL +BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES +WAR +UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS +TO KILL A MAN +THE MEXICAN + + + + +THE NIGHT-BORN + +It was in the old Alta-Inyo Club--a warm night for San +Francisco--and through the open windows, hushed and far, came +the brawl of the streets. The talk had led on from the Graft +Prosecution and the latest signs that the town was to be run +wide open, down through all the grotesque sordidness and +rottenness of manhate and man-meanness, until the name of +O'Brien was mentioned--O'Brien, the promising young pugilist +who had been killed in the prize-ring the night before. At once +the air had seemed to freshen. O'Brien had been a clean-living +young man with ideals. He neither drank, smoked, nor swore, and +his had been the body of a beautiful young god. He had even +carried his prayer-book to the ringside. They found it in his +coat pocket in the dressing-room. . . afterward. + +Here was Youth, clean and wholesome, unsullied--the thing of +glory and wonder for men to conjure with..... after it has been +lost to them and they have turned middle-aged. And so well did +we conjure, that Romance came and for an hour led us far from +the man-city and its snarling roar. Bardwell, in a way, started +it by quoting from Thoreau; but it was old Trefethan, +bald-headed and dewlapped, who took up the quotation and for +the hour to come was romance incarnate. At first we wondered +how many Scotches he had consumed since dinner, but very soon +all that was forgotten. + +"It was in 1898--I was thirty-five then," he said. "Yes, I know +you are adding it up. You're right. I'm forty-seven now; look +ten years more; and the doctors say--damn the doctors anyway!" + +He lifted the long glass to his lips and sipped it slowly to +soothe away his irritation. + +"But I was young. . . once. I was young twelve years ago, and I +had hair on top of my head, and my stomach was lean as a +runner's, and the longest day was none too long for me. I was a +husky back there in '98. You remember me, Milner. You knew me +then. Wasn't I a pretty good bit of all right?" + +Milner nodded and agreed. Like Trefethan, he was another mining +engineer who had cleaned up a fortune in the Klondike. + +"You certainly were, old man," Milner said. "I'll never forget +when you cleaned out those lumberjacks in the M. & M. that +night that little newspaper man started the row. Slavin was in +the country at the time,"--this to us--"and his manager wanted +to get up a match with Trefethan." + +"Well, look at me now," Trefethan commanded angrily. "That's +what the Goldstead did to me--God knows how many millions, but +nothing left in my soul..... nor in my veins. The good red +blood is gone. I am a jellyfish, a huge, gross mass of +oscillating protoplasm, a--a . . ." + +But language failed him, and he drew solace from the long +glass. + +"Women looked at me then; and turned their heads to look a +second time. Strange that I never married. But the girl. That's +what I started to tell you about. I met her a thousand miles +from anywhere, and then some. And she quoted to me those very +words of Thoreau that Bardwell quoted a moment ago--the ones +about the day-born gods and the night-born." + +"It was after I had made my locations on Goldstead--and didn't +know what a treasure-pot that that trip creek was going to +prove--that I made that trip east over the Rockies, angling +across to the Great Up North there the Rockies are something +more than a back-bone. They are a boundary, a dividing line, a +wall impregnable and unscalable. There is no intercourse across +them, though, on occasion, from the early days, wandering +trappers have crossed them, though more were lost by the way +than ever came through. And that was precisely why I tackled +the job. It was a traverse any man would be proud to make. I am +prouder of it right now than anything else I have ever done. + +"It is an unknown land. Great stretches of it have never been +explored. There are big valleys there where the white man has +never set foot, and Indian tribes as primitive as ten thousand +years ... almost, for they have had some contact with the +whites. Parties of them come out once in a while to trade, and +that is all. Even the Hudson Bay Company failed to find them +and farm them. + +"And now the girl. I was coming up a stream--you'd call it a +river in California--uncharted--and unnamed. It was a noble +valley, now shut in by high canyon walls, and again opening out +into beautiful stretches, wide and long, with pasture +shoulder-high in the bottoms, meadows dotted with flowers, and +with clumps of timberspruce--virgin and magnificent. The dogs +were packing on their backs, and were sore-footed and played +out; while I was looking for any bunch of Indians to get sleds +and drivers from and go on with the first snow. It was late +fall, but the way those flowers persisted surprised me. I was +supposed to be in sub-arctic America, and high up among the +buttresses of the Rockies, and yet there was that everlasting +spread of flowers. Some day the white settlers will be in there +and growing wheat down all that valley. + +"And then I lifted a smoke, and heard the barking of the +dogs--Indian dogs--and came into camp. There must have been +five hundred of them, proper Indians at that, and I could see +by the jerking-frames that the fall hunting had been good. And +then I met her--Lucy. That was her name. Sign language--that +was all we could talk with, till they led me to a big fly--you +know, half a tent, open on the one side where a campfire +burned. It was all of moose-skins, this fly--moose-skins, +smoke-cured, hand-rubbed, and golden-brown. Under it everything +was neat and orderly as no Indian camp ever was. The bed was +laid on fresh spruce boughs. There were furs galore, and on top +of all was a robe of swanskins--white swan-skins--I have never +seen anything like that robe. And on top of it, sitting +cross-legged, was Lucy. She was nut-brown. I have called her a +girl. But she was not. She was a woman, a nut-brown woman, an +Amazon, a full-blooded, full-bodied woman, and royal ripe. And +her eyes were blue. + +"That's what took me off my feet--her eyes--blue, not China +blue, but deep blue, like the sea and sky all melted into one, +and very wise. More than that, they had laughter in them--warm +laughter, sun-warm and human, very human, and . . . shall I say +feminine? They were. They were a woman's eyes, a proper woman's +eyes. You know what that means. Can I say more? Also, in those +blue eyes were, at the same time, a wild unrest, a wistful +yearning, and a repose, an absolute repose, a sort of all-wise +and philosophical calm." + +Trefethan broke off abruptly. + +"You fellows think I am screwed. I'm not. This is only my fifth +since dinner. I am dead sober. I am solemn. I sit here now side +by side with my sacred youth. It is not I--'old' +Trefethan--that talks; it is my youth, and it is my youth that +says those were the most wonderful eyes I have ever seen--so +very calm, so very restless; so very wise, so very curious; so +very old, so very young; so satisfied and yet yearning so +wistfully. Boys, I can't describe them. When I have told you +about her, you may know better for yourselves." + +"She did not stand up. But she put out her hand." + +"'Stranger,' she said, 'I'm real glad to see you.' + +"I leave it to you--that sharp, frontier, Western tang of +speech. Picture my sensations. It was a woman, a white woman, +but that tang! It was amazing that it should be a white woman, +here, beyond the last boundary of the world--but the tang. I +tell you, it hurt. It was like the stab of a flatted note. And +yet, let me tell you, that woman was a poet. You shall see." + +"She dismissed the Indians. And, by Jove, they went. They took +her orders and followed her blind. She was hi-yu skookam chief. +She told the bucks to make a camp for me and to take care of my +dogs. And they did, too. And they knew enough not to get away +with as much as a moccasin-lace of my outfit. She was a regular +She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, and I want to tell you it chilled me to +the marrow, sent those little thrills Marathoning up and down +my spinal column, meeting a white woman out there at the head +of a tribe of savages a thousand miles the other side of No +Man's Land. + +"'Stranger," she said, 'I reckon you're sure the first white +that ever set foot in this valley. Set down an' talk a spell, +and then we'll have a bite to eat. Which way might you be +comin'?' + +"There it was, that tang again. But from now to the end of the +yarn I want you to forget it. I tell you I forgot it, sitting +there on the edge of that swan-skin robe and listening and +looking at the most wonderful woman that ever stepped out of +the pages of Thoreau or of any other man's book. + +"I stayed on there a week. It was on her invitation. She +promised to fit me out with dogs and sleds and with Indians +that would put me across the best pass of the Rockies in five +hundred miles. Her fly was pitched apart from the others, on +the high bank by the river, and a couple of Indian girls did +her cooking for her and the camp work. And so we talked and +talked, while the first snow fell and continued to fall and +make a surface for my sleds. And this was her story. + +"She was frontier-born, of poor settlers, and you know what +that means--work, work, always work, work in plenty and without +end. + +"'I never seen the glory of the world,' she said. 'I had no +time. I knew it was right out there, anywhere, all around the +cabin, but there was always the bread to set, the scrubbin' and +the washin' and the work that was never done. I used to be +plumb sick at times, jes' to get out into it all, especially in +the spring when the songs of the birds drove me most clean +crazy. I wanted to run out through the long pasture grass, +wetting my legs with the dew of it, and to climb the rail +fence, and keep on through the timber and up and up over the +divide so as to get a look around. Oh, I had all kinds of +hankerings--to follow up the canyon beds and slosh around from +pool to pool, making friends with the water-dogs and the +speckly trout; to peep on the sly and watch the squirrels and +rabbits and small furry things and see what they was doing and +learn the secrets of their ways. Seemed to me, if I had time, I +could crawl among the flowers, and, if I was good and quiet, +catch them whispering with themselves, telling all kinds of +wise things that mere humans never know.'" + +Trefethan paused to see that his glass had been refilled. + +"Another time she said: 'I wanted to run nights like a wild +thing, just to run through the moonshine and under the stars, +to run white and naked in the darkness that I knew must feel +like cool velvet, and to run and run and keep on running. One +evening, plumb tuckered out--it had been a dreadful hard hot +day, and the bread wouldn't raise and the churning had gone +wrong, and I was all irritated and jerky--well, that evening I +made mention to dad of this wanting to run of mine. He looked +at me curious-some and a bit scared. And then he gave me two +pills to take. Said to go to bed and get a good sleep and I'd +be all hunky-dory in the morning. So I never mentioned my +hankerings to him, or any one any more.' + +"The mountain home broke up--starved out, I imagine--and the +family came to Seattle to live. There she worked in a +factory--long hours, you know, and all the rest, deadly work. +And after a year of that she became waitress in a cheap +restaurant--hash-slinger, she called it. "She said to me once, +'Romance I guess was what I wanted. But there wan't no romance +floating around in dishpans and washtubs, or in factories and +hash-joints.' + +"When she was eighteen she married--a man who was going up to +Juneau to start a restaurant. He had a few dollars saved, and +appeared prosperous. She didn't love him--she was emphatic +about that, but she was all tired out, and she wanted to get +away from the unending drudgery. Besides, Juneau was in Alaska, +and her yearning took the form of a desire to see that +wonderland. But little she saw of it. He started the +restaurant, a little cheap one, and she quickly learned what he +had married her for..... to save paying wages. She came pretty +close to running the joint and doing all the work from waiting +to dishwashing. She cooked most of the time as well. And she +had four years of it. + +"Can't you picture her, this wild woods creature, quick with +every old primitive instinct, yearning for the free open, and +mowed up in a vile little hash-joint and toiling and moiling +for four mortal years? + +"'There was no meaning in anything,' she said. 'What was it all +about! Why was I born! Was that all the meaning of life--just +to work and work and be always tired!--to go to bed tired and +to wake up tired, with every day like every other day unless it +was harder?' She had heard talk of immortal life from the +gospel sharps, she said, but she could not reckon that what she +was doin' was a likely preparation for her immortality. + +"But she still had her dreams, though more rarely. She had read +a few books--what, it is pretty hard to imagine, Seaside +Library novels most likely; yet they had been food for fancy. +'Sometimes,' she said, 'when I was that dizzy from the heat of +the cooking that if I didn't take a breath of fresh air I'd +faint, I'd stick my head out of the kitchen window, and close +my eyes and see most wonderful things. All of a sudden I'd be +traveling down a country road, and everything clean and quiet, +no dust, no dirt; just streams ripplin' down sweet meadows, and +lambs playing, breezes blowing the breath of flowers, and soft +sunshine over everything; and lovely cows lazying knee-deep in +quiet pools, and young girls bathing in a curve of stream all +white and slim and natural--and I'd know I was in Arcady. I'd +read about that country once, in a book. And maybe knights, all +flashing in the sun, would come riding around a bend in the +road, or a lady on a milk-white mare, and in the distance I +could see the towers of a castle rising, or I just knew, on the +next turn, that I'd come upon some palace, all white and airy +and fairy-like, with fountains playing, and flowers all over +everything, and peacocks on the lawn..... and then I'd open my +eyes, and the heat of the cooking range would strike on me, and +I'd hear Jake sayin'--he was my husband--I'd hear Jake sayin', +"Why ain't you served them beans? Think I can wait here all +day!" Romance!--I reckon the nearest I ever come to it was when +a drunken Armenian cook got the snakes and tried to cut my +throat with a potato knife and I got my arm burned on the stove +before I could lay him out with the potato stomper. + +"'I wanted easy ways, and lovely things, and Romance and all +that; but it just seemed I had no luck nohow and was only and +expressly born for cooking and dishwashing. There was a wild +crowd in Juneau them days, but I looked at the other women, and +their way of life didn't excite me. I reckon I wanted to be +clean. I don't know why; I just wanted to, I guess; and I +reckoned I might as well die dishwashing as die their way." + +Trefethan halted in his tale for a moment, completing to +himself some thread of thought. + +"And this is the woman I met up there in the Arctic, running a +tribe of wild Indians and a few thousand square miles of +hunting territory. And it happened, simply enough, though, for +that matter, she might have lived and died among the pots and +pans. But 'Came the whisper, came the vision.' That was all she +needed, and she got it. + +"'I woke up one day,' she said. 'Just happened on it in a scrap +of newspaper. I remember every word of it, and I can give it to +you.' And then she quoted Thoreau's Cry of the Human: + +"'The young pines springing up, in the corn field from year to +year are to me a refreshing fact. We talk of civilizing the +Indian, but that is not the name for his improvement. By the +wary independence and aloofness of his dim forest life he +preserves his intercourse with his native gods and is admitted +from time to time to a rare and peculiar society with nature. +He has glances of starry recognition, to which our saloons are +strangers. The steady illumination of his qenius, dim only +because distant, is like the faint but satisfying light of the +stars compared with the dazzling but ineffectual and +short-lived blaze of candles. The Society Islanders had their +day-born gods, but they were not supposed to be of equal +antiquity with the..... night-born gods.' + +"That's what she did, repeated it word for word, and I forgot +the tang, for it was solemn, a declaration of religion--pagan, +if you will; and clothed in the living garmenture of herself. + +"'And the rest of it was torn away,' she added, a great +emptiness in her voice. 'It was only a scrap of newspaper. But +that Thoreau was a wise man. I wish I knew more about him.' She +stopped a moment, and I swear her face was ineffably holy as +she said, 'I could have made him a good wife.' + +"And then she went on. 'I knew right away, as soon as I read +that, what was the matter with me. I was a night-born. I, who +had lived all my life with the day-born, was a night-born. That +was why I had never been satisfied with cooking and +dishwashing; that was why I had hankered to run naked in the +moonlight. And I knew that this dirty little Juneau hash-joint +was no place for me. And right there and then I said, "I quit." +I packed up my few rags of clothes, and started. Jake saw me +and tried to stop me. + +"'What you doing?" he says. + +"'Divorcin' you and me,' I says. 'I'm headin' for tall timber +and where I belong.'" + +"'No you don't," he says, reaching for me to stop me. "The +cooking has got on your head. You listen to me talk before you +up and do anything brash.'" + +"'But I pulled a gun-a little Colt's forty-four--and says, +"This does my talkin' for me.'" + +"'And I left.'" + +Trefethan emptied his glass and called for another. + +"Boys, do you know what that girl did? She was twenty-two. She +had spent her life over the dish-pan and she knew no more about +the world than I do of the fourth dimension, or the fifth. All +roads led to her desire. No; she didn't head for the +dance-halls. On the Alaskan Pan-handle it is preferable to +travel by water. She went down to the beach. An Indian canoe +was starting for Dyea--you know the kind, carved out of a +single tree, narrow and deep and sixty feet long. She gave them +a couple of dollars and got on board. + +"'Romance?' she told me. 'It was Romance from the jump. There +were three families altogether in that canoe, and that crowded +there wasn't room to turn around, with dogs and Indian babies +sprawling over everything, and everybody dipping a paddle and +making that canoe go.' And all around the great solemn +mountains, and tangled drifts of clouds and sunshine. And oh, +the silence! the great wonderful silence! And, once, the smoke +of a hunter's camp, away off in the distance, trailing among +the trees. It was like a picnic, a grand picnic, and I could +see my dreams coming true, and I was ready for something to +happen 'most any time. And it did. + +"'And that first camp, on the island! And the boys spearing +fish in the mouth of the creek, and the big deer one of the +bucks shot just around the point. And there were flowers +everywhere, and in back from the beach the grass was thick and +lush and neck-high. And some of the girls went through this +with me, and we climbed the hillside behind and picked berries +and roots that tasted sour and were good to eat. And we came +upon a big bear in the berries making his supper, and he said +"Oof!" and ran away as scared as we were. And then the camp, +and the camp smoke, and the smell of fresh venison cooking. It +was beautiful. I was with the night-born at last, and I knew +that was where I belonged. And for the first time in my life, +it seemed to me, I went to bed happy that night, looking out +under a corner of the canvas at the stars cut off black by a +big shoulder of mountain, and listening to the night-noises, +and knowing that the same thing would go on next day and +forever and ever, for I wasn't going back. And I never did go +back.' + +"'Romance! I got it next day. We had to cross a big arm of the +ocean--twelve or fifteen miles, at least; and it came on to +blow when we were in the middle. That night I was along on +shore, with one wolf-dog, and I was the only one left alive.' + +"Picture it yourself," Trefethan broke off to say. "The canoe +was wrecked and lost, and everybody pounded to death on the +rocks except her. She went ashore hanging on to a dog's tail, +escaping the rocks and washing up on a tiny beach, the only one +in miles. + +"'Lucky for me it was the mainland,' she said. 'So I headed +right away back, through the woods and over the mountains and +straight on anywhere. Seemed I was looking for something and +knew I'd find it. I wasn't afraid. I was night-born, and the +big timber couldn't kill me. And on the second day I found it. +I came upon a small clearing and a tumbledown cabin. Nobody had +been there for years and years. The roof had fallen in. Rotted +blankets lay in the bunks, and pots and pans were on the stove. +But that was not the most curious thing. Outside, along the +edge of the trees, you can't guess what I found. The skeletons +of eight horses, each tied to a tree. They had starved to +death, I reckon, and left only little piles of bones scattered +some here and there. And each horse had had a load on its back. +There the loads lay, in among the bones--painted canvas sacks, +and inside moosehide sacks, and inside the moosehide +sacks--what do you think?'" + +She stopped, reached under a comer of the bed among the spruce +boughs, and pulled out a leather sack. She untied the mouth and +ran out into my hand as pretty a stream of gold as I have ever +seen--coarse gold, placer gold, some large dust, but mostly +nuggets, and it was so fresh and rough that it scarcely showed +signs of water-wash. + +"'You say you're a mining engineer,' she said, 'and you know +this country. Can you name a pay-creek that has the color of +that gold!' + +"I couldn't! There wasn't a trace of silver. It was almost +pure, and I told her so. + +"'You bet,' she said. 'I sell that for nineteen dollars an +ounce. You can't get over seventeen for Eldorado gold, and +Minook gold don't fetch quite eighteen. Well, that was what I +found among the bones--eight horse-loads of it, one hundred and +fifty pounds to the load.' + +"'A quarter of a million dollars!' I cried out. + +"'That's what I reckoned it roughly,' she answered. 'Talk about +Romance! And me a slaving the way I had all the years, when as +soon as I ventured out, inside three days, this was what +happened. And what became of the men that mined all that gold? +Often and often I wonder about it. They left their horses, +loaded and tied, and just disappeared off the face of the +earth, leaving neither hide nor hair behind them. I never heard +tell of them. Nobody knows anything about them. Well, being the +night-born, I reckon I was their rightful heir.' + +Trefethan stopped to light a cigar. + +"Do you know what that girl did? She cached the gold, saving +out thirty pounds, which she carried back to the coast. Then +she signaled a passing canoe, made her way to Pat Healy's +trading post at Dyea, outfitted, and went over Chilcoot Pass. +That was in '88--eight years before the Klondike strike, and +the Yukon was a howling wilderness. She was afraid of the +bucks, but she took two young squaws with her, crossed the +lakes, and went down the river and to all the early camps on +the Lower Yukon. She wandered several years over that country +and then on in to where I met her. Liked the looks of it, she +said, seeing, in her own words, 'a big bull caribou knee-deep +in purple iris on the valley-bottom.' She hooked up with the +Indians, doctored them, gained their confidence, and gradually +took them in charge. She had only left that country once, and +then, with a bunch of the young bucks, she went over Chilcoot, +cleaned up her gold-cache, and brought it back with her. + +"'And here I be, stranger,' she concluded her yarn, 'and here's +the most precious thing I own.' + +"She pulled out a little pouch of buckskin, worn on her neck +like a locket, and opened it. And inside, wrapped in oiled +silk, yellowed with age and worn and thumbed, was the original +scrap of newspaper containing the quotation from Thoreau. + +"'And are you happy . . . satisfied?' I asked her. 'With a +quarter of a million you wouldn't have to work down in the +States. You must miss a lot.' + +"'Not much,' she answered. 'I wouldn't swop places with any +woman down in the States. These are my people; this is where I +belong. But there are times--and in her eyes smoldered up that +hungry yearning I've mentioned--'there are times when I wish +most awful bad for that Thoreau man to happen along.' + +"'Why?' I asked. + +"'So as I could marry him. I do get mighty lonesome at spells. +I'm just a woman--a real woman. I've heard tell of the other +kind of women that gallivanted off like me and did queer +things--the sort that become soldiers in armies, and sailors on +ships. But those women are queer themselves. They're more like +men than women; they look like men and they don't have ordinary +women's needs. They don't want love, nor little children in +their arms and around their knees. I'm not that sort. I leave +it to you, stranger. Do I look like a man?' + +"She didn't. She was a woman, a beautiful, nut-brown woman, +with a sturdy, health-rounded woman's body and with wonderful +deep-blue woman's eyes. + +"'Ain't I woman?' she demanded. 'I am. I'm 'most all woman, and +then some. And the funny thing is, though I'm night-born in +everything else, I'm not when it comes to mating. I reckon that +kind likes its own kind best. That's the way it is with me, +anyway, and has been all these years.' + +"'You mean to tell me--' I began. + +"'Never,' she said, and her eyes looked into mine with the +straightness of truth. 'I had one husband, only--him I call the +Ox; and I reckon he's still down in Juneau running the +hash-joint. Look him up, if you ever get back, and you'll find +he's rightly named.' + +"And look him up I did, two years afterward. He was all she +said--solid and stolid, the Ox--shuffling around and waiting on +the tables. + +"'You need a wife to help you,' I said. + +"'I had one once,' was his answer. + +"'Widower?' + +"'Yep. She went loco. She always said the heat of the cooking +would get her, and it did. Pulled a gun on me one day and ran +away with some Siwashes in a canoe. Caught a blow up the coast +and all hands drowned.'" + +Trefethan devoted himself to his glass and remained silent. + +"But the girl?" Milner reminded him. + +"You left your story just as it was getting interesting, +tender. Did it?" + +"It did," Trefethan replied. "As she said herself, she was +savage in everything except mating, and then she wanted her own +kind. She was very nice about it, but she was straight to the +point. She wanted to marry me. + +"'Stranger,' she said, 'I want you bad. You like this sort of +life or you wouldn't be here trying to cross the Rockies in +fall weather. It's a likely spot. You'll find few likelier. Why +not settle down! I'll make you a good wife.' + +"And then it was up to me. And she waited. I don't mind +confessing that I was sorely tempted. I was half in love with +her as it was. You know I have never married. And I don't mind +adding, looking back over my life, that she is the only woman +that ever affected me that way. But it was too preposterous, +the whole thing, and I lied like a gentleman. I told her I was +already married. + +"'Is your wife waiting for you?' she asked. + +"I said yes. + +"'And she loves you?' + +"I said yes. + +"And that was all. She never pressed her point. . . except +once, and then she showed a bit of fire. + +"'All I've got to do,' she said, 'is to give the word, and you +don't get away from here. If I give the word, you stay on. . . +But I ain't going to give it. I wouldn't want you if you didn't +want to be wanted. . . and if you didn't want me.' + +"She went ahead and outfitted me and started me on my way. + +"'It's a darned shame, stranger," she said, at parting. 'I like +your looks, and I like you. If you ever change your mind, come +back.' + +"Now there was one thing I wanted to do, and that was to kiss +her good-bye, but I didn't know how to go about it nor how she +would take it.--I tell you I was half in love with her. But she +settled it herself. + +"'Kiss me,' she said. 'Just something to go on and remember.' + +"And we kissed, there in the snow, in that valley by the +Rockies, and I left her standing by the trail and went on after +my dogs. I was six weeks in crossing over the pass and coming +down to the first post on Great Slave Lake." + +The brawl of the streets came up to us like a distant surf. A +steward, moving noiselessly, brought fresh siphons. And in the +silence Trefethan's voice fell like a funeral bell: + +"It would have been better had I stayed. Look at me." + +We saw his grizzled mustache, the bald spot on his head, the +puff-sacks under his eyes, the sagging cheeks, the heavy +dewlap, the general tiredness and staleness and fatness, all +the collapse and ruin of a man who had once been strong but who +had lived too easily and too well. + +"It's not too late, old man," Bardwell said, almost in a +whisper. + +"By God! I wish I weren't a coward!" was Trefethan's answering +cry. "I could go back to her. She's there, now. I could shape +up and live many a long year. . . with her. . . up there. To +remain here is to commit suicide. But I am an old +man--forty-seven--look at me. The trouble is," he lifted his +glass and glanced at it, "the trouble is that suicide of this +sort is so easy. I am soft and tender. The thought of the long +day's travel with the dogs appalls me; the thought of the keen +frost in the morning and of the frozen sled-lashings frightens +me--" + +Automatically the glass was creeping toward his lips. With a +swift surge of anger he made as if to crash it down upon the +floor. Next came hesitancy and second thought. The glass moved +upward to his lips and paused. He laughed harshly and bitterly, +but his words were solemn: + +"Well, here's to the Night-Born. She WAS a wonder." + + + +THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED + +I TELL this for a fact. It happened in the bull-ring at Quito. +I sat in the box with John Harned, and with Maria Valenzuela, +and with Luis Cervallos. I saw it happen. I saw it all from +first to last. I was on the steamer Ecuadore from Panama to +Guayaquil. Maria Valenzuela is my cousin. I have known her +always. She is very beautiful. I am a Spaniard--an Ecuadoriano, +true, but I am descended from Pedro Patino, who was one of +Pizarro's captains. They were brave men. They were heroes. Did +not Pizarro lead three hundred and fifty Spanish cavaliers and +four thousand Indians into the far Cordilleras in search of +treasure? And did not all the four thousand Indians and three +hundred of the brave cavaliers die on that vain quest? But +Pedro Patino did not die. He it was that lived to found the +family of the Patino. I am Ecuadoriano, true, but I am Spanish. +I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. I own many haciendas, and ten +thousand Indians are my slaves, though the law says they are +free men who work by freedom of contract. The law is a funny +thing. We Ecuadorianos laugh at it. It is our law. We make it +for ourselves. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. Remember that name. +It will be written some day in history. There are revolutions +in Ecuador. We call them elections. It is a good joke is it +not?--what you call a pun? + +John Harned was an American. I met him first at the Tivoli +hotel in Panama. He had much money--this I have heard. He was +going to Lima, but he met Maria Valenzuela in the Tivoli hotel. +Maria Valenzuela is my cousin, and she is beautiful. It is +true, she is the most beautiful woman in Ecuador. But also is +she most beautiful in every country--in Paris, in Madrid, in +New York, in Vienna. Always do all men look at her, and John +Harned looked long at her at Panama. He loved her, that I know +for a fact. She was Ecuadoriano, true--but she was of all +countries; she was of all the world. She spoke many languages. +She sang--ah! like an artiste. Her smile--wonderful, divine. +Her eyes--ah! have I not seen men look in her eyes? They were +what you English call amazing. They were promises of paradise. +Men drowned themselves in her eyes. + +Maria Valenzuela was rich--richer than I, who am accounted very +rich in Ecuador. But John Harned did not care for her money. He +had a heart--a funny heart. He was a fool. He did not go to +Lima. He left the steamer at Guayaquil and followed her to +Quito. She was coming home from Europe and other places. I do +not see what she found in him, but she liked him. This I know +for a fact, else he would not have followed her to Quito. She +asked him to come. Well do I remember the occasion. She said: + +"Come to Quito and I will show you the bullfight--brave, +clever, magnificent!" + +But he said: "I go to Lima, not Quito. Such is my passage +engaged on the steamer." + +"You travel for pleasure--no?" said Maria Valenzuela; and she +looked at him as only Maria Valenzuela could look, her eyes +warm with the promise. + +And he came. No; he did not come for the bull-fight. He came +because of what he had seen in her eyes. Women like Maria +Valenzuela are born once in a hundred years. They are of no +country and no time. They are what you call goddesses. Men fall +down at their feet. They play with men and run them through +their pretty fingers like sand. Cleopatra was such a woman they +say; and so was Circe. She turned men into swine. Ha! ha! It is +true--no? + +It all came about because Maria Valenzuela said: + +"You English people are--what shall I say?--savage--no? You +prize-fight. Two men each hit the other with their fists till +their eyes are blinded and their noses are broken. Hideous! And +the other men who look on cry out loudly and are made glad. It +is barbarous--no?" + +"But they are men," said John Harned; "and they prize-fight out +of desire. No one makes them prize-fight. They do it because +they desire it more than anything else in the world." + +Maria Valenzuela--there was scorn in her smile as she said: +"They kill each other often--is it not so? I have read it in +the papers." + +"But the bull," said John Harned. + +"The bull is killed many times in the bull-fight, and the bull +does not come into the the ring out of desire. It is not fair +to the bull. He is compelled to fight. But the man in the +prize-fight--no; he is not compelled." + +"He is the more brute therefore," said Maria Valenzuela. + +"He is savage. He is primitive. He is animal. He strikes with +his paws like a bear from a cave, and he is ferocious. But the +bull-fight--ah! You have not seen the bullfight--no? The +toreador is clever. He must have skill. He is modern. He is +romantic. He is only a man, soft and tender, and he faces the +wild bull in conflict. And he kills with a sword, a slender +sword, with one thrust, so, to the heart of the great beast. It +is delicious. It makes the heart beat to behold--the small man, +the great beast, the wide level sand, the thousands that look +on without breath; the great beast rushes to the attack, the +small man stands like a statue; he does not move, he is +unafraid, and in his hand is the slender sword flashing like +silver in the sun; nearer and nearer rushes the great beast +with its sharp horns, the man does not move, and then--so--the +sword flashes, the thrust is made, to the heart, to the hilt, +the bull falls to the sand and is dead, and the man is unhurt. +It is brave. It is magnificent! Ah!