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diff --git a/1089-h/1089-h.htm b/1089-h/1089-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bd3a148 --- /dev/null +++ b/1089-h/1089-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6532 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta charset="UTF-8" /> + <title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Moon-face and Other Stories, by Jack London</title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover" /> +<style> /* <![CDATA[ */ + + + 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;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + + +.ph2 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2,h3 {page-break-before: avoid;} +.poem {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} + /* ]]> */ </style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1089 ***</div> + + + + + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + MOON-FACE AND OTHER STORIES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <div class='ph2'> + By Jack London + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Contents + </h2></div> + <table style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> MOON-FACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE LEOPARD MAN’S STORY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> LOCAL COLOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> AMATEUR NIGHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE MINIONS OF MIDAS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE SHADOW AND THE FLASH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ALL GOLD CANYON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> PLANCHETTE </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a id="link2H_4_0001"></a> + </p> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + MOON-FACE + </h2></div> + <p> + John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-bones wide + apart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete the perfect + round, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from the circumference, + flattened against the very centre of the face like a dough-ball upon the + ceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly he had become an + offense to my eyes, and I believed the earth to be cumbered with his + presence. Perhaps my mother may have been superstitious of the moon and + looked upon it over the wrong shoulder at the wrong time. + </p> + <p> + Be that as it may, I hated John Claverhouse. Not that he had done me what + society would consider a wrong or an ill turn. Far from it. The evil was + of a deeper, subtler sort; so elusive, so intangible, as to defy clear, + definite analysis in words. We all experience such things at some period + in our lives. For the first time we see a certain individual, one who the + very instant before we did not dream existed; and yet, at the first moment + of meeting, we say: “I do not like that man.” Why do we not like him? Ah, + we do not know why; we know only that we do not. We have taken a dislike, + that is all. And so I with John Claverhouse. + </p> + <p> + What right had such a man to be happy? Yet he was an optimist. He was + always gleeful and laughing. All things were always all right, curse him! + Ah I how it grated on my soul that he should be so happy! Other men could + laugh, and it did not bother me. I even used to laugh myself—before + I met John Claverhouse. + </p> + <p> + But his laugh! It irritated me, maddened me, as nothing else under the sun + could irritate or madden me. It haunted me, gripped hold of me, and would + not let me go. It was a huge, Gargantuan laugh. Waking or sleeping it was + always with me, whirring and jarring across my heart-strings like an + enormous rasp. At break of day it came whooping across the fields to spoil + my pleasant morning revery. Under the aching noonday glare, when the green + things drooped and the birds withdrew to the depths of the forest, and all + nature drowsed, his great “Ha! ha!” and “Ho! ho!” rose up to the sky and + challenged the sun. And at black midnight, from the lonely cross-roads + where he turned from town into his own place, came his plaguey + cachinnations to rouse me from my sleep and make me writhe and clench my + nails into my palms. + </p> + <p> + I went forth privily in the night-time, and turned his cattle into his + fields, and in the morning heard his whooping laugh as he drove them out + again. “It is nothing,” he said; “the poor, dumb beasties are not to be + blamed for straying into fatter pastures.” + </p> + <p> + He had a dog he called “Mars,” a big, splendid brute, part deer-hound and + part blood-hound, and resembling both. Mars was a great delight to him, + and they were always together. But I bided my time, and one day, when + opportunity was ripe, lured the animal away and settled for him with + strychnine and beefsteak. It made positively no impression on John + Claverhouse. His laugh was as hearty and frequent as ever, and his face as + much like the full moon as it always had been. + </p> + <p> + Then I set fire to his haystacks and his barn. But the next morning, being + Sunday, he went forth blithe and cheerful. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” I asked him, as he went by the cross-roads. + </p> + <p> + “Trout,” he said, and his face beamed like a full moon. “I just dote on + trout.” + </p> + <p> + Was there ever such an impossible man! His whole harvest had gone up in + his haystacks and barn. It was uninsured, I knew. And yet, in the face of + famine and the rigorous winter, he went out gayly in quest of a mess of + trout, forsooth, because he “doted” on them! Had gloom but rested, no + matter how lightly, on his brow, or had his bovine countenance grown long + and serious and less like the moon, or had he removed that smile but once + from off his face, I am sure I could have forgiven him for existing. But + no, he grew only more cheerful under misfortune. + </p> + <p> + I insulted him. He looked at me in slow and smiling surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I fight you? Why?” he asked slowly. And then he laughed. “You are so + funny! Ho! ho! You’ll be the death of me! He! he! he! Oh! Ho! ho! ho!” + </p> + <p> + What would you? It was past endurance. By the blood of Judas, how I hated + him! Then there was that name—Claverhouse! What a name! Wasn’t it + absurd? Claverhouse! Merciful heaven, WHY Claverhouse? Again and again I + asked myself that question. I should not have minded Smith, or Brown, or + Jones—but CLAVERHOUSE! I leave it to you. Repeat it to yourself—Claverhouse. + Just listen to the ridiculous sound of it—Claverhouse! Should a man + live with such a name? I ask of you. “No,” you say. And “No” said I. + </p> + <p> + But I bethought me of his mortgage. What of his crops and barn destroyed, + I knew he would be unable to meet it. So I got a shrewd, close-mouthed, + tight-fisted money-lender to get the mortgage transferred to him. I did + not appear but through this agent I forced the foreclosure, and but few + days (no more, believe me, than the law allowed) were given John + Claverhouse to remove his goods and chattels from the premises. Then I + strolled down to see how he took it, for he had lived there upward of + twenty years. But he met me with his saucer-eyes twinkling, and the light + glowing and spreading in his face till it was as a full-risen moon. + </p> + <p> + “Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed. “The funniest tike, that youngster of mine! Did + you ever hear the like? Let me tell you. He was down playing by the edge + of the river when a piece of the bank caved in and splashed him. ‘O papa!’ + he cried; ‘a great big puddle flewed up and hit me.’” + </p> + <p> + He stopped and waited for me to join him in his infernal glee. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see any laugh in it,” I said shortly, and I know my face went + sour. + </p> + <p> + He regarded me with wonderment, and then came the damnable light, glowing + and spreading, as I have described it, till his face shone soft and warm, + like the summer moon, and then the laugh—“Ha! ha! That’s funny! You + don’t see it, eh? He! he! Ho! ho! ho! He doesn’t see it! Why, look here. + You know a puddle—” + </p> + <p> + But I turned on my heel and left him. That was the last. I could stand it + no longer. The thing must end right there, I thought, curse him! The earth + should be quit of him. And as I went over the hill, I could hear his + monstrous laugh reverberating against the sky. + </p> + <p> + Now, I pride myself on doing things neatly, and when I resolved to kill + John Claverhouse I had it in mind to do so in such fashion that I should + not look back upon it and feel ashamed. I hate bungling, and I hate + brutality. To me there is something repugnant in merely striking a man + with one’s naked fist—faugh! it is sickening! So, to shoot, or stab, + or club John Claverhouse (oh, that name!) did not appeal to me. And not + only was I impelled to do it neatly and artistically, but also in such + manner that not the slightest possible suspicion could be directed against + me. + </p> + <p> + To this end I bent my intellect, and, after a week of profound incubation, + I hatched the scheme. Then I set to work. I bought a water spaniel bitch, + five months old, and devoted my whole attention to her training. Had any + one spied upon me, they would have remarked that this training consisted + entirely of one thing—RETRIEVING. I taught the dog, which I called + “Bellona,” to fetch sticks I threw into the water, and not only to fetch, + but to fetch at once, without mouthing or playing with them. The point was + that she was to stop for nothing, but to deliver the stick in all haste. I + made a practice of running away and leaving her to chase me, with the + stick in her mouth, till she caught me. She was a bright animal, and took + to the game with such eagerness that I was soon content. + </p> + <p> + After that, at the first casual opportunity, I presented Bellona to John + Claverhouse. I knew what I was about, for I was aware of a little weakness + of his, and of a little private sinning of which he was regularly and + inveterately guilty. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, when I placed the end of the rope in his hand. “No, you + don’t mean it.” And his mouth opened wide and he grinned all over his + damnable moon-face. + </p> + <p> + “I—I kind of thought, somehow, you didn’t like me,” he explained. + “Wasn’t it funny for me to make such a mistake?” And at the thought he + held his sides with laughter. + </p> + <p> + “What is her name?” he managed to ask between paroxysms. + </p> + <p> + “Bellona,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “He! he!” he tittered. “What a funny name.” + </p> + <p> + I gritted my teeth, for his mirth put them on edge, and snapped out + between them, “She was the wife of Mars, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Then the light of the full moon began to suffuse his face, until he + exploded with: “That was my other dog. Well, I guess she’s a widow now. + Oh! Ho! ho! E! he! he! Ho!” he whooped after me, and I turned and fled + swiftly over the hill. + </p> + <p> + The week passed by, and on Saturday evening I said to him, “You go away + Monday, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded his head and grinned. + </p> + <p> + “Then you won’t have another chance to get a mess of those trout you just + ‘dote’ on.” + </p> + <p> + But he did not notice the sneer. “Oh, I don’t know,” he chuckled. “I’m + going up to-morrow to try pretty hard.” + </p> + <p> + Thus was assurance made doubly sure, and I went back to my house hugging + myself with rapture. + </p> + <p> + Early next morning I saw him go by with a dip-net and gunnysack, and + Bellona trotting at his heels. I knew where he was bound, and cut out by + the back pasture and climbed through the underbrush to the top of the + mountain. Keeping carefully out of sight, I followed the crest along for a + couple of miles to a natural amphitheatre in the hills, where the little + river raced down out of a gorge and stopped for breath in a large and + placid rock-bound pool. That was the spot! I sat down on the croup of the + mountain, where I could see all that occurred, and lighted my pipe. + </p> + <p> + Ere many minutes had passed, John Claverhouse came plodding up the bed of + the stream. Bellona was ambling about him, and they were in high feather, + her short, snappy barks mingling with his deeper chest-notes. Arrived at + the pool, he threw down the dip-net and sack, and drew from his hip-pocket + what looked like a large, fat candle. But I knew it to be a stick of + “giant”; for such was his method of catching trout. He dynamited them. He + attached the fuse by wrapping the “giant” tightly in a piece of cotton. + Then he ignited the fuse and tossed the explosive into the pool. + </p> + <p> + Like a flash, Bellona was into the pool after it. I could have shrieked + aloud for joy. Claverhouse yelled at her, but without avail. He pelted her + with clods and rocks, but she swam steadily on till she got the stick of + “giant” in her mouth, when she whirled about and headed for shore. Then, + for the first time, he realized his danger, and started to run. As + foreseen and planned by me, she made the bank and took out after him. Oh, + I tell you, it was great! As I have said, the pool lay in a sort of + amphitheatre. Above and below, the stream could be crossed on + stepping-stones. And around and around, up and down and across the stones, + raced Claverhouse and Bellona. I could never have believed that such an + ungainly man could run so fast. But run he did, Bellona hot-footed after + him, and gaining. And then, just as she caught up, he in full stride, and + she leaping with nose at his knee, there was a sudden flash, a burst of + smoke, a terrific detonation, and where man and dog had been the instant + before there was naught to be seen but a big hole in the ground. + </p> + <p> + “Death from accident while engaged in illegal fishing.” That was the + verdict of the coroner’s jury; and that is why I pride myself on the neat + and artistic way in which I finished off John Claverhouse. There was no + bungling, no brutality; nothing of which to be ashamed in the whole + transaction, as I am sure you will agree. No more does his infernal laugh + go echoing among the hills, and no more does his fat moon-face rise up to + vex me. My days are peaceful now, and my night’s sleep deep. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0002"></a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + THE LEOPARD MAN’S STORY + </h2></div> + <p> + He had a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, and his sad, insistent voice, + gentle-spoken as a maid’s, seemed the placid embodiment of some + deep-seated melancholy. He was the Leopard Man, but he did not look it. + His business in life, whereby he lived, was to appear in a cage of + performing leopards before vast audiences, and to thrill those audiences + by certain exhibitions of nerve for which his employers rewarded him on a + scale commensurate with the thrills he produced. + </p> + <p> + As I say, he did not look it. He was narrow-hipped, narrow-shouldered, and + anaemic, while he seemed not so much oppressed by gloom as by a sweet and + gentle sadness, the weight of which was as sweetly and gently borne. For + an hour I had been trying to get a story out of him, but he appeared to + lack imagination. To him there was no romance in his gorgeous career, no + deeds of daring, no thrills—nothing but a gray sameness and infinite + boredom. + </p> + <p> + Lions? Oh, yes! he had fought with them. It was nothing. All you had to do + was to stay sober. Anybody could whip a lion to a standstill with an + ordinary stick. He had fought one for half an hour once. Just hit him on + the nose every time he rushed, and when he got artful and rushed with his + head down, why, the thing to do was to stick out your leg. When he grabbed + at the leg you drew it back and hit hint on the nose again. That was all. + </p> + <p> + With the far-away look in his eyes and his soft flow of words he showed me + his scars. There were many of them, and one recent one where a tigress had + reached for his shoulder and gone down to the bone. I could see the neatly + mended rents in the coat he had on. His right arm, from the elbow down, + looked as though it had gone through a threshing machine, what of the + ravage wrought by claws and fangs. But it was nothing, he said, only the + old wounds bothered him somewhat when rainy weather came on. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly his face brightened with a recollection, for he was really as + anxious to give me a story as I was to get it. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you’ve heard of the lion-tamer who was hated by another man?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + He paused and looked pensively at a sick lion in the cage opposite. + </p> + <p> + “Got the toothache,” he explained. “Well, the lion-tamer’s big play to the + audience was putting his head in a lion’s mouth. The man who hated him + attended every performance in the hope sometime of seeing that lion crunch + down. He followed the show about all over the country. The years went by + and he grew old, and the lion-tamer grew old, and the lion grew old. And + at last one day, sitting in a front seat, he saw what he had waited for. + The lion crunched down, and there wasn’t any need to call a doctor.” + </p> + <p> + The Leopard Man glanced casually over his finger nails in a manner which + would have been critical had it not been so sad. + </p> + <p> + “Now, that’s what I call patience,” he continued, “and it’s my style. But + it was not the style of a fellow I knew. He was a little, thin, sawed-off, + sword-swallowing and juggling Frenchman. De Ville, he called himself, and + he had a nice wife. She did trapeze work and used to dive from under the + roof into a net, turning over once on the way as nice as you please. + </p> + <p> + “De Ville had a quick temper, as quick as his hand, and his hand was as + quick as the paw of a tiger. One day, because the ring-master called him a + frog-eater, or something like that and maybe a little worse, he shoved him + against the soft pine background he used in his knife-throwing act, so + quick the ring-master didn’t have time to think, and there, before the + audience, De Ville kept the air on fire with his knives, sinking them into + the wood all around the ring-master so close that they passed through his + clothes and most of them bit into his skin. + </p> + <p> + “The clowns had to pull the knives out to get him loose, for he was pinned + fast. So the word went around to watch out for De Ville, and no one dared + be more than barely civil to his wife. And she was a sly bit of baggage, + too, only all hands were afraid of De Ville. + </p> + <p> + “But there was one man, Wallace, who was afraid of nothing. He was the + lion-tamer, and he had the self-same trick of putting his head into the + lion’s mouth. He’d put it into the mouths of any of them, though he + preferred Augustus, a big, good-natured beast who could always be depended + upon. + </p> + <p> + “As I was saying, Wallace—‘King’ Wallace we called him—was + afraid of nothing alive or dead. He was a king and no mistake. I’ve seen + him drunk, and on a wager go into the cage of a lion that’d turned nasty, + and without a stick beat him to a finish. Just did it with his fist on the + nose. + </p> + <p> + “Madame de Ville—” + </p> + <p> + At an uproar behind us the Leopard Man turned quietly around. It was a + divided cage, and a monkey, poking through the bars and around the + partition, had had its paw seized by a big gray wolf who was trying to + pull it off by main strength. The arm seemed stretching out longer end + longer like a thick elastic, and the unfortunate monkey’s mates were + raising a terrible din. No keeper was at hand, so the Leopard Man stepped + over a couple of paces, dealt the wolf a sharp blow on the nose with the + light cane he carried, and returned with a sadly apologetic smile to take + up his unfinished sentence as though there had been no interruption. + </p> + <p> + “—looked at King Wallace and King Wallace looked at her, while De + Ville looked black. We warned Wallace, but it was no use. He laughed at + us, as he laughed at De Ville one day when he shoved De Ville’s head into + a bucket of paste because he wanted to fight. + </p> + <p> + “De Ville was in a pretty mess—I helped to scrape him off; but he + was cool as a cucumber and made no threats at all. But I saw a glitter in + his eyes which I had seen often in the eyes of wild beasts, and I went out + of my way to give Wallace a final warning. He laughed, but he did not look + so much in Madame de Ville’s direction after that. + </p> + <p> + “Several months passed by. Nothing had happened and I was beginning to + think it all a scare over nothing. We were West by that time, showing in + ‘Frisco. It was during the afternoon performance, and the big tent was + filled with women and children, when I went looking for Red Denny, the + head canvas-man, who had walked off with my pocket-knife. + </p> + <p> + “Passing by one of the dressing tents I glanced in through a hole in the + canvas to see if I could locate him. He wasn’t there, but directly in + front of me was King Wallace, in tights, waiting for his turn to go on + with his cage of performing lions. He was watching with much amusement a + quarrel between a couple of trapeze artists. All the rest of the people in + the dressing tent were watching the same thing, with the exception of De + Ville whom I noticed staring at Wallace with undisguised hatred. Wallace + and the rest were all too busy following the quarrel to notice this or + what followed. + </p> + <p> + “But I saw it through the hole in the canvas. De Ville drew his + handkerchief from his pocket, made as though to mop the sweat from his + face with it (it was a hot day), and at the same time walked past + Wallace’s back. The look troubled me at the time, for not only did I see + hatred in it, but I saw triumph as well. + </p> + <p> + “‘De Ville will bear watching,’ I said to myself, and I really breathed + easier when I saw him go out the entrance to the circus grounds and board + an electric car for down town. A few minutes later I was in the big tent, + where I had overhauled Red Denny. King Wallace was doing his turn and + holding the audience spellbound. He was in a particularly vicious mood, + and he kept the lions stirred up till they were all snarling, that is, all + of them except old Augustus, and he was just too fat and lazy and old to + get stirred up over anything. + </p> + <p> + “Finally Wallace cracked the old lion’s knees with his whip and got him + into position. Old Augustus, blinking good-naturedly, opened his mouth and + in popped Wallace’s head. Then the jaws came together, CRUNCH, just like + that.” + </p> + <p> + The Leopard Man smiled in a sweetly wistful fashion, and the far-away look + came into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “And that was the end of King Wallace,” he went on in his sad, low voice. + “After the excitement cooled down I watched my chance and bent over and + smelled Wallace’s head. Then I sneezed.” + </p> + <p> + “It... it was...?” I queried with halting eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “Snuff—that De Ville dropped on his hair in the dressing tent. Old + Augustus never meant to do it. He only sneezed.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0003"></a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LOCAL COLOR + </h2></div> + <p> + “I do not see why you should not turn this immense amount of unusual + information to account,” I told him. “Unlike most men equipped with + similar knowledge, YOU have expression. Your style is—” + </p> + <p> + “Is sufficiently—er—journalese?” he interrupted suavely. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely! You could turn a pretty penny.” + </p> + <p> + But he interlocked his fingers meditatively, shrugged his shoulders, and + dismissed the subject. + </p> + <p> + “I have tried it. It does not pay.” + </p> + <p> + “It was paid for and published,” he added, after a pause. “And I was also + honored with sixty days in the Hobo.” + </p> + <p> + “The Hobo?” I ventured. + </p> + <p> + “The Hobo—” He fixed his eyes on my Spencer and ran along the titles + while he cast his definition. “The Hobo, my dear fellow, is the name for + that particular place of detention in city and county jails wherein are + assembled tramps, drunks, beggars, and the riff-raff of petty offenders. + The word itself is a pretty one, and it has a history. Hautbois—there’s + the French of it. Haut, meaning high, and bois, wood. In English it + becomes hautboy, a wooden musical instrument of two-foot tone, I believe, + played with a double reed, an oboe, in fact. You remember in ‘Henry IV’— + </p> +<div class='poem'> + “‘The case of a treble hautboy + Was a mansion for him, a court.’ +</div> + <p> + “From this to ho-boy is but a step, and for that matter the English used + the terms interchangeably. But—and mark you, the leap paralyzes one—crossing + the Western Ocean, in New York City, hautboy, or ho-boy, becomes the name + by which the night-scavenger is known. In a way one understands its being + born of the contempt for wandering players and musical fellows. But see + the beauty of it! the burn and the brand! The night-scavenger, the pariah, + the miserable, the despised, the man without caste! And in its next + incarnation, consistently and logically, it attaches itself to the + American outcast, namely, the tramp. Then, as others have mutilated its + sense, the tramp mutilates its form, and ho-boy becomes exultantly hobo. + Wherefore, the large stone and brick cells, lined with double and + triple-tiered bunks, in which the Law is wont to incarcerate him, he calls + the Hobo. Interesting, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + And I sat back and marvelled secretly at this encyclopaedic-minded man, + this Leith Clay-Randolph, this common tramp who made himself at home in my + den, charmed such friends as gathered at my small table, outshone me with + his brilliance and his manners, spent my spending money, smoked my best + cigars, and selected from my ties and studs with a cultivated and + discriminating eye. + </p> + <p> + He absently walked over to the shelves and looked into Loria’s “Economic + Foundation of Society.” + </p> + <p> + “I like to talk with you,” he remarked. “You are not indifferently + schooled. You’ve read the books, and your economic interpretation of + history, as you choose to call it” (this with a sneer), “eminently fits + you for an intellectual outlook on life. But your sociologic judgments are + vitiated by your lack of practical knowledge. Now I, who know the books, + pardon me, somewhat better than you, know life, too. I have lived it, + naked, taken it up in both my hands and looked at it, and tasted it, the + flesh and the blood of it, and, being purely an intellectual, I have been + biased by neither passion nor prejudice. All of which is necessary for + clear concepts, and all of which you lack. Ah! a really clever passage. + Listen!” + </p> + <p> + And he read aloud to me in his remarkable style, paralleling the text with + a running criticism and commentary, lucidly wording involved and lumbering + periods, casting side and cross lights upon the subject, introducing + points the author had blundered past and objections he had ignored, + catching up lost ends, flinging a contrast into a paradox and reducing it + to a coherent and succinctly stated truth—in short, flashing his + luminous genius in a blaze of fire over pages erstwhile dull and heavy and + lifeless. + </p> + <p> + It is long since that Leith Clay-Randolph (note the hyphenated surname) + knocked at the back door of Idlewild and melted the heart of Gunda. Now + Gunda was cold as her Norway hills, though in her least frigid moods she + was capable of permitting especially nice-looking tramps to sit on the + back stoop and devour lone crusts and forlorn and forsaken chops. But that + a tatterdemalion out of the night should invade the sanctity of her + kitchen-kingdom and delay dinner while she set a place for him in the + warmest corner, was a matter of such moment that the Sunflower went to + see. Ah, the Sunflower, of the soft heart and swift sympathy! Leith + Clay-Randolph threw his glamour over her for fifteen long minutes, whilst + I brooded with my cigar, and then she fluttered back with vague words and + the suggestion of a cast-off suit I would never miss. + </p> + <p> + “Surely I shall never miss it,” I said, and I had in mind the dark gray + suit with the pockets draggled from the freightage of many books—books + that had spoiled more than one day’s fishing sport. + </p> + <p> + “I should advise you, however,” I added, “to mend the pockets first.” + </p> + <p> + But the Sunflower’s face clouded. “N—o,” she said, “the black one.” + </p> + <p> + “The black one!” This explosively, incredulously. “I wear it quite often. + I—I intended wearing it to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “You have two better ones, and you know I never liked it, dear,” the + Sunflower hurried on. “Besides, it’s shiny—” + </p> + <p> + “Shiny!” + </p> + <p> + “It—it soon will be, which is just the same, and the man is really + estimable. He is nice and refined, and I am sure he—” + </p> + <p> + “Has seen better days.