--I could love the toreador. +But the man of the prize-fight--he is the brute, the human +beast, the savage primitive, the maniac that receives many +blows in his stupid face and rejoices. Come to Quito and I will +show you the brave sport of men, the toreador and the bull." + +But John Harned did not go to Quito for the bull-fight. He went +because of Maria Valenzuela. He was a large man, more broad of +shoulder than we Ecuadorianos, more tall, more heavy of limb +and bone. True, he was larger of his own race. His eyes were +blue, though I have seen them gray, and, sometimes, like cold +steel. His features were large, too--not delicate like ours, +and his jaw was very strong to look at. Also, his face was +smooth-shaven like a priest's. Why should a man feel shame for +the hair on his face? Did not God put it there? Yes, I believe +in God--I am not a pagan like many of you English. God is good. +He made me an Ecuadoriano with ten thousand slaves. And when I +die I shall go to God. Yes, the priests are right. + +But John Harned. He was a quiet man. He talked always in a low +voice, and he never moved his hands when he talked. One would +have thought his heart was a piece of ice; yet did he have a +streak of warm in his blood, for he followed Maria Valenzuela +to Quito. Also, and for all that he talked low without moving +his hands, he was an animal, as you shall see--the beast +primitive, the stupid, ferocious savage of the long ago that +dressed in wild skins and lived in the caves along with the +bears and wolves. + +Luis Cervallos is my friend, the best of Ecuadorianos. He owns +three cacao plantations at Naranjito and Chobo. At Milagro is +his big sugar plantation. He has large haciendas at Ambato and +Latacunga, and down the coast is he interested in oil-wells. +Also has he spent much money in planting rubber along the +Guayas. He is modern, like the Yankee; and, like the Yankee, +full of business. He has much money, but it is in many +ventures, and ever he needs more money for new ventures and for +the old ones. He has been everywhere and seen everything. When +he was a very young man he was in the Yankee military academy +what you call West Point. There was trouble. He was made to +resign. He does not like Americans. But he did like Maria +Valenzuela, who was of his own country. Also, he needed her +money for his ventures and for his gold mine in Eastern Ecuador +where the painted Indians live. I was his friend. It was my +desire that he should marry Maria Valenzuela. Further, much of +my money had I invested in his ventures, more so in his gold +mine which was very rich but which first required the expense +of much money before it would yield forth its riches. If Luis +Cervallos married Maria Valenzuela I should have more money +very immediately. + +But John Harned followed Maria Valenzuela to Quito, and it was +quickly clear to us--to Luis Cervallos and me that she looked +upon John Harned with great kindness. It is said that a woman +will have her will, but this is a case not in point, for Maria +Valenzuela did not have her will--at least not with John +Harned. Perhaps it would all have happened as it did, even if +Luis Cervallos and I had not sat in the box that day at the +bull-ring in Quito. But this I know: we DID sit in the box that +day. And I shall tell you what happened. + +The four of us were in the one box, guests of Luis Cervallos. I +was next to the Presidente's box. On the other side was the box +of General Jose Eliceo Salazar. With him were Joaquiin Endara +and Urcisino Castillo, both generals, and Colonel Jacinto +Fierro and Captain Baltazar de Echeverria. Only Luis Cervallos +had the position and the influence to get that box next to the +Presidente. I know for a fact that the Presidente himself +expressed the desire to the management that Luis Cervallos +should have that box. + +The band finished playing the national hymn of Ecuador. The +procession of the toreadors was over. The Presidente nodded to +begin. The bugles blew, and the bull dashed in--you know the +way, excited, bewildered, the darts in its shoulder burning +like fire, itself seeking madly whatever enemy to destroy. The +toreadors hid behind their shelters and waited. Suddenly they +appeared forth, the capadores, five of them, from every side, +their colored capes flinging wide. The bull paused at sight of +such a generosity of enemies, unable in his own mind to know +which to attack. Then advanced one of the capadors alone to +meet the bull. The bull was very angry. With its fore-legs it +pawed the sand of the arena till the dust rose all about it. +Then it charged, with lowered head, straight for the lone +capador. + +It is always of interest, the first charge of the first bull. +After a time it is natural that one should grow tired, trifle, +that the keenness should lose its edge. But that first charge +of the first bull! John Harned was seeing it for the first +time, and he could not escape the excitement--the sight of the +man, armed only with a piece of cloth, and of the bull rushing +upon him across the sand with sharp horns, widespreading. + +"See!" cried Maria Valenzuela. "Is it not superb?" + +John Harned nodded, but did not look at her. His eyes were +sparkling, and they were only for the bull-ring. The capador +stepped to the side, with a twirl of the cape eluding the bull +and spreading the cape on his own shoulders. + +"What do you think?" asked Maria Venzuela. "Is it not +a--what-you-call--sporting proposition--no?" + +"It is certainly," said John Harned. "It is very clever." + +She clapped her hands with delight. They were little hands. The +audience applauded. The bull turned and came back. Again the +capadore eluded him, throwing the cape on his shoulders, and +again the audience applauded. Three times did this happen. The +capadore was very excellent. Then he retired, and the other +capadore played with the bull. After that they placed the +banderillos in the bull, in the shoulders, on each side of the +back-bone, two at a time. Then stepped forward Ordonez, the +chief matador, with the long sword and the scarlet cape. The +bugles blew for the death. He is not so good as Matestini. +Still he is good, and with one thrust he drove the sword to the +heart, and the bull doubled his legs under him and lay down and +died. It was a pretty thrust, clean and sure; and there was +much applause, and many of the common people threw their hats +into the ring. Maria Valenzuela clapped her hands with the +rest, and John Harned, whose cold heart was not touched by the +event, looked at her with curiosity. + +"You like it?" he asked. + +"Always," she said, still clapping her hands. + +"From a little girl," said Luis Cervallos. "I remember her +first fight. She was four years old. She sat with her mother, +and just like now she clapped her hands. She is a proper +Spanish woman. + +"You have seen it," said Maria Valenzuela to John Harned, as +they fastened the mules to the dead bull and dragged it out. +"You have seen the bull-fight and you like it--no? What do you +think? + +"I think the bull had no chance," he said. "The bull was doomed +from the first. The issue was not in doubt. Every one knew, +before the bull entered the ring, that it was to die. To be a +sporting proposition, the issue must be in doubt. It was one +stupid bull who had never fought a man against five wise men +who had fought many bulls. It would be possibly a little bit +fair if it were one man against one bull." + +"Or one man against five bulls," said Maria Valenzuela; and we +all laughed, and Luis Ceryallos laughed loudest. + +"Yes," said John Harned, "against five bulls, and the man, like +the bulls, never in the bull ring before--a man like yourself, +Senor Crevallos." + +"Yet we Spanish like the bull-fight," said Luis Cervallos; and +I swear the devil was whispering then in his ear, telling him +to do that which I shall relate. + +"Then must it be a cultivated taste," John Harned made answer. +"We kill bulls by the thousand every day in Chicago, yet no one +cares to pay admittance to see." + +"That is butchery," said I; "but this--ah, this is an art. It +is delicate. It is fine. It is rare." + +"Not always," said Luis Cervallos. "I have seen clumsy +matadors, and I tell you it is not nice." + +He shuddered, and his face betrayed such what-you-call disgust, +that I knew, then, that the devil was whispering and that he +was beginning to play a part. + +"Senor Harned may be right," said Luis Cervallos. "It may not +be fair to the bull. For is it not known to all of us that for +twenty-four hours the bull is given no water, and that +immediately before the fight he is permitted to drink his +fill?" + +"And he comes into the ring heavy with water?" said John Harned +quickly; and I saw that his eyes were very gray and very sharp +and very cold. + +"It is necessary for the sport," said Luis Cervallos. "Would +you have the bull so strong that he would kill the toreadors?" + +"I would that he had a fighting chance," said John Harned, +facing the ring to see the second bull come in. + +It was not a good bull. It was frightened. It ran around the +ring in search of a way to get out. The capadors stepped forth +and flared their capes, but he refused to charge upon them. + +"It is a stupid bull," said Maria Valenzuela. + +"I beg pardon," said John Harned; "but it would seem to me a +wise bull. He knows he must not fight man. See! He smells death +there in the ring." + +True. The bull, pausing where the last one had died, was +smelling the wet sand and snorting. Again he ran around the +ring, with raised head, looking at the faces of the thousands +that hissed him, that threw orange-peel at him and called him +names. But the smell of blood decided him, and he charged a +capador, so without warning that the man just escaped. He +dropped his cape and dodged into the shelter. The bull struck +the wall of the ring with a crash. And John Harned said, in a +quiet voice, as though he talked to himself: + +"I will give one thousand sucres to the lazar-house of Quito if +a bull kills a man this day." + +"You like bulls?" said Maria Valenzuela with a smile. + +"I like such men less," said John Harned. "A toreador is not a +brave man. He surely cannot be a brave man. See, the bull's +tongue is already out. He is tired and he has not yet begun." + +"It is the water," said Luis Cervallos. + +"Yes, it is the water," said John Harned. "Would it not be +safer to hamstring the bull before he comes on?" + +Maria Valenzuela was made angry by this sneer in John Harned's +words. But Luis Cervallos smiled so that only I could see him, +and then it broke upon my mind surely the game he was playing. +He and I were to be banderilleros. The big American bull was +there in the box with us. We were to stick the darts in him +till he became angry, and then there might be no marriage with +Maria Valenzuela. It was a good sport. And the spirit of +bull-fighters was in our blood. + +The bull was now angry and excited. The capadors had great game +with him. He was very quick, and sometimes he turned with such +sharpness that his hind legs lost their footing and he plowed +the sand with his quarter. But he charged always the flung +capes and committed no harm. + +"He has no chance," said John Harned. "He is fighting wind." + +"He thinks the cape is his enemy," explained Maria Valenzuela. +"See how cleverly the capador deceives him." + +"It is his nature to be deceived," said John Harned. "Wherefore +he is doomed to fight wind. The toreadors know it, you know it, +I know it--we all know from the first that he will fight wind. +He only does not know it. It is his stupid beast-nature. He has +no chance." + +"It is very simple," said Luis Cervallos. "The bull shuts his +eyes when he charges. Therefore--" + +"The man steps, out of the way and the bull rushes by," Harned +interrupted. + +"Yes," said Luis Cervallos; "that is it. The bull shuts his +eyes, and the man knows it." + +"But cows do not shut their eyes," said John Harned. "I know a +cow at home that is a Jersey and gives milk, that would whip +the whole gang of them." + +"But the toreadors do not fight cows," said I. + +'They are afraid to fight cows," said John Harned. + +"Yes," said Luis Cervallos, "they are afraid to fight cows. +There would be no sport in killing toreadors." + +"There would be some sport," said John Harned, "if a toreador +were killed once in a while. When I become an old man, and +mayhap a cripple, and should I need to make a living and be +unable to do hard work, then would I become a bull-fighter. It +is a light vocation for elderly gentlemen and pensioners." + +"But see!" said Maria Valenzuela, as the bull charged bravely +and the capador eluded it with a fling of his cape. "It +requires skill so to avoid the beast." + +"True," said John Harned. "But believe me, it requires a +thousand times more skill to avoid the many and quick punches +of a prize-fighter who keeps his eyes open and strikes with +intelligence. Furthermore, this bull does not want to fight. +Behold, he runs away." + +It was not a good bull, for again it ran around the ring, +seeking to find a way out. + +"Yet these bulls are sometimes the most dangerous," said Luis +Cervallos. "It can never be known what they will do next. They +are wise. They are half cow. The bull-fighters never like +them.--See! He has turned!" + +Once again, baffled and made angry by the walls of the ring +that would not let him out, the bull was attacking his enemies +valiantly. + +"His tongue is hanging out," said John Harned. "First, they +fill him with water. Then they tire him out, one man and then +another, persuading him to exhaust himself by fighting wind. +While some tire him, others rest. But the bull they never let +rest. Afterward, when he is quite tired and no longer quick, +the matador sticks the sword into him." + +The time had now come for the banderillos. Three times one of +the fighters endeavored to place the darts, and three times did +he fail. He but stung the bull and maddened it. The banderillos +must go in, you know, two at a time, into the shoulders, on +each side the backbone and close to it. If but one be placed, +it is a failure. The crowd hissed and called for Ordonez. And +then Ordonez did a great thing. Four times he stood forth, and +four times, at the first attempt, he stuck in the banderillos, +so that eight of them, well placed, stood out of the back of +the bull at one time. The crowd went mad, and a rain of hats +and money fell on the sand of the ring + +And just then the bull charged unexpectedly one of the +capadors. The man slipped and lost his head. The bull caught +him--fortunately, between his wide horns. And while the +audience watched, breathless and silent, John Harned stood up +and yelled with gladness. Alone, in that hush of all of us, +John Harned yelled. And he yelled for the bull. As you see +yourself, John Harned wanted the man killed. His was a brutal +heart. This bad conduct made those angry that sat in the box of +General Salazar, and they cried out against John Harned. And +Urcisino Castillo told him to his face that he was a dog of a +Gringo and other things. Only it was in Spanish, and John +Harned did not understand. He stood and yelled, perhaps for the +time of ten seconds, when the bull was enticed into charging +the other capadors and the man arose unhurt. + +"The bull has no chance," John Harned said with sadness as he +sat down. "The man was uninjured. They fooled the bull away +from him." Then he turned to Maria Valenzuela and said: "I beg +your pardon. I was excited." + +She smiled and in reproof tapped his arm with her fan. + +"It is your first bull-fight," she said. "After you have seen +more you will not cry for the death of the man. You Americans, +you see, are more brutal than we. It is because of your +prize-fighting. We come only to see the bull killed." + +"But I would the bull had some chance," he answered. +"Doubtless, in time, I shall cease to be annoyed by the men who +take advantage of the bull." + +The bugles blew for the death of the bull. Ordonez stood forth +with the sword and the scarlet cloth. But the bull had changed +again, and did not want to fight. Ordonez stamped his foot in +the sand, and cried out, and waved the scarlet cloth. Then the +bull charged, but without heart. There was no weight to the +charge. It was a poor thrust. The sword struck a bone and bent. +Ordonez took a fresh sword. The bull, again stung to fight, +charged once more. Five times Ordonez essayed the thrust, and +each time the sword went but part way in or struck bone. The +sixth time, the sword went in to the hilt. But it was a bad +thrust. The sword missed the heart and stuck out half a yard +through the ribs on the opposite side. The audience hissed the +matador. I glanced at John Harned. He sat silent, without +movement; but I could see his teeth were set, and his hands +were clenched tight on the railing of the box. + +All fight was now out of the bull, and, though it was no vital +thrust, he trotted lamely what of the sword that stuck through +him, in one side and out the other. He ran away from the +matador and the capadors, and circled the edge of the ring, +looking up at the many faces. + +"He is saying: 'For God's sake let me out of this; I don't want +to fight,'" said John Harned. + +That was all. He said no more, but sat and watched, though +sometimes he looked sideways at Maria Valenzuela to see how she +took it. She was angry with the matador. He was awkward, and +she had desired a clever exhibition. + +The bull was now very tired, and weak from loss of blood, +though far from dying. He walked slowly around the wall of the +ring, seeking a way out. He would not charge. He had had +enough. But he must be killed. There is a place, in the neck of +a bull behind the horns, where the cord of the spine is +unprotected and where a short stab will immediately kill. +Ordonez stepped in front of the bull and lowered his scarlet +cloth to the ground. The bull would not charge. He stood still +and smelled the cloth, lowering his head to do so. Ordonez +stabbed between the horns at the spot in the neck. The bull +jerked his head up. The stab had missed. Then the bull watched +the sword. When Ordonez moved the cloth on the ground, the bull +forgot the sword and lowered his head to smell the cloth. Again +Ordonez stabbed, and again he failed. He tried many times. It +was stupid. And John Harned said nothing. At last a stab went +home, and the bull fell to the sand, dead immediately, and the +mules were made fast and he was dragged out. + +"The Gringos say it is a cruel sport--no?" said Luis Cervallos. +"That it is not humane. That it is bad for the bull. No?" + +"No," said John Harned. "The bull does not count for much. It +is bad for those that look on. It is degrading to those that +look on. It teaches them to delight in animal suffering. It is +cowardly for five men to fight one stupid bull. Therefore those +that look on learn to be cowards. The bull dies, but those that +look on live and the lesson is learned. The bravery of men is +not nourished by scenes of cowardice." + +Maria Valenzuela said nothing. Neither did she look at him. But +she heard every word and her cheeks were white with anger. She +looked out across the ring and fanned herself, but I saw that +her hand trembled. Nor did John Harned look at her. He went on +as though she were not there. He, too, was angry, coldly angry. + +"It is the cowardly sport of a cowardly people," he said. + +"Ah," said Luis Cervallos softly, "you think you understand +us." + +"I understand now the Spanish Inquisition," said John Harned. +"It must have been more delightful than bull-fighting." + +Luis Cervallos smiled but said nothing. He glanced at Maria +Valenzuela, and knew that the bull-fight in the box was won. +Never would she have further to do with the Gringo who spoke +such words. But neither Luis Cervallos nor I was prepared for +the outcome of the day. I fear we do not understand the +Gringos. How were we to know that John Harned, who was so +coldly angry, should go suddenly mad! But mad he did go, as you +shall see. The bull did not count for much--he said so himself. +Then why should the horse count for so much? That I cannot +understand. The mind of John Harned lacked logic. That is the +only explanation. + +"It is not usual to have horses in the bull-ring at Quito," +said Luis Cervallos, looking up from the program. "In Spain +they always have them. But to-day, by special permission we +shall have them. When the next bull comes on there will be +horses and picadors-you know, the men who carry lances and ride +the horses." + +"The bull is doomed from the first," said John Harned. "Are the +horses then likewise doomed!" + +"They are blindfolded so that they may not see the bull," said +Luis Cervallos. "I have seen many horses killed. It is a brave +sight." + +"I have seen the bull slaughtered," said John Harned "I will +now see the horse slaughtered, so that I may understand more +fully the fine points of this noble sport." + +"They are old horses," said Luis Cervallos, "that are not good +for anything else." + +"I see," said John Harned. + +The third bull came on, and soon against it were both capadors +and picadors. One picador took his stand directly below us. I +agree, it was a thin and aged horse he rode, a bag of bones +covered with mangy hide. + +"It is a marvel that the poor brute can hold up the weight of +the rider," said John Harned. "And now that the horse fights +the bull, what weapons has it?" + +"The horse does not fight the bull," said Luis Cervallos. + +"Oh," said John Harned, "then is the horse there to be gored? +That must be why it is blindfolded, so that it shall not see +the bull coming to gore it." + +"Not quite so," said I. "The lance of the picador is to keep +the bull from goring the horse." + +"Then are horses rarely gored?" asked John Harned. + +"No," said Luis Cervallos. "I have seen, at Seville, eighteen +horses killed in one day, and the people clamored for more +horses." + +"Were they blindfolded like this horse?" asked John Harned. + +"Yes," said Luis Cervallos. + +After that we talked no more, but watched the fight. And John +Harned was going mad all the time, and we did not know. The +bull refused to charge the horse. And the horse stood still, +and because it could not see it did not know that the capadors +were trying to make the bull charge upon it. The capadors +teased the bull their capes, and when it charged them they ran +toward the horse and into their shelters. At last the bull was +angry, and it saw the horse before it. + +"The horse does not know, the horse does not know," John Harned +whispered to himself, unaware that he voiced his thought aloud. + +The bull charged, and of course the horse knew nothing till the +picador failed and the horse found himself impaled on the +bull's horns from beneath. The bull was magnificently strong. +The sight of its strength was splendid to see. It lifted the +horse clear into the air; and as the horse fell to its side on +on the ground the picador landed on his feet and escaped, while +the capadors lured the bull away. The horse was emptied of its +essential organs. Yet did it rise to its feet screaming. It was +the scream of the horse that did it, that made John Harned +completely mad; for he, too, started to rise to his feet, I +heard him curse low and deep. He never took his eyes from the +horse, which, screaming, strove to run, but fell down instead +and rolled on its back so that all its four legs were kicking +in the air. Then the bull charged it and gored it again and +again until it was dead. + +John Harned was now on his feet. His eyes were no longer cold +like steel. They were blue flames. He looked at Maria +Valenzuela, and she looked at him, and in his face was a great +loathing. The moment of his madness was upon him. Everybody was +looking, now that the horse was dead; and John Harned was a +large man and easy to be seen. + +"Sit down," said Luis Cervallos, "or you will make a fool of +yourself." + +John Harned replied nothing. He struck out his fist. He smote +Luis Cervallos in the face so that he fell like a dead man +across the chairs and did not rise again. He saw nothing of +what followed. But I saw much. Urcisino Castillo, leaning +forward from the next box, with his cane struck John Harned +full across the face. And John Harned smote him with his fist +so that in falling he overthrew General Salazar. John Harned +was now in what-you-call Berserker rage--no? The beast +primitive in him was loose and roaring--the beast primitive of +the holes and caves of the long ago. + +"You came for a bull-fight," I heard him say, "And by God I'll +show you a man-fight!" + +It was a fight. The soldiers guarding the Presidente's box +leaped across, but from one of them he took a rifle and beat +them on their heads with it. From the other box Colonel Jacinto +Fierro was shooting at him with a revolver. The first shot +killed a soldier. This I know for a fact. I saw it. But the +second shot struck John Harned in the side. Whereupon he swore, +and with a lunge drove the bayonet of his rifle into Colonel +Jacinto Fierro's body. It was horrible to behold. The Americans +and the English are a brutal race. They sneer at our +bull-fighting, yet do they delight in the shedding of blood. +More men were killed that day because of John Harned than were +ever killed in all the history of the bull-ring of Quito, yes, +and of Guayaquil and all Ecuador. + +It was the scream of the horse that did it, yet why did not +John Harned go mad when the bull was killed? A beast is a +beast, be it bull or horse. John Harned was mad. There is no +other explanation. He was blood-mad, a beast himself. I leave +it to your judgment. Which is worse--the goring of the horse by +the bull, or the goring of Colonel Jacinto Fierro by the +bayonet in the hands of John Harned! And John Harned gored +others with that bayonet. He was full of devils. He fought with +many bullets in him, and he was hard to kill. And Maria +Valenzuela was a brave woman. Unlike the other women, she did +not cry out nor faint. She sat still in her box, gazing out +across the bull-ring. Her face was white and she fanned +herself, but she never looked around. + +From all sides came the soldiers and officers and the common +people bravely to subdue the mad Gringo. It is true--the cry +went up from the crowd to kill all the Gringos. It is an old +cry in Latin-American countries, what of the dislike for the +Gringos and their uncouth ways. It is true, the cry went up. +But the brave Ecuadorianos killed only John Harned, and first +he killed seven of them. Besides, there were many hurt. I have +seen many bull-fights, but never have I seen anything so +abominable as the scene in the boxes when the fight was over. +It was like a field of battle. The dead lay around everywhere, +while the wounded sobbed and groaned and some of them died. One +man, whom John Harned had thrust through the belly with the +bayonet, clutched at himself with both his hands and screamed. +I tell you for a fact it was more terrible than the screaming +of a thousand horses. + +No, Maria Valenzuela did not marry Luis Cervallos. I am sorry +for that. He was my friend, and much of my money was invested +in his ventures. It was five weeks before the surgeons took the +bandages from his face. And there is a scar there to this day, +on the cheek, under the eye. Yet John Harned struck him but +once and struck him only with his naked fist. Maria Valenzuela +is in Austria now. It is said she is to marry an Arch-Duke or +some high nobleman. I do not know. I think she liked John +Harned before he followed her to Quito to see the bull-fight. +But why the horse? That is what I desire to know. Why should he +watch the bull and say that it did not count, and then go +immediately and most horribly mad because a horse screamed ? +There is no understanding the Gringos. They are barbarians. + + + +WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG + +HE was a very quiet, self-possessed sort of man, sitting a +moment on top of the wall to sound the damp darkness for +warnings of the dangers it might conceal. But the plummet of +his hearing brought nothing to him save the moaning of wind +through invisible trees and the rustling of leaves on swaying +branches. A heavy fog drifted and drove before the wind, and +though he could not see this fog, the wet of it blew upon his +face, and the wall on which he sat was wet. + +Without noise he had climbed to the top of the wall from the +outside, and without noise he dropped to the ground on the +inside. From his pocket he drew an electric night-stick, but he +did not use it. Dark as the way was, he was not anxious for +light. Carrying the night-stick in his hand, his finger on the +button, he advanced through the darkness. The ground was +velvety and springy to his feet, being carpeted with dead +pine-needles and leaves and mold which evidently bad been +undisturbed for years. Leaves and branches brushed against his +body, but so dark was it that he could not avoid them. Soon he +walked with his hand stretched out gropingly before him, and +more than once the hand fetched up against the solid trunks of +massive trees. All about him he knew were these trees; he +sensed the loom of them everywhere; and he experienced a +strange feeling of microscopic smallness in the midst of great +bulks leaning toward him to crush him. Beyond, he knew, was the +house, and he expected to find some trail or winding path that +would lead easily to it. + +Once, he found himself trapped. On every side he groped against +trees and branches, or blundered into thickets of underbrush, +until there seemed no way out. Then he turned on his light, +circumspectly, directing its rays to the ground at his feet. +Slowly and carefully he moved it about him, the white +brightness showing in sharp detail all the obstacles to his +progress. He saw, an opening between huge-trunked trees, and +advanced through it, putting out the light and treading on dry +footing as yet protected from the drip of the fog by the dense +foliage overhead. His sense of direction was good, and he knew +he was going toward the house. + +And then the thing happened--the thing unthinkable and +unexpected. His descending foot came down upon something that +was soft and alive, and that arose with a snort under the +weight of his body. He sprang clear, and crouched for another +spring, anywhere, tense and expectant, keyed for the onslaught +of the unknown. He waited a moment, wondering what manner of +animal it was that had arisen from under his foot and that now +made no sound nor movement and that must be crouching and +waiting just as tensely and expectantly as he. The strain +became unbearable. Holding the night-stick before him, he +pressed the button, saw, and screamed aloud in terror. He was +prepared for anything, from a frightened calf or fawn to a +belligerent lion, but he was not prepared for what he saw. In +that instant his tiny searchlight, sharp and white, had shown +him what a thousand years would not en. able him to forget--a +man, huge and blond, yellow-haired and yellow-bearded, naked +except for soft-tanned moccasins and what seemed a goat-skin +about his middle. Arms and legs were bare, as were his +shoulders and most of his chest. The skin was smooth and +hairless, but browned by sun and wind, while under it heavy +muscles were knotted like fat snakes. Still, this alone, +unexpected as it well was, was not what had made the man scream +out. What had caused his terror was the unspeakable ferocity of +the face, the wild-animal glare of the blue eyes scarcely +dazzled by the light, the pine-needles matted and clinging in +the beard and hair, and the whole formidable body crouched and +in the act of springing at him. Practically in the instant he +saw all this, and while his scream still rang, the thing +leaped, he flung his night-stick full at it, and threw himself +to the ground. He felt its feet and shins strike against his +ribs, and he bounded up and away while the thing itself hurled +onward in a heavy crashing fall into the underbrush. + +As the noise of the fall ceased, the man stopped and on hands +and knees waited. He could hear the thing moving about, +searching for him, and he was afraid to advertise his location +by attempting further flight. He knew that inevitably he would +crackle the underbrush and be pursued. Once he drew out his +revolver, then changed his mind. He had recovered his composure +and hoped to get away without noise. Several times he heard the +thing beating up the thickets for him, and there were moments +when it, too, remained still and listened. This gave an idea to +the man. One of his hands was resting on a chunk of dead wood. +Carefully, first feeling about him in the darkness to know that +the full swing of his arm was clear, he raised the chunk of +wood and threw it. It was not a large piece, and it went far, +landing noisily in a bush. He heard the thing bound into the +bush, and at the same time himself crawled steadily away. And +on hands and knees, slowly and cautiously, he crawled on, till +his knees were wet on the soggy mold, When he listened he heard +naught but the moaning wind and the drip-drip of the fog from +the branches. Never abating his caution, he stood erect and +went on to the stone wall, over which he climbed and dropped +down to the road outside. + +Feeling his way in a clump of bushes, he drew out a bicycle and +prepared to mount. He was in the act of driving the gear around +with his foot for the purpose of getting the opposite pedal in +position, when he heard the thud of a heavy body that landed +lightly and evidently on its feet. He did not wait for more, +but ran, with hands on the handles of his bicycle, until he was +able to vault astride the saddle, catch the pedals, and start a +spurt. Behind he could hear the quick thud-thud of feet on the +dust of the road, but he drew away from it and lost it. +Unfortunately, he had started away from the direction of town +and was heading higher up into the hills. He knew that on this +particular road there were no cross roads. The only way back +was past that terror, and he could not steel himself to face +it. At the end of half an hour, finding himself on an ever +increasing grade, he dismounted. For still greater safety, +leaving the wheel by the roadside, he climbed through a fence +into what he decided was a hillside pasture, spread a newspaper +on the ground, and sat down. + +"Gosh!" he said aloud, mopping the sweat and fog from his face. + +And "Gosh!" he said once again, while rolling a cigarette and +as he pondered the problem of getting back. + +But he made no attempt to go back. He was resolved not to face +that road in the dark, and with head bowed on knees, he dozed, +waiting for daylight. + +How long afterward he did not know, he was awakened by the +yapping bark of a young coyote. As he looked about and located +it on the brow of the hill behind him, he noted the change that +had come over the face of the night. The fog was gone; the +stars and moon were out; even the wind had died down. It had +transformed into a balmy California summer night. He tried to +doze again, but the yap of the coyote disturbed him. Half +asleep, he heard a wild and eery chant. Looking about him, he +noticed that the coyote had ceased its noise and was running +away along the crest of the hill, and behind it, in full +pursuit, no longer chanting, ran the naked creature he had +encountered in the garden. It was a young coyote, and it was +being overtaken when the chase passed from view. The man +trembled as with a chill as he started to his feet, clambered +over the fence, and mounted his wheel. But it was his chance +and he knew it. The terror was no longer between him and Mill +Valley. + +He sped at a breakneck rate down the hill, but in the turn at +the bottom, in the deep shadows, he encountered a chuck-hole +and pitched headlong over the handle bar. + +"It's sure not my night," he muttered, as he examined the +broken fork of the machine + +Shouldering the useless wheel, he trudged on. In time he came +to the stone wall, and, half disbelieving his experience, he +sought in the road for tracks, and found them--moccasin tracks, +large ones, deep-bitten into the dust at the toes. It was while +bending over them, examining, that again he heard the eery +chant. He had seen the thing pursue the coyote, and he knew he +had no chance on a straight run. He did not attempt it, +contenting himself with hiding in the shadows on the off side +of the road. + +And again he saw the thing that was like a naked man, running +swiftly and lightly and singing as it ran. Opposite him it +paused, and his heart stood still. But instead of coming toward +his hiding-place, it leaped into the air, caught the branch of +a roadside tree, and swung swiftly upward, from limb to limb, +like an ape. It swung across the wall, and a dozen feet above +the top, into the branches of another tree, and dropped out of +sight to the ground. The man waited a few wondering minutes, +then started on. + +II + +Dave Slotter leaned belligerently against the desk that barred +the way to the private office of James Ward, senior partner of +the firm of Ward, Knowles & Co. Dave was angry. Every one in +the outer office had looked him over suspiciously, and the man +who faced him was excessively suspicious. + +"You just tell Mr. Ward it's important," he urged. + +"I tell you he is dictating and cannot be disturbed," was the +answer. "Come to-morrow." + +"To-morrow will be too late. You just trot along and tell Mr. +Ward it's a matter of life and death." + +The secretary hesitated and Dave seized the advantage. + +"You just tell him I was across the bay in Mill Valley last +night, and that I want to put him wise to something." + +"What name?" was the query. + +"Never mind the name. He don't know me." + +When Dave was shown into the private office, he was still in +the belligerent frame of mind, but when he saw a large fair man +whirl in a revolving chair from dictating to a stenographer to +face him, Dave's demeanor abruptly changed. He did not know why +it changed, and he was secretly angry with himself. + +"You are Mr. Ward?" Dave asked with a fatuousness that still +further irritated him. He had never intended it at all. + +"Yes," came the answer. + +"And who are you?" + +"Harry Bancroft," Dave lied. "You don't know me, and my name +don't matter." + +"You sent in word that you were in Mill Valley last night?" + +"You live there, don't you?" Dave countered, looking +suspiciously at the stenographer. + +"Yes. What do you mean to see me about? I am very busy." + +"I'd like to see you alone, sir." + +Mr. Ward gave him a quick, penetrating look, hesitated, then +made up his mind. + +"That will do for a few minutes, Miss Potter." + +The girl arose, gathered her notes together, and passed out. +Dave looked at Mr. James Ward wonderingly, until that gentleman +broke his train of inchoate thought. + +"Well?" + +"I was over in Mill Valley last night," Dave began confusedly. + +"I've heard that before. What do you want?" + +And Dave proceeded in the face of a growing conviction that was +unbelievable. "I was at your house, or in the grounds, I mean." + +"What were you doing there?" + +"I came to break in," Dave answered in all frankness. + +"I heard you lived all alone with a Chinaman for cook, and it +looked good to me. Only I didn't break in. Something happened +that prevented. That's why I'm here. I come to warn you. I +found a wild man loose in your grounds--a regular devil. He +could pull a guy like me to pieces. He gave me the run of my +life. He don't wear any clothes to speak of, he climbs trees +like a monkey, and he runs like a deer. I saw him chasing a +coyote, and the last I saw of it, by God, he was gaining on +it." + +Dave paused and looked for the effect that would follow his +words. But no effect came. James Ward was quietly curious, and +that was all. + +"Very remarkable, very remarkable," he murmured. "A wild man, +you say. Why have you come to tell me?" + +"To warn you of your danger. I'm something of a hard +proposition myself, but I don't believe in killing people . . . +that is, unnecessarily. I realized that you was in danger. I +thought I'd warn you. Honest, that's the game. Of course, if +you wanted to give me anything for my trouble, I'd take it. +That was in my mind, too. But I don't care whether you give me +anything or not. I've warned you any way, and done my duty." + +Mr. Ward meditated and drummed on the surface of his desk. Dave +noticed they were large, powerful hands, withal well-cared for +despite their dark sunburn. Also, he noted what had already +caught his eye before--a tiny strip of flesh-colored +courtplaster on the forehead over one eve. And still the +thought that forced itself into his mind was unbelievable. + +Mr. Ward took a wallet from his inside coat pocket, drew out a +greenback, and passed it to Dave, who noted as he pocketed it +that it was for twenty dollars. + +"Thank you," said Mr. Ward, indicating that the interview was +at an end. + +"I shall have the matter investigated. A wild man running loose +IS dangerous." + +But so quiet a man was Mr. Ward, that Dave's courage returned. +Besides, a new theory had suggested itself. The wild man was +evidently Mr. Ward's brother, a lunatic privately confined. +Dave had heard of such things. Perhaps Mr. Ward wanted it kept +quiet. That was why he had given him the twenty dollars. + +"Say," Dave began, "now I come to think of it that wild man +looked a lot like you--" + +That was as far as Dave got, for at that moment he witnessed a +transformation and found himself gazing into the same +unspeakably ferocious blue eyes of the night before, at the +same clutching talon-like hands, and at the same formidable +bulk in the act of springing upon him. But this time Dave had +no night-stick to throw, and he was caught by the biceps of +both arms in a grip so terrific that it made him groan with +pain. He saw the large white teeth exposed, for all the world +as a dog's about to bite. Mr. Ward's beard brushed his face as +the teeth went in for the grip on his throat. But the bite was +not given. Instead, Dave felt the other's body stiffen as with +an iron restraint, and then he was flung aside, without effort +but with such force that only the wall stopped his momentum and +dropped him gasping to the floor. + +"What do you mean by coming here and trying to blackmail me?" +Mr. Ward was snarling at him. "Here, give me back that money." + +Dave passed the bill back without a word. + +"I thought you came here with good intentions. I know you now. +Let me see and hear no more of you, or I'll put you in prison +where you belong. Do you understand?" + +"Yes, sir," Dave gasped. + +"Then go." + +And Dave went, without further word, both his biceps aching +intolerably from the bruise of that tremendous grip. As his +hand rested on the door knob, he was stopped. + +"You were lucky," Mr. Ward was saying, and Dave noted that his +face and eyes were cruel and gloating and proud. + +"You were lucky. Had I wanted, I could have torn your muscles +out of your arms and thrown them in the waste basket there." + +"Yes, sir," said Dave; and absolute conviction vibrated in his voice. + +He opened the door and passed out. The secretary looked at him +interrogatively. + +"Gosh!" was all Dave vouchsafed, and with this utterance passed +out of the offices and the story. + +III + +James G. Ward was forty years of age, a successful business +man, and very unhappy. For forty years he had vainly tried to +solve a problem that was really himself and that with +increasing years became more and more a woeful affliction. In +himself he was two men, and, chronologically speaking, these +men were several thousand years or so apart. He had studied the +question of dual personality probably more profoundly than any +half dozen of the leading specialists in that intricate and +mysterious psychological field. In himself he was a different +case from any that had been recorded. Even the most fanciful +flights of the fiction-writers had not quite hit upon him. He +was not a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, nor was he like the +unfortunate young man in Kipling's "Greatest Story in the +World." His two personalities were so mixed that they were +practically aware of themselves and of each other all the time. + +His other self he had located as a savage and a barbarian +living under the primitive conditions of several thousand years +before. But which self was he, and which was the other, he +could never tell. For he was both selves, and both selves all +the time. Very rarely indeed did it happen that one self did +not know what the other was doing. Another thing was that he +had no visions nor memories of the past in which that early +self had lived. That early self lived in the present; but while +it lived in the present, it was under the compulsion to live +the way of life that must have been in that distant past. + +In his childhood he had been a problem to his father and +mother, and to the family doctors, though never had they come +within a thousand miles of hitting upon the clue to his +erratic, conduct. Thus, they could not understand his excessive +somnolence in the forenoon, nor his excessive activity at +night. When they found him wandering along the hallways at +night, or climbing over giddy roofs, or running in the hills, +they decided he was a somnambulist. In reality he was wide-eyed +awake and merely under the nightroaming compulsion of his early +self. Questioned by an obtuse medico, he once told the truth +and suffered the ignominy of having the revelation +contemptuously labeled and dismissed as "dreams." + +The point was, that as twilight and evening came on he became +wakeful. The four walls of a room were an irk and a restraint. +He heard a thousand voices whispering to him through the +darkness. The night called to him, for he was, for that period +of the twenty-four hours, essentially a night-prowler. But +nobody understood, and never again did he attempt to explain. +They classified him as a sleep-walker and took precautions +accordingly--precautions that very often were futile. As his +childhood advanced, he grew more cunning, so that the major +portion of all his nights were spent in the open at realizing +his other self. As a result, he slept in the forenoons. Morning +studies and schools were impossible, and it was discovered that +only in the afternoons, under private teachers, could he be +taught anything. Thus was his modern self educated and +developed. + +But a problem, as a child, he ever remained. He was known as a +little demon, of insensate cruelty and viciousness. The family +medicos privately adjudged him a mental monstrosity and +degenerate. Such few boy companions as he had, hailed him as a +wonder, though they were all afraid of him. He could outclimb, +outswim, outrun, outdevil any of them; while none dared fight +with him. He was too terribly strong, madly furious. + +When nine years of age he ran away to the hills, where he +flourished, night-prowling, for seven weeks before he was +discovered and brought home. The marvel was how he had managed +to subsist and keep in condition during that time. They did not +know, and he never told them, of the rabbits he had killed, of +the quail, young and old, he had captured and devoured, of the +farmers' chicken-roosts he had raided, nor of the cave-lair he +had made and carpeted with dry leaves and grasses and in which +he had slept in warmth and comfort through the forenoons of +many days. + +At college he was notorious for his sleepiness and stupidity +during the morning lectures and for his brilliance in the +afternoon. By collateral reading and by borrowing the notebook +of his fellow students he managed to scrape through the +detestable morning courses, while his afternoon courses were +triumphs. In football he proved a giant and a terror, and, in +almost every form of track athletics, save for strange +Berserker rages that were sometimes displayed, he could be +depended upon to win. But his fellows were afraid to box with +him, and he signalized his last wrestling bout by sinking his +teeth into the shoulder of his opponent. + +After college, his father, in despair, sent him among the +cow-punchers of a Wyoming ranch. Three months later the doughty +cowmen confessed he was too much for them and telegraphed his +father to come and take the wild man away. Also, when the +father arrived to take him away, the cowmen allowed that they +would vastly prefer chumming with howling cannibals, gibbering +lunatics, cavorting gorillas, grizzly bears, and man-eating +tigers than with this particular Young college product with +hair parted in the middle. + +There was one exception to the lack of memory of the life of +his early self, and that was language. By some quirk of +atavism, a certain portion of that early self's language had +come down to him as a racial memory. In moments of happiness, +exaltation, or battle, he was prone to burst out in wild +barbaric songs or chants. It was by this means that he located +in time and space that strayed half of him who should have been +dead and dust for thousands of years. He sang, once, and +deliberately, several of the ancient chants in the presence of +Professor Wertz, who gave courses in old Saxon and who was a +philogist of repute and passion. At the first one, the +professor pricked up his ears and demanded to know what mongrel +tongue or hog-German it was. When the second chant was +rendered, the professor was highly excited. James Ward then +concluded the performance by giving a song that always +irresistibly rushed to his lips when he was engaged in fierce +struggling or fighting. Then it was that Professor Wertz +proclaimed it no hog-German, but early German, or early Teuton, +of a date that must far precede anything that had ever been +discovered and handed down by the scholars. So early was it +that it was beyond him; yet it was filled with haunting +reminiscences of word-forms he knew and which his trained +intuition told him were true and real. He demanded the source +of the songs, and asked to borrow the precious book that +contained them. Also, he demanded to know why young Ward had +always posed as being profoundly ignorant of the German +language. And Ward could neither explain his ignorance nor lend +the book. Whereupon, after pleadings and entreaties that +extended through weeks, Professor Wert took a dislike to the +young man, believed him a liar, and classified him as a man of +monstrous selfishness for not giving him a glimpse of this +wonderful screed that was older than the oldest any philologist +had ever known or dreamed. + +But little good did it do this much-mixed young man to know +that half of him was late American and the other half early +Teuton. Nevertheless, the late American in him was no weakling, +and he (if he were a he and had a shred of existence outside of +these two) compelled an adjustment or compromise between his +one self that was a nightprowling savage that kept his other +self sleepy of mornings, and that other self that was cultured +and refined and that wanted to be normal and live and love and +prosecute business like other people. The afternoons and early +evenings he gave to the one, the nights to the other; the +forenoons and parts of the nights were devoted to sleep for the +twain. But in the mornings he slept in bed like a civilized +man. In the night time he slept like a wild animal, as he had +slept Dave Slotter stepped on him in the woods. + +Persuading his father to advance the capital, he went into +business and keen and successful business he made of it, +devoting his afternoons whole-souled to it, while his partner +devoted the mornings. The early evenings he spent socially, +but, as the hour grew to nine or ten, an irresistible +restlessness overcame him and he disappeared from the haunts of +men until the next afternoon. Friends and acquaintances thought +that he spent much of his time in sport. And they were right, +though they never would have dreamed of the nature of the +sport, even if they had seen him running coyotes in +night-chases over the hills of Mill Valley. Neither were the +schooner captains believed when they reported seeing, on cold +winter mornings, a man swimming in the tide-rips of Raccoon +Straits or in the swift currents between Goat island and Angel +Island miles from shore. + +In the bungalow at Mill Valley he lived alone, save for Lee +Sing, the Chinese cook and factotum, who knew much about the +strangeness of his master, who was paid well for saying +nothing, and who never did say anything. After the satisfaction +of his nights, a morning's sleep, and a breakfast of Lee +Sing's, James Ward crossed the bay to San Francisco on a midday +ferryboat and went to the club and on to his office, as normal +and conventional a man of business as could be found in the +city. But as the evening lengthened, the night called to him. +There came a quickening of all his perceptions and a +restlessness. His hearing was suddenly acute; the myriad +night-noises told him a luring and familiar story; and, if +alone, he would begin to pace up and down the narrow room like +any caged animal from the wild. + +Once, he ventured to fall in love. He never permitted himself +that diversion again. He was afraid. And for many a day the +young lady, scared at least out of a portion of her young +ladyhood, bore on her arms and shoulders and wrists divers +black-and-blue bruises--tokens of caresses which he had +bestowed in all fond gentleness but too late at night. There +was the mistake. Had he ventured love-making in the afternoon, +all would have been well, for it would have been as the quiet +gentleman that he would have made love--but at night it was the +uncouth, wife-stealing savage of the dark German forests. Out +of his wisdom, he decided that afternoon love-making could be +prosecuted successfully; but out of the same wisdom he was +convinced that marriage as would prove a ghastly failure. He +found it appalling to imagine being married and encountering +his wife after dark. + +So he had eschewed all love-making, regulated his dual life, +cleaned up a million in business, fought shy of match-making +mamas and bright-eyed and eager young ladies of various ages, +met Lilian Gersdale and made it a rigid observance never to see +her later than eight o'clock in the evening, run of nights +after his coyotes, and slept in forest lairs--and through it +all had kept his secret safe save Lee Sing . . . and now, Dave +Slotter. It was the latter's discovery of both his selves that +frightened him. In spite of the counter fright he had given the +burglar, the latter might talk. And even if he did not, sooner +or later he would be found out by some one else. + +Thus it was that James Ward made a fresh and heroic effort to +control the Teutonic barbarian that was half of him. So well +did he make it a point to see Lilian in the afternoons, that +the time came when she accepted him for better or worse, and +when he prayed privily and fervently that it was not for worse. +During this period no prize-fighter ever trained more harshly +and faithfully for a contest than he trained to subdue the wild +savage in him. Among other things, he strove to exhaust himself +during the day, so that sleep would render him deaf to the call +of the night. He took a vacation from the office and went on +long hunting trips, following the deer through the most +inaccessible and rugged country he could find--and always in +the daytime. Night found him indoors and tired. At home he +installed a score of exercise machines, and where other men +might go through a particular movement ten times, he went +hundreds. Also, as a compromise, he built a sleeping porch on +the second story. Here he at least breathed the blessed night +air. Double screens prevented him from escaping into the woods, +and each night Lee Sing locked him in and each morning let him +out. + +The time came, in the month of August, when he engaged +additional servants to assist Lee Sing and dared a house party +in his Mill Valley bungalow. Lilian, her mother and brother, +and half a dozen mutual friends, were the guests. For two days +and nights all went well. And on the third night, playing +bridge till eleven o'clock, he had reason to be proud of +himself. His restlessness fully hid, but as luck would have it, +Lilian Gersdale was his opponent on his right. She was a frail +delicate flower of a woman, and in his night-mood her very +frailty incensed him. Not that he loved her less, but that he +felt almost irresistibly impelled to reach out and paw and maul +her. Especially was this true when she was engaged in playing a +winning hand against him. + +He had one of the deer-hounds brought in and, when it seemed he +must fly to pieces with the tension, a caressing hand laid on +the animal brought him relief. These contacts with the hairy +coat gave him instant easement and enabled him to play out the +evening. Nor did anyone guess the while terrible struggle their +host was making, the while he laughed so carelessly and played +so keenly and deliberately. + +When they separated for the night, he saw to it that he parted +from Lilian in the presence or the others. Once on his sleeping +porch and safely locked in, he doubled and tripled and even +quadrupled his exercises until, exhausted, he lay down on the +couch to woo sleep and to ponder two problems that especially +troubled him. One was this matter of exercise. It was a +paradox. The more he exercised in this excessive fashion, the +stronger he became. While it was true that he thus quite tired +out his night-running Teutonic self, it seemed that he was +merely setting back the fatal day when his strength would be +too much for him and overpower him, and then it would be a +strength more terrible than he had yet known. The other problem +was that of his marriage and of the stratagems he must employ +in order to avoid his wife after dark. And thus, fruitlessly +pondering, he fell asleep. + +Now, where the huge grizzly bear came from that night was long +a mystery, while the people of the Springs Brothers' Circus, +showing at Sausalito, searched long and vainly for "Big Ben, +the Biggest Grizzly in Captivity." But Big Ben escaped, and, +out of the mazes of half a thousand bungalows and country +estates, selected the grounds of James J. Ward for visitation. +The self first Mr. Ward knew was when he found him on his feet, +quivering and tense, a surge of battle in his breast and on his +lips the old war-chant. From without came a wild baying and +bellowing of the hounds. And sharp as a knife-thrust through +the pandemonium came the agony of a stricken dog--his dog, he +knew. + +Not stopping for slippers, pajama-clad, he burst through the +door Lee Sing had so carefully locked, and sped down the stairs +and out into the night. As his naked feet struck the graveled +driveway, he stopped abruptly, reached under the steps to a +hiding-place he knew well, and pulled forth a huge knotty +club--his old companion on many a mad night adventure on the +hills. The frantic hullabaloo of the dogs was coming nearer, +and, swinging the club, he sprang straight into the thickets to +meet it. + +The aroused household assembled on the wide veranda. Somebody +turned on the electric lights, but they could see nothing but +one another's frightened faces. Beyond the brightly illuminated +driveway the trees formed a wall of impenetrable blackness. Yet +somewhere in that blackness a terrible struggle was going on. +There was an infernal outcry of animals, a great snarling and +growling, the sound of blows being struck and a smashing and +crashing of underbrush by heavy bodies. + +The tide of battle swept out from among the trees and upon the +driveway just beneath the onlookers. Then they saw. Mrs. +Gersdale cried out and clung fainting to her son. Lilian, +clutching the railing so spasmodically that a bruising hurt was +left in her finger-ends for days, gazed horror-stricken at a +yellow-haired, wild-eyed giant whom she recognized as the man +who was to be her husband. He was swinging a great club, and +fighting furiously and calmly with a shaggy monster that was +bigger than any bear she had ever seen. One rip of the beast's +claws had dragged away Ward's pajama-coat and streaked his +flesh with blood. + +While most of Lilian Gersdale's fright was for the man beloved, +there was a large portion of it due to the man himself. Never +had she dreamed so formidable and magnificent a savage lurked +under the starched shirt and conventional garb of her +betrothed. And never had she had any conception of how a man +battled. Such a battle was certainly not modern; nor was she +there beholding a modern man, though she did not know it. For +this was not Mr. James J. Ward, the San Francisco business man, +but one, unnamed and unknown, a crude, rude savage creature +who, by some freak of chance, lived again after thrice a +thousand years. + +The hounds, ever maintaining their mad uproar, circled about +the fight, or dashed in and out, distracting the bear. When the +animal turned to meet such flanking assaults, the man leaped in +and the club came down. Angered afresh by every such blow, the +bear would rush, and the man, leaping and skipping, avoiding +the dogs, went backwards or circled to one side or the other. +Whereupon the dogs, taking advantage of the opening, would +again spring in and draw the animal's wrath to them. + +The end came suddenly. Whirling, the grizzly caught a hound +with a wide sweeping cuff that sent the brute, its ribs caved +in and its back broken, hurtling twenty feet. Then the human +brute went mad. A foaming rage flecked the lips that parted +with a wild inarticulate cry, as it sprang in, swung the club +mightily in both hands, and brought it down full on the head of +the uprearing grizzly. Not even the skull of a grizzly could +withstand the crushing force of such a blow, and the animal +went down to meet the worrying of the hounds. And through their +scurrying leaped the man, squarely upon the body, where, in the +white electric light, resting on his club, he chanted a triumph +in an unknown tongue--a song so ancient that Professor Wertz +would have given ten years of his life for it. + +His guests rushed to possess him and acclaim him, but James +Ward, suddenly looking out of the eyes of the early Teuton, saw +the fair frail Twentieth Century girl he loved, and felt +something snap in his brain. He staggered weakly toward her, +dropped the club, and nearly fell. Something had gone wrong +with him. Inside his brain was an intolerable agony. It seemed +as if the soul of him were flying asunder. Following the +excited gaze of the others, he glanced back and saw the carcass +of the bear. The sight filled him with fear. He uttered a cry +and would have fled, had they not restrained him and led him +into the bungalow. + + . . . . . . + +James J. Ward is still at the head of the firm of Ward, Knowles +& Co. But he no longer lives in the country; nor does he run of +nights after the coyotes under the moon. The early Teuton in +him died the night of the Mill Valley fight with the bear. +James J. Ward is now wholly James J. Ward, and he shares no +part of his being with any vagabond anachronism from the +younger world. And so wholly is James J. Ward modern, that he +knows in all its bitter fullness the curse of civilized fear. +He is now afraid of the dark, and night in the forest is to him +a thing of abysmal terror. His city house is of the spick and +span order, and he evinces a great interest in burglarproof +devices. His home is a tangle of electric wires, and after +bed-time a guest can scarcely breathe without setting off an +alarm. Also, he had invented a combination keyless door-lock +that travelers may carry in their vest pockets and apply +immediately and successfully under all circumstances. But his +wife does not deem him a coward. She knows better. And, like +any hero, he is content to rest on his laurels. His bravery is +never questioned by those friends who are aware of the Mill +Valley episode. + + + +THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT + +CARTER WATSON, a current magazine under his arm, strolled +slowly along, gazing about him curiously. Twenty years had +elapsed since he had been on this particular street, and the +changes were great and stupefying. This Western city of three +hundred thousand souls had contained but thirty thousand, when, +as a boy, he had been wont to ramble along its streets. In +those days the street he was now on had been a quiet residence +street in the respectable workingclass quarter. On this late +afternoon he found that it had been submerged by a vast and +vicious tenderloin. Chinese and Japanese shops and dens +abounded, all confusedly intermingled with low white resorts +and boozing dens. This quiet street of his youth had become the +toughest quarter of the city. + +He looked at his watch. It was half-past five. It was the slack +time of the day in such a region, as he well knew, yet he was +curious to see. In all his score of years of wandering and +studying social conditions over the world, he had carried with +him the memory of his old town as a sweet and wholesome place. +The metamorphosis he now beheld was startling. He certainly +must continue his stroll and glimpse the infamy to which his +town had descended. + +Another thing: Carter Watson had a keen social and civic +consciousness. Independently wealthy, he had been loath to +dissipate his energies in the pink teas and freak dinners of +society, while actresses, race-horses, and kindred diversions +had left him cold. He had the ethical bee in his bonnet and was +a reformer of no mean pretension, though his work had been +mainly in the line of contributions to the heavier reviews and +quarterlies and to the publication over his name of brightly, +cleverly written books on the working classes and the +slum-dwellers. Among the twenty-seven to his credit occurred +titles such as, "If Christ Came to New Orleans," " The +Worked-out Worker," "Tenement Reform in Berlin," "The Rural +Slums of England," "The people of the East Side," "Reform +Versus Revolution," "The University Settlement as a Hot Bed of +Radicalism' and "The Cave Man of Civilization." + +But Carter Watson was neither morbid nor fanatic. He did not +lose his head over the horrors he encountered, studied, and +exposed. No hair brained enthusiasm branded him. His humor +saved him, as did his wide experience and his con. conservative +philosophic temperament. Nor did he have any patience with +lightning change reform theories. As he saw it, society would +grow better only through the painfully slow and arduously +painful processes of evolution. There were no short cuts, no +sudden regenerations. The betterment of mankind must be worked +out in agony and misery just as all past social betterments had +been worked out. + +But on this late summer afternoon, Carter Watson was curious. +As he moved along he paused before a gaudy drinking place. The +sign above read, "The Vendome." There were two entrances. One +evidently led to the bar. This he did not explore. The other +was a narrow hallway. Passing through this he found himself in +a huge room, filled with chair-encircled tables and quite +deserted. In the dim light he made out a piano in the distance. +Making a mental note that he would come back some time and +study the class of persons that must sit and drink at those +multitudinous tables, he proceeded to circumnavigate the room. + +Now, at the rear, a short hallway led off to a small kitchen, +and here, at a table, alone, sat Patsy Horan, proprietor of the +Vendome, consuming a hasty supper ere the evening rush of +business. Also, Patsy Horan was angry with the world. He had +got out of the wrong side of bed that morning, and nothing had +gone right all day. Had his barkeepers been asked, they would +have described his mental condition as a grouch. But Carter +Watson did not know this. As he passed the little hallway, +Patsy Horan's sullen eyes lighted on the magazine he carried +under his arm. Patsy did not know Carter Watson, nor did he +know that what he carried under his arm was a magazine. Patsy, +out of the depths of his grouch, decided that this stranger was +one of those pests who marred and scarred the walls of his back +rooms by tacking up or pasting up advertisements. The color on +the front cover of the magazine convinced him that it was such +an advertisement. Thus the trouble began. Knife and fork in +hand, Patsy leaped for Carter Watson. + +"Out wid yeh!" Patsy bellowed. "I know yer game!" + +Carter Watson was startled. The man had come upon him like the +eruption of a jack-in-the-box. + +"A defacin' me walls," cried Patsy, at the same time emitting a +string of vivid and vile, rather than virile, epithets of +opprobrium. + +"If I have given any offense I did not mean to--" + +But that was as far as the visitor got. Patsy interrupted. + +"Get out wid yeh; yeh talk too much wid yer mouth," quoted +Patsy, emphasizing his remarks with flourishes of the knife and +fork. + +Carter Watson caught a quick vision of that eating-fork +inserted uncomfortably between his ribs, knew that it would be +rash to talk further with his mouth, and promptly turned to go. +The sight of his meekly retreating back must have further +enraged Patsy Horan, for that worthy, dropping the table +implements, sprang upon him. + +Patsy weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. So did Watson. In +this they were equal. But Patsy was a rushing, rough-and-tumble +saloon-fighter, while Watson was a boxer. In this the latter +had the advantage, for Patsy came in wide open, swinging his +right in a perilous sweep. All Watson had to do was to +straight-left him and escape. But Watson had another advantage. +His boxing, and his experience in the slums and ghettos of the +world, had taught him restraint. + +He pivoted on his feet, and, instead of striking, ducked the +other's swinging blow and went into a clinch. But Patsy, +charging like a bull, had the momentum of his rush, while +Watson, whirling to meet him, had no momentum. As a result, the +pair of them went down, with all their three hundred and sixty +pounds of weight, in a long crashing fall, Watson underneath. +He lay with his head touching the rear wall of the large room. +The street was a hundred and fifty feet away, and he did some +quick thinking. His first thought was to avoid trouble. He had +no wish to get into the papers of this, his childhood town, +where many of his relatives and family friends still lived. + +So it was that he locked his arms around the man on top of him, +held him close, and waited for the help to come that must come +in response to the crash of the fall. The help came--that is, +six men ran in from the bar and formed about in a semi-circle. + +'Take him off, fellows," Watson said. "I haven't struck him, +and I don't want any fight." + +But the semi-circle remained silent. Watson held on and waited. +Patsy, after various vain efforts to inflict damage, made an +overture. + +"Leggo o' me an' I'll get off o' yeh," said he. + +Watson let go, but when Patsy scrambled to his feet he stood +over his recumbent foe, ready to strike. + +"Get up," Patsy commanded. + +His voice was stern and implacable, like the voice of God +calling to judgment, and Watson knew there was no mercy there. + +"Stand back and I'll get up," he countered. + +"If yer a gentleman, get up," quoth Patsy, his pale blue eyes +aflame with wrath, his fist ready for a crushing blow. + +At the same moment he drew his foot back to kick the other in +the face. Watson blocked the kick with his crossed arms and +sprang to his feet so quickly that he was in a clinch with his +antagonist before the latter could strike. Holding him, Watson +spoke to the onlookers: + +"Take him away from me, fellows. You see I am not striking him. +I don't want to fight. I want to get out of here." + +The circle did not move nor speak. Its silence was ominous and +sent a chill to Watson's heart. + +Patsy made an effort to throw him, which culminated in his +putting Patsy on his back. Tearing loose from him, Watson +sprang to his feet and made for the door. But the circle of men +was interposed a wall. He noticed the white, pasty faces, the +kind that never see the sun, and knew that the men who barred +his way were the nightprowlers and preying beasts of the city +jungle. By them he was thrust back upon the pursuing, +bull-rushing Patsy. + +Again it was a clinch, in which, in momentary safety, Watson +appealed to the gang. And again his words fell on deaf ears. +Then it was that he knew of many similar knew fear. For he had +known of many similar situations, in low dens like this, when +solitary men were man-handled, their ribs and features caved +in, themselves beaten and kicked to death. And he knew, +further, that if he were to escape he must neither strike his +assailant nor any of the men who opposed him. + +Yet in him was righteous indignation. Under no circumstances +could seven to one be fair. Also, he was angry, and there +stirred in him the fighting beast that is in all men. But he +remembered his wife and children, his unfinished book, the ten +thousand rolling acres of the up-country ranch he loved so +well. He even saw in flashing visions the blue of the sky, the +golden sun pouring down on his flower-spangled meadows, the +lazy cattle knee-deep in the brooks, and the flash of trout in +the riffles. Life was good-too good for him to risk it for a +moment's sway of the beast. In short, Carter Watson was cool +and scared. + +His opponent, locked by his masterly clinch, was striving to +throw him. Again Watson put him on the floor, broke away, and +was thrust back by the pasty-faced circle to duck Patsy's +swinging right and effect another clinch. This happened many +times. And Watson grew even cooler, while the baffled Patsy, +unable to inflict punishment, raged wildly and more wildly. He +took to batting with his head in the clinches. The first time, +he landed his forehead flush on Watson's nose. After that, the +latter, in the clinches, buried his face in Patsy's breast. But +the enraged Patsy batted on, striking his own eye and nose and +cheek on the top of the other's head. The more he was thus +injured, the more and the harder did Patsy bat. + +This one-sided contest continued for twelve or fifteen minutes. +Watson never struck a blow, and strove only to escape. +Sometimes, in the free moments, circling about among the tables +as he tried to win the door, the pasty-faced men gripped his +coat-tails and flung him back at the swinging right of the +on-rushing Patsy. Time upon time, and times without end, he +clinched and put Patsy on his back, each time first whirling +him around and putting him down in the direction of the door +and gaining toward that goal by the length of the fall. + +In the end, hatless, disheveled, with streaming nose and one +eye closed, Watson won to the sidewalk and into the arms of a +policeman. + +"Arrest that man," Watson panted. + +"Hello, Patsy," said the policeman. "What's the mix-up?" + +"Hello, Charley," was the answer. "This guy comes in--" + +"Arrest that man, officer," Watson repeated. + +"G'wan! Beat it!" said Patsy. + +"Beat it!" added the policeman. "If you don't, I'll pull you +in." + +"Not unless you arrest that man. He has committed a violent and +unprovoked assault on me." + +"Is it so, Patsy?" was the officer's query. + +"Nah. Lemme tell you, Charley, an' I got the witnesses to prove +it, so help me God. I was settin' in me kitchen eatin' a bowl +of soup, when this guy comes in an' gets gay wid me. I never +seen him in me born days before. He was drunk--" + +"Look at me, officer," protested the indignant sociologist. "Am +I drunk?" + +The officer looked at him with sullen, menacing eyes and nodded +to Patsy to continue. + +"This guy gets gay wid me. 