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and the weather is raw and beastly, and his clothes are threadbare. + And you have many suits—” + </p> + <p> + “Five,” I corrected, “counting in the dark gray fishing outfit with the + draggled pockets.” + </p> + <p> + “And he has none, no home, nothing—” + </p> + <p> + “Not even a Sunflower,”—putting my arm around her,—“wherefore + he is deserving of all things. Give him the black suit, dear—nay, + the best one, the very best one. Under high heaven for such lack there + must be compensation!” + </p> + <p> + “You ARE a dear!” And the Sunflower moved to the door and looked back + alluringly. “You are a PERFECT dear.” + </p> + <p> + And this after seven years, I marvelled, till she was back again, timid + and apologetic. + </p> + <p> + “I—I gave him one of your white shirts. He wore a cheap horrid + cotton thing, and I knew it would look ridiculous. And then his shoes were + so slipshod, I let him have a pair of yours, the old ones with the narrow + caps—” + </p> + <p> + “Old ones!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, they pinched horribly, and you know they did.” + </p> + <p> + It was ever thus the Sunflower vindicated things. + </p> + <p> + And so Leith Clay-Randolph came to Idlewild to stay, how long I did not + dream. Nor did I dream how often he was to come, for he was like an + erratic comet. Fresh he would arrive, and cleanly clad, from grand folk + who were his friends as I was his friend, and again, weary and worn, he + would creep up the brier-rose path from the Montanas or Mexico. And + without a word, when his wanderlust gripped him, he was off and away into + that great mysterious underworld he called “The Road.” + </p> + <p> + “I could not bring myself to leave until I had thanked you, you of the + open hand and heart,” he said, on the night he donned my good black suit. + </p> + <p> + And I confess I was startled when I glanced over the top of my paper and + saw a lofty-browed and eminently respectable-looking gentleman, boldly and + carelessly at ease. The Sunflower was right. He must have known better + days for the black suit and white shirt to have effected such a + transformation. Involuntarily I rose to my feet, prompted to meet him on + equal ground. And then it was that the Clay-Randolph glamour descended + upon me. He slept at Idlewild that night, and the next night, and for many + nights. And he was a man to love. The Son of Anak, otherwise Rufus the + Blue-Eyed, and also plebeianly known as Tots, rioted with him from + brier-rose path to farthest orchard, scalped him in the haymow with + barbaric yells, and once, with pharisaic zeal, was near to crucifying him + under the attic roof beams. The Sunflower would have loved him for the Son + of Anak’s sake, had she not loved him for his own. As for myself, let the + Sunflower tell, in the times he elected to be gone, of how often I + wondered when Leith would come back again, Leith the Lovable. Yet he was a + man of whom we knew nothing. Beyond the fact that he was Kentucky-born, + his past was a blank. He never spoke of it. And he was a man who prided + himself upon his utter divorce of reason from emotion. To him the world + spelled itself out in problems. I charged him once with being guilty of + emotion when roaring round the den with the Son of Anak pickaback. Not so, + he held. Could he not cuddle a sense-delight for the problem’s sake? + </p> + <p> + He was elusive. A man who intermingled nameless argot with polysyllabic + and technical terms, he would seem sometimes the veriest criminal, in + speech, face, expression, everything; at other times the cultured and + polished gentleman, and again, the philosopher and scientist. But there + was something glimmering; there which I never caught—flashes of + sincerity, of real feeling, I imagined, which were sped ere I could grasp; + echoes of the man he once was, possibly, or hints of the man behind the + mask. But the mask he never lifted, and the real man we never knew. + </p> + <p> + “But the sixty days with which you were rewarded for your journalism?” I + asked. “Never mind Loria. Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if I must.” He flung one knee over the other with a short laugh. + </p> + <p> + “In a town that shall be nameless,” he began, “in fact, a city of fifty + thousand, a fair and beautiful city wherein men slave for dollars and + women for dress, an idea came to me. My front was prepossessing, as fronts + go, and my pockets empty. I had in recollection a thought I once + entertained of writing a reconciliation of Kant and Spencer. Not that they + are reconcilable, of course, but the room offered for scientific satire—” + </p> + <p> + I waved my hand impatiently, and he broke off. + </p> + <p> + “I was just tracing my mental states for you, in order to show the genesis + of the action,” he explained. “However, the idea came. What was the matter + with a tramp sketch for the daily press? The Irreconcilability of the + Constable and the Tramp, for instance? So I hit the drag (the drag, my + dear fellow, is merely the street), or the high places, if you will, for a + newspaper office. The elevator whisked me into the sky, and Cerberus, in + the guise of an anaemic office boy, guarded the door. Consumption, one + could see it at a glance; nerve, Irish, colossal; tenacity, undoubted; + dead inside the year. + </p> + <p> + “‘Pale youth,’ quoth I, ‘I pray thee the way to the sanctum-sanctorum, to + the Most High Cock-a-lorum.’ + </p> + <p> + “He deigned to look at me, scornfully, with infinite weariness. + </p> + <p> + “‘G’wan an’ see the janitor. I don’t know nothin’ about the gas.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Nay, my lily-white, the editor.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Wich editor?’ he snapped like a young bullterrier. ‘Dramatic? Sportin’? + Society? Sunday? Weekly? Daily? Telegraph? Local? News? Editorial? Wich?’ + </p> + <p> + “Which, I did not know. ‘THE Editor,’ I proclaimed stoutly. ‘The ONLY + Editor.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Aw, Spargo!’ he sniffed. + </p> + <p> + “‘Of course, Spargo,’ I answered. ‘Who else?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Gimme yer card,’ says he. + </p> + <p> + “‘My what?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yer card—Say! Wot’s yer business, anyway?’ + </p> + <p> + “And the anaemic Cerberus sized me up with so insolent an eye that I + reached over and took him out of his chair. I knocked on his meagre chest + with my fore knuckle, and fetched forth a weak, gaspy cough; but he looked + at me unflinchingly, much like a defiant sparrow held in the hand. + </p> + <p> + “‘I am the census-taker Time,’ I boomed in sepulchral tones. ‘Beware lest + I knock too loud.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he sneered. + </p> + <p> + “Whereupon I rapped him smartly, and he choked and turned purplish. + </p> + <p> + “‘Well, whatcher want?’ he wheezed with returning breath. + </p> + <p> + “‘I want Spargo, the only Spargo.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Then leave go, an’ I’ll glide an’ see.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘No you don’t, my lily-white.’ And I took a tighter grip on his collar. + ‘No bouncers in mine, understand! I’ll go along.’” + </p> + <p> + Leith dreamily surveyed the long ash of his cigar and turned to me. “Do + you know, Anak, you can’t appreciate the joy of being the buffoon, playing + the clown. You couldn’t do it if you wished. Your pitiful little + conventions and smug assumptions of decency would prevent. But simply to + turn loose your soul to every whimsicality, to play the fool unafraid of + any possible result, why, that requires a man other than a householder and + law-respecting citizen. + </p> + <p> + “However, as I was saying, I saw the only Spargo. He was a big, beefy, + red-faced personage, full-jowled and double-chinned, sweating at his desk + in his shirt-sleeves. It was August, you know. He was talking into a + telephone when I entered, or swearing rather, I should say, and the while + studying me with his eyes. When he hung up, he turned to me expectantly. + </p> + <p> + “‘You are a very busy man,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + “He jerked a nod with his head, and waited. + </p> + <p> + “‘And after all, is it worth it?’ I went on. ‘What does life mean that it + should make you sweat? What justification do you find in sweat? Now look + at me. I toil not, neither do I spin—’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Who are you? What are you?’ he bellowed with a suddenness that was, + well, rude, tearing the words out as a dog does a bone. + </p> + <p> + “‘A very pertinent question, sir,’ I acknowledged. ‘First, I am a man; + next, a down-trodden American citizen. I am cursed with neither + profession, trade, nor expectations. Like Esau, I am pottageless. My + residence is everywhere; the sky is my coverlet. I am one of the + dispossessed, a sansculotte, a proletarian, or, in simpler phraseology + addressed to your understanding, a tramp.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘What the hell—?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Nay, fair sir, a tramp, a man of devious ways and strange lodgements and + multifarious—’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Quit it!’ he shouted. ‘What do you want?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I want money.’ + </p> + <p> + “He started and half reached for an open drawer where must have reposed a + revolver, then bethought himself and growled, ‘This is no bank.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Nor have I checks to cash. But I have, sir, an idea, which, by your + leave and kind assistance, I shall transmute into cash. In short, how does + a tramp sketch, done by a tramp to the life, strike you? Are you open to + it? Do your readers hunger for it? Do they crave after it? Can they be + happy without it?’ + </p> + <p> + “I thought for a moment that he would have apoplexy, but he quelled the + unruly blood and said he liked my nerve. I thanked him and assured him I + liked it myself. Then he offered me a cigar and said he thought he’d do + business with me. + </p> + <p> + “‘But mind you,’ he said, when he had jabbed a bunch of copy paper into my + hand and given me a pencil from his vest pocket, ‘mind you, I won’t stand + for the high and flighty philosophical, and I perceive you have a tendency + that way. Throw in the local color, wads of it, and a bit of sentiment + perhaps, but no slumgullion about political economy nor social strata or + such stuff. Make it concrete, to the point, with snap and go and life, + crisp and crackling and interesting—tumble?’ + </p> + <p> + “And I tumbled and borrowed a dollar. + </p> + <p> + “‘Don’t forget the local color!’ he shouted after me through the door. + </p> + <p> + “And, Anak, it was the local color that did for me. + </p> + <p> + “The anaemic Cerberus grinned when I took the elevator. ‘Got the bounce, + eh?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Nay, pale youth, so lily-white,’ I chortled, waving the copy paper; ‘not + the bounce, but a detail. I’ll be City Editor in three months, and then + I’ll make you jump.’ + </p> + <p> + “And as the elevator stopped at the next floor down to take on a pair of + maids, he strolled over to the shaft, and without frills or verbiage + consigned me and my detail to perdition. But I liked him. He had pluck and + was unafraid, and he knew, as well as I, that death clutched him close.” + </p> + <p> + “But how could you, Leith,” I cried, the picture of the consumptive lad + strong before me, “how could you treat him so barbarously?” + </p> + <p> + Leith laughed dryly. “My dear fellow, how often must I explain to you your + confusions? Orthodox sentiment and stereotyped emotion master you. And + then your temperament! You are really incapable of rational judgments. + Cerberus? Pshaw! A flash expiring, a mote of fading sparkle, a dim-pulsing + and dying organism—pouf! a snap of the fingers, a puff of breath, + what would you? A pawn in the game of life. Not even a problem. There is + no problem in a stillborn babe, nor in a dead child. They never arrived. + Nor did Cerberus. Now for a really pretty problem—” + </p> + <p> + “But the local color?” I prodded him. + </p> + <p> + “That’s right,” he replied. “Keep me in the running. Well, I took my + handful of copy paper down to the railroad yards (for local color), + dangled my legs from a side-door Pullman, which is another name for a + box-car, and ran off the stuff. Of course I made it clever and brilliant + and all that, with my little unanswerable slings at the state and my + social paradoxes, and withal made it concrete enough to dissatisfy the + average citizen. + </p> + <p> + “From the tramp standpoint, the constabulary of the township was + particularly rotten, and I proceeded to open the eyes of the good people. + It is a proposition, mathematically demonstrable, that it costs the + community more to arrest, convict, and confine its tramps in jail, than to + send them as guests, for like periods of time, to the best hotel. And this + I developed, giving the facts and figures, the constable fees and the + mileage, and the court and jail expenses. Oh, it was convincing, and it + was true; and I did it in a lightly humorous fashion which fetched the + laugh and left the sting. The main objection to the system, I contended, + was the defraudment and robbery of the tramp. The good money which the + community paid out for him should enable him to riot in luxury instead of + rotting in dungeons. I even drew the figures so fine as to permit him not + only to live in the best hotel but to smoke two twenty-five-cent cigars + and indulge in a ten-cent shine each day, and still not cost the taxpayers + so much as they were accustomed to pay for his conviction and jail + entertainment. And, as subsequent events proved, it made the taxpayers + wince. + </p> + <p> + “One of the constables I drew to the life; nor did I forget a certain Sol + Glenhart, as rotten a police judge as was to be found between the seas. + And this I say out of a vast experience. While he was notorious in local + trampdom, his civic sins were not only not unknown but a crying reproach + to the townspeople. Of course I refrained from mentioning name or habitat, + drawing the picture in an impersonal, composite sort of way, which none + the less blinded no one to the faithfulness of the local color. + </p> + <p> + “Naturally, myself a tramp, the tenor of the article was a protest against + the maltreatment of the tramp. Cutting the taxpayers to the pits of their + purses threw them open to sentiment, and then in I tossed the sentiment, + lumps and chunks of it. Trust me, it was excellently done, and the + rhetoric—say! Just listen to the tail of my peroration: + </p> + <p> + “‘So, as we go mooching along the drag, with a sharp lamp out for John + Law, we cannot help remembering that we are beyond the pale; that our ways + are not their ways; and that the ways of John Law with us are different + from his ways with other men. Poor lost souls, wailing for a crust in the + dark, we know full well our helplessness and ignominy. And well may we + repeat after a stricken brother over-seas: “Our pride it is to know no + spur of pride.” Man has forgotten us; God has forgotten us; only are we + remembered by the harpies of justice, who prey upon our distress and coin + our sighs and tears into bright shining dollars.’ + </p> + <p> + “Incidentally, my picture of Sol Glenhart, the police judge, was good. A + striking likeness, and unmistakable, with phrases tripping along like + this: ‘This crook-nosed, gross-bodied harpy’; ‘this civic sinner, this + judicial highwayman’; ‘possessing the morals of the Tenderloin and an + honor which thieves’ honor puts to shame’; ‘who compounds criminality with + shyster-sharks, and in atonement railroads the unfortunate and impecunious + to rotting cells,’—and so forth and so forth, style sophomoric and + devoid of the dignity and tone one would employ in a dissertation on + ‘Surplus Value,’ or ‘The Fallacies of Marxism,’ but just the stuff the + dear public likes. + </p> + <p> + “‘Humph!’ grunted Spargo when I put the copy in his fist. ‘Swift gait you + strike, my man.’ + </p> + <p> + “I fixed a hypnotic eye on his vest pocket, and he passed out one of his + superior cigars, which I burned while he ran through the stuff. Twice or + thrice he looked over the top of the paper at me, searchingly, but said + nothing till he had finished. + </p> + <p> + “‘Where’d you work, you pencil-pusher?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + “‘My maiden effort,’ I simpered modestly, scraping one foot and faintly + simulating embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “‘Maiden hell! What salary do you want?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Nay, nay,’ I answered. ‘No salary in mine, thank you most to death. I am + a free down-trodden American citizen, and no man shall say my time is + his.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Save John Law,’ he chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “‘Save John Law,’ said I. + </p> + <p> + “‘How did you know I was bucking the police department?’ he demanded + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “‘I didn’t know, but I knew you were in training,’ I answered. ‘Yesterday + morning a charitably inclined female presented me with three biscuits, a + piece of cheese, and a funereal slab of chocolate cake, all wrapped in the + current Clarion, wherein I noted an unholy glee because the Cowbell’s + candidate for chief of police had been turned down. Likewise I learned the + municipal election was at hand, and put two and two together. Another + mayor, and the right kind, means new police commissioners; new police + commissioners means new chief of police; new chief of police means + Cowbell’s candidate; ergo, your turn to play.’ + </p> + <p> + “He stood up, shook my hand, and emptied his plethoric vest pocket. I put + them away and puffed on the old one. + </p> + <p> + “‘You’ll do,’ he jubilated. ‘This stuff’ (patting my copy) ‘is the first + gun of the campaign. You’ll touch off many another before we’re done. I’ve + been looking for you for years. Come on in on the editorial.’ + </p> + <p> + “But I shook my head. + </p> + <p> + “‘Come, now!’ he admonished sharply. ‘No shenanagan! The Cowbell must have + you. It hungers for you, craves after you, won’t be happy till it gets + you. What say?’ + </p> + <p> + “In short, he wrestled with me, but I was bricks, and at the end of half + an hour the only Spargo gave it up. + </p> + <p> + “‘Remember,’ he said, ‘any time you reconsider, I’m open. No matter where + you are, wire me and I’ll send the ducats to come on at once.’ + </p> + <p> + “I thanked him, and asked the pay for my copy—dope, he called it. + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, regular routine,’ he said. ‘Get it the first Thursday after + publication.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Then I’ll have to trouble you for a few scad until—’ + </p> + <p> + “He looked at me and smiled. ‘Better cough up, eh?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Nobody to identify me, so make it cash.’ + </p> + <p> + “And cash it was made, thirty plunks (a plunk is a dollar, my dear Anak), + and I pulled my freight... eh?—oh, departed. + </p> + <p> + “‘Pale youth,’ I said to Cerberus, ‘I am bounced.’ (He grinned with pallid + joy.) ‘And in token of the sincere esteem I bear you, receive this little—’ + (His eyes flushed and he threw up one hand, swiftly, to guard his head + from the expected blow)—‘this little memento.’ + </p> + <p> + “I had intended to slip a fiver into his hand, but for all his surprise, + he was too quick for me. + </p> + <p> + “‘Aw, keep yer dirt,’ he snarled. + </p> + <p> + “‘I like you still better,’ I said, adding a second fiver. ‘You grow + perfect. But you must take it.’ + </p> + <p> + “He backed away growling, but I caught him round the neck, roughed what + little wind he had out of him, and left him doubled up with the two fives + in his pocket. But hardly had the elevator started, when the two coins + tinkled on the roof and fell down between the car and the shaft. As luck + had it, the door was not closed, and I put out my hand and caught them. + The elevator boy’s eyes bulged. + </p> + <p> + “‘It’s a way I have,’ I said, pocketing them. + </p> + <p> + “‘Some bloke’s dropped ‘em down the shaft,’ he whispered, awed by the + circumstance. + </p> + <p> + “‘It stands to reason,’ said I. + </p> + <p> + “‘I’ll take charge of ‘em,’ he volunteered. + </p> + <p> + “‘Nonsense!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘You’d better turn ‘em over,’ he threatened, ‘or I stop the works.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Pshaw!’ + </p> + <p> + “And stop he did, between floors. + </p> + <p> + “‘Young man,’ I said, ‘have you a mother?’ (He looked serious, as though + regretting his act! and further to impress him I rolled up my right sleeve + with greatest care.) ‘Are you prepared to die?’ (I got a stealthy crouch + on, and put a cat-foot forward.) ‘But a minute, a brief minute, stands + between you and eternity.’ (Here I crooked my right hand into a claw and + slid the other foot up.) ‘Young man, young man,’ I trumpeted, ‘in thirty + seconds I shall tear your heart dripping from your bosom and stoop to hear + you shriek in hell.’ + </p> + <p> + “It fetched him. He gave one whoop, the car shot down, and I was on the + drag. You see, Anak, it’s a habit I can’t shake off of leaving vivid + memories behind. No one ever forgets me. + </p> + <p> + “I had not got to the corner when I heard a familiar voice at my shoulder: + </p> + <p> + “‘Hello, Cinders! Which way?’ + </p> + <p> + “It was Chi Slim, who had been with me once when I was thrown off a + freight in Jacksonville. ‘Couldn’t see ‘em fer cinders,’ he described it, + and the monica stuck by me.... Monica? From monos. The tramp nickname. + </p> + <p> + “‘Bound south,’ I answered. ‘And how’s Slim?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Bum. Bulls is horstile.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Where’s the push?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘At the hang-out. I’ll put you wise.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Who’s the main guy?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Me, and don’t yer ferget it.’” + </p> + <p> + The lingo was rippling from Leith’s lips, but perforce I stopped him. + “Pray translate. Remember, I am a foreigner.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” he answered cheerfully. “Slim is in poor luck. Bull means + policeman. He tells me the bulls are hostile. I ask where the push is, the + gang he travels with. By putting me wise he will direct me to where the + gang is hanging out. The main guy is the leader. Slim claims that + distinction. + </p> + <p> + “Slim and I hiked out to a neck of woods just beyond town, and there was + the push, a score of husky hobos, charmingly located on the bank of a + little purling stream. + </p> + <p> + “‘Come on, you mugs!’ Slim addressed them. ‘Throw yer feet! Here’s + Cinders, an’ we must do ‘em proud.’ + </p> + <p> + “All of which signifies that the hobos had better strike out and do some + lively begging in order to get the wherewithal to celebrate my return to + the fold after a year’s separation. But I flashed my dough and Slim sent + several of the younger men off to buy the booze. Take my word for it, + Anak, it was a blow-out memorable in Trampdom to this day. It’s amazing + the quantity of booze thirty plunks will buy, and it is equally amazing + the quantity of booze outside of which twenty stiffs will get. Beer and + cheap wine made up the card, with alcohol thrown in for the + blowd-in-the-glass stiffs. It was great—an orgy under the sky, a + contest of beaker-men, a study in primitive beastliness. To me there is + something fascinating in a drunken man, and were I a college president I + should institute P.G. psychology courses in practical drunkenness. It + would beat the books and compete with the laboratory. + </p> + <p> + “All of which is neither here nor there, for after sixteen hours of it, + early next morning, the whole push was copped by an overwhelming array of + constables and carted off to jail. After breakfast, about ten o’clock, we + were lined upstairs into court, limp and spiritless, the twenty of us. And + there, under his purple panoply, nose crooked like a Napoleonic eagle and + eyes glittering and beady, sat Sol Glenhart. + </p> + <p> + “‘John Ambrose!’ the clerk called out, and Chi Slim, with the ease of long + practice, stood up. + </p> + <p> + “‘Vagrant, your Honor,’ the bailiff volunteered, and his Honor, not + deigning to look at the prisoner, snapped, ‘Ten days,’ and Chi Slim sat + down. + </p> + <p> + “And so it went, with the monotony of clockwork, fifteen seconds to the + man, four men to the minute, the mugs bobbing up and down in turn like + marionettes. The clerk called the name, the bailiff the offence, the judge + the sentence, and the man sat down. That was all. Simple, eh? Superb! + </p> + <p> + “Chi Slim nudged me. ‘Give’m a spiel, Cinders. You kin do it.’ + </p> + <p> + “I shook my head. + </p> + <p> + “‘G’wan,’ he urged. ‘Give ‘m a ghost story The mugs’ll take it all right. + And you kin throw yer feet fer tobacco for us till we get out.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘L. C. Randolph!’ the clerk called. + </p> + <p> + “I stood up, but a hitch came in the proceedings. The clerk whispered to + the judge, and the bailiff smiled. + </p> + <p> + “‘You are a newspaper man, I understand, Mr. Randolph?’ his Honor remarked + sweetly. + </p> + <p> + “It took me by surprise, for I had forgotten the Cowbell in the excitement + of succeeding events, and I now saw myself on the edge of the pit I had + digged. + </p> + <p> + “‘That’s yer graft. Work it,’ Slim prompted. + </p> + <p> + “‘It’s all over but the shouting,’ I groaned back, but Slim, unaware of + the article, was puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “‘Your Honor,’ I answered, ‘when I can get work, that is my occupation.