'I'm Tim McGrath,' says he, 'an' I +can do the like to you,' says he. 'Put up yer hands.' I smiles, +an' wid that, biff biff, he lands me twice an' spills me soup. +Look at me eye. I'm fair murdered." + +"What are you going to do, officer?" Watson demanded. + +"Go on, beat it," was the answer, "or I'll pull you sure." + +The civic righteousness of Carter Watson flamed up. + +"Mr. Officer, I protest--" + +But at that moment the policeman grabbed his arm with a savage +jerk that nearly overthrew him. + +"Come on, you're pulled." + +"Arrest him, too," Watson demanded. + +"Nix on that play," was the reply. + +"What did you assault him for, him a peacefully eatin' his +soup?" + +II + +Carter Watson was genuinely angry. Not only had he been +wantonly assaulted, badly battered, and arrested, but the +morning papers without exception came out with lurid accounts +of his drunken brawl with the proprietor of the notorious +Vendome. Not one accurate or truthful line was published. Patsy +Horan and his satellites described the battle in detail. The +one incontestable thing was that Carter Watson had been drunk. +Thrice he had been thrown out of the place and into the gutter, +and thrice he had come back, breathing blood and fire and +announcing that he was going to clean out the place. "EMINENT +SOCIOLOGIST JAGGED AND JUGGED," was the first head-line he +read, on the front page, accompanied by a large portrait of +himself. Other headlines were: "CARTER WATSON ASPIRED TO +CHAMPIONSHIP HONORS"; "CARTER WATSON GETS HIS"; "NOTED +SOCIOLOGIST ATTEMPTS TO CLEAN OUT A TENDERLOIN CAFE"; and +"CARTER WATSON KNOCKED OUT BY PATSY HORAN IN THREE ROUNDS." + +At the police court, next morning, under bail, appeared Carter +Watson to answer the complaint of the People Versus Carter +Watson, for the latter's assault and battery on one Patsy +Horan. But first, the Prosecuting Attorney, who was paid to +prosecute all offenders against the People, drew him aside and +talked with him privately. + +"Why not let it drop!" said the Prosecuting Attorney. "I tell +you what you do, Mr. Watson: Shake hands with Mr. Horan and +make it up, and we'll drop the case right here. A word to the +Judge, and the case against you will be dismissed." + +"But I don't want it dismissed," was the answer. "Your office +being what it is, you should be prosecuting me instead of +asking me to make up with this--this fellow." + +"Oh, I'll prosecute you all right," retorted the Prosecuting +Attorney. + +"Also you will have to prosecute this Patsy Horan," Watson +advised; "for I shall now have him arrested for assault and +battery." + +"You'd better shake and make up," the Prosecuting Attorney +repeated, and this time there was almost a threat in his voice. + +The trials of both men were set for a week later, on the same +morning, in Police Judge Witberg's court. + +"You have no chance," Watson was told by an old friend of his +boyhood, the retired manager of the biggest paper in the city. +"Everybody knows you were beaten up by this man. His reputation +is most unsavory. But it won't help you in the least. Both +cases will be dismissed. This will be because you are you. Any +ordinary man would be convicted." + +"But I do not understand," objected the perplexed sociologist. +"Without warning I was attacked by this man; and badly beaten. +I did not strike a blow. I--" + +"That has nothing to do with it," the other cut him off. + +"Then what is there that has anything to do with it?" + +"I'll tell you. You are now up against the local police and +political machine. Who are you? You are not even a legal +resident in this town. You live up in the country. You haven't +a vote of your own here. Much less do you swing any votes. This +dive proprietor swings a string of votes in his precincts--a +mighty long string." + +"Do you mean to tell me that this Judge Witberg will violate +the sacredness of his office and oath by letting this brute +off?" Watson demanded. + +"Watch him," was the grim reply. "Oh, he'll do it nicely +enough. He will give an extra-legal, extra-judicial decision, +abounding in every word in the dictionary that stands for +fairness and right." + +"But there are the newspapers," Watson cried. + +"They are not fighting the administration at present. They'll +give it to you hard. You see what they have already done to +you." + +"Then these snips of boys on the police detail won't write the +truth?" + +"They will write something so near like the truth that the +public will believe it. They write their stories under +instruction, you know. They have their orders to twist and +color, and there won't be much left of you when they get done. +Better drop the whole thing right now. You are in bad." + +"But the trials are set." + +"Give the word and they'll drop them now. A man can't fight a +machine unless he has a machine behind him." + +III + +But Carter Watson was stubborn. He was convinced that the +machine would beat him, but all his days he had sought social +experience, and this was certainly something new. + +The morning of the trial the Prosecuting Attorney made another +attempt to patch up the affair. + +"If you feel that way, I should like to get a lawyer to +prosecute the case," said Watson. + +"No, you don't," said the Prosecuting Attorney. "I am paid by +the People to prosecute, and prosecute I will. But let me tell +you. You have no chance. We shall lump both cases into one, and +you watch out." + +Judge Witberg looked good to Watson. A fairly young man, short, +comfortably stout, smooth-shaven and with an intelligent face, +he seemed a very nice man indeed. This good impression was +added to by the smiling lips and the wrinkles of laughter in +the corners of his black eyes. Looking at him and studying him, +Watson felt almost sure that his old friend's prognostication +was wrong. + +But Watson was soon to learn. Patsy Horan and two of his +satellites testified to a most colossal aggregation of +perjuries. Watson could not have believed it possible without +having experienced it. They denied the existence of the other +four men. And of the two that testified, one claimed to have +been in the kitchen, a witness to Watson's unprovoked assault +on Patsy, while the other, remaining in the bar, had witnessed +Watson's second and third rushes into the place as he attempted +to annihilate the unoffending Patsy. The vile language ascribed +to Watson was so voluminously and unspeakably vile, that he +felt they were injuring their own case. It was so impossible +that he should utter such things. But when they described the +brutal blows he had rained on poor Patsy's face, and the chair +he demolished when he vainly attempted to kick Patsy, Watson +waxed secretly hilarious and at the same time sad. The trial +was a farce, but such lowness of life was depressing to +contemplate when he considered the long upward climb humanity +must make. + +Watson could not recognize himself, nor could his worst enemy +have recognized him, in the swashbuckling, rough-housing +picture that was painted of him. But, as in all cases of +complicated perjury, rifts and contradictions in the various +stories appeared. The Judge somehow failed to notice them, +while the Prosecuting Attorney and Patsy's attorney shied off +from them gracefully. Watson had not bothered to get a lawyer +for himself, and he was now glad that he had not. + +Still, he retained a semblance of faith in Judge Witberg when +he went himself on the stand and started to tell his story. + +"I was strolling casually along the street, your Honor," Watson +began, but was interrupted by the Judge. + +"We are not here to consider your previous actions," bellowed +Judge Witberg. "Who struck the first blow?" + +"Your Honor," Watson pleaded, "I have no witnesses of the +actual fray, and the truth of my story can only be brought out +by telling the story fully--" + +Again he was interrupted. + +"We do not care to publish any magazines here," Judge Witberg +roared, looking at him so fiercely and malevolently that Watson +could scarcely bring himself to believe that this was same man +he had studied a few minutes previously. + +"Who struck the first blow?" Patsy's attorney asked. + +The Prosecuting Attorney interposed, demanding to know which of +the two cases lumped together was, and by what right Patsy's +lawyer, at that stage of the proceedings, should take the +witness. Patsy's attorney fought back. Judge Witberg +interfered, professing no knowledge of any two cases being +lumped together. All this had to be explained. Battle royal +raged, terminating in both attorneys apologizing to the Court +and to each other. And so it went, and to Watson it had the +seeming of a group of pickpockets ruffling and bustling an +honest man as they took his purse. The machine was working, +that was all. + +"Why did you enter this place of unsavory reputations?" was +asked him. + +"It has been my custom for many years, as a student of +economics and sociology, to acquaint myself--" + +But this was as far as Watson got. + +"We want none of your ologies here," snarled Judge Witberg. "It +is a plain question. Answer it plainly. Is it true or not true +that you were drunk? That is the gist of the question." + +When Watson attempted to tell how Patsy had injured his face in +his attempts to bat with his head, Watson was openly scouted +and flouted, and Judge Witberg again took him in hand. + +"Are you aware of the solemnity of the oath you took to testify +to nothing but the truth on this witness stand?" the Judge +demanded. "This is a fairy story you are telling. It is not +reasonable that a man would so injure himself, and continue to +injure himself, by striking the soft and sensitive parts of his +face against your head. You are a sensible man. It is +unreasonable, is it not?" + +"Men are unreasonable when they are angry," Watson answered +meekly. + +Then it was that Judge Witberg was deeply outraged and +righteously wrathful. + +"What right have you to say that?" he cried. "It is gratuitous. +It has no bearing on the case. You are here as a witness, sir, +of events that have transpired. The Court does not wish to hear +any expressions of opinion from you at all." + +"I but answered your question, your Honor," Watson protested +humbly. + +"You did nothing of the sort," was the next blast. "And let me +warn you, sir, let me warn you, that you are laying yourself +liable to contempt by such insolence. And I will have you know +that we know how to observe the law and the rules of courtesy +down here in this little courtroom. I am ashamed of you." + +And, while the next punctilious legal wrangle between the +attorneys interrupted his tale of what happened in the Vendome, +Carter Watson, without bitterness, amused and at the same time +sad, saw rise before him the machine, large and small, that +dominated his country, the unpunished and shameless grafts of a +thousand cities perpetrated by the spidery and vermin-like +creatures of the machines. Here it was before him, a courtroom +and a judge, bowed down in subservience by the machine to a +dive-keeper who swung a string of votes. Petty and sordid as it +was, it was one face of the many-faced machine that loomed +colossally, in every city and state, in a thousand guises +overshadowing the land. + +A familiar phrase rang in his ears: "It is to laugh." At the +height of the wrangle, he giggled, once, aloud, and earned a +sullen frown from Judge Witberg. Worse, a myriad times, he +decided, were these bullying lawyers and this bullying judge +then the bucko mates in first quality hell-ships, who not only +did their own bullying but protected themselves as well. These +petty rapscallions, on the other hand, sought protection behind +the majesty of the law. They struck, but no one was permitted +to strike back, for behind them were the prison cells and the +clubs of the stupid policemen--paid and professional fighters +and beaters-up of men. Yet he was not bitter. The grossness and +the sliminess of it was forgotten in the simple grotesqueness +of it, and he had the saving sense of humor. + +Nevertheless, hectored and heckled though he was, he managed in +the end to give a simple, straightforward version of the +affair, and, despite a belligerent cross-examination, his story +was not shaken in any particular. Quite different it was from +the perjuries that had shouted aloud from the perjuries of +Patsy and his two witnesses. + +Both Patsy's attorney and the Prosecuting Attorney rested their +cases, letting everything go before the Court without argument. +Watson protested against this, but was silenced when the +Prosecuting Attorney told him that Public Prosecutor and knew +his business. + +"Patrick Horan has testified that he was in danger of his life +and that he was compelled to defend himself," Judge Witberg's +verdict began. "Mr. Watson has testified to the same thing. +Each has sworn that the other struck the first blow; each has +sworn that the other made an unprovoked assault on him. It is +an axiom of the law that the defendant should be given the +benefit of the doubt. A very reasonable doubt exists. +Therefore, in the case of the People Versus Carter Watson the +benefit of the doubt is given to said Carter Watson and he is +herewith ordered discharged from custody. The same reasoning +applies to the case of the People Versus Patrick Horan. He is +given the benefit of the doubt and discharged from custody. My +recommendation is that both defendants shake hands and make +up." + +In the afternoon papers the first headline that caught Watson's +eye was: "CARTER WATSON ACQUITTED." In the second paper it was: +"CARTER WATSON ESCAPES A FINE." But what capped everything was +the one beginning: "CARTER WATSON A GOOD FELLOW." In the text +he read how Judge Witberg had advised both fighters to shake +hands, which they promptly did. Further, he read: + +"'Let's have a nip on it,' said Patsy Horan. + +"'Sure,' said Carter Watson. + +"And, arm in arm, they ambled for the nearest saloon." + +IV + +Now, from the whole adventure, Watson carried away no +bitterness. It was a social experience of a new order, and it +led to the writing of another book, which he entitled, "POLICE +COURT PROCEDURE: A Tentative Analysis." + +One summer morning a year later, on his ranch, he left his +horse and himself clambered on through a miniature canyon to +inspect some rock ferns he had planted the previous winter. +Emerging from the upper end of the canyon, he came out on one +of his flower-spangled meadows, a delightful isolated spot, +screened from the world by low hills and clumps of trees. And +here he found a man, evidently on a stroll from the summer +hotel down at the little town a mile away. They met face to +face and the recognition was mutual. It was Judge Witberg. +Also, it was a clear case of trespass, for Watson had trespass +signs upon his boundaries, though he never enforced them. + +Judge Witberg held out his hand, which Watson refused to see. + +"Politics is a dirty trade, isn't it, Judge?" he remarked. "Oh, +yes, I see your hand, but I don't care to take it. The papers +said I shook hands with Patsy Horan after the trial. You know I +did not, but let me tell you that I'd a thousand times rather +shake hands with him and his vile following of curs, than with +you." + +Judge Witberg was painfully flustered, and as he hemmed and +hawed and essayed to speak, Watson, looking at him, was struck +by a sudden whim, and he determined on a grim and facetious +antic. + +"I should scarcely expect any animus from a man of your +acquirements and knowledge of the world," the Judge was saying. + +"Animus?" Watson replied. "Certainly not. I haven't such a +thing in my nature. And to prove it, let me show you something +curious, something you have never seen before." Casting about +him, Watson picked up a rough stone the size of his fist. "See +this. Watch me." + +So saying, Carter Watson tapped himself a sharp blow on the +cheek. The stone laid the flesh open to the bone and the blood +spurted forth. + +"The stone was too sharp," he announced to the astounded police +judge, who thought he had gone mad. + +"I must bruise it a trifle. There is nothing like being +realistic in such matters." + +Whereupon Carter Watson found a smooth stone and with it +pounded his cheek nicely several times. + +"Ah," he cooed. "That will turn beautifully green and black in +a few hours. It will be most convincing." + +"You are insane," Judge Witberg quavered. + +"Don't use such vile language to me," said Watson. "You see my +bruised and bleeding face? You did that, with that right hand +of yours. You hit me twice--biff, biff. It is a brutal and +unprovoked assault. I am in danger of my life. I must protect +myself." + +Judge Witberg backed away in alarm before the menacing fists of +the other. + +"If you strike me I'll have you arrested," Judge Witberg +threatened. + +"That is what I told Patsy," was the answer. "And do you know +what he did when I told him that?" + +"No." + +"That!" + +And at the same moment Watson's right fist landed flush on +Judge Witberg's nose, putting that legal gentleman over on his +back on the grass. + +"Get up!" commanded Watson. "If you are a gentleman, get +up--that's what Patsy told me, you know." + +Judge Witberg declined to rise, and was dragged to his feet by +the coat-collar, only to have one eye blacked and be put on his +back again. After that it was a red Indian massacre. Judge +Witberg was humanely and scientifically beaten up. His checks +were boxed, his cars cuffed, and his face was rubbed in the +turf. And all the time Watson exposited the way Patsy Horan had +done it. Occasionally, and very carefully, the facetious +sociologist administered a real bruising blow. Once, dragging +the poor Judge to his feet, he deliberately bumped his own nose +on the gentleman's head. The nose promptly bled. + +"See that!" cried Watson, stepping back and deftly shedding his +blood all down his own shirt front. "You did it. With your fist +you did it. It is awful. I am fair murdered. I must again +defend myself." + +And once more Judge Witberg impacted his features on a fist and +was sent to grass. + +"I will have you arrested," he sobbed as he lay. + +"That's what Patsy said." + +"A brutal---sniff, sniff,--and unprovoked--sniff, sniff-- +assault." + +"That's what Patsy said." + +"I will surely have you arrested." + +"Speaking slangily, not if I can beat you to it." + +And with that, Carter Watson departed down the canyon, mounted +his horse, and rode to town. + +An hour later, as Judge Witberg limped up the grounds to his +hotel, he was arrested by a village constable on a charge of +assault and battery preferred by Carter Watson. + +V + +"Your Honor," Watson said next day to the village Justice, a +well to do farmer and graduate, thirty years before, from a cow +college, "since this Sol Witberg has seen fit to charge me with +battery, following upon my charge of battery against him, I +would suggest that both cases be lumped together. The testimony +and the facts are the same in both cases." + +To this the Justice agreed, and the double case proceeded. +Watson, as prosecuting witness, first took the stand and told +his story. + +"I was picking flowers," he testified. "Picking flowers on my +own land, never dreaming of danger. Suddenly this man rushed +upon me from behind the trees. 'I am the Dodo,' he says, 'and I +can do you to a frazzle. Put up your hands.' I smiled, but with +that, biff, biff, he struck me, knocking me down and spilling +my flowers. The language he used was frightful. It was an +unprovoked and brutal assault. Look at my cheek. Look at my +nose--I could not understand it. He must have been drunk. +Before I recovered from my surprise he had administered this +beating. I was in danger of my life and was compelled to defend +himself. That is all, Your Honor, though I must say, in +conclusion, that I cannot get over my perplexity. Why did he +say he was the Dodo? Why did he so wantonly attack me?" + +And thus was Sol Witberg given a liberal education in the art +of perjury. Often, from his high seat, he had listened +indulgently to police court perjuries in cooked-up cases; but +for the first time perjury was directed against him, and he no +longer sat above the court, with the bailiffs, the Policemen's +clubs, and the prison cells behind him. + +"Your Honor," he cried, "never have I heard such a pack of lies +told by so bare-faced a liar--!' + +Watson here sprang to his feet. + +"Your Honor, I protest. It is for your Honor to decide truth or +falsehood. The witness is on the stand to testify to actual +events that have transpired. His personal opinion upon things +in general, and upon me, has no bearing on the case whatever." + +The Justice scratched his head and waxed phlegmatically +indignant. + +"The point is well taken," he decided. "I am surprised at you, +Mr. Witberg, claiming to be a judge and skilled in the practice +of the law, and yet being guilty of such unlawyerlike conduct. +Your manner, sir, and your methods, remind me of a shyster. +This is a simple case of assault and battery. We are here to +determine who struck the first blow, and we are not interested +in your estimates of Mr. Watson's personal character. Proceed +with your story." + +Sol Witberg would have bitten his bruised and swollen lip in +chagrin, had it not hurt so much. But he contained himself and +told a simple, straightforward, truthful story. + +"Your Honor," Watson said, "I would suggest that you ask him +what he was doing on my premises." + +"A very good question. What were you doing, sir, on Mr. +Watson's premises?" + +"I did not know they were his premises." + +"It was a trespass, your Honor," Watson cried. "The warnings +are posted conspicuously." + +"I saw no warnings," said Sol Witberg. + +"I have seen them myself," snapped the Justice. "They are very +conspicuous. And I would warn you, sir, that if you palter with +the truth in such little matters you may darken your more +important statements with suspicion. Why did you strike Mr. +Watson?" + +"Your Honor, as I have testified, I did not strike a blow." + +The Justice looked at Carter Watson's bruised and swollen +visage, and turned to glare at Sol Witberg. + +"Look at that man's cheek!" he thundered. "If you did not +strike a blow how comes it that he is so disfigured and +injured?" + +"As I testified--" + +"Be careful," the Justice warned. + +"I will be careful, sir. I will say nothing but the truth. He +struck himself with a rock. He struck himself with two +different rocks." + +"Does it stand to reason that a man, any man not a lunatic, +would so injure himself, and continue to injure himself, by +striking the soft and sensitive parts of his face with a +stone?" Carter Watson demanded + +"It sounds like a fairy story," was the Justice's comment. + +"Mr. Witberg, had you been drinking?" + +"No, sir." + +"Do you never drink?" + +"On occasion." + +The Justice meditated on this answer with an air of astute +profundity. + +Watson took advantage of the opportunity to wink at Sol +Witberg, but that much-abused gentleman saw nothing humorous in +the situation. + +"A very peculiar case, a very peculiar case," the Justice +announced, as he began his verdict. "The evidence of the two +parties is flatly contradictory. There are no witnesses outside +the two principals. Each claims the other committed the +assault, and I have no legal way of determining the truth. But +I have my private opinion, Mr. Witberg, and I would recommend +that henceforth you keep off of Mr. Watson's premises and keep +away from this section of the country--" + +"This is an outrage!" Sol Witberg blurted out. + +"Sit down, sir!" was the Justice's thundered command. "If you +interrupt the Court in this manner again, I shall fine you for +contempt. And I warn you I shall fine you heavily--you, a judge +yourself, who should be conversant with the courtesy and +dignity of courts. I shall now give my verdict: + +"It is a rule of law that the defendant shall be given the +benefit of the doubt. As I have said, and I repeat, there is no +legal way for me to determine who struck the first blow. +Therefore, and much to my regret,"--here he paused and glared +at Sol Witberg--"in each of these cases I am compelled to give +the defendant the benefit of the doubt. Gentlemen, you are both +dismissed." + +"Let us have a nip on it," Watson said to Witberg, as they left +the courtroom; but that outraged person refused to lock arms +and amble to the nearest saloon. + + + +WINGED BLACKMAIL + +PETER WINN lay back comfortably in a library chair, with closed +eyes, deep in the cogitation of a scheme of campaign destined +in the near future to make a certain coterie of hostile +financiers sit up. The central idea had come to him the night +before, and he was now reveling in the planning of the remoter, +minor details. By obtaining control of a certain up-country +bank, two general stores, and several logging camps, he could +come into control of a certain dinky jerkwater line which shall +here be nameless, but which, in his hands, would prove the key +to a vastly larger situation involving more main-line mileage +almost than there were spikes in the aforesaid dinky jerkwater. +It was so simple that he had almost laughed aloud when it came +to him. No wonder those astute and ancient enemies of his had +passed it by. + +The library door opened, and a slender, middle-aged man, +weak-eyed and eye glassed, entered. In his hands was an +envelope and an open letter. As Peter Winn's secretary it was +his task to weed out, sort, and classify his employer's mail. + +"This came in the morning post," he ventured apologetically and +with the hint of a titter. "Of course it doesn't amount to +anything, but I thought you would like to see it." + +"Read it," Peter Winn commanded, without opening his eyes. + +The secretary cleared his throat. + +"It is dated July seventeenth, but is without address. Postmark +San Francisco. It is also quite illiterate. The spelling is +atrocious. Here it is: + +Mr. Peter Winn, +SIR: I send you respectfully by express a pigeon worth good +money. She's a loo-loo--" + +"What is a loo-loo?" Peter Winn interrupted. + +The secretary tittered. + +"I'm sure I don't know, except that it must be a superlative of +some sort. The letter continues: + +Please freight it with a couple of thousand-dollar bills and +let it go. If you do I wont never annoy you no more. If you +dont you will be sorry. + +"That is all. It is unsigned. I thought it would amuse you." + +"Has the pigeon come?" Peter Winn demanded. + +"I'm sure I never thought to enquire." + +"Then do so." + +In five minutes the secretary was back. + +"Yes, sir. It came this morning." + +"Then bring it in." + +The secretary was inclined to take the affair as a practical +joke, but Peter Winn, after an examination of the pigeon, +thought otherwise. + +"Look at it," he said, stroking and handling it. "See the +length of the body and that elongated neck. A proper carrier. I +doubt if I've ever seen a finer specimen. Powerfully winged and +muscled. As our unknown correspondent remarked, she is a +loo-loo. It's a temptation to keep her." + +The secretary tittered. + +"Why not? Surely you will not let it go back to the writer of +that letter." + +Peter Winn shook his head. + +"I'll answer. No man can threaten me, even anonymously or in +foolery." + +On a slip of paper he wrote the succinct message, "Go to hell," +signed it, and placed it in the carrying apparatus with which +the bird had been thoughtfully supplied. + +"Now we'll let her loose. Where's my son? I'd like him to see +the flight." + +"He's down in the workshop. He slept there last night, and had +his breakfast sent down this morning." + +"He'll break his neck yet," Peter Winn remarked, half-fiercely, +half-proudly, as he led the way to the veranda. + +Standing at the head of the broad steps, he tossed the pretty +creature outward and upward. She caught herself with a quick +beat of wings, fluttered about undecidedly for a space, then +rose in the air. + +Again, high up, there seemed indecision; then, apparently +getting her bearings, she headed east, over the oak-trees that +dotted the park-like grounds. + +"Beautiful, beautiful," Peter Winn murmured. "I almost wish I +had her back." + +But Peter Winn was a very busy man, with such large plans in +his head and with so many reins in his hands that he quickly +forgot the incident. Three nights later the left wing of his +country house was blown up. It was not a heavy explosion, and +nobody was hurt, though the wing itself was ruined. Most of the +windows of the rest of the house were broken, and there was a +deal of general damage. By the first ferry boat of the morning +half a dozen San Francisco detectives arrived, and several +hours later the secretary, in high excitement, erupted on Peter +Winn. + +"It's come!" the secretary gasped, the sweat beading his +forehead and his eyes bulging behind their glasses. + +"What has come?" Peter demanded. "It--the--the loo-loo bird." + +Then the financier understood. + +"Have you gone over the mail yet?" + +"I was just going over it, sir." + +"Then continue, and see if you can find another letter from our +mysterious friend, the pigeon fancier." + +The letter came to light. It read: + +Mr. Peter Winn, +HONORABLE SIR: Now dont be a fool. If youd came through, your +shack would not have blew up--I beg to inform you respectfully, +am sending same pigeon. Take good care of same, thank you. Put +five one thousand dollar bills on her and let her go. Dont feed +her. Dont try to follow bird. She is wise to the way now and +makes better time. If you dont come through, watch out. + +Peter Winn was genuinely angry. This time he indited no message +for the pigeon to carry. Instead, he called in the detectives, +and, under their advice, weighted the pigeon heavily with shot. +Her previous flight having been eastward toward the bay, the +fastest motor-boat in Tiburon was commissioned to take up the +chase if it led out over the water. + +But too much shot had been put on the carrier, and she was +exhausted before the shore was reached. Then the mistake was +made of putting too little shot on her, and she rose high in +the air, got her bearings and started eastward across San +Francisco Bay. She flew straight over Angel Island, and here +the motor-boat lost her, for it had to go around the island. + +That night, armed guards patrolled the grounds. But there was +no explosion. Yet, in the early morning Peter Winn learned by +telephone that his sister's home in Alameda had been burned to +the ground. + +Two days later the pigeon was back again, coming this time by +freight in what had seemed a barrel of potatoes. Also came +another letter: + +Mr. Peter Winn, +RESPECTABLE SIR: It was me that fixed yr sisters house. You +have raised hell, aint you. Send ten thousand now. Going up all +the time. Dont put any more handicap weights on that bird. You +sure cant follow her, and its cruelty to animals. + +Peter Winn was ready to acknowledge himself beaten. The +detectives were powerless, and Peter did not know where next +the man would strike--perhaps at the lives of those near and +dear to him. He even telephoned to San Francisco for ten +thousand dollars in bills of large denomination. But Peter had +a son, Peter Winn, Junior, with the same firm-set jaw as his +fathers,, and the same knitted, brooding determination in his +eyes. He was only twenty-six, but he was all man, a secret +terror and delight to the financier, who alternated between +pride in his son's aeroplane feats and fear for an untimely and +terrible end. + +"Hold on, father, don't send that money," said Peter Winn, +Junior. "Number Eight is ready, and I know I've at last got +that reefing down fine. It will work, and it will revolutionize +flying. Speed--that's what's needed, and so are the large +sustaining surfaces for getting started and for altitude. I've +got them both. Once I'm up I reef down. There it is. The +smaller the sustaining surface, the higher the speed. That was +the law discovered by Langley. And I've applied it. I can rise +when the air is calm and full of holes, and I can rise when its +boiling, and by my control of my plane areas I can come pretty +close to making any speed I want. Especially with that new +Sangster-Endholm engine." + +"You'll come pretty close to breaking your neck one of these +days," was his father's encouraging remark. + +"Dad, I'll tell you what I'll come pretty close to-ninety miles +an hour--Yes, and a hundred. Now listen! I was going to make a +trial tomorrow. But it won't take two hours to start today. +I'll tackle it this afternoon. Keep that money. Give me the +pigeon and I'll follow her to her loft where ever it is. Hold +on, let me talk to the mechanics." + +He called up the workshop, and in crisp, terse sentences gave +his orders in a way that went to the older man's heart. Truly, +his one son was a chip off the old block, and Peter Winn had no +meek notions concerning the intrinsic value of said old block. + +Timed to the minute, the young man, two hours later, was ready +for the start. In a holster at his hip, for instant use, cocked +and with the safety on, was a large-caliber automatic pistol. +With a final inspection and overhauling he took his seat in the +aeroplane. He started the engine, and with a wild burr of gas +explosions the beautiful fabric darted down the launching ways +and lifted into the air. Circling, as he rose, to the west, he +wheeled about and jockeyed and maneuvered for the real start of +the race. + +This start depended on the pigeon. Peter Winn held it. Nor was +it weighted with shot this time. Instead, half a yard of bright +ribbon was firmly attached to its leg--this the more easily to +enable its flight being followed. Peter Winn released it, and +it arose easily enough despite the slight drag of the ribbon. +There was no uncertainty about its movements. This was the +third time it had made particular homing passage, and it knew +the course. + +At an altitude of several hundred feet it straightened out and +went due cast. The aeroplane swerved into a straight course +from its last curve and followed. The race was on. Peter Winn, +looking up, saw that the pigeon was outdistancing the machine. +Then he saw something else. The aeroplane suddenly and +instantly became smaller. It had reefed. Its high-speed +plane-design was now revealed. Instead of the generous spread +of surface with which it had taken the air, it was now a lean +and hawklike monoplane balanced on long and exceedingly narrow +wings. + + . . . . . . + +When young Winn reefed down so suddenly, he received a +surprise. It was his first trial of the new device, and while +he was prepared for increased speed he was not prepared for +such an astonishing increase. It was better than he dreamed, +and, before he knew it, he was hard upon the pigeon. That +little creature, frightened by this, the most monstrous hawk it +had ever seen, immediately darted upward, after the manner of +pigeons that strive always to rise above a hawk. + +In great curves the monoplane followed upward, higher and +higher into the blue. It was difficult, from underneath to see +the pigeon. and young Winn dared not lose it from his sight. He +even shook out his reefs in order to rise more quickly. Up, up +they went, until the pigeon, true to its instinct, dropped and +struck at what it to be the back of its pursuing enemy. Once +was enough, for, evidently finding no life in the smooth cloth +surface of the machine, it ceased soaring and straightened out +on its eastward course. + +A carrier pigeon on a passage can achieve a high rate of speed, +and Winn reefed again. And again, to his satisfaction, be found +that he was beating the pigeon. But this time he quickly shook +out a portion of his reefed sustaining surface and slowed down +in time. From then on he knew he had the chase safely in hand, +and from then on a chant rose to his lips which he continued to +sing at intervals, and unconsciously, for the rest of the +passage. It was: "Going some; going some; what did I tell +you!--going some." + +Even so, it was not all plain sailing. The air is an unstable +medium at best, and quite without warning, at an acute angle, +he entered an aerial tide which he recognized as the gulf +stream of wind that poured through the drafty-mouthed Golden +Gate. His right wing caught it first--a sudden, sharp puff that +lifted and tilted the monoplane and threatened to capsize it. +But he rode with a sensitive "loose curb," and quickly, but not +too quickly, he shifted the angles of his wing-tips, depressed +the front horizontal rudder, and swung over the rear vertical +rudder to meet the tilting thrust of the wind. As the machine +came back to an even keel, and he knew that he was now wholly +in the invisible stream, he readjusted the wing-tips, rapidly +away from him during the several moments of his discomfiture. + +The pigeon drove straight on for the Alameda County shore, and +it was near this shore that Winn had another experience. He +fell into an air-hole. He had fallen into air-holes before, in +previous flights, but this was a far larger one than he had +ever encountered. With his eyes strained on the ribbon attached +to the pigeon, by that fluttering bit of color he marked his +fall. Down he went, at the pit of his stomach that old sink +sensation which he had known as a boy he first negotiated +quick-starting elevators. But Winn, among other secrets of +aviation, had learned that to go up it was sometimes necessary +first to go down. The air had refused to hold him. Instead of +struggling futilely and perilously against this lack of +sustension, he yielded to it. With steady head and hand, he +depressed the forward horizontal rudder--just recklessly enough +and not a fraction more--and the monoplane dived head foremost +and sharply down the void. It was falling with the keenness of +a knife-blade. Every instant the speed accelerated frightfully. +Thus he accumulated the momentum that would save him. But few +instants were required, when, abruptly shifting the double +horizontal rudders forward and astern, he shot upward on the +tense and straining plane and out of the pit. + +At an altitude of five hundred feet, the pigeon drove on over +the town of Berkeley and lifted its flight to the Contra Costa +hills. Young Winn noted the campus and buildings of the +University of California--his university--as he rose after the +pigeon. + +Once more, on these Contra Costa hills, he early came to grief. +The pigeon was now flying low, and where a grove of eucalyptus +presented a solid front to the wind, the bird was suddenly sent +fluttering wildly upward for a distance of a hundred feet. Winn +knew what it meant. It had been caught in an air-surf that beat +upward hundreds of feet where the fresh west wind smote the +upstanding wall of the grove. He reefed hastily to the +uttermost, and at the same time depressed the angle of his +flight to meet that upward surge. Nevertheless, the monoplane +was tossed fully three hundred feet before the danger was left +astern. + +Two or more ranges of hills the pigeon crossed, and then Winn +saw it dropping down to a landing where a small cabin stood in +a hillside clearing. He blessed that clearing. Not only was it +good for alighting, but, on account of the steepness of the +slope, it was just the thing for rising again into the air. + +A man, reading a newspaper, had just started up at the sight of +the returning pigeon, when be heard the burr of Winn's engine +and saw the huge monoplane, with all surfaces set, drop down +upon him, stop suddenly on an air-cushion manufactured on the +spur of the moment by a shift of the horizontal rudders, glide +a few yards, strike ground, and come to rest not a score of +feet away from him. But when he saw a young man, calmly sitting +in the machine and leveling a pistol at him, the man turned to +run. Before he could make the comer of the cabin, a bullet +through the leg brought him down in a sprawling fall. + +"What do you want!" he demanded sullenly, as the other stood +over him. + +"I want to take you for a ride in my new machine," Winn +answered. "Believe me, she is a loo-loo." + +The man did not argue long, for this strange visitor had most +convincing ways. Under Winn's instructions, covered all the +time by the pistol, the man improvised a tourniquet and applied +it to his wounded leg. Winn helped him to a seat in the +machine, then went to the pigeon-loft and took possession of +the bird with the ribbon still fast to its leg. + +A very tractable prisoner, the man proved. Once up in the air, +he sat close, in an ecstasy of fear. An adept at winged +blackmail, he had no aptitude for wings himself, and when he +gazed down at the flying land and water far beneath him, he did +not feel moved to attack his captor, now defenseless, both +hands occupied with flight. + +Instead, the only way the man felt moved was to sit closer. + + . . . . . . + +Peter Winn, Senior, scanning the heavens with powerful glasses, +saw the monoplane leap into view and grow large over the rugged +backbone of Angel Island. Several minutes later he cried out to +the waiting detectives that the machine carried a passenger. +Dropping swiftly and piling up an abrupt air-cushion, the +monoplane landed. + +"That reefing device is a winner!" young Winn cried, as he +climbed out. "Did you see me at the start? I almost ran over +the pigeon. Going some, dad! Going some! What did I tell you? +Going some!" + +"But who is that with you?" his father demanded. + +The young man looked back at his prisoner and remembered. + +"Why, that's the pigeon-fancier," he said. "I guess the +officers can take care of him." + +Peter Winn gripped his son's hand in grim silence, and fondled +the pigeon which his son had passed to him. Again he fondled +the pretty creature. Then he spoke. + +"Exhibit A, for the People," he said. + + + +BUNCHES OF KNUCKLES + +ARRANGEMENTS quite extensive had been made for the celebration +of Christmas on the yacht Samoset. Not having been in any +civilized port for months, the stock of provisions boasted few +delicacies; yet Minnie Duncan had managed to devise real feasts +for cabin and forecastle. + +"Listen, Boyd, she told her husband. "Here are the menus. For +the cabin, raw bonita native style, turtle soup, omelette a la +Samoset--" + +"What the dickens?" Boyd Duncan interrupted. + +"Well, if you must know, I found a tin of mushrooms and a +package of egg-powder which had fallen down behind the locker, +and there are other things as well that will go into it. But +don't interrupt. Boiled yam, fried taro, alligator pear +salad--there, you've got me all mixed, Then I found a last +delectable half-pound of dried squid. There will be baked beans +Mexican, if I can hammer it into Toyama's head; also, baked +papaia with Marquesan honey, and, lastly, a wonderful pie the +secret of which Toyama refuses to divulge." + +"I wonder if it is possible to concoct a punch or a cocktail +out of trade rum?" Duncan muttered gloomily. + +"Oh! I forgot! Come with me." + +His wife caught his hand and led him through the small +connecting door to her tiny stateroom. Still holding his hand, +she fished in the depths of a hat-locker and brought forth a +pint bottle of champagne. + +"The dinner is complete!" he cried. + +"Wait." + +She fished again, and was rewarded with a silver-mounted whisky +flask. She held it to the light of a port-hole, and the liquor +showed a quarter of the distance from the bottom. + +"I've been saving it for weeks," she explained. "And there's +enough for you and Captain Dettmar." + +"Two mighty small drinks," Duncan complained. + +"There would have been more, but I gave a drink to Lorenzo when +he was sick." + +Duncan growled, "Might have given him rum," facetiously. + +"The nasty stuff! For a sick man? Don't be greedy, Boyd. And +I'm glad there isn't any more, for Captain Dettmar's sake. +Drinking always makes him irritable. And now for the men's +dinner. Soda crackers, sweet cakes, candy--" + +"Substantial, I must say." + +"Do hush. Rice, and curry, yam, taro, bonita, of course, a big +cake Toyama is making, young pig--" + +"Oh, I say," he protested. + +"It is all right, Boyd. We'll be in Attu-Attu in three days. +Besides, it's my pig. That old chief what-ever-his-name +distinctly presented it to me. You saw him yourself. And then +two tins of bullamacow. That's their dinner. And now about the +presents. Shall we wait until tomorrow, or give them this +evening?" + +"Christmas Eve, by all means," was the man's judgment. "We'll +call all hands at eight bells; I'll give them a tot of rum all +around, and then you give the presents. Come on up on deck. +It's stifling down here. I hope Lorenzo has better luck with +the dynamo; without the fans there won't be much sleeping +to-night if we're driven below." + +They passed through the small main-cabin, climbed a steep +companion ladder, and emerged on deck. The sun was setting, and +the promise was for a clear tropic night. The Samoset, with +fore- and main-sail winged out on either side, was slipping a +lazy four-knots through the smooth sea. Through the engine-room +skylight came a sound of hammering. They strolled aft to where +Captain Dettmar, one foot on the rail, was oiling the gear of +the patent log. At the wheel stood a tall South Sea Islander, +clad in white undershirt and scarlet hip-cloth. + +Boyd Duncan was an original. At least that was the belief of +his friends. Of comfortable fortune, with no need to do +anything but take his comfort, he elected to travel about the +world in outlandish and most uncomfortable ways. Incidentally, +he had ideas about coral-reefs, disagreed profoundly with +Darwin on that subject, had voiced his opinion in several +monographs and one book, and was now back at his hobby, +cruising the South Seas in a tiny, thirty-ton yacht and +studying reef-formations. + +His wife, Minnie Duncan, was also declared an original, +inasmuch as she joyfully shared his vagabond wanderings. Among +other things, in the six exciting years of their marriage she +had climbed Chimborazo with him, made a three-thousand-mile +winter journey with dogs and sleds in Alaska, ridden a horse +from Canada to Mexico, cruised the Mediterranean in a ten-ton +yawl, and canoed from Germany to the Black Sea across the heart +of Europe. They were a royal pair of wanderlusters, he, big and +broad-shouldered, she a small, brunette, and happy woman, whose +one hundred and fifteen pounds were all grit and endurance, and +withal, pleasing to look upon. + +The Samoset had been a trading schooner, when Duncan bought her +in San Francisco and made alterations. Her interior was wholly +rebuilt, so that the hold became main-cabin and staterooms, +while abaft amidships were installed engines, a dynamo, an ice +machine, storage batteries, and, far in the stern, gasoline +tanks. Necessarily, she carried a small crew. Boyd, Minnie, and +Captain Dettmar were the only whites on board, though Lorenzo, +the small and greasy engineer, laid a part claim to white, +being a Portuguese half-caste. A Japanese served as cook, and a +Chinese as cabin boy. Four white sailors had constituted the +original crew for'ard, but one by one they had yielded to the +charms of palm-waving South Sea isles and been replaced by +islanders. Thus, one of the dusky sailors hailed from Easter +Island, a second from the Carolines, a third from the Paumotus, +while the fourth was a gigantic Samoan. At sea, Boyd Duncan, +himself a navigator, stood a mate's watch with Captain Dettmar, +and both of them took a wheel or lookout occasionally. On a +pinch, Minnie herself could take a wheel, and it was on pinches +that she proved herself more dependable at steering than did +the native sailors. + +At eight bells, all hands assembled at the wheel, and Boyd +Duncan appeared with a black bottle and a mug. The rum he +served out himself, half a mug of it to each man. They gulped +the stuff down with many facial expressions of delight, +followed by loud lip-smackings of approval, though the liquor +was raw enough and corrosive enough to burn their mucous +membranes. All drank except Lee Goom, the abstemious cabin boy. +This rite accomplished, they waited for the next, the +present-giving. Generously molded on Polynesian lines, +huge-bodied and heavy-muscled, they were nevertheless like so +many children, laughing merrily at little things, their eager +black eyes flashing in the lantern light as their big bodies +swayed to the heave and roll of the ship. + +Calling each by name, Minnie gave the presents out, +accompanying each presentation with some happy remark that +added to the glee. There were trade watches, clasp knives, +amazing assortments of fish-hooks in packages, plug tobacco, +matches, and gorgeous strips of cotton for loincloths all +around. That Boyd Duncan was liked by them was evidenced by the +roars of laughter with which they greeted his slightest joking +allusion. + +Captain Dettmar, white-faced, smiling only when his employer +chanced to glance at him, leaned against the wheel-box, looking +on. Twice, he left the group and went below, remaining there +but a minute each time. Later, in the main cabin, when Lorenzo, +Lee Goom and Toyama received their presents, he disappeared +into his stateroom twice again. For of all times, the devil +that slumbered in Captain Dettmar's soul chose this particular +time of good cheer to awaken. Perhaps it was not entirely the +devil's fault, for Captain Dettmar, privily cherishing a quart +of whisky for many weeks, had selected Christmas Eve for +broaching it. + +It was still early in the evening--two bells had just +gone--when Duncan and his wife stood by the cabin companionway, +gazing to windward and canvassing the possibility of spreading +their beds on deck. A small, dark blot of cloud, slowly forming +on the horizon, carried the threat of a rain-squall, and it was +this they were discussing when Captain Dettmar, coming from aft +and about to go below, glanced at them with sudden suspicion. +He paused, his face working spasmodically. Then he spoke: + +"You are talking about me." + +His voice was hoarse, and there was an excited vibration in it. +Minnie Duncan started, then glanced at her husband's immobile +face, took the cue, and remained silent. + +"I say you were talking about me," Captain Dettmar repeated, +this time with almost a snarl. + +He did not lurch nor betray the liquor on him in any way save +by the convulsive working of his face. + +"Minnie, you'd better go down," Duncan said gently. "Tell Lee +Goom we'll sleep below. It won't be long before that squall is +drenching things." + +She took the hint and left, delaying just long enough to give +one anxious glance at the dim faces of the two men. + +Duncan puffed at his cigar and waited till his wife's voice, in +talk with the cabin-boy, came up through the open skylight. + +"Well?" Duncan demanded in a low voice, but sharply. + +"I said you were talking about me. I say it again. Oh, I +haven't been blind. Day after day I've seen the two of you +talking about me. Why don't you come out and say it to my face! +I know you know. And I know your mind's made up to discharge me +at Attu-Attu." + +"I am sorry you are making such a mess of everything," was +Duncan's quiet reply. + +But Captain Dettmar's mind was set on trouble. + +"You know you are going to discharge me. You think you are too +good to associate with the likes of me--you and your wife." + +"Kindly keep her out of this," Duncan warned. "What do you +want?" + +"I want to know what you are going to do!" + +"Discharge you, after this, at Attu-Attu." + +"You intended to, all along." + +"On the contrary. It is your present conduct that compels me." + +"You can't give me that sort of talk." + +"I can't retain a captain who calls me a liar." + +Captain Dettmar for the moment was taken aback. His face and +lips worked, but he could say nothing. Duncan coolly pulled at +his cigar and glanced aft at the rising cloud of squall. + +"Lee Goom brought the mail aboard at Tahiti," Captain Dettmar +began. + +"We were hove short then and leaving. You didn't look at your +letters until we were outside, and then it was too late. That's +why you didn't discharge me at Tahiti. Oh, I know. I saw the +long envelope when Lee Goom came over the side. It was from the +Governor of California, printed on the corner for any one to +see. You'd been working behind my back. Some beachcomber in +Honolulu had whispered to you, and you'd written to the +Governor to find out. And that was his answer Lee Goom carried +out to you. Why didn't you come to me like a man! No, you must +play underhand with me, knowing that this billet was the one +chance for me to get on my feet again. And as soon as you read +the Governor's letter your mind was made up to get rid of me. +I've seen it on your face ever since for all these months.. +I've seen the two of you, polite as hell to me all the time, +and getting away in corners and talking about me and that +affair in 'Frisco." + +"Are you done?" Duncan asked, his voice low, and tense. "Quite +done?" + +Captain Dettmar made no answer. + +"Then I'll tell you a few things. It was precisely because of +that affair in 'Frisco that I did not discharge you in Tahiti. +God knows you gave me sufficient provocation. I thought that if +ever a man needed a chance to rehabilitate himself, you were +that man. Had there been no black mark against you, I would +have discharged you when I learned how you were robbing me." + +Captain Dettmar showed surprise, started to interrupt, then +changed his mind. + +"There was that matter of the deck-calking, the bronze +rudder-irons, the overhauling of the engine, the new spinnaker +boom, the new davits, and the repairs to the whale-boat. You +0Kd the shipyard bill. It was four thousand one hundred and +twenty-two francs. By the regular shipyard charges it ought not +to have been a centime over twenty-five hundred francs-" + +"If you take the word of those alongshore sharks against +mine--' the other began thickly. + +"Save yourself the trouble of further lying," Duncan went on +coldly. "I looked it up. I got Flaubin before the Governor +himself, and the old rascal confessed to sixteen hundred +overcharge. Said you'd stuck him up for it. Twelve hundred went +to you, and his share was four hundred and the job. Don't +interrupt. I've got his affidavit below. Then was when I would +have put you ashore, except for the cloud you were under. You +had to have this one chance or go clean to hell. I gave you the +chance. And what have you got to say about it?" + +"What did the Governor say?" Captain Dettmar demanded +truculently. + +"Which governor?" + +"Of California. Did he lie to you like all the rest?" + +"I'll tell you what he said. He said that you had been +convicted on circumstantial evidence; that was why you had got +life imprisonment instead of hanging; that you had always +stoutly maintained your innocence; that you were the black +sheep of the Maryland Dettmars; that they moved heaven and +earth for your pardon; that your prison conduct was most +exemplary; that he was prosecuting attorney at the time you +were convicted; that after you had served seven years he +yielded to your family's plea and pardoned you; and that in his +own mind existed a doubt that you had killed McSweeny." + +There was a pause, during which Duncan went on studying the +rising squall, while Captain Dettmar's face worked terribly. + +"Well, the Governor was wrong," he announced, with a short +laugh. "I did kill McSweeny. I did get the watchman drunk that +night. I beat McSweeny to death in his bunk. I used the iron +belaying pin that appeared in the evidence. He never had a +chance. I beat him to a jelly. Do you want the details?" + +Duncan looked at him in the curious way one looks at any +monstrosity, but made no reply. + +"Oh, I'm not afraid to tell you," Captain Dettmar blustered on. +"There are no witnesses. Besides, I am a free man now. I am +pardoned, and by God they can never put me back in that hole +again. I broke McSweeny's jaw with the first blow. He was lying +on his back asleep. He said, 'My God, Jim! My God!' It was +funny to see his broken jaw wabble as he said it. Then I +smashed him . . . I say, do you want the rest of the details?" + +"Is that all you have to say?" was the answer. + +"Isn't it enough?" Captain Dettmar retorted. + +"It is enough." + +"What are you going to do about it?" + +"Put you ashore at Attu-Attu." + +"And in the meantime?" + +"In the meantime . . ." Duncan paused. An increase of weight in +the wind rippled his hair. The stars overhead vanished, and the +Samoset swung four points off her course in the careless +steersman's hands. "In the meantime throw your halyards down on +deck and look to your wheel. I'll call the men." + +The next moment the squall burst upon them. Captain Dettmar, +springing aft, lifted the coiled mainsail halyards from their +pins and threw them, ready to run, on the deck. The three +islanders swarmed from the tiny forecastle, two of them leaping +to the halyards and holding by a single turn, while the third +fastened down the engineroom, companion and swung the +ventilators around. Below, Lee Goom and Toyama were lowering +skylight covers and screwing up deadeyes. Duncan pulled shut +the cover of the companion scuttle, and held on, waiting, the +first drops of rain pelting his face, while the Samoset leaped +violently ahead, at the same time heeling first to starboard +then to port as the gusty pressures caught her winged-out +sails. + +All waited. But there was no need to lower away on the run. The +power went out of the wind, and the tropic rain poured a deluge +over everything. Then it was, the danger past, and as the +Kanakas began to coil the halyards back on the pins, that Boyd +Duncan went below. + +"All right," he called in cheerily to his wife. "Only a puff." + +"And Captain Dettmar?" she queried. + +"Has been drinking, that is all. I shall get rid of him at +Attu-Attu." + +But before Duncan climbed into his bunk, he strapped around +himself, against the skin and under his pajama coat, a heavy +automatic pistol. + +He fell asleep almost immediately, for his was the gift of +perfect relaxation. He did things tensely, in the way savages +do, but the instant the need passed he relaxed, mind and body. +So it was that he slept, while the rain still poured on deck +and the yacht plunged and rolled in the brief, sharp sea caused +by the squall. + +He awoke with a feeling of suffocation and heaviness. The +electric fans had stopped, and the air was thick and stifling. +Mentally cursing all Lorenzos and storage batteries, he heard +his wife moving in the adjoining stateroom and pass out into +the main cabin. Evidently heading for the fresher air on deck, +he thought, and decided it was a good example to imitate. +Putting on his slippers and tucking a pillow and a blanket +under his arm, he followed her. As he was about to emerge from +the companionway, the ship's clock in the cabin began to strike +and he stopped to listen. Four bells sounded. It was two in the +morning. From without came the creaking of the gaff-jaw against +the mast. The Samoset rolled and righted on a sea, and in the +light breeze her canvas gave forth a hollow thrum. + +He was just putting his foot out on the damp deck when he heard +his wife scream. It was a startled frightened scream that ended +in a splash overside. He leaped out and ran aft. In the dim +starlight he could make out her head and shoulders disappearing +astern in the lazy wake. + +"What was it?" Captain Dettmar, who was at the wheel, asked. + +"Mrs. Duncan," was Duncan's reply, as he tore the life-buoy +from its hook and flung it aft. "Jibe over to starboard and +come up on the wind!" he commanded. + +And then Boyd Duncan made a mistake. He dived overboard. + +When he came up, he glimpsed the blue-light on the buoy, which +had ignited automatically when it struck the water. He swam for +it, and found Minnie had reached it first. + +"Hello," he said. "Just trying to keep cool?" + +"Oh, Boyd!" was her answer, and one wet hand reached out and +touched his. + +The blue light, through deterioration or damage, flickered out. +As they lifted on the smooth crest of a wave, Duncan turned to +look where the Samoset made a vague blur in the darkness. No +lights showed, but there was noise of confusion. He could hear +Captain Dettmar's shouting above the cries of the others. + +"I must say he's taking his time," Duncan grumbled. "Why +doesn't he jibe? There she goes now." + +They could hear the rattle of the boom tackle blocks as the +sail was eased across. + +"That was the mainsail," he muttered. "Jibed to port when I +told him starboard." + +Again they lifted on a wave, and again and again, ere they +could make out the distant green of the Samoset's starboard +light. But instead of remaining stationary, in token that the +yacht was coming toward them, it began moving across their +field of vision. Duncan swore. + +"What's the lubber holding over there for!" he demanded. "He's +got his compass. He knows our bearing." + +But the green light, which was all they could see, and which +they could see only when they were on top of a wave, moved +steadily away from them, withal it was working up to windward, +and grew dim and dimmer. Duncan called out loudly and +repeatedly, and each time, in the intervals, they could hear, +very faintly, the voice of Captain Dettmar shouting orders. + +"How can he hear me with such a racket?" Duncan complained. + +"He's doing it so the crew won't hear you," was Minnie's +answer. + +There was something in the quiet way she said it that caught +her husband's attention. + +"What do you mean?" + +"I mean that he is not trying to pick us up," she went on in +the same composed voice. "He threw me overboard." + +"You are not making a mistake?" + +"How could I? I was at the main rigging, looking to see if any +more rain threatened. He must have left the wheel and crept +behind me. I was holding on to a stay with one hand. He gripped +my hand free from behind and threw me over. It's too bad you +didn't know, or else you would have staid aboard." + +Duncan groaned, but said nothing for several minutes. The green +light changed the direction of its course. + +"She's gone about," he announced. "You are right. He's +deliberately working around us and to windward. Up wind they +can never hear me. But here goes." + +He called at minute intervals for a long time. The green light +disappeared, being replaced by the red, showing that the yacht +had gone about again. + +"Minnie," he said finally, "it pains me to tell you, but you +married a fool. Only a fool would have gone overboard as I +did." + +"What chance have we of being picked up . . . by some other +vessel, I mean?" she asked. + +"About one in ten thousand, or ten thousand million. Not a +steamer route nor trade route crosses this stretch of ocean. +And there aren't any whalers knocking about the South Seas. +There might be a stray trading schooner running across from +Tutuwanga. But I happen to know that island is visited only +once a year. A chance in a million is ours." + +"And we'll play that chance," she rejoined stoutly. + +"You ARE a joy!" His hand lifted hers to his lips. "And Aunt +Elizabeth always wondered what I saw in you. Of course we'll +play that chance. And we'll win it, too. To happen otherwise +would be unthinkable. Here goes." + +He slipped the heavy pistol from his belt and let it sink into +the sea. The belt, however, he retained. + +"Now you get inside the buoy and get some sleep. Duck under." + +She ducked obediently, and came up inside the floating circle. +He fastened the straps for her, then, with the pistol belt, +buckled himself across one shoulder to the outside of the buoy. + +"We're good for all day to-morrow," he said. "Thank God the +water's warm. It won't be a hardship for the first twenty-hour +hours, anyway. And if we're not picked up by nightfall, we've +just got to hang on for another day, that's all." + +For half an hour they maintained silence, Duncan, his head +resting on the arm that was on the buoy, seemed asleep. + +"Boyd?" Minnie said softly. + +"Thought you were asleep," he growled. + +"Boyd, if we don't come through this--" + +"Stow that!" he broke in ungallantly. "Of course we're coming +through. There is isn't a doubt of it. Somewhere on this ocean +is a ship that's heading right for us. You wait and see. Just +the same I wish my brain were equipped with wireless. Now I'm +going to sleep, if you don't." + +But for once, sleep baffled him. An hour later he heard Minnie +stir and knew she was awake. + +"Say, do you know what I've been thinking!" she asked. + +"No; what?" + +"That I'll wish you a Merry Christmas." + +"By George, I never thought of it. Of course it's Christmas +Day. We'll have many more of them, too. And do you know what +I've been thinking? What a confounded shame we're done out of +our Christmas dinner. Wait till I lay hands on Dettmar. I'll +take it out of him. And it won't be with an iron belaying pin +either, Just two bunches of naked knuckles, that's all." + +Despite his facetiousness, Boyd Duncan had little hope. He knew +well enough the meaning of one chance in a million, and was +calmly certain that his wife and he had entered upon their last +few living hours--hours that were inevitably bound to be black +and terrible with tragedy. + +The tropic sun rose in a cloudless sky. Nothing was to be seen. +The Samoset was beyond the sea-rim. As the sun rose higher, +Duncan ripped his pajama trousers in halves and fashioned them +into two rude turbans. Soaked in sea-water they offset the +heat-rays. + +"When I think of that dinner, I'm really angry," he complained, +as he noted an anxious expression threatening to set on his +wife's face. "And I want you to be with me when I settle with +Dettmar. I've always been opposed to women witnessing scenes of +blood, but this is different. It will be a beating." + +"I hope I don't break my knuckles on him," he added, after a +pause. + +Midday came and went, and they floated on, the center of a +narrow sea-circle. A gentle breath of the dying trade-wind +fanned them, and they rose and fell monotonously on the smooth +swells of a perfect summer sea. Once, a gunie spied them, and +for half an hour circled about them with majestic sweeps. And, +once, a huge rayfish, measuring a score of feet across the +tips, passed within a few yards. + +By sunset, Minnie began to rave, softly, babblingly, like a +child. Duncan's face grew haggard as he watched and listened, +while in his mind he revolved plans of how best to end the +hours of agony that were. coining. And, so planning, as they +rose on a larger swell than usual, he swept the circle of the +sea with his eyes, and saw, what made him cry out. + +"Minnie!" She did not answer, and he shouted her name again in +her ear, with all the voice he could command. Her eyes opened, +in them fluttered commingled consciousness and delirium. He +slapped her hands and wrists till the sting of the blows roused +her. + +"There she is, the chance in a million!" he cried. + +"A steamer at that, heading straight for us! By George, it's a +cruiser! I have it!