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘You take quite an interest in local affairs, I see.’ (Here his Honor + took up the morning’s Cowbell and ran his eye up and down a column I knew + was mine.) ‘Color is good,’ he commented, an appreciative twinkle in his + eyes; ‘pictures excellent, characterized by broad, Sargent-like effects. + Now this ... this judge you have depicted ... you, ah, draw from life, I + presume?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Rarely, your I Honor,’ I answered. ‘Composites, ideals, rather ... er, + types, I may say.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘But you have color, sir, unmistakable color,’ he continued. + </p> + <p> + “‘That is splashed on afterward,’ I explained. + </p> + <p> + “‘This judge, then, is not modelled from life, as one might be led to + believe?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘No, your Honor.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Ah, I see, merely a type of judicial wickedness?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Nay, more, your Honor,’ I said boldly, ‘an ideal.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Splashed with local color afterward? Ha! Good! And may I venture to ask + how much you received for this bit of work?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Thirty dollars, your Honor.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Hum, good!’ And his tone abruptly changed. ‘Young man, local color is a + bad thing. I find you guilty of it and sentence you to thirty days’ + imprisonment, or, at your pleasure, impose a fine of thirty dollars.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Alas!’ said I, ‘I spent the thirty dollars in riotous living.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘And thirty days more for wasting your substance.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Next case!’ said his Honor to the clerk. + </p> + <p> + “Slim was stunned. ‘Gee!’ he whispered. ‘Gee the push gets ten days and + you get sixty. Gee!’” + </p> + <p> + Leith struck a match, lighted his dead cigar, and opened the book on his + knees. “Returning to the original conversation, don’t you find, Anak, that + though Loria handles the bipartition of the revenues with scrupulous care, + he yet omits one important factor, namely—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I said absently; “yes.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0004"></a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + AMATEUR NIGHT + </h2></div> + <p> + The elevator boy smiled knowingly to himself. When he took her up, he had + noted the sparkle in her eyes, the color in her cheeks. His little cage + had quite warmed with the glow of her repressed eagerness. And now, on the + down trip, it was glacier-like. The sparkle and the color were gone. She + was frowning, and what little he could see of her eyes was cold and + steel-gray. Oh, he knew the symptoms, he did. He was an observer, and he + knew it, too, and some day, when he was big enough, he was going to be a + reporter, sure. And in the meantime he studied the procession of life as + it streamed up and down eighteen sky-scraper floors in his elevator car. + He slid the door open for her sympathetically and watched her trip + determinedly out into the street. + </p> + <p> + There was a robustness in her carriage which came of the soil rather than + of the city pavement. But it was a robustness in a finer than the wonted + sense, a vigorous daintiness, it might be called, which gave an impression + of virility with none of the womanly left out. It told of a heredity of + seekers and fighters, of people that worked stoutly with head and hand, of + ghosts that reached down out of the misty past and moulded and made her to + be a doer of things. + </p> + <p> + But she was a little angry, and a great deal hurt. “I can guess what you + would tell me,” the editor had kindly but firmly interrupted her lengthy + preamble in the long-looked-forward-to interview just ended. “And you have + told me enough,” he had gone on (heartlessly, she was sure, as she went + over the conversation in its freshness). “You have done no newspaper work. + You are undrilled, undisciplined, unhammered into shape. You have received + a high-school education, and possibly topped it off with normal school or + college. You have stood well in English. Your friends have all told you + how cleverly you write, and how beautifully, and so forth and so forth. + You think you can do newspaper work, and you want me to put you on. Well, + I am sorry, but there are no openings. If you knew how crowded—” + </p> + <p> + “But if there are no openings,” she had interrupted, in turn, “how did + those who are in, get in? How am I to show that I am eligible to get in?” + </p> + <p> + “They made themselves indispensable,” was the terse response. “Make + yourself indispensable.” + </p> + <p> + “But how can I, if I do not get the chance?” + </p> + <p> + “Make your chance.” + </p> + <p> + “But how?” she had insisted, at the same time privately deeming him a most + unreasonable man. + </p> + <p> + “How? That is your business, not mine,” he said conclusively, rising in + token that the interview was at an end. “I must inform you, my dear young + lady, that there have been at least eighteen other aspiring young ladies + here this week, and that I have not the time to tell each and every one of + them how. The function I perform on this paper is hardly that of + instructor in a school of journalism.” + </p> + <p> + She caught an outbound car, and ere she descended from it she had conned + the conversation over and over again. “But how?” she repeated to herself, + as she climbed the three flights of stairs to the rooms where she and her + sister “bach’ed.” “But how?” And so she continued to put the + interrogation, for the stubborn Scotch blood, though many times removed + from Scottish soil, was still strong in her. And, further, there was need + that she should learn how. Her sister Letty and she had come up from an + interior town to the city to make their way in the world. John Wyman was + land-poor. Disastrous business enterprises had burdened his acres and + forced his two girls, Edna and Letty, into doing something for themselves. + A year of school-teaching and of night-study of shorthand and typewriting + had capitalized their city project and fitted them for the venture, which + same venture was turning out anything but successful. The city seemed + crowded with inexperienced stenographers and typewriters, and they had + nothing but their own inexperience to offer. Edna’s secret ambition had + been journalism; but she had planned a clerical position first, so that + she might have time and space in which to determine where and on what line + of journalism she would embark. But the clerical position had not been + forthcoming, either for Letty or her, and day by day their little hoard + dwindled, though the room rent remained normal and the stove consumed coal + with undiminished voracity. And it was a slim little hoard by now. + </p> + <p> + “There’s Max Irwin,” Letty said, talking it over. “He’s a journalist with + a national reputation. Go and see him, Ed. He knows how, and he should be + able to tell you how.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t know him,” Edna objected. + </p> + <p> + “No more than you knew the editor you saw to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Y-e-s,” (long and judicially), “but that’s different.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit different from the strange men and women you’ll interview when + you’ve learned how,” Letty encouraged. + </p> + <p> + “I hadn’t looked at it in that light,” Edna conceded. “After all, where’s + the difference between interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for some paper, or + interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for myself? It will be practice, too. I’ll go + and look him up in the directory.” + </p> + <p> + “Letty, I know I can write if I get the chance,” she announced decisively + a moment later. “I just FEEL that I have the feel of it, if you know what + I mean.” + </p> + <p> + And Letty knew and nodded. “I wonder what he is like?” she asked softly. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll make it my business to find out,” Edna assured her; “and I’ll let + you know inside forty-eight hours.” + </p> + <p> + Letty clapped her hands. “Good! That’s the newspaper spirit! Make it + twenty-four hours and you are perfect!” + </p> +<div class='poem'> + * * * +</div> + <p> + “—and I am very sorry to trouble you,” she concluded the statement + of her case to Max Irwin, famous war correspondent and veteran journalist. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” he answered, with a deprecatory wave of the hand. “If you + don’t do your own talking, who’s to do it for you? Now I understand your + predicament precisely. You want to get on the Intelligencer, you want to + get in at once, and you have had no previous experience. In the first + place, then, have you any pull? There are a dozen men in the city, a line + from whom would be an open-sesame. After that you would stand or fall by + your own ability. There’s Senator Longbridge, for instance, and Claus + Inskeep the street-car magnate, and Lane, and McChesney—” He paused, + with voice suspended. + </p> + <p> + “I am sure I know none of them,” she answered despondently. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not necessary. Do you know any one that knows them? or any one that + knows any one else that knows them?” + </p> + <p> + Edna shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Then we must think of something else,” he went on, cheerfully. “You’ll + have to do something yourself. Let me see.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped and thought for a moment, with closed eyes and wrinkled + forehead. She was watching him, studying him intently, when his blue eyes + opened with a snap and his face suddenly brightened. + </p> + <p> + “I have it! But no, wait a minute.” + </p> + <p> + And for a minute it was his turn to study her. And study her he did, till + she could feel her cheeks flushing under his gaze. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll do, I think, though it remains to be seen,” he said enigmatically. + “It will show the stuff that’s in you, besides, and it will be a better + claim upon the Intelligencer people than all the lines from all the + senators and magnates in the world. The thing for you is to do Amateur + Night at the Loops.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I hardly understand,” Edna said, for his suggestion conveyed no + meaning to her. “What are the ‘Loops’? and what is ‘Amateur Night’?” + </p> + <p> + “I forgot you said you were from the interior. But so much the better, if + you’ve only got the journalistic grip. It will be a first impression, and + first impressions are always unbiased, unprejudiced, fresh, vivid. The + Loops are out on the rim of the city, near the Park,—a place of + diversion. There’s a scenic railway, a water toboggan slide, a concert + band, a theatre, wild animals, moving pictures, and so forth and so forth. + The common people go there to look at the animals and enjoy themselves, + and the other people go there to enjoy themselves by watching the common + people enjoy themselves. A democratic, fresh-air-breathing, frolicking + affair, that’s what the Loops are. + </p> + <p> + “But the theatre is what concerns you. It’s vaudeville. One turn follows + another—jugglers, acrobats, rubber-jointed wonders, fire-dancers, + coon-song artists, singers, players, female impersonators, sentimental + soloists, and so forth and so forth. These people are professional + vaudevillists. They make their living that way. Many are excellently paid. + Some are free rovers, doing a turn wherever they can get an opening, at + the Obermann, the Orpheus, the Alcatraz, the Louvre, and so forth and so + forth. Others cover circuit pretty well all over the country. An + interesting phase of life, and the pay is big enough to attract many + aspirants. + </p> + <p> + “Now the management of the Loops, in its bid for popularity, instituted + what is called ‘Amateur Night’; that is to say, twice a week, after the + professionals have done their turns, the stage is given over to the + aspiring amateurs. The audience remains to criticise. The populace becomes + the arbiter of art—or it thinks it does, which is the same thing; + and it pays its money and is well pleased with itself, and Amateur Night + is a paying proposition to the management. + </p> + <p> + “But the point of Amateur Night, and it is well to note it, is that these + amateurs are not really amateurs. They are paid for doing their turn. At + the best, they may be termed ‘professional amateurs.’ It stands to reason + that the management could not get people to face a rampant audience for + nothing, and on such occasions the audience certainly goes mad. It’s great + fun—for the audience. But the thing for you to do, and it requires + nerve, I assure you, is to go out, make arrangements for two turns, + (Wednesday and Saturday nights, I believe), do your two turns, and write + it up for the Sunday Intelligencer.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but,” she quavered, “I—I—” and there was a + suggestion of disappointment and tears in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he said kindly. “You were expecting something else, something + different, something better. We all do at first. But remember the admiral + of the Queen’s Na-vee, who swept the floor and polished up the handle of + the big front door. You must face the drudgery of apprenticeship or quit + right now. What do you say?” + </p> + <p> + The abruptness with which he demanded her decision startled her. As she + faltered, she could see a shade of disappointment beginning to darken his + face. + </p> + <p> + “In a way it must be considered a test,” he added encouragingly. “A severe + one, but so much the better. Now is the time. Are you game?