- the Annapolis, returning with those +astronomers from Tutuwanga. + +. . . . . . + +United States Consul Lingford was a fussy, elderly gentleman, +and in the two years of his service at Attu-Attu had never +encountered so unprecedented a case as that laid before him by +Boyd Duncan. The latter, with his wife, had been landed there +by the Annapolis, which had promptly gone on with its cargo of +astronomers to Fiji. + +"It was cold-blooded, deliberate attempt to murder," said +Consul Lingford. "The law shall take its course. I don't know +how precisely to deal with this Captain Dettmar, but if he +comes to Attu-Attu, depend upon it he shall be dealt with, +he--ah--shall be dealt with. In the meantime, I shall read up +the law. And now, won't you and your good lady stop for lunch!" + +As Duncan accepted the invitation, Minnie, who had been +glancing out of the window at the harbor, suddenly leaned +forward and touched her husband's arm. He followed her gaze, +and saw the Samoset, flag at half mast, rounding up and +dropping anchor scarcely a hundred yards away. + +"There's my boat now," Duncan said to the Consul. "And there's +the launch over the side, and Captain Dettmar dropping into it. +If I don't miss my guess, he's coming to report our deaths to +you." + +The launch landed on the white beach, and leaving Lorenzo +tinkering with the engine, Captain Dettmar strode across the +beach and up the path to the Consulate. + +"Let him make his report," Duncan said. "We'll just step into +this next room and listen." + +And through the partly open door, he and his wife heard Captain +Dettmar, with tears in his voice, describe the loss of his +owners. + +"I jibed over and went back across the very spot," he +concluded. "There was not a sign of them. I called and called, +but there was never an answer. I tacked back and forth and wore +for two solid hours, then hove to till daybreak, and cruised +back and forth all day, two men at the mastheads. It is +terrible. I am heartbroken. Mr. Duncan was a splendid man, and +I shall never. . . " + +But he never completed the sentence, for at that moment his +splendid employer strode out upon him, leaving Minnie standing +in the doorway. Captain Dettmar's white face blanched even +whiter. + +"I did my best to pick you up, sir," he began. + +Boyd Duncan's answer was couched in terms of bunched knuckles, +two bunches of them, that landed right and left on Captain +Dettmar's face. + +Captain Dettmar staggered backward, recovered, and rushed with +swinging arms at his employer, only to be met with a blow +squarely between the eyes. This time the Captain went down, +bearing the typewriter under him as he crashed to the floor. + +"This is not permissible," Consul Lingford spluttered. "I beg +of you, I beg of you, to desist." + +"I'll pay the damages to office furniture," Duncan answered, +and at the same time landing more bunched knuckles on the eyes +and nose of Dettmar. + +Consul Lingford bobbed around in the turmoil like a wet hen, +while his office furniture went to ruin. Once, he caught Duncan +by the arm, but was flung back, gasping, half-across the room. +Another time he appealed to Minnie. + +"Mrs. Duncan, won't you, please, please, restrain your +husband?" + +But she, white-faced and trembling, resolutely shook her head +and watched the fray with all her eyes. + +"It is outrageous," Consul Lingford cried, dodging the hurtling +bodies of the two men. "It is an affront to the Government, to +the United States Government. Nor will it be overlooked, I warn +you. Oh, do pray desist, Mr. Duncan. You will kill the man. I +beg of you. I beg, I beg. . ." + +But the crash of a tall vase filled with crimson hibiscus +blossoms left him speechless. + +The time came when Captain Dettmar could no longer get up. He +got as far as hands and knees, struggled vainly to rise +further, then collapsed. Duncan stirred the groaning wreck with +his foot. + +"He's all right," he announced. "I've only given him what he +has given many a sailor and worse." + +"Great heavens, sir!" Consul Lingford exploded, staring +horror-stricken at the man whom he had invited to lunch. + +Duncan giggled involuntarily, then controlled himself. + +"I apologize, Mr. Lingford, I most heartily apologize. I fear I +was slightly carried away by my feelings." + +Consul Lingford gulped and sawed the air speechlessly with his +arms. + +"Slightly, sir? Slightly?" he managed to articulate. + +"Boyd," Minnie called softly from the doorway. + +He turned and looked. + +"You ARE a joy," she said. + +"And now, Mr. Lingford, I am done with him," Duncan said. "I +turn over what is left to you and the law." + +"That?" Consul Lingford queried, in accent of horror. + +"That," Boyd Duncan replied, looking ruefully at his battered +knuckles. + + + +WAR + +HE was a young man, not more than twenty-four or five, and he +might have sat his horse with the careless grace of his youth +had he not been so catlike and tense. His black eyes roved +everywhere, catching the movements of twigs and branches where +small birds hopped, questing ever onward through the changing +vistas of trees and brush, and returning always to the clumps +of undergrowth on either side. And as he watched, so did he +listen, though he rode on in silence, save for the boom of +heavy guns from far to the west. This had been sounding +monotonously in his ears for hours, and only its cessation +could have aroused his notice. For he had business closer to +hand. Across his saddle-bow was balanced a carbine. + +So tensely was he strung, that a bunch of quail, exploding into +flight from under his horse's nose, startled him to such an +extent that automatically, instantly, he had reined in and +fetched the carbine halfway to his shoulder. He grinned +sheepishly, recovered himself, and rode on. So tense was he, so +bent upon the work he had to do, that the sweat stung his eyes +unwiped, and unheeded rolled down his nose and spattered his +saddle pommel. The band of his cavalryman's hat was +fresh-stained with sweat. The roan horse under him was likewise +wet. It was high noon of a breathless day of heat. Even the +birds and squirrels did not dare the sun, but sheltered in +shady hiding places among the trees. + +Man and horse were littered with leaves and dusted with yellow +pollen, for the open was ventured no more than was compulsory. +They kept to the brush and trees, and invariably the man halted +and peered out before crossing a dry glade or naked stretch of +upland pasturage. He worked always to the north, though his way +was devious, and it was from the north that he seemed most to +apprehend that for which he was looking. He was no coward, but +his courage was only that of the average civilized man, and he +was looking to live, not die. + +Up a small hillside he followed a cowpath through such dense +scrub that he was forced to dismount and lead his horse. But +when the path swung around to the west, he abandoned it and +headed to the north again along the oak-covered top of the +ridge. + +The ridge ended in a steep descent-so steep that he zigzagged +back and forth across the face of the slope, sliding and +stumbling among the dead leaves and matted vines and keeping a +watchful eye on the horse above that threatened to fall down +upon him. The sweat ran from him, and the pollen-dust, settling +pungently in mouth and nostrils, increased his thirst. Try as +he would, nevertheless the descent was noisy, and frequently he +stopped, panting in the dry heat an d listening for any warning +from beneath. + +At the bottom he came out on a flat, so densely forested that +he could not make out its extent. Here the character of the +woods changed, and he was able to remount. Instead of the +twisted hillside oaks, tall straight trees, big-trunked and +prosperous, rose from the damp fat soil. Only here and there +were thickets, easily avoided, while he encountered winding, +park-like glades where the cattle had pastured in the days +before war had run them off. + +His progress was more rapid now, as he came down into the +valley, and at the end of half an hour he halted at an ancient +rail fence on the edge of a clearing. He did not like the +openness of it, yet his path lay across to the fringe of trees +that marked the banks of the stream. It was a mere quarter of a +mile across that open, but the thought of venturing out in it +was repugnant. A rifle, a score of them, a thousand, might lurk +in that fringe by the stream. + +Twice he essayed to start, and twice he paused. He was appalled +by his own loneliness. The pulse of war that beat from the West +suggested the companionship of battling thousands; here was +naught but silence, and himself, and possible death-dealing +bullets from a myriad ambushes. And yet his task was to find +what he feared to find. He must on, and on, till somewhere, +some time, he encountered another man, or other men, from the +other side, scouting, as he was scouting, to make report, as he +must make report, of having come in touch. + +Changing his mind, he skirted inside the woods for a distance, +and again peeped forth. This time, in the middle of the +clearing, he saw a small farmhouse. There were no signs of +life. No smoke curled from the chimney, not a barnyard fowl +clucked and strutted. The kitchen door stood open, and he gazed +so long and hard into the black aperture that it seemed almost +that a farmer's wife must emerge at any moment. + +He licked the pollen and dust from his dry lips, stiffened +himself, mind and body, and rode out into the blazing sunshine. +Nothing stirred. He went on past the house, and approached the +wall of trees and bushes by the river's bank. One thought +persisted maddeningly. It was of the crash into his body of a +high-velocity bullet. It made him feel very fragile and +defenseless, and he crouched lower in the saddle. + +Tethering his horse in the edge of the wood, he continued a +hundred yards on foot till he came to the stream. Twenty feet +wide it was, without perceptible current, cool and inviting, +and he was very thirsty. But he waited inside his screen of +leafage, his eyes fixed on the screen on the opposite side. To +make the wait endurable, he sat down, his carbine resting on +his knees. The minutes passed, and slowly his tenseness +relaxed. At last he decided there was no danger; but just as he +prepared to part the bushes and bend down to the water, a +movement among the opposite bushes caught his eye. + +It might be a bird. But he waited. Again there was an agitation +of the bushes, and then, so suddenly that it almost startled a +cry from him, the bushes parted and a face peered out. It was a +face covered with several weeks' growth of ginger-colored +beard. The eyes were blue and wide apart, with +laughter-wrinkles in the comers that showed despite the tired +and anxious expression of the whole face. + +All this he could see with microscopic clearness, for the +distance was no more than twenty feet. And all this he saw in +such brief time, that he saw it as he lifted his carbine to his +shoulder. He glanced along the sights, and knew that he was +gazing upon a man who was as good as dead. It was impossible to +miss at such point blank range. + +But he did not shoot. Slowly he lowered the carbine and +watched. A hand, clutching a water-bottle, became visible and +the ginger beard bent downward to fill the bottle. He could +hear the gurgle of the water. Then arm and bottle and ginger +beard disappeared behind the closing bushes. A long time he +waited, when, with thirst unslaked, he crept back to his horse, +rode slowly across the sun-washed clearing, and passed into the +shelter of the woods beyond. + +II + +Another day, hot and breathless. A deserted farmhouse, large, +with many outbuildings and an orchard, standing in a clearing. +From the Woods, on a roan horse, carbine across pommel, rode +the young man with the quick black eyes. He breathed with +relief as he gained the house. That a fight had taken place +here earlier in the season was evident. Clips and empty +cartridges, tarnished with verdigris, lay on the ground, which, +while wet, had been torn up by the hoofs of horses. Hard by the +kitchen garden were graves, tagged and numbered. From the oak +tree by the kitchen door, in tattered, weatherbeaten garments, +hung the bodies of two men. The faces, shriveled and defaced, +bore no likeness to the faces of men. The roan horse snorted +beneath them, and the rider caressed and soothed it and tied it +farther away. + +Entering the house, he found the interior a wreck. He trod on +empty cartridges as he walked from room to room to reconnoiter +from the windows. Men had camped and slept everywhere, and on +the floor of one room he came upon stains unmistakable where +the wounded had been laid down. + +Again outside, he led the horse around behind the barn and +invaded the orchard. A dozen trees were burdened with ripe +apples. He filled his pockets, eating while he picked. Then a +thought came to him, and he glanced at the sun, calculating the +time of his return to camp. He pulled off his shirt, tying the +sleeves and making a bag. This he proceeded to fill with +apples. + +As he was about to mount his horse, the animal suddenly pricked +up its ears. The man, too, listened, and heard, faintly, the +thud of hoofs on soft earth. He crept to the corner of the barn +and peered out. A dozen mounted men, strung out loosely, +approaching from the opposite side of the clearing, were only a +matter of a hundred yards or so away. They rode on to the +house. Some dismounted, while others remained in the saddle as +an earnest that their stay would be short. They seemed to be +holding a council, for he could hear them talking excitedly in +the detested tongue of the alien invader. The time passed, but +they seemed unable to reach a decision. He put the carbine away +in its boot, mounted, and waited impatiently, balancing the +shirt of apples on the pommel. + +He heard footsteps approaching, and drove his spurs so fiercely +into the roan as to force a surprised groan from the animal as +it leaped forward. At the comer of the barn he saw the +intruder, a mere boy of nineteen or twenty for all of his +uniform jump back to escape being run down. At the same moment +the roan swerved and its rider caught a glimpse of the aroused +men by the house. Some were springing from their horses, and he +could see the rifles going to their shoulders. He passed the +kitchen door and the dried corpses swinging in the shade, +compelling his foes to run around the front of the house. A +rifle cracked, and a second, but he was going fast, leaning +forward, low in the saddle, one hand clutching the shirt of +apples, the other guiding the horse. + +The top bar of the fence was four feet high, but he knew his +roan and leaped it at full career to the accompaniment of +several scattered shots. Eight hundred yards straight away were +the woods, and the roan was covering the distance with mighty +strides. Every man was now firing. pumping their guns so +rapidly that he no longer heard individual shots. A bullet went +through his hat, but he was unaware, though he did know when +another tore through the apples on the pommel. And he winced +and ducked even lower when a third bullet, fired low, struck a +stone between his horse's legs and ricochetted off through the +air, buzzing and humming like some incredible insect. + +The shots died down as the magazines were emptied, until, +quickly, there was no more shooting. The young man was elated. +Through that astonishing fusillade he had come unscathed. He +glanced back. Yes, they had emptied their magazines. He could +see several reloading. Others were running back behind the +house for their horses. As he looked, two already mounted, came +back into view around the comer, riding hard. And at the same +moment, he saw the man with the unmistakable ginger beard kneel +down on the ground, level his gun, and coolly take his time for +the long shot. + +The young man threw his spurs into the horse, crouched very +low, and swerved in his flight in order to distract the other's +aim. And still the shot did not come. With each jump of the +horse, the woods sprang nearer. They were only two hundred +yards away and still the shot was delayed. + +And then he heard it, the last thing he was to hear, for he was +dead ere he hit the ground in the long crashing fall from the +saddle. And they, watching at the house, saw him fall, saw his +body bounce when it struck the earth, and saw the burst of +red-cheeked apples that rolled about him. They laughed at the +unexpected eruption of apples, and clapped their hands in +applause of the long shot by the man with the ginger beard. + + + +UNDER THE DECK AWNINGS + +"CAN any man--a gentleman, I mean--call a woman a pig?" + +The little man flung this challenge forth to the whole group, +then leaned back in his deck chair, sipping lemonade with an +air commingled of certitude and watchful belligerence. Nobody +made answer. They were used to the little man and his sudden +passions and high elevations. + +"I repeat, it was in my presence that he said a certain lady, +whom none of you knows, was a pig. He did not say swine. He +grossly said that she was a pig. And I hold that no man who is +a man could possibly make such a remark about any woman." + +Dr. Dawson puffed stolidly at his black pipe. Matthews, with +knees hunched up and clasped by his arms, was absorbed in the +flight of a gunie. Sweet, finishing his Scotch and soda, was +questing about with his eyes for a deck steward. + +"I ask you, Mr. Treloar, can any man call any woman a pig?" + +Treloar, who happened to be sitting next to him, was startled +by the abruptness of the attack, and wondered what grounds he +had ever given the little man to believe that he could call a +woman a pig. + +"I should say," he began his hesitant answer, "that +it--er--depends on the--er--the lady." + +The little man was aghast. + +"You mean . . .?" he quavered. + +"That I have seen female humans who were as bad as pigs--and +worse." + +There was a long pained silence. The little man seemed withered +by the coarse brutality of the reply. In his face was +unutterable hurt and woe. + +"You have told of a man who made a not nice remark and you have +classified him," Treloar said in cold, even tones. "I shall now +tell you about a woman--I beg your pardon--a lady, and when I +have finished I shall ask you to classify her. Miss Caruthers I +shall call her, principally for the reason that it is not her +name. It was on a P. & 0. boat, and it occurred neither more +nor less than several years ago. + +"Miss Caruthers was charming. No; that is not the word. She was +amazing. She was a young woman, and a lady. Her father was a +certain high official whose name, if I mentioned it, would be +immediately recognized by all of you. She was with her mother +and two maids at the time, going out to join the old gentleman +wherever you like to wish in the East. + +"She, and pardon me for repeating, was amazing. It is the one +adequate word. Even the most minor adjectives applicable to her +are bound to be sheer superlatives. There was nothing she could +not do better than any woman and than most men. Sing, +play--bah!--as some rhetorician once said of old Nap, +competition fled from her. Swim! She could have made a fortune +and a name as a public performer. She was one of those rare +women who can strip off all the frills of dress, and in simple +swimming suit be more satisfying beautiful. Dress! She was an +artist. + +"But her swimming. Physically, she was the perfect woman--you +know what I mean, not in the gross, muscular way of acrobats, +but in all the delicacy of line and fragility of frame and +texture. And combined with this, strength. How she could do it +was the marvel. You know the wonder of a woman's arm--the fore +arm, I mean; the sweet fading away from rounded biceps and hint +of muscle, down through small elbow and firm soft swell to the +wrist, small, unthinkably small and round and strong. This was +hers. And yet, to see her swimming the sharp quick English +overhand stroke, and getting somewhere with it, too, was--well, +I understand anatomy and athletics and such things, and yet it +was a mystery to me how she could do it. + +"She could stay under water for two minutes. I have timed her. +No man on board, except Dennitson, could capture as many coins +as she with a single dive. On the forward main-deck was a big +canvas tank with six feet of sea-water. We used to toss small +coins into it. I have seen her dive from the bridge deck--no +mean feat in itself--into that six-feet of water, and fetch up +no less than forty-seven coins, scattered willy-nilly over the +whole bottom of the tank. Dennitson, a quiet young Englishman, +never exceeded her in this, though he made it a point always to +tie her score. + +"She was a sea-woman, true. But she was a land-woman, a +horsewoman--a--she was the universal woman. To see her, all +softness of soft dress, surrounded by half a dozen eager men, +languidly careless of them all or flashing brightness and wit +on them and at them and through them, one would fancy she was +good for nothing else in the world. At such moments I have +compelled myself to remember her score of forty-seven coins +from the bottom of the swimming tank. But that was she, the +everlasting, wonder of a woman who did all things well. + +"She fascinated every betrousered human around her. She had +me--and I don't mind confessing it--she bad me to heel along +with the rest. Young puppies and old gray dogs who ought to +have known better--oh, they all came up and crawled around her +skirts and whined and fawned when she whistled. They were all +guilty, from young Ardmore, a pink cherub of nineteen outward +bound for some clerkship in the Consular Service, to old +Captain Bentley, grizzled and sea-worn, and as emotional, to +look at, as a Chinese joss. There was a nice middle-aged chap, +Perkins, I believe, who forgot his wife was on board until Miss +Caruthers sent him to the right about and back where he +belonged. + +"Men were wax in her hands. She melted them, or softly molded +them, or incinerated them, as she pleased. There wasn't a +steward, even, grand and remote as she was, who, at her +bidding, would have hesitated to souse the Old Man himself with +a plate of soup. You have all seen such women--a sort of +world's desire to all men. As a man-conqueror she was supreme. +She was a whip-lash, a sting and a flame, an electric spark. +Oh, believe me, at times there were flashes of will that +scorched through her beauty and seduction and smote a victim +into blank and shivering idiocy and fear. + +"And don't fail to mark, in the light of what is to come, that +she was a prideful woman. Pride of race, pride of caste, pride +of sex, pride of power--she had it all, a pride strange and +wilful and terrible. + +"She ran the ship, she ran the voyage, she ran everything, and +she ran Dennitson. That he had outdistanced the pack even the +least wise of us admitted. That she liked him, and that this +feeling was growing, there was not a doubt. I am certain that +she looked on him with kinder eyes than she had ever looked +with on man before. We still worshiped, and were always hanging +about waiting to be whistled up, though we knew that Dennitson +was laps and laps ahead of us. What might have happened we +shall never know, for we came to Colombo and something else +happened. + +"You know Colombo, and how the native boys dive for coins in +the shark-infested bay. Of course, it is only among the ground +sharks and fish sharks that they venture. It is almost uncanny +the way they know sharks and can sense the presence of a real +killer--a tiger shark, for instance, or a gray nurse strayed up +from Australian waters. Let such a shark appear, and, long +before the passengers can guess, every mother's son of them is +out of the water in a wild scramble for safety. + +"It was after tiffin, and Miss Caruthers was holding her usual +court under the deck-awnings. Old Captain Bentley had just been +whistled up, and had granted her what he never granted before. +. . nor since--permission for the boys to come up on the +promenade deck. You see, Miss Caruthers was a swimmer, and she +was interested. She took up a collection of all our small +change, and herself tossed it overside, singly and in handfuls, +arranging the terms of the contests, chiding a miss, giving +extra rewards to clever wins, in short, managing the whole +exhibition. + +"She was especially keen on their jumping. You know, jumping +feet-first from a height, it is very difficult to hold the body +perpendicularly while in the air. The center of gravity of the +male body is high, and the tendency is to overtopple. But the +little beggars employed a method which she declared was new to +her and which she desired to learn. Leaping from the davits of +the boat-deck above, they plunged downward, their faces and +shoulders bowed forward, looking at the water. And only at the +last moment did they abruptly straighten up and enter the water +erect and true. + +"It was a pretty sight. Their diving was not so good, though +there was one of them who was excellent at it, as he was in all +the other stunts. Some white man must have taught him, for he +made the proper swan dive and did it as beautifully as I have +ever seen it. You know, headfirst into the water, from a great +height, the problem is to enter the water at the perfect angle. +Miss the angle and it means at the least a twisted back and +injury for life. Also, it has meant death for many a bungler. +But this boy could do it--seventy feet I know he cleared in one +dive from the rigging--clenched hands on chest, head thrown +back, sailing more like a bird, upward and out, and out and +down, body flat on the air so that if it struck the surface in +that position it would be split in half like a herring. But the +moment before the water is reached, the head drops forward, the +hands go out and lock the arms in an arch in advance of the +head, and the body curves gracefully downward and enters the +water just right. + +"This the boy did, again and again, to the delight of all of +us, but particularly of Miss Caruthers. He could not have been +a moment over twelve or thirteen, yet he was by far the +cleverest of the gang. He was the favorite of his crowd, and +its leader. Though there were a number older than he, they +acknowledged his chieftaincy. He was a beautiful boy, a lithe +young god in breathing bronze, eyes wide apart, intelligent and +daring, a bubble, a mote, a beautiful flash and sparkle of +life. You have seen. wonderful glorious creatures--animals, +anything, a leopard, a horse-restless, eager, too much alive +ever to be still, silken of muscle, each slightest movement a +benediction of grace, every action wild, untrammeled, and over +all spilling out that intense vitality, that sheen and luster +of living light. The boy had it. Life poured out of him almost +in an effulgence. His skin glowed with it. It burned in his +eyes. I swear I could almost hear it crackle from him. Looking +at him, it was as if a whiff of ozone came to one's +nostrils--so fresh and young was he, so resplendent with +health, so wildly wild. + +"This was the boy. And it was he who gave the alarm in the +midst of the sport. The boys made a dash of it for the gangway +platform, swimming the fastest strokes they knew, pellmell, +floundering and splashing, fright in their faces, clambering +out with jumps and surges, any way to get out, lending one +another a hand to safety, till all were strung along the +gangway and peering down into the water. + +"'What is the matter?' asked Miss Caruthers. + +"'A shark, I fancy,' Captain Bentley answered. 'Lucky little +beggars that he didn't get one of them.' + +"'Are they afraid of sharks?' she asked. + +"'Aren't you?' he asked back. + +She shuddered, looked overside at the water, and made a moue. + +"'Not for the world would I venture where a shark might be,' +she said, and shuddered again. 'They are horrible! Horrible!' + +"The boys came up on the promenade deck, clustering close to +the rail and worshiping Miss Caruthers who had flung them such +a wealth of backsheesh. The performance being over, Captain +Bentley motioned to them to clear out. But she stopped him. + +"'One moment, please, Captain. I have always understood that +the natives are not afraid of sharks.' + +"She beckoned the boy of the swan dive nearer to her, and +signed to him to dive over again. He shook his head, and along +with all his crew behind him laughed as if it were a good joke. + +"'Shark,' he volunteered, pointing to the water. + +"'No,' she said. 'There is no shark.' + +"But he nodded his head positively, and the boys behind him +nodded with equal positiveness. + +"'No, no, no,' she cried. And then to us, 'Who'll lend me a +half-crown and a sovereign!' + +"Immediately the half dozen of us were presenting her with +crowns and sovereigns, and she accepted the two coins from +young Ardmore. + +"She held up the half-crown for the boys to see. But there was +no eager rush to the rail preparatory to leaping. They stood +there grinning sheepishly. She offered the coin to each one +individually, and each, as his turn came, rubbed his foot +against his calf, shook his head, and grinned. Then she tossed +the half-crown overboard. With wistful, regretful faces they +watched its silver flight through the air, but not one moved to +follow it. + +"'Don't do it with the sovereign,' Dennitson said to her in a +low voice. + +"She took no notice, but held up the gold coin before the eyes +of the boy of the swan dive. + +"'Don't,' said Captain Bentley. 'I wouldn't throw a sick cat +overside with a shark around.' + +"But she laughed, bent on her purpose, and continued to dazzle +the boy. + +"'Don't tempt him,' Dennitson urged. 'It is a fortune to him, +and he might go over after it.' + +"'Wouldn't YOU?' she flared at him. 'If I threw it?' + +This last more softly. + +Dennitson shook his head. + +"'Your price is high,' she said. 'For how many sovereigns would +you go?' + +"'There are not enough coined to get me overside,' was his +answer. + +"She debated a moment, the boy forgotten in her tilt with +Dennitson. + +"'For me?' she said very softly. + +"'To save your life--yes. But not otherwise.' + +"She turned back to the boy. Again she held the coin before his +eyes, dazzling him with the vastness of its value. Then she +made as to toss it out, and, involuntarily, he made a +half-movement toward the rail, but was checked by sharp cries +of reproof from his companions. There was anger in their voices +as well. + +"'I know it is only fooling,' Dennitson said. 'Carry it as far +as you like, but for heaven's sake don't throw it.' + +"Whether it was that strange wilfulness of hers, or whether she +doubted the boy could be persuaded, there is no telling. It was +unexpected to all of us. Out from the shade of the awning the +coin flashed golden in the blaze of sunshine and fell toward +the sea in a glittering arch. Before a hand could stay him, the +boy was over the rail and curving beautifully downward after +the coin. Both were in the air at the same time. It was a +pretty sight. The sovereign cut the water sharply, and at the +very spot, almost at the same instant, with scarcely a splash, +the boy entered. + +"From the quicker-eyed black boys watching, came an +exclamation. We were all at the railing. Don't tell me it is +necessary for a shark to turn on its back. That one did not. In +the clear water, from the height we were above it, we saw +everything. The shark was a big brute, and with one drive he +cut the boy squarely in half. + +"There was a murmur or something from among us--who made it I +did not know; it might have been I. And then there was silence. +Miss Caruthers was the first to speak. Her face was deathly +white. + +"'I never dreamed,' she said, and laughed a short, hysterical +laugh. + +All her pride was at work to give her control. She turned +weakly toward Dennitson, and then, on from one to another of +us. In her eyes was a terrible sickness, and her lips were +trembling. We were brutes--oh, I know it, now that I look back +upon it. But we did nothing. + +"'Mr. Dennitson,' she said, 'Tom, won't you take me below!' + +"He never changed the direction of his gaze, which was the +bleakest I have ever seen in a man's face, nor did he move an +eyelid. He took a cigarette from his case and lighted it. +Captain Bentley made a nasty sound in his throat and spat +overboard. That was all; that and the silence. + +"She turned away and started to walk firmly down the deck. +Twenty feet away, she swayed and thrust a hand against the wall +to save herself. And so she went on, supporting herself against +the cabins and walking very slowly." +Treloar ceased. He turned his head and favored the little man +with a look of cold inquiry. + +"Well," he said finally. "Classify her." + +The little man gulped and swallowed. + +"I have nothing to say," he said. "I have nothing whatever to +say." + + + +TO KILL A MAN + +THOUGH dim night-lights burned, she moved familiarly through +the big rooms and wide halls, seeking vainly the half-finished +book of verse she had mislaid and only now remembered. When she +turned on the lights in the drawing-room, she disclosed herself +clad in a sweeping negligee gown of soft rose-colored stuff, +throat and shoulders smothered in lace. Her rings were still on +her fingers, her massed yellow hair had not yet been taken +down. She was delicately, gracefully beautiful, with slender, +oval face, red lips, a faint color in the cheeks, and blue eyes +of the chameleon sort that at will stare wide with the +innocence of childhood, go hard and gray and brilliantly cold, +or flame up in hot wilfulness and mastery. + +She turned the lights off and passed out and down the hall +toward the morning room. At the entrance she paused and +listened. From farther on had come, not a noise, but an +impression of movement. She could have sworn she had not heard +anything, yet something had been different. The atmosphere of +night quietude had been disturbed. She wondered what servant +could be prowling about. Not the butler, who was nosion. +torious for retiring early save on special occasion. Nor could +it be her maid, whom she had permitted to go that evening. + +Passing on to the dining-room, she found the door closed. Why +she opened it and went on in, she did not know, except for the +feeling that the disturbing factor, whatever it might be, was +there. The room was in darkness, and she felt her way to the +button and pressed. As the blaze of light flashed on, she +stepped back and cried out. It was a mere "Oh!" and it was not +loud. + + +Facing her, alongside the button, flat against the wall, was a +man. In his hand, pointed toward her, was a revolver. She +noticed, even in the shock of seeing him, that the weapon was +black and exceedingly long-barreled. She knew black and +exceedingly long it for what it was, a Colt's. He was a +medium-sized man, roughly clad, brown-eyed, and swarthy with +sunburn. He seemed very cool. There was no wabble to the +revolver and it was directed toward her stomach, not from an +outstretched arm, but from the hip, against which the forearm +rested. + +"Oh," she said. "I beg your pardon. You startled me. What do +you want?" + +"I reckon I want to get out," he answered, with a humorous +twitch to the lips. "I've kind of lost my way in this here +shebang, and if you'll kindly show me the door I'll cause no +trouble and sure vamoose." + +"But what are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice touched +with the sharpness of one used to authority. + +"Plain robbing, Miss, that's all. I came snooping around to see +what I could gather up. I thought you wan't to home, seein' as +I saw you pull out with your old man in an auto. I reckon that +must a ben your pa, and you're Miss Setliffe." + +Mrs. Setliffe saw his mistake, appreciated the naive +compliment, and decided not to undeceive him. + +"How do you know I am Miss Setliffe?" she asked. + +"This is old Setliffe's house, ain't it?" + +She nodded. + +"I didn't know he had a daughter, but I reckon you must be her. +And now, if it ain't botherin' you too much, I'd sure be +obliged if you'd show me the way out." + +"But why should I? You are a robber, a burglar." + +"If I wan't an ornery shorthorn at the business, I'd be +accumulatin' them rings on your fingers instead of being +polite," he retorted. + +"I come to make a raise outa old Setliffe, and not to be +robbing women-folks. If you get outa the way, I reckon I can +find my own way out." + +Mrs. Setliffe was a keen woman, and she felt that from such a +man there was little to fear. That he was not a typical +criminal, she was certain. From his speech she knew he was not +of the cities, and she seemed to sense the wider, homelier air +of large spaces. + +"Suppose I screamed?" she queried curiously. "Suppose I made an +outcry for help? You couldn't shoot me? . . . a woman?" + +She noted the fleeting bafflement in his brown eyes. He +answered slowly and thoughtfully, as if working out a difficult +problem. "I reckon, then, I'd have to choke you and maul you +some bad." + +"A woman?" + +"I'd sure have to," he answered, and she saw his mouth set +grimly. + +"You're only a soft woman, but you see, Miss, I can't afford to +go to jail. No, Miss, I sure can't. There's a friend of mine +waitin' for me out West. He's in a hole, and I've got to help +him out." The mouth shaped even more grimly. "I guess I could +choke you without hurting you much to speak of." + +Her eyes took on a baby stare of innocent incredulity as she +watched him. + +"I never met a burglar before," she assured him, "and I can't +begin to tell you how interested I am." + +"I'm not a burglar, Miss. Not a real one," he hastened to add +as she looked her amused unbelief. "It looks like it, me being +here in your house. But it's the first time I ever tackled such +a job. I needed the money bad. Besides, I kind of look on it +like collecting what's coming to me." + +"I don't understand," she smiled encouragingly. "You came here +to rob, and to rob is to take what is not yours." + +"Yes, and no, in this here particular case. But I reckon I'd +better be going now." + +He started for the door of the dining-room, but she interposed, +and a very beautiful obstacle she made of herself. His left +hand went out as if to grip her, then hesitated. He was +patently awed by her soft womanhood. + +"There!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew you wouldn't." + +The man was embarrassed. + +"I ain't never manhandled a woman yet," he explained, "and it +don't come easy. But I sure will, if you set to screaming." + +"Won't you stay a few minutes and talk?" she urged. "I'm so +interested. I should like to hear you explain how burglary is +collecting what is coming to you." + +He looked at her admiringly. + +"I always thought women-folks were scairt of robbers," he +confessed. "But you don't seem none." + +She laughed gaily. + +"There are robbers and robbers, you know. I am not afraid of +you, because I am confident you are not the sort of creature +that would harm a woman. Come, talk with me a while. Nobody +will disturb us. I am all alone. My-- father caught the night +train to New York. The servants are all asleep. I should like +to give you something to eat--women always prepare midnight +suppers for the burglars they catch, at least they do in the +magazine stories. But I don't know where to find the food. +Perhaps you will have something to drink?" + +He hesitated, and did not reply; but she could see the +admiration for her growing in his eyes. + +"You're not afraid?" she queried. "I won't poison you, I +promise. I'll drink with you to show you it is all right." + +"You sure are a surprise package of all right," he declared, +for the first time lowering the weapon and letting it hang at +his side. "No one don't need to tell me ever again that +women-folks in cities is afraid. You ain't much--just a little +soft pretty thing. But you've sure got the spunk. And you're +trustful on top of it. There ain't many women, or men either. +who'd treat a man with a gun the way you're treating me." + +She smiled her pleasure in the compliment, and her face, was +very earnest as she said: + +"That is because I like your appearance. You are too +decent-looking a man to be a robber. You oughtn't to do such +things. If you are in bad luck you should go to work. Come, put +away that nasty revolver and let us talk it over. The thing for +you to do is to work." + +"Not in this burg," he commented bitterly. "I've walked two +inches off the bottom of my legs trying to find a job. Honest, +I was a fine large man once. . . before I started looking for a +job." + +The merry laughter with which she greeted his sally obviously +pleased him, and she was quick to note and take advantage of +it. She moved directly away from the door and toward the +sideboard. + +"Come, you must tell me all about it while I get that drink for +you. What will it be? Whisky?" + +"Yes, ma'am," he said, as he followed her, though he still +carried the big revolver at his side, and though he glanced +reluctantly at the unguarded open door. + +She filled a glass for him at the sideboard. + +"I promised to drink with you," she said hesitatingly. "But I +don't like whisky. I . . . I prefer sherry." + +She lifted the sherry bottle tentatively for his consent. + +"Sure," he answered, with a nod. "Whisky's a man's drink. I +never like to see women at it. Wine's more their stuff." + +She raised her glass to his, her eyes meltingly sympathetic. + +"Here's to finding you a good position--" + +But she broke off at sight of the expression of surprised +disgust on his face. The glass, barely touched, was removed +from his wry lips. + +"What is the matter!" she asked anxiously. "Don't you like it? +Have I made a mistake?" + +"It's sure funny whisky. Tastes like it got burned and smoked +in the making." + +"Oh! How silly of me! I gave you Scotch. Of course you are +accustomed to rye. Let me change it." + +She was almost solicitiously maternal, as she replaced the +glass with another and sought and found the proper bottle. + +"Better?" she asked. + +"Yes, ma'am. No smoke in it. It's sure the real good stuff. I +ain't had a drink in a week. Kind of slick, that; oily, you +know; not made in a chemical factory." + +"You are a drinking man?" It was half a question, half a +challenge. + +"No, ma'am, not to speak of. I HAVE rared up and ripsnorted at +spells, but most unfrequent. But there is times when a good +stiff jolt lands on the right spot kerchunk, and this is sure +one of them. And now, thanking you for your kindness, ma'am, +I'll just be a pulling along." + +But Mrs. Setliffe did not want to lose her burglar. She was too +poised a woman to possess much romance, but there was a thrill +about the present situation that delighted her. Besides, she +knew there was no danger. The man, despite his jaw and the +steady brown eyes, was eminently tractable. Also, farther back +in her consciousness glimmered the thought of an audience of +admiring friends. It was too bad not to have that audience. + +"You haven't explained how burglary, in your case, is merely +collecting what is your own," she said. "Come, sit down, and +tell me about it here at the table." + +She maneuvered for her own seat, and placed him across the +corner from her. His alertness had not deserted him, as she +noted, and his eyes roved sharply about, returning always with +smoldering admiration to hers, but never resting long. And she +noted likewise that while she spoke he was intent on listening +for other sounds than those of her voice. Nor had he +relinquished the revolver, which lay at the corner of the table +between them, the butt close to his right hand. + +But he was in a new habitat which he did not know. This man +from the West, cunning in woodcraft and plainscraft, with eyes +and ears open, tense and suspicious, did not know that under +the table, close to her foot, was the push button of an +electric bell. He had never heard of such a contrivance, and +his keenness and wariness went for naught. + +"It's like this, Miss," he began, in response to her urging. +"Old Setliffe done me up in a little deal once. It was raw, but +it worked. Anything will work full and legal when it's got few +hundred million behind it. I'm not squealin', and I ain't +taking a slam at your pa. He don't know me from Adam, and I +reckon he don't know he done me outa anything. He's too big, +thinking and dealing in millions, to ever hear of a small +potato like me. He's an operator. He's got all kinds of experts +thinking and planning and working for him, some of them, I +hear, getting more cash salary than the President of the United +States. I'm only one of thousands that have been done up by +your pa, that's all. + +"You see, ma'am, I had a little hole in the ground--a dinky, +hydraulic, one-horse outfit of a mine. And when the Setliffe +crowd shook down Idaho, and reorganized the smelter trust, and +roped in the rest of the landscape, and put through the big +hydraulic scheme at Twin Pines, why I sure got squeezed. I +never had a run for my money. I was scratched off the card +before the first heat. And so, to-night, being broke and my +friend needing me bad, I just dropped around to make a raise +outa your pa. Seeing as I needed it, it kinda was coming to +me." + +"Granting all that you say is so," she said, "nevertheless it +does not make house-breaking any the less house-breaking. You +couldn't make such a defense in a court of law." + +"I know that," he confessed meekly. "What's right ain't always +legal. And that's why I am so uncomfortable a-settin' here and +talking with you. Not that I ain't enjoying your company--I +sure do enjoy it--but I just can't afford to be caught. I know +what they'd do to me in this here city. There was a young +fellow that got fifty years only last week for holding a man up +on the street for two dollars and eighty-five cents. I read +about it in the paper. When times is hard and they ain't no +work, men get desperate. And then the other men who've got +something to be robbed of get desperate, too, and they just +sure soak it to the other fellows. If I got caught, I reckon I +wouldn't get a mite less than ten years. That's why I'm +hankering to be on my way." + +"No; wait." She lifted a detaining hand, at the same time +removing her foot from the bell, which she had been pressing +intermittently. "You haven't told me your name yet." + +He hesitated. + +"Call me Dave." + +"Then . . . Dave," she laughed with pretty confusion. +"Something must be done for you. You are a young man, and you +are just at the beginning of a bad start. If you begin by +attempting to collect what you think is coming to you, later on +you will be collecting what you are perfectly sure isn't coming +to you. And you know what the end will be. Instead of this, we +must find something honorable for you to do." + +"I need the money, and I need it now," he replied doggedly. +"It's not for myself, but for that friend I told you about. +He's in a peck of trouble, and he's got to get his lift now or +not at all." + +"I can find you a position," she said quickly. "And--yes, the +very thing!--I'll lend you the money you want to send to your +friend. This you can pay back out of your salary." + +"About three hundred would do," he said slowly. "Three hundred +would pull him through. I'd work my fingers off for a year for +that, and my keep, and a few cents to buy Bull Durham with." + +"Ah! You smoke! I never thought of it." + +Her hand went out over the revolver toward his hand, as she +pointed to the tell-tale yellow stain on his fingers. At the +same time her eyes measured the nearness of her own hand and of +his to the weapon. She ached to grip it in one swift movement. +She was sure she could do it, and yet she was not sure; and so +it was that she refrained as she withdrew her hand. + +"Won't you smoke?" she invited. + +"I'm 'most dying to." + +"Then do so. I don't mind. I really like it--cigarettes, I +mean." + +With his left band he dipped into his side pocket, brought out +a loose wheat-straw paper and shifted it to his right hand +close by the revolver. Again he dipped, transferring to the +paper a pinch of brown, flaky tobacco. Then he proceeded, both +hands just over the revolver, to roll the cigarette. + +"From the way you hover close to that nasty weapon, you seem to +be afraid of me," she challenged. + +"Not exactly afraid of you, ma'am, but, under the +circumstances, just a mite timid." + +"But I've not been afraid of you." + +"You've got nothing to lose." + +"My life," she retorted. + +"That's right," he acknowledged promptly, "and you ain't been +scairt of me. Mebbe I am over anxious." + +"I wouldn't cause you any harm." + +Even as she spoke, her slipper felt for the bell and pressed +it. At the same time her eyes were earnest with a plea of +honesty. + +"You are a judge of men. I know it. And of women. Surely, when +I am trying to persuade you from a criminal life and to get you +honest work to do . . . .?" + +He was immediately contrite. + +"I sure beg your pardon, ma'am," he said. "I reckon my +nervousness ain't complimentary." + +As he spoke, he drew his right hand from the table, and after +lighting the cigarette, dropped it by his side. + +"Thank you for your confidence," she breathed softly, +resolutely keeping her eyes from measuring the distance to the +revolver, and keeping her foot pressed firmly on the bell. + +"About that three hundred," he began. "I can telegraph it West +to-night. And I'll agree to work a year for it and my keep." + +"You will earn more than that. I can promise seventy-five +dollars a month at the least. Do you know horses?" + +His face lighted up and his eyes sparkled. + +"Then go to work for me--or for my father, rather, though I +engage all the servants. I need a second coachman--" + +"And wear a uniform?" he interrupted sharply, the sneer of the +free-born West in his voice and on his lips. + +She smiled tolerantly. + +"Evidently that won't do. Let me think. Yes. Can you break and +handle colts?" + +He nodded. + +"We have a stock farm, and there's room for just such a man as +you. Will you take it?" + +"Will I, ma'am?" His voice was rich with gratitude and +enthusiasm. "Show me to it. I'll dig right in to-morrow. And I +can sure promise you one thing, ma'am. You'll never be sorry +for lending Hughie Luke a hand in his trouble--" + +"I thought you said to call you Dave," she chided forgivingly. + +"I did, ma'am. I did. And I sure beg your pardon. It was just +plain bluff. My real name is Hughie Luke. And if you'll give me +the address of that stock farm of yours, and the railroad fare, +I head for it first thing in the morning." + +Throughout the conversation she had never relaxed her attempts +on the bell. She had pressed it in every alarming way--three +shorts and a long, two and a long, and five. She had tried long +series of shorts, and, once, she had held the button down for a +solid three minutes. And she had been divided between +objurgation of the stupid, heavy-sleeping butler and doubt if +the bell were in order. + +"I am so glad," she said; "so glad that you are willing. There +won't be much to arrange. But you will first have to trust me +while I go upstairs for my purse." + +She saw the doubt flicker momentarily in his eyes, and added +hastily, "But you see I am trusting you with the three hundred +dollars." + +"I believe you, ma'am," he came back gallantly. "Though I just +can't help this nervousness." + +"Shall I go and get it?" + +But before she could receive consent, a slight muffled jar from +the distance came to her ear. She knew it for the swing-door of +the butler's pantry. But so slight was it--more a faint +vibration than a sound--that she would not have heard had not +her ears been keyed and listening for it. Yet the man had +heard. He was startled in his composed way. + +"What was that?" he demanded. + +For answer, her left hand flashed out to the revolver and +brought it back. She had had the start of him, and she needed +it, for the next instant his hand leaped up from his side, +clutching emptiness where the revolver had been. + +"Sit down!" she commanded sharply, in a voice new to him. +"Don't move. Keep your hands on the table." + +She had taken a lesson from him. Instead of holding the heavy +weapon extended, the butt of it and her forearm rested on the +table, the muzzle pointed, not at his head, but his chest. And +he, looking coolly and obeying her commands, knew there was no +chance of the kick-up of the recoil producing a miss. Also, he +saw that the revolver did not wabble, nor the hand shake, and +he was thoroughly conversant with the size of hole the +soft-nosed bullets could make. He had eyes, not for her, but +for the hammer, which had risen under the pressure of her +forefinger on the trigger. + +"I reckon I'd best warn you that that there trigger-pull is +filed dreadful fine. Don't press too hard, or I'll have a hole +in me the size of a walnut." + +She slacked the hammer partly down. + +"That's better," he commented. "You'd best put it down all the +way. You see how easy it works. If you want to, a quick light +pull will jiffy her up and back and make a pretty mess all over +your nice floor." + +A door opened behind him, and he heard somebody enter the room. +But he did not turn his bead. He was looking at her, and he +found it the face of another woman--hard, cold, pitiless yet +brilliant in its beauty. The eyes, too, were hard, though +blazing with a cold light. + +"Thomas," she commanded, "go to the telephone and call the +police. Why were you so long in answering?" + +"I came as soon as I heard the bell, madam," was the answer. + +The robber never took his eyes from hers, nor did she from his, +but at mention of the bell she noticed that his eyes were +puzzled for the moment. + +"Beg your pardon," said the butler from behind, "but wouldn't +it be better for me to get a weapon and arouse the servants?" + +"No; ring for the police. I can hold this man. Go and do +it--quickly." + +The butler slippered out of the room, and the man and the woman +sat on, gazing into each other's eyes. To her it was an +experience keen with enjoyment, and in her mind was the gossip +of her crowd, and she saw notes in the society weeklies of the +beautiful young Mrs. Setliffe capturing an armed robber +single-handed. It would create a sensation, she was sure. + +"When you get that sentence you mentioned," she said coldly, +"you will have time to meditate upon what a fool you have been, +taking other persons' property and threatening women with +revolvers. You will have time to learn your lesson thoroughly. +Now tell the truth. You haven't any friend in trouble. All that +you told me was lies." + +He did not reply. Though his eyes were upon her, they seemed +blank. In truth, for the instant she was veiled to him, and +what he saw was the wide sunwashed spaces of the West, where +men and women were bigger than the rotten denizens, as he had +encountered them, of the thrice rotten cities of the East. + +"Go on. Why don't you speak? Why don't you lie some more? Why +don't you beg to be let off?" + +"I might," he answered, licking his dry lips. "I might ask to +be let off if . . . " + +"If what?" she demanded peremptorily, as he paused. + +"I was trying to think of a word you reminded me of. As I was +saying, I might if you was a decent woman." + +Her face paled. + +"Be careful," she warned. + +"You don't dast kill me," he sneered. "The world's a pretty low +down place to have a thing like you prowling around in it, but +it ain't so plumb low down, I reckon, as to let you put a hole +in me. You're sure bad, but the trouble with you is that you're +weak in your badness. It ain't much to kill a man, but you +ain't got it in you. There's where you lose out." + +"Be careful of what you say," she repeated. "Or else, I warn +you, it will go hard with you. It can be seen to whether your +sentence is light or heavy." + +"Something's the matter with God," he remarked irrelevantly, +"to be letting you around loose. It's clean beyond me what he's +up to, playing such-like tricks on poor humanity. Now if I was +God--" + +His further opinion was interrupted by the entrance of the +butler. + +"Something is wrong with the telephone, madam," he announced. +"The wires are crossed or something, because I can't get +Central." + +"Go and call one of the servants," she ordered. "Send him out +for an officer, and then return here." + +Again the pair was left alone. + +"Will you kindly answer one question, ma'am?" the man said. +"That servant fellow said something about a bell. I watched you +like a cat, and you sure rung no bell." + +"It was under the table, you poor fool. I pressed it with my +foot." + +"Thank you, ma'am. I reckoned I'd seen your kind before, and +now I sure know I have. I spoke to you true and trusting, and +all the time you was lying like hell to me." + +She laughed mockingly. + +"Go on. Say what you wish. It is very interesting." + +"You made eyes at me, looking soft and kind, playing up all the +time the fact that you wore skirts instead of pants--and all +the time with your foot on the bell under the table. Well, +there's some consolation. I'd sooner be poor Hughie Luke, doing +his ten years, than be in your skin. Ma'am, hell is full of +women like you." + +There was silence for a space, in which the man, never taking +his eyes from her, studying her, was making up his mind. + +"Go on," she urged. "Say something." + +"Yes, ma'am, I'll say something. I'll sure say something. Do +you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to get right up from +this chair and walk out that door. I'd take the gun from you, +only you might turn foolish and let it go off. You can have the +gun. It's a good one. As I was saying, I am going right out +that door. And you ain't going to pull that gun off either. It +takes guts to shoot a man, and you sure ain't got them. Now get +ready and see if you can pull that trigger. I ain't going to +harm you. I'm going out that door, and I'm starting." + +Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he pushed back the chair and +slowly stood erect. The hammer rose halfway. She watched it. So +did he. + +"Pull harder," he advised. "It ain't half up yet. Go on and +pull it and kill a man. That's what I said, kill a man, spatter +his brains out on the floor, or slap a hole into him the size +of your. fist. That's what killing a man means." + +The hammer lowered jerkily but gently. The man turned his back +and walked slowly to the door. She swung the revolver around so +that it bore on his back. Twice again the hammer came up +halfway and was reluctantly eased down. + +At the door the man turned for a moment before passing on. A +sneer was on his lips. He spoke to her in a low voice, almost +drawling, but in it was the quintessence of all loathing, as he +called her a name unspeakable and vile. + + + +THE MEXICAN + +NOBODY knew his history-- they of the Junta least of all. He +was their "little mystery," their "big patriot," and in his way +he worked as hard for the coming Mexican Revolution as did +they. They were tardy in recognizing this, for not one of the +Junta liked him. The day he first drifted into their crowded, +busy rooms, they all suspected him of being a spy--one of the +bought tools of the Diaz secret service. Too many of the +comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the +United States, and others of them, in irons, were even then +being taken across the border to be lined up against adobe +walls and shot. + +At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably. Boy +he was, not more than eighteen and not over large for his +years. He announced that he was Felipe Rivera, and that it was +his wish to work for the Revolution. That was all--not a wasted +word, no further explanation. He stood waiting. There was no +smile on his lips, no geniality in his eyes. Big dashing +Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder. Here was something +forbidding, terrible, inscrutable. There was something venomous +and snakelike in the boy's black eyes. They burned like cold +fire, as with a vast, concentrated bitterness. He flashed them +from the faces of the conspirators to the typewriter which +little Mrs. Sethby was industriously operating. His eyes rested +on hers but an instant--she had chanced to look up--and she, +too, sensed the nameless something that made her pause. She was +compelled to read back in order to regain the swing of the +letter she was writing. + +Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos, and +questioningly they looked back and to each other. The +indecision of doubt brooded in their eyes. This slender boy was +the Unknown, vested with all the menace of the Unknown. He was +unrecognizable, something quite beyond the ken of honest, +ordinary revolutionists whose fiercest hatred for Diaz and his +tyranny after all was only that of honest and ordinary +patriots. Here was something else, they knew not what. But +Vera, always the most impulsive, the quickest to act, stepped +into the breach. + +"Very well," he said coldly. "You say you want to work for the +Revolution. Take off your coat. Hang it over there. I will show +you, come--where are the buckets and cloths. The floor is +dirty. You will begin by scrubbing it, and by scrubbing the +floors of the other rooms. The spittoons need to be cleaned. +Then there are the windows." + +"Is it for the Revolution?" the boy asked. + +"It is for the Revolution," Vera answered. + +Rivera looked cold suspicion at all of them, then proceeded to +take off his coat. + +"It is well," he said. + +And nothing more. Day after day he came to his work--sweeping, +scrubbing, cleaning. He emptied the ashes from the stoves, +brought up the coal and kindling, and lighted the fires before +the most energetic one of them was at his desk. + +"Can I sleep here?" he asked once. + +Ah, ha! So that was it--the hand of Diaz showing through! To +sleep in the rooms of the Junta meant access to their secrets, +to the lists of names, to the addresses of comrades down on +Mexican soil. The request was denied, and Rivera never spoke of +it again. He slept they knew not where, and ate they knew not +where nor how. Once, Arrellano offered him a couple of dollars. +Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head. When Vera +joined in and tried to press it upon him, he said: + +"I am working for the Revolution." + +It takes money to raise a modern revolution. and always the +Junta was pressed. The members starved and toiled, and the +longest day was none too long, and yet there were times when it +appeared as if the Revolution stood or fell on no more than the +matter of a few dollars. Once, the first time, when the rent of +the house was two months behind and the landlord was +threatening dispossession, it was Felipe Rivera, the scrub-boy +in the poor, cheap clothes, worn and threadbare, who laid sixty +dollars in gold on May Sethby's desk. There were other times. +Three hundred letters, clicked out on the busy typewriters +(appeals for assistance, for sanctions from the organized labor +groups, requests for square news deals to the editors of +newspapers, protests against the high-handed treatment of +revolutionists by the United States courts), lay unmailed, +awaiting postage. Vera's watch had disappeared--the +old-fashioned gold repeater that had been his father's. +Likewise had gone the plain gold band from May Setbby's third +finger. Things were desperate. Ramos and Arrellano pulled their +long mustaches in despair. The letters must go off, and the +Post Office allowed no credit to purchasers of stamps. Then it +was that Rivera put on his hat and went out. When he came back +he laid a thousand two-cent stamps on May Sethby's desk. + +"I wonder if it is the cursed gold of Diaz?" said Vera to the +comrades. + +They elevated their brows and could not decide. And Felipe +Rivera, the scrubber for the Revolution, continued, as occasion +arose, to lay down gold and silver for the Junta's use. + +And still they could not bring themselves to like him. They did +not know him. His ways were not theirs. He gave no confidences. +He repelled all probing. Youth that he was, they could never +nerve themselves to dare to question him. + +"A great and lonely spirit, perhaps, I do not know, I do not +know," Arrellano said helplessly. + +"He is not human," said Ramos. + +"His soul has been seared," said May Sethby. "Light and +laughter have been burned out of him. He is like one dead, and +yet he is fearfully alive." + +"He has been through hell," said Vera. "No man could look like +that who has not been through hell--and he is only a boy." + +Yet they could not like him. He never talked, never inquired, +never suggested. He would stand listening, expressionless, a +thing dead, save for his eyes, coldly burning, while their talk +of the Revolution ran high and warm. From face to face and +speaker to speaker his eyes would turn, boring like gimlets of +incandescent ice, disconcerting and perturbing. + +"He is no spy," Vera confided to May Sethby. "He is a +patriot--mark me, the greatest patriot of us all. I know it, I +feel it, here in my heart and head I feel it. But him I know +not at all." + +"He has a bad temper," said May Sethby. + +"I know," said Vera, with a shudder. "He has looked at me with +those eyes of his. They do not love; they threaten; they are +savage as a wild tiger's. I know, if I should prove unfaithful +to the Cause, that he would kill me. He has no heart. He is +pitiless as steel, keen and cold as frost. He is like moonshine +in a winter night when a man freezes to death on some lonely +mountain top. I am not afraid of Diaz and all his killers; but +this boy, of him am I afraid. I tell you true. I am afraid. He +is the breath of death." + +Yet Vera it was who persuaded the others to give the first +trust to Rivera. The line of communication between Los Angeles +and Lower California had broken down. Three of the comrades had +dug their own graves and been shot into them. Two more were +United States prisoners in Los Angeles. Juan Alvarado, the +Federal commander, was a monster. All their plans did he +checkmate. They could no longer gain access to the active +revolutionists, and the incipient ones, in Lower California. + +Young Rivera was given his instructions and dispatched south. +When he returned, the line of communication was reestablished, +and Juan Alvarado was dead. He had been found in bed, a knife +hilt-deep in his breast. This had exceeded Rivera's +instructions, but they of the Junta knew the times of his +movements. They did not ask him. He said nothing. But they +looked at one another and conjectured. + +"I have told you," said Vera. "Diaz has more to fear from this +youth than from any man. He is implacable. He is the hand of +God." + +The bad temper, mentioned by May Sethby, and sensed by them +all, was evidenced by physical proofs. Now he appeared with a +cut lip, a blackened cheek, or a swollen ear. It was patent +that he brawled, somewhere in that outside world where he ate +and slept, gained money, and moved in ways unknown to them. As +the time passed, he had come to set type for the little +revolutionary sheet they published weekly. There were occasions +when he was unable to set type, when his knuckles were bruised +and battered, when his thumbs were injured and helpless, when +one arm or the other hung wearily at his side while his face +was drawn with unspoken pain. + +"A wastrel," said Arrellano. + +"A frequenter of low places," said Ramos. + +"But where does he get the money?" Vera demanded. "Only to-day, +just now, have I learned that he paid the bill for white +paper--one hundred and forty dollars." + +"There are his absences," said May Sethby. "He never explains +them." + +"We should set a spy upon him," Ramos propounded. + +"I should not care to be that spy," said Vera. "I fear you +would never see me again, save to bury me. He has a terrible +passion. Not even God would he permit to stand between him and +the way of his passion." + +"I feel like a child before him," Ramos confessed. + +"To me he is power--he is the primitive, the wild wolf, the +striking rattlesnake, the stinging centipede," said Arrellano. + +"He is the Revolution incarnate," said Vera. "He is the flame +and the spirit of it, the insatiable cry for vengeance that +makes no cry but that slays noiselessly. He is a destroying +angel in moving through the still watches of the night." + +"I could weep over him," said May Sethby. "He knows nobody. He +hates all people. Us he tolerates, for we are the way of his +desire. He is alone. . . . lonely." Her voice broke in a half +sob and there was dimness in her eyes. + +Rivera's ways and times were truly mysterious. There were +periods when they did not see him for a week at a time. Once, +he was away a month. These occasions were always capped by his +return, when, without advertisement or speech, he laid gold +coins on May Sethby's desk. Again, for days and weeks, he spent +all his time with the Junta. And yet again, for irregular +periods, he would disappear through the heart of each day, from +early morning until late afternoon. At such times he came early +and remained late. Arrellano had found him at midnight, setting +type with fresh swollen knuckles, or mayhap it was his lip, +new-split, that still bled. + +II + +The time of the crisis approached. Whether or not the +Revolution would be depended upon the Junta, and the Junta was +hard-pressed. The need for money was greater than ever before, +while money was harder to get. Patriots had given their last +cent and now could give no more. Section gang laborers-fugitive +peons from Mexico--were contributing half their scanty wages. +But more than that was needed. The heart-breaking, conspiring, +undermining toil of years approached fruition. The time was +ripe. The Revolution hung on the balance. One shove more, one +last heroic effort, and it would tremble across the scales to +victory. They knew their Mexico. Once started, the Revolution +would take care of itself. The whole Diaz machine would go down +like a house of cards. The border was ready to rise. One +Yankee, with a hundred I.W.W. men, waited the word to cross +over the border and begin the conquest of Lower California. But +he needed guns. And clear across to the Atlantic, the Junta in +touch with them all and all of them needing guns, mere +adventurers, soldiers of fortune, bandits, disgruntled American +union men, socialists, anarchists, rough-necks, Mexican exiles, +peons escaped from bondage, whipped miners from the bull-pens +of Coeur d'Alene and Colorado who desired only the more +vindictively to fight--all the flotsam and jetsam of wild +spirits from the madly complicated modern world. And it was +guns and ammunition, ammunition and guns--the unceasing and +eternal cry. + +Fling this heterogeneous, bankrupt, vindictive mass across the +border, and the Revolution was on. The custom house, the +northern ports of entry, would be captured. Diaz could not +resist. He dared not throw the weight of his armies against +them, for he must hold the south. And through the south the +flame would spread despite. The people would rise. The defenses +of city after city would crumple up. State after state would +totter down. And at last, from every side, the victorious +armies of the Revolution would close in on the City of Mexico +itself, Diaz's last stronghold. + +But the money. They had the men, impatient and urgent, who +would use the guns. They knew the traders who would sell and +deliver the guns. But to culture the Revolution thus far had +exhausted the Junta. The last dollar had been spent, the last +resource and the last starving patriot milked dry, and the +great adventure still trembled on the scales. Guns and +ammunition! The ragged battalions must be armed. But how? Ramos +lamented his confiscated estates. Arrellano wailed the +spendthriftness of his youth. May Sethby wondered if it would +have been different had they of the Junta been more economical +in the past. + +"To think that the freedom of Mexico should stand or fall on a +few paltry thousands of dollars," said Paulino Vera. + +Despair was in all their faces. Jose Amarillo, their last hope, +a recent convert, who had promised money, had been apprehended +at his hacienda in Chihuahua and shot against his own stable +wall. The news had just come through. + +Rivera, on his knees, scrubbing, looked up, with suspended +brush, his bare arms flecked with soapy, dirty water. + +"Will five thousand do it?" he asked. + +They looked their amazement. Vera nodded and swallowed. He +could not speak, but he was on the instant invested with a vast +faith. + +"Order the guns," Rivera said, and thereupon was guilty of the +longest flow of words they had ever heard him utter. "The time +is short. In three weeks I shall bring you the five thousand. +It is well. The weather will be warmer for those who fight. +Also, it is the best I can do." + +Vera fought his faith. It was incredible. Too many fond hopes +had been shattered since he had begun to play the revolution +game. He believed this threadbare scrubber of the Revolution, +and yet he dared not believe. + +"You are crazy," he said. + +"In three weeks," said Rivera. "Order the guns." + +He got up, rolled down his sleeves, and put on his coat. + +"Order the guns," he said. + +"I am going now." + +III + +After hurrying and scurrying, much telephoning and bad +language, a night session was held in Kelly's office. Kelly was +rushed with business; also, he was unlucky. He had brought +Danny Ward out from New York, arranged the fight for him with +Billy Carthey, the date was three weeks away, and for two days +now, carefully concealed from the sporting writers, Carthey had +been lying up, badly injured. There was no one to take his +place. Kelly had been burning the wires East to every eligible +lightweight, but they were tied up with dates and contracts. +And now hope had revived, though faintly. + +"You've got a hell of a nerve," Kelly addressed Rivera, after +one look, as soon as they got together. + +Hate that was malignant was in Rivera's eyes, but his face +remained impassive. + +"I can lick Ward," was all he said. + +"How do you know? Ever see him fight?" + +Rivera shook his head. + +"He can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed." + +Rivera shrugged his shoulders. + +"Haven't you got anything to say?" the fight promoter snarled. + +"I can lick him." + +"Who'd you ever fight, anyway!" Michael Kelly demanded. Michael +was the promotor's brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms +where he made goodly sums on the fight game. + +Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare. + +The promoter's secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, +sneered audibly. + +"Well, you know Roberts," Kelly broke the hostile silence. "He +ought to be here. I've sent for him. Sit down and wait, though +f rom the looks of you, you haven't got a chance. I can't throw +the public down with a bum fight. Ringside seats are selling at +fifteen dollars, you know that." + +When Roberts arrived, it was patent that he was mildly drunk. +He was a tall, lean, slack-jointed individual, and his walk, +like his talk, was a smooth and languid drawl. + +Kelly went straight to the point. + +"Look here, Roberts, you've been bragging you discovered this +little Mexican. You know Carthey's broke his arm. Well, this +little yellow streak has the gall to blow in to-day and say +he'll take Carthey's place. What about it?" + +"It's all right, Kelly," came the slow response. "He can put up +a fight." + +"I suppose you'll be sayin' next that he can lick Ward," Kelly +snapped. + +Roberts considered judicially. + +"No, I won't say that. Ward's a top-notcher and a ring general. +But he can't hashhouse Rivera in short order. I know Rivera. +Nobody can get his goat. He ain't got a goat that I could ever +discover. And he's a two-handed fighter. He can throw in the +sleep-makers from any position." + +"Never mind that. What kind of a show can he put up? You've +been conditioning and training fighters all your life. I take +off my hat to your judgment. Can he give the public a run for +its money?" + +"He sure can, and he'll worry Ward a mighty heap on top of it. +You don't know that boy. I do. I discovered him. He ain't got a +goat. He's a devil. He's a wizzy-wooz if anybody should ask +you. He'll make Ward sit up with a show of local talent that'll +make the rest of you sit up. I won't say he'll lick Ward, but +he'll put up such a show that you'll all know he's a comer." + +"All right." Kelly turned to his secretary. "Ring up Ward. I +warned him to show up if I thought it worth while. He's right +across at the Yellowstone, throwin' chests and doing the +popular." + +Kelly turned back to the conditioner. "Have a drink?" + +Roberts sipped his highball and unburdened himself. + +"Never told you how I discovered the little cuss. It was a +couple of years ago he showed up out at the quarters. I was +getting Prayne ready for his fight with Delaney. Prayne's +wicked. He ain't got a tickle of mercy in his make-up. I +chopped up his pardner's something cruel, and I couldn't find a +willing boy that'd work with him. I'd noticed this little +starved Mexican kid hanging around, and I was desperate. So I +grabbed him, shoved on the gloves and put him in. He was +tougher'n rawhide, but weak. And he didn't know the first +letter in the alphabet of boxing. Prayne chopped him to +ribbons. But he hung on for two sickening rounds, when he +fainted. Starvation, that was all. Battered! You couldn't have +recognized him. I gave him half a dollar and a square meal. You +oughta seen him wolf it down. He hadn't had the end of a bite +for a couple of days. That's the end of him, thinks I. But next +day he showed up, stiff an' sore, ready for another half and a +square meal. And he done better as time went by. Just a born +fighter, and tough beyond belief. He hasn't a heart. He's a +piece of ice. And he never talked eleven words in a string +since I know him. He saws wood and does his work." + +"I've seen 'm," the secretary said. "He's worked a lot for you." + +"All the big little fellows has tried out on him," Roberts +answered. "And he's learned from 'em. I've seen some of them he +could lick. But his heart wasn't in it. I reckoned he never +liked the game. He seemed to act that way." + +"He's been fighting some before the little clubs the last few +months," Kelly said. + +"Sure. But I don't know what struck 'm. All of a sudden his +heart got into it. He just went out like a streak and cleaned +up all the little local fellows. Seemed to want the money, and +he's won a bit, though his clothes don't look it. He's +peculiar. Nobody knows his business. Nobody knows how he spends +his time. Even when he's on the job, he plumb up and disappears +most of each day soon as his work is done. Sometimes he just +blows away for weeks at a time. But he don't take advice. +There's a fortune in it for the fellow that gets the job of +managin' him, only he won't consider it. And you watch him hold +out for the cash money when you get down to terms." + +It was at this stage that Danny Ward arrived. Quite a party it +was. His manager and trainer were with him, and he breezed in +like a gusty draught of geniality, good-nature, and +all-conqueringness. Greetings flew about, a joke here, a retort +there, a smile or a laugh for everybody. Yet it was his way, +and only partly sincere. He was a good actor, and he had found +geniality a most valuable asset in the game of getting on in +the world. But down underneath he was the deliberate, +cold-blooded fighter and business man. The rest was a mask. +Those who knew him or trafficked with him said that when it +came to brass tacks he was Danny-on-the-Spot. He was invariably +present at all business discussions, and it was urged by some +that his manager was a blind whose only function was to serve +as Danny's mouth-piece. + +Rivera's way was different. Indian blood, as well as Spanish, +was in his veins, and he sat back in a corner, silent, +immobile, only his black eyes passing from face to face and +noting everything. + +"So that's the guy," Danny said, running an appraising eye over +his proposed antagonist. "How de do, old chap." + +Rivera's eyes burned venomously, but he made no sign of +acknowledgment. He disliked all Gringos, but this Gringo he +hated with an immediacy that was unusual even in him. + +"Gawd!" Danny protested facetiously to the promoter. "You ain't +expectin' me to fight a deef mute." When the laughter subsided, +he made another hit. "Los Angeles must be on the dink when this +is the best you can scare up. What kindergarten did you get 'm +from?" + +"He's a good little boy, Danny, take it from me," Roberts +defended. "Not as easy as he looks." + +"And half the house is sold already," Kelly pleaded. "You'll +have to take 'm on, Danny. It is the best we can do." + +Danny ran another careless and unflattering glance over Rivera +and sighed. + +"I gotta be easy with 'm, I guess. If only he don't blow up." + +Roberts snorted. + +"You gotta be careful," Danny's manager warned. "No taking +chances with a dub that's likely to sneak a lucky one across." + +"Oh, I'll be careful all right, all right," Danny smiled. "I'll +get in at the start an' nurse 'im along for the dear public's +sake. What d' ye say to fifteen rounds, Kelly--an' then the hay +for him?" + +"That'll do," was the answer. "As long as you make it +realistic." + +"Then let's get down to biz." Danny paused and calculated. "Of +course, sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts, same as with +Carthey. But the split'll be different. Eighty will just about +suit me." And to his manager, "That right?" + +The manager nodded. + +"Here, you, did you get that?" Kelly asked Rivera. + +Rivera shook his head. + +"Well, it is this way," Kelly exposited. "The purse'll be +sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts. You're a dub, and an +unknown. You and Danny split, twenty per cent goin' to you, an' +eighty to Danny. That's fair, isn't it, Roberts?" + +"Very fair, Rivera," Roberts agreed. + +"You see, you ain't got a reputation yet." + +"What will sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts be?" Rivera +demanded. + +"Oh, maybe five thousand, maybe as high as eight thousand," +Danny broke in to explain. "Something like that. Your share'll +come to something like a thousand or sixteen hundred. Pretty +good for takin' a licking from a guy with my reputation. What +d' ye say?" + +Then Rivera took their breaths away. "Winner takes all," he +said with finality. + +A dead silence prevailed. + +"It's like candy from a baby," Danny's manager proclaimed. + +Danny shook his head. + +"I've been in the game too long," he explained. + +"I'm not casting reflections on the referee, or the present +company. I'm not sayin' nothing about book-makers an' frame-ups +that sometimes happen. But what I do say is that it's poor +business for a fighter like me. I play safe. There's no +tellin'. Mebbe I break my arm, eh? Or some guy slips me a bunch +of dope?" He shook his head solemnly. "Win or lose, eighty is +my split. What d' ye say, Mexican?" + +Rivera shook his head. + +Danny exploded. He was getting down to brass tacks now. + +"Why, you dirty little greaser! I've a mind to knock your block +off right now." + +Roberts drawled his body to interposition between hostilities. + +"Winner takes all," Rivera repeated sullenly. + +"Why do you stand out that way?" Danny asked. + +"I can lick you," was the straight answer. + +Danny half started to take off his coat. But, as his manager +knew, it was a grand stand play. The coat did not come off, and +Danny allowed himself to be placated by the group. Everybody +sympathized with him. Rivera stood alone. + +"Look here, you little fool," Kelly took up the argument. +"You're nobody. We know what you ve been doing the last few +months--putting away little local fighters. But Danny is class. +His next fight after this will be for the championship. And +you're unknown. Nobody ever heard of you out of Los Angeles." + +"They will," Rivera answered with a shrug, "after this fight." + +"You think for a second you can lick me?" Danny blurted in. + +Rivera nodded. + +"Oh, come; listen to reason," Kelly pleaded. "Think of the +advertising." + +"I want the money," was Rivera's answer. + +"You couldn't win from me in a thousand years," Danny assured +him. + +"Then what are you holdin' out for?" Rivera countered. "If the +money's that easy, why don't you go after it?" + +"I will, so help me!" Danny cried with abrupt conviction. "I'Il +beat you to death in the ring, my boy--you monkeyin' with me +this way. Make out the articles, Kelly. Winner take all. Play +it up in the sportin' columns. Tell 'em it's a grudge fight. +I'll show this fresh kid a few." + +Kelly's secretary had begun to write, when Danny interrupted. + +"Hold on!" He turned to Rivera. + +"Weights?" + +"Ringside," came the answer. + +"Not on your life, Fresh Kid. If winner takes all, we weigh in +at ten A.M." + +"And winner takes all?" Rivera queried. + +Danny nodded. That settled it. He would enter the ring in his +full ripeness of strength. + +"Weigh in at ten," Rivera said. + +The secretary's pen went on scratching. + +"It means five pounds," Roberts complained to Rivera. + +"You've given too much away. You've thrown the fight right +there. Danny'll lick you sure. He'll be as strong as a bull. +You're a fool. You ain't got the chance of a dewdrop in hell." + +Rivera's answer was a calculated look of hatred. Even this +Gringo he despised, and him had he found the whitest Gringo of +them all. + +IV + +Barely noticed was Rivera as he entered the ring. Only a very +slight and very scattering ripple of half-hearted hand-clapping +greeted him. The house did not believe in him. He was the lamb +led to slaughter at the hands of the great Danny. Besides, the +house was disappointed. It had expected a rushing battle +between Danny Ward and Billy Carthey, and here it must put up +with this poor little tyro. Still further, it had manifested +its disapproval of the change by betting two, and even three, +to one on Danny. And where a betting audience's money is, there +is its heart. + +The Mexican boy sat down in his corner and waited. The slow +minutes lagged by. Danny was making him wait. It was an old +trick, but ever it worked on the young, new fighters. They grew +frightened, sitting thus and facing their own apprehensions and +a callous, tobacco-smoking audience. But for once the trick +failed. Roberts was right. Rivera had no goat. He, who was more +delicately coordinated, more finely nerved and strung than any +of them, had no nerves of this sort. The atmosphere of +foredoomed defeat in his own corner had no effect on him. His +handlers were Gringos and strangers. Also they were scrubs--the +dirty driftage of the fight game, without honor, without +efficiency. And they were chilled, as well, with certitude that +theirs was the losing corner. + +"Now you gotta be careful," Spider Hagerty warned him. Spider +was his chief second. "Make it last as long as you can--them's +my instructions from Kelly. If you don't, the papers'll call it +another bum fight and give the game a bigger black eye in Los +Angeles." + +All of which was not encouraging. But Rivera took no notice. He +despised prize fighting. It was the hated game of the hated +Gringo. He had taken up with it, as a chopping block for others +in the training quarters, solely because he was starving. The +fact that he was marvelously made for it had meant nothing. He +hated it. Not until he had come in to the Junta, had he fought +for money, and he had found the money easy. Not first among the +sons of men had he been to find himself successful at a +despised vocation. + +He did not analyze. He merely knew that he must win this fight. +There could be no other outcome. For behind him, nerving him to +this belief, were profounder forces than any the crowded house +dreamed. Danny Ward fought for money, and for the easy ways of +life that money would bring. But the things Rivera fought for +burned in his brain--blazing and terrible visions, that, with +eyes wide open, sitting lonely in the corner of the ring and +waiting for his tricky antagonist, he saw as clearly as he had +lived them. + +He saw the white-walled, water-power factories of Rio Blanco. +He saw the six thousand workers, starved and wan, and the +little children, seven and eight years of age, who toiled long +shifts for ten cents a day. He saw the perambulating corpses, +the ghastly death's heads of men who labored in the dye-rooms. +He remembered that he had heard his father call the dye-rooms +the "suicide-holes," where a year was death. He saw the little +patio, and his mother cooking and moiling at crude housekeeping +and finding time to caress and love him. And his father he saw, +large, big-moustached and deep-chested, kindly above all men, +who loved all men and whose heart was so large that there was +love to overflowing still left for the mother and the little +muchacho playing in the corner of the patio. In those days his +name had not been Felipe Rivera. It had been Fernandez, his +father's and mother's name. Him had they called Juan. Later, he +had changed it himself, for he had found the name of Fernandez +hated by prefects of police, jefes politicos, and rurales. + +Big, hearty Joaquin Fernandez! A large place he occupied in +Rivera's visions. He had not understood at the time, but +looking back he could understand. He could see him setting type +in the little printery, or scribbling endless hasty, nervous +lines on the much-cluttered desk. And he could see the strange +evenings, when workmen, coming secretly in the dark like men +who did ill deeds, met with his father and talked long hours +where he, the muchacho, lay not always asleep in the corner. + +As from a remote distance he could hear Spider Hagerty saying +to him: "No layin' down at the start. Them's instructions. Take +a beatin' and earn your dough." + +Ten minutes had passed, and he still sat in his comer. There +were no signs of Danny, who was evidently playing the trick to +the limit. + +But more visions burned before the eye of Rivera's memory. The +strike, or, rather, the lockout, because the workers of Rio +Blanco had helped their striking brothers of Puebla. The +hunger, the expeditions in the hills for berries, the roots and +herbs that all ate and that twisted and pained the stomachs of +all of them. And then, the nightmare; the waste of ground +before the company's store; the thousands of starving workers; +General Rosalio Martinez and the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz, and +the death-spitting rifles that seemed never to cease spitting, +while the workers' wrongs were washed and washed again in their +own blood. And that night! He saw the flat cars, piled high +with the bodies of the slain, consigned to Vera Cruz, food for +the sharks of the bay. Again he crawled over the grisly heaps, +seeking and finding, stripped and mangled, his father and his +mother. His mother he especially remembered--only her face +projecting, her body burdened by the weight of dozens of +bodies. Again the rifles of the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz +cracked, and again he dropped to the ground and slunk away like +some hunted coyote of the hills. + +To his ears came a great roar, as of the sea, and he saw Danny +Ward, leading his retinue of trainers and seconds, coming down +the center aisle. The house was in wild uproar for the popular +hero who was bound to win. Everybody proclaimed him. Everybody +was for him. Even Rivera's own seconds warmed to something akin +to cheerfulness when Danny ducked jauntily through the ropes +and entered the ring. His face continually spread to an +unending succession of smiles, and when Danny smiled he smiled +in every feature, even to the laughter-wrinkles of the corners +of the eyes and into the depths of the eyes themselves. Never +was there so genial a fighter. His face was a running +advertisement of good feeling, of good fellowship. He knew +everybody. He joked, and laughed, and greeted his friends +through the ropes. Those farther away, unable to suppress their +admiration, cried loudly: "Oh, you Danny!" It was a joyous +ovation of affection that lasted a full five minutes. + +Rivera was disregarded. For all that the audience noticed, he +did not exist. Spider Lagerty's bloated face bent down close to +his. + +"No gettin' scared," the Spider warned. + +"An' remember instructions. You gotta last. No layin' down. If +you lay down, we got instructions to beat you up in the +dressing rooms. Savve? You just gotta fight." + +The house began to applaud. Danny was crossing the ring to him. +Danny bent over, caught Rivera's right hand in both his own and +shook it with impulsive heartiness. Danny's smile-wreathed face +was close to his. The audience yelled its appreciation of +Danny's display of sporting spirit. He was greeting his +opponent with the fondness of a brother. Danny's lips moved, +and the audience, interpreting the unheard words to be those of +a kindly-natured sport, yelled again. Only Rivera heard the low +words. + +"You little Mexican rat," hissed from between Danny's gaily +smiling lips, "I'll fetch the yellow outa you." + +Rivera made no move. He did not rise. He merely hated with his +eyes. + +"Get up, you dog!" some man yelled through the ropes from +behind. + +The crowd began to hiss and boo him for his unsportsmanlike +conduct, but he sat unmoved. Another great outburst of applause +was Danny's as he walked back across the ring. + +When Danny stripped, there was ohs! and ahs! of delight. His +body was perfect, alive with easy suppleness and health and +strength. The skin was white as a woman's, and as smooth. All +grace, and resilience, and power resided therein. He had proved +it in scores of battles. His photographs were in all the +physical culture magazines. + +A groan went up as Spider Hagerty peeled Rivera's sweater over +his head. His body seemed leaner, because of the swarthiness of +the skin. He had muscles, but they made no display like his +opponent's. What the audience neglected to see was the deep +chest. Nor could it guess the toughness of the fiber of the +flesh, the instantaneousness of the cell explosions of the +muscles, the fineness of the nerves that wired every part of +him into a spendid fighting mechanism. All the audience saw was +a brown-skinned boy of eighteen with what seemed the body of a +boy. With Danny it was different. Danny was a man of +twenty-four, and his body was a man's body. The contrast was +still more striking as they stood together in the center of the +ring receiving the referee's last instructions. + +Rivera noticed Roberts sitting directly behind the newspaper +men. He was drunker than usual, and his speech was +correspondingly slower. + +"Take it easy, Rivera," Roberts drawled. + +"He can't kill you, remember that. He'll rush you at the +go-off, but don't get rattled. You just and stall, and clinch. +He can't hurt cover up, much. Just make believe to yourself +that he's choppin' out on you at the trainin' quarters." + +Rivera made no sign that he had heard. + +"Sullen little devil," Roberts muttered to the man next to him. +"He always was that way." + +But Rivera forgot to look his usual hatred. A vision of +countless rifles blinded his eyes. Every face in the aidience, +far as he could see, to the high dollar-seats, was transformed +into a rifle. And he saw the long Mexican border arid and +sun-washed and aching, and along it he saw the ragged bands +that delayed only for the guns. + +Back in his corner he waited, standing up. His seconds had +crawled out through the ropes, taking the canvas stool with +them. Diagonally across the squared ring, Danny faced him. The +gong struck, and the battle was on. The audience howled its +delight. Never had it seen a battle open more convincingly. The +papers were right. It was a grudge fight. Three-quarters of the +distance Danny covered in the rush to get together, his +intention to eat up the Mexican lad plainly advertised. He +assailed with not one blow, nor two, nor a dozen. He was a +gyroscope of blows, a whirlwind of destruction. Rivera was +nowhere. He was overwhelmed, buried beneath avalanches of +punches delivered from every angle and position by a past +master in the art. He was overborne, swept back against the +ropes, separated by the referee, and swept back against the +ropes again. + +It was not a fight. It was a slaughter, a massacre. Any +audience, save a prize fighting one, would have exhausted its +emotions in that first minute. Danny was certainly showing what +he could do--a splendid exhibition. Such was the certainty of +the audience, as well as its excitement and favoritism, that it +failed to take notice that the Mexican still stayed on his +feet. It forgot Rivera. It rarely saw him, so closely was he +enveloped in Danny's man-eating attack. A minute of this went +by, and two minutes. Then, in a separation, it caught a clear +glimpse of the Mexican. His lip was cut, his nose was bleeding. +As he turned and staggered into a clinch, the welts of oozing +blood, from his contacts with the ropes, showed in red bars. +across his back. But what the audience did not notice was that +his chest was not heaving and that his eyes were coldly burning +as ever. Too many aspiring champions, in the cruel welter of +the training camps, had practiced this man-eating attack on +him. He had learned to live through for a compensation of from +half a dollar a go up to fifteen dollars a week--a hard school, +and he was schooled hard. + +Then happened the amazing thing. The whirling, blurring mix-up +ceased suddenly. Rivera stood alone. Danny, the redoubtable +Danny, lay on his back. His body quivered as consciousness +strove to return to it. He had not staggered and sunk down, nor +had he gone over in a long slumping fall. The right hook of +Rivera had dropped him in midair with the abruptness of death. +The referee shoved Rivera back with one hand, and stood over +the fallen gladiator counting the seconds. It is the custom of +prize-fighting audiences to cheer a clean knock-down blow. But +this audience did not cheer. The thing had been too unexpected. +It watched the toll of the seconds in tense silence, and +through this silence the voice of Roberts rose exultantly: + +"I told you he was a two-handed fighter!" + +By the fifth second, Danny was rolling over on his face, and +when seven was counted, he rested on one knee, ready to rise +after the count of nine and before the count of ten. If his +knee still touched the floor at "ten," he was considered +"down," and also "out." The instant his knee left the floor, he +was considered "up," and in that instant it was Rivera's right +to try and put him down again. Rivera took no chances. The +moment that knee left the floor he would strike again. He +circled around, but the referee circled in between, and Rivera +knew that the seconds he counted were very slow. All Gringos +were against him, even the referee. + +At "nine" the referee gave Rivera a sharp thrust back. It was +unfair, but it enabled Danny to rise, the smile back on his +lips. Doubled partly over, with arms wrapped about face and +abdomen, he cleverly stumbled into a clinch. By all the rules +of the game the referee should have broken it, but he did not, +and Danny clung on like a surf-battered barnacle and moment by +moment recuperated. The last minute of the round was going +fast. If he could live to the end, he would have a full minute +in his corner to revive. And live to the end he did, smiling +through all desperateness and extremity. + +"The smile that won't come off!" somebody yelled, and the +audience laughed loudly in its relief. + +"The kick that Greaser's got is something God-awful," Danny +gasped in his corner to his adviser while his handlers worked +frantically over him. + +The second and third rounds were tame. Danny, a tricky and +consummate ring general, stalled and blocked and held on, +devoting himself to recovering from that dazing first-round +blow. In the fourth round he was himself again. Jarred and +shaken, nevertheless his good condition had enabled him to +regain his vigor. But he tried no man-eating tactics. The +Mexican had proved a tartar. Instead, he brought to bear his +best fighting powers. In tricks and skill and experience he was +the master, and though he could land nothing vital, he +proceeded scientifically to chop and wear down his opponent. He +landed three blows to Rivera's one, but they were punishing +blows only, and not deadly. It was the sum of many of them that +constituted deadliness. He was respectful of this two-handed +dub with the amazing short-arm kicks in both his fists. + +In defense, Rivera developed a disconcerting straight-left. +Again and again, attack after attack he straight-lefted away +from him with accumulated damage to Danny's mouth and nose. But +Danny was protean. That was why he was the coming champion. He +could change from style to style of fighting at will. He now +devoted himself to infighting. In this he was particularly +wicked, and it enabled him to avoid the other's straight-left. +Here he set the house wild repeatedly, capping it with a +marvelous lockbreak and lift of an inside upper-cut that raised +the Mexican in the air and dropped him to the mat. Rivera +rested on one knee, making the most of the count, and in the +soul of him he knew the referee was counting short seconds on him. + +Again, in the seventh, Danny achieved the diabolical inside +uppercut. He succeeded only in staggering Rivera, but, in the +ensuing moment of defenseless helplessness, he smashed him with +another blow through the ropes. Rivera's body bounced on the +heads of the newspaper men below, and they boosted him back to +the edge of the platform outside the ropes. Here he rested on +one knee, while the referee raced off the seconds. Inside the +ropes, through which he must duck to enter the ring, Danny +waited for him. Nor did the referee intervene or thrust Danny +back. + +The house was beside itself with delight. + +"Kill'm, Danny, kill'm!" was the cry. + +Scores of voices took it up until it was like a war-chant of +wolves. + +Danny did his best, but Rivera, at the count of eight, instead +of nine, came unexpectedly through the ropes and safely into a +clinch. Now the referee worked, tearing him away so that he +could be hit, giving Danny every advantage that an unfair +referee can give. + +But Rivera lived, and the daze cleared from his brain. It was +all of a piece. They were the hated Gringos and they were all +unfair. And in the worst of it visions continued to flash and +sparkle in his brain--long lines of railroad track that +simmered across the desert; rurales and American constables, +prisons and calabooses; tramps at water tanks--all the squalid +and painful panorama of his odyssey after Rio Blanca and the +strike. And, resplendent and glorious, he saw the great, red +Revolution sweeping across his land. The guns were there before +him. Every hated face was a gun. It was for the guns he fought. +He was the guns. He was the Revolution. He fought for all +Mexico. + +The audience began to grow incensed with Rivera. Why didn't he +take the licking that was appointed him? Of course he was going +to be licked, but why should he be so obstinate about it? Very +few were interested in him, and they were the certain, definite +percentage of a gambling crowd that plays long shots. Believing +Danny to be the winner, nevertheless the y had put their money +on the Mexican at four to ten and one to three. More than a +trifle was up on the point of how many rounds Rivera could +last. Wild money had appeared at the ringside proclaiming that +he could not last seven rounds, or even six. The winners of +this, now that their cash risk was happily settled, had joined +in cheering on the favorite. + +Rivera refused to be licked. Through the eighth round his +opponent strove vainly to repeat the uppercut. In the ninth, +Rivera stunned the house again. In the midst of a clinch he +broke the lock with a quick, lithe movement, and in the narrow +space between their bodies his right lifted from the waist. +Danny went to the floor and took the safety of the count. The +crowd was appalled. He was being bested at his own game. His +famous right-uppercut had been worked back on him. Rivera made +no attempt to catch him as he arose at "nine." The referee was +openly blocking that play, though he stood clear when the +situation was reversed and it was Rivera who desired to rise. + +Twice in the tenth, Rivera put through the right-uppercut, +lifted from waist to opponent's chin. Danny grew desperate. The +smile never left his face, but he went back to his man-eating +rushes. Whirlwind as he would, be could not damage Rivera, +while Rivera through the blur and whirl, dropped him to the mat +three times in succession. Danny did not recuperate so quickly +now, and by the eleventh round he was in a serious way. But +from then till the fourteenth he put up the gamest exhibition +of his career. He stalled and blocked, fought parsimoniously, +and strove to gather strength. Also, he fought as foully as a +successful fighter knows how. Every trick and device he +employed, butting in the clinches with the seeming of accident, +pinioning Rivera's glove between arm and body, heeling his +glove on Rivera's mouth to clog his breathing. Often, in the +clinches, through his cut and smiling lips he snarled insults +unspeakable and vile in Rivera's ear. Everybody, from the +referee to the house, was with Danny and was helping Danny. And +they knew what he had in mind. Bested by this surprise-box of +an unknown, he was pinning all on a single punch. He offered +himself for punishment, fished, and feinted, and drew, for that +one opening that would enable him to whip a blow through with +all his strength and turn the tide. As another and greater +fighter had done before him, he might do a right and left, to +solar plexus and across the jaw. He could do it, for he was +noted for the strength of punch that remained in his arms as +long as he could keep his feet. + +Rivera's seconds were not half-caring for him in the intervals +between rounds. Their towels made a showing, but drove little +air into his panting lungs. Spider Hagerty talked advice to +him, but Rivera knew it was wrong advice. Everybody was against +him. He was surrounded by treachery. In the fourteenth round he +put Danny down again, and himself stood resting, hands dropped +at side, while the referee counted. In the other corner Rivera +had been noting suspicious whisperings. He saw Michael Kelly +make his way to Roberts and bend and whisper. Rivera's ears +were a cat's, desert-trained, and he caught snatches of what +was said. He wanted to hear more, and when his opponent arose +he maneuvered the fight into a clinch over against the ropes. + +"Got to," he could hear Michael, while Roberts nodded. "Danny's +got to win--I stand to lose a mint--I've got a ton of money +covered--my own. If he lasts the fifteenth I'm bust--the boy'll +mind you. Put something across." + +And thereafter Rivera saw no more visions. They were trying to +job him. Once again he dropped Danny and stood resting, his +hands at his slide. Roberts stood up. + +"That settled him," he said. + +"Go to your corner." + +He spoke with authority, as he had often spoken to Rivera at +the training quarters. But Rivera looked hatred at him and +waited for Danny to rise. Back in his corner in the minute +interval, Kelly, the promoter, came and talked to Rivera. + +"Throw it, damn you," he rasped in, a harsh low voice. "You +gotta lay down, Rivera. Stick with me and I'll make your +future. I'll let you lick Danny next time. But here's where you +lay down." + +Rivera showed with his eyes that he heard, but he made neither +sign of assent nor dissent. + +"Why don't you speak?" Kelly demanded angrily. + +"You lose, anyway," Spider Hagerty supplemented. "The +referee'll take it away from you. Listen to Kelly, and lay +down." + +"Lay down, kid," Kelly pleaded, "and I'll help you to the +championship." + +Rivera did not answer. + +"I will, so help me, kid." + +At the strike of the gong Rivera sensed something impending. +The house did not. Whatever it was it was there inside the ring +with him and very close. Danny's earlier surety seemed returned +to him. The confidence of his advance frightened Rivera. Some +trick was about to be worked. Danny rushed, but Rivera refused +the encounter. He side-stepped away into safety. What the other +wanted was a clinch. It was in some way necessary to the trick. +Rivera backed and circled away, yet he knew, sooner or later, +the clinch and the trick would come. Desperately he resolved to +draw it. He made as if to effect the clinch with Danny's next +rush. Instead, at the last instant, just as their bodies should +have come together, Rivera darted nimbly back. And in the same +instant Danny's corner raised a cry of foul. Rivera had fooled +them. The referee paused irresolutely. The decision that +trembled on his lips was never uttered, for a shrill, boy's +voice from the gallery piped, "Raw work!" + +Danny cursed Rivera openly, and forced him, while Rivera danced +away. Also, Rivera made up his mind to strike no more blows at +the body. In this he threw away half his chance of winning, but +he knew if he was to win at all it was with the outfighting +that remained to him. Given the least opportunity, they would +lie a foul on him. Danny threw all caution to the winds. For +two rounds he tore after and into the boy who dared not meet +him at close quarters. Rivera was struck again and again; he +took blows by the dozens to avoid the perilous clinch. During +this supreme final rally of Danny's the audience rose to its +feet and went mad. It did not understand. All it could see was +that its favorite was winning, after all. + +"Why don't you fight?" it demanded wrathfully of Rivera. + +"You're yellow! You're yellow!" "Open up, you cur! Open up!" +"Kill'm, Danny! Kill 'm!" "You sure got 'm! Kill 'm!" + +In all the house, bar none, Rivera was the only cold man. By +temperament and blood he was the hottest-passioned there; but +he had gone through such vastly greater heats that this +collective passion of ten thousand throats, rising surge on +surge, was to his brain no more than the velvet cool of a +summer twilight. + +Into the seventeenth round Danny carried his rally. Rivera, +under a heavy blow, drooped and sagged. His hands dropped +helplessly as he reeled backward. Danny thought it was his +chance. The boy was at, his mercy. Thus Rivera, feigning, +caught him off his guard, lashing out a clean drive to the +mouth. Danny went down. When he arose, Rivera felled him with a +down-chop of the right on neck and jaw. Three times he repeated +this. It was impossible for any referee to call these blows +foul. + +"Oh, Bill! Bill!" Kelly pleaded to the referee. + +"I can't," that official lamented back. "He won't give me a +chance." + +Danny, battered and heroic, still kept coming up. Kelly and +others near to the ring began to cry out to the police to stop +it, though Danny's corner refused to throw in the towel. Rivera +saw the fat police captain starting awkwardly to climb through +the ropes, and was not sure what it meant. There were so many +ways of cheating in this game of the Gringos. Danny, on his +feet, tottered groggily and helplessly before him. The referee +and the captain were both reaching for Rivera when he struck +the last blow. There was no need to stop the fight, for Danny +did not rise. + +"Count!" Rivera cried hoarsely to the referee. + +And when the count was finished, Danny's seconds gathered him +up and carried him to his corner. + +"Who wins?" Rivera demanded. + +Reluctantly, the referee caught his gloved hand and held it +aloft. + +There were no congratulations for Rivera. He walked to his +corner unattended, where his seconds had not yet placed his +stool. He leaned backward on the ropes and looked his hatred at +them, swept it on and about him till the whole ten thousand +Gringos were included. His knees trembled under him, and he was +sobbing from exhaustion. Before his eyes the hated faces swayed +back and forth in the giddiness of nausea. Then he remembered +they were the guns. The guns were his. The Revolution could go +on. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Night-Born, by Jack London + diff --git a/old/old/ntbrn10.zip b/old/old/ntbrn10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8706fe9 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/ntbrn10.zip |