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll try,” she said faintly, at the same time making a note of the + directness, abruptness, and haste of these city men with whom she was + coming in contact. + </p> + <p> + “Good! Why, when I started in, I had the dreariest, deadliest details + imaginable. And after that, for a weary time, I did the police and divorce + courts. But it all came well in the end and did me good. You are luckier + in making your start with Sunday work. It’s not particularly great. What + of it? Do it. Show the stuff you’re made of, and you’ll get a call for + better work—better class and better pay. Now you go out this + afternoon to the Loops, and engage to do two turns.” + </p> + <p> + “But what kind of turns can I do?” Edna asked dubiously. + </p> + <p> + “Do? That’s easy. Can you sing? Never mind, don’t need to sing. Screech, + do anything—that’s what you’re paid for, to afford amusement, to + give bad art for the populace to howl down. And when you do your turn, + take some one along for chaperon. Be afraid of no one. Talk up. Move about + among the amateurs waiting their turn, pump them, study them, photograph + them in your brain. Get the atmosphere, the color, strong color, lots of + it. Dig right in with both hands, and get the essence of it, the spirit, + the significance. What does it mean? Find out what it means. That’s what + you’re there for. That’s what the readers of the Sunday Intelligencer want + to know. + </p> + <p> + “Be terse in style, vigorous of phrase, apt, concretely apt, in + similitude. Avoid platitudes and commonplaces. Exercise selection. Seize + upon things salient, eliminate the rest, and you have pictures. Paint + those pictures in words and the Intelligencer will have you. Get hold of a + few back numbers, and study the Sunday Intelligencer feature story. Tell + it all in the opening paragraph as advertisement of contents, and in the + contents tell it all over again. Then put a snapper at the end, so if + they’re crowded for space they can cut off your contents anywhere, + reattach the snapper, and the story will still retain form. There, that’s + enough. Study the rest out for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + They both rose to their feet, Edna quite carried away by his enthusiasm + and his quick, jerky sentences, bristling with the things she wanted to + know. + </p> + <p> + “And remember, Miss Wyman, if you’re ambitious, that the aim and end of + journalism is not the feature article. Avoid the rut. The feature is a + trick. Master it, but don’t let it master you. But master it you must; for + if you can’t learn to do a feature well, you can never expect to do + anything better. In short, put your whole self into it, and yet, outside + of it, above it, remain yourself, if you follow me. And now good luck to + you.” + </p> + <p> + They had reached the door and were shaking hands. + </p> + <p> + “And one thing more,” he interrupted her thanks, “let me see your copy + before you turn it in. I may be able to put you straight here and there.” + </p> + <p> + Edna found the manager of the Loops a full-fleshed, heavy-jowled man, + bushy of eyebrow and generally belligerent of aspect, with an + absent-minded scowl on his face and a black cigar stuck in the midst + thereof. Symes was his name, she had learned, Ernst Symes. + </p> + <p> + “Whatcher turn?” he demanded, ere half her brief application had left her + lips. + </p> + <p> + “Sentimental soloist, soprano,” she answered promptly, remembering Irwin’s + advice to talk up. + </p> + <p> + “Whatcher name?” Mr. Symes asked, scarcely deigning to glance at her. + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. So rapidly had she been rushed into the adventure that she + had not considered the question of a name at all. + </p> + <p> + “Any name? Stage name?” he bellowed impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Nan Bellayne,” she invented on the spur of the moment. “B-e-l-l-a-y-n-e. + Yes, that’s it.” + </p> + <p> + He scribbled it into a notebook. “All right. Take your turn Wednesday and + Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + “How much do I get?” Edna demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Two-an’-a-half a turn. Two turns, five. Getcher pay first Monday after + second turn.” + </p> + <p> + And without the simple courtesy of “Good day,” he turned his back on her + and plunged into the newspaper he had been reading when she entered. + </p> + <p> + Edna came early on Wednesday evening, Letty with her, and in a telescope + basket her costume—a simple affair. A plaid shawl borrowed from the + washerwoman, a ragged scrubbing skirt borrowed from the charwoman, and a + gray wig rented from a costumer for twenty-five cents a night, completed + the outfit; for Edna had elected to be an old Irishwoman singing + broken-heartedly after her wandering boy. + </p> + <p> + Though they had come early, she found everything in uproar. The main + performance was under way, the orchestra was playing and the audience + intermittently applauding. The infusion of the amateurs clogged the + working of things behind the stage, crowded the passages, dressing rooms, + and wings, and forced everybody into everybody else’s way. This was + particularly distasteful to the professionals, who carried themselves as + befitted those of a higher caste, and whose behavior toward the pariah + amateurs was marked by hauteur and even brutality. And Edna, bullied and + elbowed and shoved about, clinging desperately to her basket and seeking a + dressing room, took note of it all. + </p> + <p> + A dressing room she finally found, jammed with three other amateur + “ladies,” who were “making up” with much noise, high-pitched voices, and + squabbling over a lone mirror. Her own make-up was so simple that it was + quickly accomplished, and she left the trio of ladies holding an armed + truce while they passed judgment upon her. Letty was close at her + shoulder, and with patience and persistence they managed to get a nook in + one of the wings which commanded a view of the stage. + </p> + <p> + A small, dark man, dapper and debonair, swallow-tailed and top-hatted, was + waltzing about the stage with dainty, mincing steps, and in a thin little + voice singing something or other about somebody or something evidently + pathetic. As his waning voice neared the end of the lines, a large woman, + crowned with an amazing wealth of blond hair, thrust rudely past Edna, + trod heavily on her toes, and shoved her contemptuously to the side. + “Bloomin’ hamateur!” she hissed as she went past, and the next instant she + was on the stage, graciously bowing to the audience, while the small, dark + man twirled extravagantly about on his tiptoes. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, girls!” + </p> + <p> + This greeting, drawled with an inimitable vocal caress in every syllable, + close in her ear, caused Edna to give a startled little jump. A + smooth-faced, moon-faced young man was smiling at her good-naturedly. His + “make-up” was plainly that of the stock tramp of the stage, though the + inevitable whiskers were lacking. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it don’t take a minute to slap’m on,” he explained, divining the + search in her eyes and waving in his hand the adornment in question. “They + make a feller sweat,” he explained further. And then, “What’s yer turn?” + </p> + <p> + “Soprano—sentimental,” she answered, trying to be offhand and at + ease. + </p> + <p> + “Whata you doin’ it for?” he demanded directly. + </p> + <p> + “For fun; what else?” she countered. + </p> + <p> + “I just sized you up for that as soon as I put eyes on you. You ain’t + graftin’ for a paper, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I never met but one editor in my life,” she replied evasively, “and I, he—well, + we didn’t get on very well together.” + </p> + <p> + “Hittin’ ‘m for a job?” + </p> + <p> + Edna nodded carelessly, though inwardly anxious and cudgelling her brains + for something to turn the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “What’d he say?” + </p> + <p> + “That eighteen other girls had already been there that week.” + </p> + <p> + “Gave you the icy mit, eh?” The moon-faced young man laughed and slapped + his thighs. “You see, we’re kind of suspicious. The Sunday papers ‘d like + to get Amateur Night done up brown in a nice little package, and the + manager don’t see it that way. Gets wild-eyed at the thought of it.” + </p> + <p> + “And what’s your turn?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Who? me? Oh, I’m doin’ the tramp act to-night. I’m Charley Welsh, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + She felt that by the mention of his name he intended to convey to her + complete enlightenment, but the best she could do was to say politely, + “Oh, is that so?” + </p> + <p> + She wanted to laugh at the hurt disappointment which came into his face, + but concealed her amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Come, now,” he said brusquely, “you can’t stand there and tell me you’ve + never heard of Charley Welsh? Well, you must be young. Why, I’m an Only, + the Only amateur at that. Sure, you must have seen me. I’m everywhere. I + could be a professional, but I get more dough out of it by doin’ the + amateur.” + </p> + <p> + “But what’s an ‘Only’?” she queried. “I want to learn.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” Charley Welsh said gallantly. “I’ll put you wise. An ‘Only’ is a + nonpareil, the feller that does one kind of a turn better’n any other + feller. He’s the Only, see?” + </p> + <p> + And Edna saw. + </p> + <p> + “To get a line on the biz,” he continued, “throw yer lamps on me. I’m the + Only all-round amateur. To-night I make a bluff at the tramp act. It’s + harder to bluff it than to really do it, but then it’s acting, it’s + amateur, it’s art. See? I do everything, from Sheeny monologue to team + song and dance and Dutch comedian. Sure, I’m Charley Welsh, the Only + Charley Welsh.” + </p> + <p> + And in this fashion, while the thin, dark man and the large, blond woman + warbled dulcetly out on the stage and the other professionals followed in + their turns, did Charley Welsh put Edna wise, giving her much + miscellaneous and superfluous information and much that she stored away + for the Sunday Intelligencer. + </p> + <p> + “Well, tra la loo,” he said suddenly. “There’s his highness chasin’ you + up. Yer first on the bill. Never mind the row when you go on. Just finish + yer turn like a lady.” + </p> + <p> + It was at that moment that Edna felt her journalistic ambition departing + from her, and was aware of an overmastering desire to be somewhere else. + But the stage manager, like an ogre, barred her retreat. She could hear + the opening bars of her song going up from the orchestra and the noises of + the house dying away to the silence of anticipation. + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead,” Letty whispered, pressing her hand; and from the other side + came the peremptory “Don’t flunk!” of Charley Welsh. + </p> + <p> + But her feet seemed rooted to the floor, and she leaned weakly against a + shift scene. The orchestra was beginning over again, and a lone voice from + the house piped with startling distinctness: + </p> + <p> + “Puzzle picture! Find Nannie!” + </p> + <p> + A roar of laughter greeted the sally, and Edna shrank back. But the strong + hand of the manager descended on her shoulder, and with a quick, powerful + shove propelled her out on to the stage. His hand and arm had flashed into + full view, and the audience, grasping the situation, thundered its + appreciation. The orchestra was drowned out by the terrible din, and Edna + could see the bows scraping away across the violins, apparently without + sound. It was impossible for her to begin in time, and as she patiently + waited, arms akimbo and ears straining for the music, the house let loose + again (a favorite trick, she afterward learned, of confusing the amateur + by preventing him or her from hearing the orchestra). + </p> + <p> + But Edna was recovering her presence of mind. She became aware, pit to + dome, of a vast sea of smiling and fun-distorted faces, of vast roars of + laughter, rising wave on wave, and then her Scotch blood went cold and + angry. The hard-working but silent orchestra gave her the cue, and, + without making a sound, she began to move her lips, stretch forth her + arms, and sway her body, as though she were really singing. The noise in + the house redoubled in the attempt to drown her voice, but she serenely + went on with her pantomime. This seemed to continue an interminable time, + when the audience, tiring of its prank and in order to hear, suddenly + stilled its clamor, and discovered the dumb show she had been making. For + a moment all was silent, save for the orchestra, her lips moving on + without a sound, and then the audience realized that it had been sold, and + broke out afresh, this time with genuine applause in acknowledgment of her + victory. She chose this as the happy moment for her exit, and with a bow + and a backward retreat, she was off the stage in Letty’s arms. + </p> + <p> + The worst was past, and for the rest of the evening she moved about among + the amateurs and professionals, talking, listening, observing, finding out + what it meant and taking mental notes of it all. Charley Welsh constituted + himself her preceptor and guardian angel, and so well did he perform the + self-allotted task that when it was all over she felt fully prepared to + write her article. But the proposition had been to do two turns, and her + native pluck forced her to live up to it. Also, in the course of the + intervening days, she discovered fleeting impressions that required + verification; so, on Saturday, she was back again, with her telescope + basket and Letty. + </p> + <p> + The manager seemed looking for her, and she caught an expression of relief + in his eyes when he first saw her. He hurried up, greeted her, and bowed + with a respect ludicrously at variance with his previous ogre-like + behavior. And as he bowed, across his shoulders she saw Charley Welsh + deliberately wink. + </p> + <p> + But the surprise had just begun. The manager begged to be introduced to + her sister, chatted entertainingly with the pair of them, and strove + greatly and anxiously to be agreeable. He even went so far as to give Edna + a dressing room to herself, to the unspeakable envy of the three other + amateur ladies of previous acquaintance. Edna was nonplussed, and it was + not till she met Charley Welsh in the passage that light was thrown on the + mystery. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” he greeted her. “On Easy Street, eh? Everything slidin’ your + way.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled brightly. + </p> + <p> + “Thinks yer a female reporter, sure. I almost split when I saw’m layin’ + himself out sweet an’ pleasin’. Honest, now, that ain’t yer graft, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I told you my experience with editors,” she parried. “And honest now, it + was honest, too.” + </p> + <p> + But the Only Charley Welsh shook his head dubiously. “Not that I care a + rap,” he declared. “And if you are, just gimme a couple of lines of + notice, the right kind, good ad, you know. And if yer not, why yer all + right anyway. Yer not our class, that’s straight.” + </p> + <p> + After her turn, which she did this time with the nerve of an old + campaigner, the manager returned to the charge; and after saying nice + things and being generally nice himself, he came to the point. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll treat us well, I hope,” he said insinuatingly. “Do the right thing + by us, and all that?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she answered innocently, “you couldn’t persuade me to do another + turn; I know I seemed to take and that you’d like to have me, but I + really, really can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “You know what I mean,” he said, with a touch of his old bulldozing + manner. + </p> + <p> + “No, I really won’t,” she persisted. “Vaudeville’s too—too wearing + on the nerves, my nerves, at any rate.” + </p> + <p> + Whereat he looked puzzled and doubtful, and forbore to press the point + further. + </p> + <p> + But on Monday morning, when she came to his office to get her pay for the + two turns, it was he who puzzled her. + </p> + <p> + “You surely must have mistaken me,” he lied glibly. “I remember saying + something about paying your car fare. We always do this, you know, but we + never, never pay amateurs. That would take the life and sparkle out of the + whole thing. No, Charley Welsh was stringing you. He gets paid nothing for + his turns. No amateur gets paid. The idea is ridiculous. However, here’s + fifty cents. It will pay your sister’s car fare also. And,”—very + suavely,—“speaking for the Loops, permit me to thank you for the + kind and successful contribution of your services.” + </p> + <p> + That afternoon, true to her promise to Max Irwin, she placed her + typewritten copy into his hands. And while he ran over it, he nodded his + head from time to time, and maintained a running fire of commendatory + remarks: “Good!—that’s it!—that’s the stuff!—psychology’s + all right!—the very idea!—you’ve caught it!—excellent!—missed + it a bit here, but it’ll go—that’s vigorous!—strong!—vivid!—pictures! + pictures!—excellent!—most excellent!” + </p> + <p> + And when he had run down to the bottom of the last page, holding out his + hand: “My dear Miss Wyman, I congratulate you. I must say you have + exceeded my expectations, which, to say the least, were large. You are a + journalist, a natural journalist. You’ve got the grip, and you’re sure to + get on. The Intelligencer will take it, without doubt, and take you too. + They’ll have to take you. If they don’t, some of the other papers will get + you.” + </p> + <p> + “But what’s this?” he queried, the next instant, his face going serious. + “You’ve said nothing about receiving the pay for your turns, and that’s + one of the points of the feature. I expressly mentioned it, if you’ll + remember.” + </p> + <p> + “It will never do,” he said, shaking his head ominously, when she had + explained. “You simply must collect that money somehow. Let me see. Let me + think a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Mr. Irwin,” she said. “I’ve bothered you enough. Let me use + your ‘phone, please, and I’ll try Mr. Ernst Symes again.” + </p> + <p> + He vacated his chair by the desk, and Edna took down the receiver. + </p> + <p> + “Charley Welsh is sick,” she began, when the connection had been made. + “What? No I’m not Charley Welsh. Charley Welsh is sick, and his sister + wants to know if she can come out this afternoon and draw his pay for + him?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell Charley Welsh’s sister that Charley Welsh was out this morning, and + drew his own pay,” came back the manager’s familiar tones, crisp with + asperity. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” Edna went on. “And now Nan Bellayne wants to know if she and + her sister can come out this afternoon and draw Nan Bellayne’s pay?” + </p> + <p> + “What’d he say? What’d he say?” Max Irwin cried excitedly, as she hung up. + </p> + <p> + “That Nan Bellayne was too much for him, and that she and her sister could + come out and get her pay and the freedom of the Loops, to boot.” + </p> + <p> + “One thing, more,” he interrupted her thanks at the door, as on her + previous visit. “Now that you’ve shown the stuff you’re made of, I should + esteem it, ahem, a privilege to give you a line myself to the + Intelligencer people.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0005"></a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + THE MINIONS OF MIDAS + </h2></div> + <p> + Wade Atsheler is dead—dead by his own hand. To say that this was + entirely unexpected by the small coterie which knew him, would be to say + an untruth; and yet never once had we, his intimates, ever canvassed the + idea. Rather had we been prepared for it in some incomprehensible + subconscious way. Before the perpetration of the deed, its possibility is + remotest from our thoughts; but when we did know that he was dead, it + seemed, somehow, that we had understood and looked forward to it all the + time. This, by retrospective analysis, we could easily explain by the fact + of his great trouble. I use “great trouble” advisedly. Young, handsome, + with an assured position as the right-hand man of Eben Hale, the great + street-railway magnate, there could be no reason for him to complain of + fortune’s favors. Yet we had watched his smooth brow furrow and corrugate + as under some carking care or devouring sorrow. We had watched his thick, + black hair thin and silver as green grain under brazen skies and parching + drought. Who can forget, in the midst of the hilarious scenes he toward + the last sought with greater and greater avidity—who can forget, I + say, the deep abstractions and black moods into which he fell? At such + times, when the fun rippled and soared from height to height, suddenly, + without rhyme or reason, his eyes would turn lacklustre, his brows knit, + as with clenched hands and face overshot with spasms of mental pain he + wrestled on the edge of the abyss with some unknown danger. + </p> + <p> + He never spoke of his trouble, nor were we indiscreet enough to ask. But + it was just as well; for had we, and had he spoken, our help and strength + could have availed nothing. When Eben Hale died, whose confidential + secretary he was—nay, well-nigh adopted son and full business + partner—he no longer came among us. Not, as I now know, that our + company was distasteful to him, but because his trouble had so grown that + he could not respond to our happiness nor find surcease with us. Why this + should be so we could not at the time understand, for when Eben Hale’s + will was probated, the world learned that he was sole heir to his + employer’s many millions, and it was expressly stipulated that this great + inheritance was given to him without qualification, hitch, or hindrance in + the exercise thereof. Not a share of stock, not a penny of cash, was + bequeathed to the dead man’s relatives. As for his direct family, one + astounding clause expressly stated that Wade Atsheler was to dispense to + Eben Hale’s wife and sons and daughters whatever moneys his judgement + dictated, at whatever times he deemed advisable. Had there been any + scandal in the dead man’s family, or had his sons been wild or undutiful, + then there might have been a glimmering of reason in this most unusual + action; but Eben Hale’s domestic happiness had been proverbial in the + community, and one would have to travel far and wide to discover a + cleaner, saner, wholesomer progeny of sons and daughters. While his wife—well, + by those who knew her best she was endearingly termed “The Mother of the + Gracchi.” Needless to state, this inexplicable will was a nine day’s + wonder; but the expectant public was disappointed in that no contest was + made. + </p> + <p> + It was only the other day that Eben Hale was laid away in his stately + marble mausoleum. And now Wade Atsheler is dead. The news was printed in + this morning’s paper. I have just received through the mail a letter from + him, posted, evidently, but a short hour before he hurled himself into + eternity. This letter, which lies before me, is a narrative in his own + handwriting, linking together numerous newspaper clippings and facsimiles + of letters. The original correspondence, he has told me, is in the hands + of the police. He has begged me, also, as a warning to society against a + most frightful and diabolical danger which threatens its very existence, + to make public the terrible series of tragedies in which he has been + innocently concerned. I herewith append the text in full: + </p> + <p> + It was in August, 1899, just after my return from my summer vacation, that + the blow fell. We did not know it at the time; we had not yet learned to + school our minds to such awful possibilities. Mr. Hale opened the letter, + read it, and tossed it upon my desk with a laugh. When I had looked it + over, I also laughed, saying, “Some ghastly joke, Mr. Hale, and one in + very poor taste.” Find here, my dear John, an exact duplicate of the + letter in question. + </p> + <p> + OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. August 17, 1899. + </p> + <p> + MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron: + </p> + <p> + Dear Sir,—We desire you to realize upon whatever portion of your + vast holdings is necessary to obtain, IN CASH, twenty millions of dollars. + This sum we require you to pay over to us, or to our agents. You will note + we do not specify any given time, for it is not our wish to hurry you in + this matter. You may even, if it be easier for you, pay us in ten, + fifteen, or twenty instalments; but we will accept no single instalment of + less than a million. + </p> + <p> + Believe us, dear Mr. Hale, when we say that we embark upon this course of + action utterly devoid of animus. We are members of that intellectual + proletariat, the increasing numbers of which mark in red lettering the + last days of the nineteenth century. We have, from a thorough study of + economics, decided to enter upon this business. It has many merits, chief + among which may be noted that we can indulge in large and lucrative + operations without capital. So far, we have been fairly successful, and we + hope our dealings with you may be pleasant and satisfactory. + </p> + <p> + Pray attend while we explain our views more fully. At the base of the + present system of society is to be found the property right. And this + right of the individual to hold property is demonstrated, in the last + analysis, to rest solely and wholly upon MIGHT. The mailed gentlemen of + William the Conqueror divided and apportioned England amongst themselves + with the naked sword. This, we are sure you will grant, is true of all + feudal possessions. With the invention of steam and the Industrial + Revolution there came into existence the Capitalist Class, in the modern + sense of the word. These capitalists quickly towered above the ancient + nobility. The captains of industry have virtually dispossessed the + descendants of the captains of war. Mind, and not muscle, wins in to-day’s + struggle for existence. But this state of affairs is none the less based + upon might. The change has been qualitative. The old-time Feudal Baronage + ravaged the world with fire and sword; the modern Money Baronage exploits + the world by mastering and applying the world’s economic forces. Brain, + and not brawn, endures; and those best fitted to survive are the + intellectually and commercially powerful. + </p> + <p> + We, the M. of M., are not content to become wage slaves. The great trusts + and business combinations (with which you have your rating) prevent us + from rising to the place among you which our intellects qualify us to + occupy. Why? Because we are without capital. We are of the unwashed, but + with this difference: our brains are of the best, and we have no foolish + ethical nor social scruples. As wage slaves, toiling early and late, and + living abstemiously, we could not save in threescore years—nor in + twenty times threescore years—a sum of money sufficient successfully + to cope with the great aggregations of massed capital which now exist. + Nevertheless, we have entered the arena. We now throw down the gage to the + capital of the world. Whether it wishes to fight or not, it shall have to + fight. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hale, our interests dictate us to demand of you twenty millions of + dollars. While we are considerate enough to give you reasonable time in + which to carry out your share of the transaction, please do not delay too + long. When you have agreed to our terms, insert a suitable notice in the + agony column of the “Morning Blazer.” We shall then acquaint you with our + plan for transferring the sum mentioned. You had better do this some time + prior to October 1st. If you do not, in order to show that we are in + earnest we shall on that date kill a man on East Thirty-ninth Street. He + will be a workingman. This man you do not know; nor do we. You represent a + force in modern society; we also represent a force—a new force. + Without anger or malice, we have closed in battle. As you will readily + discern, we are simply a business proposition. You are the upper, and we + the nether, millstone; this man’s life shall be ground out between. You + may save him if you agree to our conditions and act in time. + </p> + <p> + There was once a king cursed with a golden touch. His name we have taken + to do duty as our official seal. Some day, to protect ourselves against + competitors, we shall copyright it. + </p> + <p> + We beg to remain, + </p> + <p> + THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. + </p> + <p> + I leave it to you, dear John, why should we not have laughed over such a + preposterous communication? The idea, we could not but grant, was well + conceived, but it was too grotesque to be taken seriously. Mr. Hale said + he would preserve it as a literary curiosity, and shoved it away in a + pigeonhole. Then we promptly forgot its existence. And as promptly, on the + 1st of October, going over the morning mail, we read the following: + </p> + <p> + OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., October 1, 1899. + </p> + <p> + MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron: + </p> + <p> + Dear Sir,—Your victim has met his fate. An hour ago, on East + Thirty-ninth Street, a workingman was thrust through the heart with a + knife. Ere you read this his body will be lying at the Morgue. Go and look + upon your handiwork. + </p> + <p> + On October 14th, in token of our earnestness in this matter, and in case + you do not relent, we shall kill a policeman on or near the corner of Polk + Street and Clermont Avenue. + </p> + <p> + Very cordially, + </p> + <p> + THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. + </p> + <p> + Again Mr. Hale laughed. His mind was full of a prospective deal with a + Chicago syndicate for the sale of all his street railways in that city, + and so he went on dictating to the stenographer, never giving it a second + thought. But somehow, I know not why, a heavy depression fell upon me. + What if it were not a joke, I asked myself, and turned involuntarily to + the morning paper. There it was, as befitted an obscure person of the + lower classes, a paltry half-dozen lines tucked away in a corner, next a + patent medicine advertisement: + </p> + <p> + Shortly after five o’clock this morning, on East Thirty-ninth Street, a + laborer named Pete Lascalle, while on his way to work, was stabbed to the + heart by an unknown assailant, who escaped by running. The police have + been unable to discover any motive for the murder. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” was Mr. Hale’s rejoinder, when I had read the item aloud; + but the incident evidently weighed upon his mind, for late in the + afternoon, with many epithets denunciatory of his foolishness, he asked me + to acquaint the police with the affair. I had the pleasure of being + laughed at in the Inspector’s private office, although I went away with + the assurance that they would look into it and that the vicinity of Polk + and Clermont would be doubly patrolled on the night mentioned. There it + dropped, till the two weeks had sped by, when the following note came to + us through the mail: + </p> + <p> + OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. October 15, 1899. + </p> + <p> + MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron: + </p> + <p> + Dear Sir,—Your second victim has fallen on schedule time. We are in + no hurry; but to increase the pressure we shall henceforth kill weekly. To + protect ourselves against police interference we shall hereafter inform + you of the event but a little prior to or simultaneously with the deed. + Trusting this finds you in good health, + </p> + <p> + We are, + </p> + <p> + THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. + </p> + <p> + This time Mr. Hale took up the paper, and after a brief search, read to me + this account: + </p> + <p> + A DASTARDLY CRIME + </p> + <p> + Joseph Donahue, assigned only last night to special patrol duty in the + Eleventh Ward, at midnight was shot through the brain and instantly + killed. The tragedy was enacted in the full glare of the street lights on + the corner of Polk Street and Clermont Avenue. Our society is indeed + unstable when the custodians of its peace are thus openly and wantonly + shot down. The police have so far been unable to obtain the slightest + clue. + </p> + <p> + Barely had he finished this when the police arrived—the Inspector + himself and two of his keenest sleuths. Alarm sat upon their faces, and it + was plain that they were seriously perturbed. Though the facts were so few + and simple, we talked long, going over the affair again and again. When + the Inspector went away, he confidently assured us that everything would + soon be straightened out and the assassins run to earth. In the meantime + he thought it well to detail guards for the protection of Mr. Hale and + myself, and several more to be constantly on the vigil about the house and + grounds. After the lapse of a week, at one o’clock in the afternoon, this + telegram was received: + </p> + <p> + OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. October 21, 1899. + </p> + <p> + MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron: + </p> + <p> + Dear Sir,—We are sorry to note how completely you have misunderstood + us. You have seen fit to surround yourself and household with armed + guards, as though, forsooth, we were common criminals, apt to break in + upon you and wrest away by force your twenty millions. Believe us, this is + farthest from our intention. + </p> + <p> + You will readily comprehend, after a little sober thought, that your life + is dear to us. Do not be afraid. We would not hurt you for the world. It + is our policy to cherish you tenderly and protect you from all harm. Your + death means nothing to us. If it did, rest assured that we would not + hesitate a moment in destroying you. Think this over, Mr. Hale. When you + have paid us our price, there will be need of retrenchment. Dismiss your + guards now, and cut down your expenses. + </p> + <p> + Within minutes of the time you receive this a nurse-girl will have been + choked to death in Brentwood Park. The body may be found in the shrubbery + lining the path which leads off to the left from the band-stand. + </p> + <p> + Cordially yours, + </p> + <p> + THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. + </p> + <p> + The next instant Mr. Hale was at the telephone, warning the Inspector of + the impending murder. The Inspector excused himself in order to call up + Police Sub-station F and despatch men to the scene. Fifteen minutes later + he rang us up and informed us that the body had been discovered, yet warm, + in the place indicated. That evening the papers teemed with glaring + Jack-the-Strangler headlines, denouncing the brutality of the deed and + complaining about the laxity of the police. We were also closeted with the + Inspector, who begged us by all means to keep the affair secret. Success, + he said, depended upon silence. + </p> + <p> + As you know, John, Mr. Hale was a man of iron. He refused to surrender. + But, oh, John, it was terrible, nay, horrible—this awful something, + this blind force in the dark. We could not fight, could not plan, could do + nothing save hold our hands and wait. And week by week, as certain as the + rising of the sun, came the notification and death of some person, man or + woman, innocent of evil, but just as much killed by us as though we had + done it with our own hands. A word from Mr. Hale and the slaughter would + have ceased. But he hardened his heart and waited, the lines deepening, + the mouth and eyes growing sterner and firmer, and the face aging with the + hours. It is needless for me to speak of my own suffering during that + frightful period. Find here the letters and telegrams of the M. of M., and + the newspaper accounts, etc., of the various murders. + </p> + <p> + You will notice also the letters warning Mr. Hale of certain machinations + of commercial enemies and secret manipulations of stock. The M. of M. + seemed to have its hand on the inner pulse of the business and financial + world. They possessed themselves of and forwarded to us information which + our agents could not obtain. One timely note from them, at a critical + moment in a certain deal, saved all of five millions to Mr. Hale. At + another time they sent us a telegram which probably was the means of + preventing an anarchist crank from taking my employer’s life. We captured + the man on his arrival and turned him over to the police, who found upon + him enough of a new and powerful explosive to sink a battleship. + </p> + <p> + We persisted. Mr. Hale was grit clear through. He disbursed at the rate of + one hundred thousand per week for secret service. The aid of the + Pinkertons and of countless private detective agencies was called in, and + in addition to this thousands were upon our payroll. Our agents swarmed + everywhere, in all guises, penetrating all classes of society. They + grasped at a myriad clues; hundreds of suspects were jailed, and at + various times thousands of suspicious persons were under surveillance, but + nothing tangible came to light. With its communications the M. of M. + continually changed its method of delivery. And every messenger they sent + us was arrested forthwith. But these inevitably proved to be innocent + individuals, while their descriptions of the persons who had employed them + for the errand never tallied. On the last day of December we received this + notification: + </p> + <p> + OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., December 31, 1899. + </p> + <p> + MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron: + </p> + <p> + Dear Sir,—Pursuant of our policy, with which we flatter ourselves + you are already well versed, we beg to state that we shall give a passport + from this Vale of Tears to Inspector Bying, with whom, because of our + attentions, you have become so well acquainted. It is his custom to be in + his private office at this hour. Even as you read this he breathes his + last. + </p> + <p> + Cordially yours, + </p> + <p> + THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. + </p> + <p> + I dropped the letter and sprang to the telephone. Great was my relief when + I heard the Inspector’s hearty voice. But, even as he spoke, his voice + died away in the receiver to a gurgling sob, and I heard faintly the crash + of a falling body. Then a strange voice hello’d me, sent me the regards of + the M. of M., and broke the switch. Like a flash I called up the public + office of the Central Police, telling them to go at once to the + Inspector’s aid in his private office. I then held the line, and a few + minutes later received the intelligence that he had been found bathed in + his own blood and breathing his last. There were no eyewitnesses, and no + trace was discoverable of the murderer. + </p> + <p> + Whereupon Mr. Hale immediately increased his secret service till a quarter + of a million flowed weekly from his coffers. He was determined to win out. + His graduated rewards aggregated over ten millions. You have a fair idea + of his resources and you can see in what manner he drew upon them. It was + the principle, he affirmed, that he was fighting for, not the gold. And it + must be admitted that his course proved the nobility of his motive. The + police departments of all the great cities cooperated, and even the United + States Government stepped in, and the affair became one of the highest + questions of state. Certain contingent funds of the nation were devoted to + the unearthing of the M. of M., and every government agent was on the + alert. But all in vain. The Minions of Midas carried on their damnable + work unhampered. They had their way and struck unerringly. + </p> + <p> + But while he fought to the last, Mr. Hale could not wash his hands of the + blood with which they were dyed. Though not technically a murderer, though + no jury of his peers would ever have convicted him, none the less the + death of every individual was due to him. As I said before, a word from + him and the slaughter would have ceased. But he refused to give that word. + He insisted that the integrity of society was assailed; that he was not + sufficiently a coward to desert his post; and that it was manifestly just + that a few should be martyred for the ultimate welfare of the many. + Nevertheless this blood was upon his head, and he sank into deeper and + deeper gloom. I was likewise whelmed with the guilt of an accomplice. + Babies were ruthlessly killed, children, aged men; and not only were these + murders local, but they were distributed over the country. In the middle + of February, one evening, as we sat in the library, there came a sharp + knock at the door. On responding to it I found, lying on the carpet of the + corridor, the following missive: + </p> + <p> + OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., February 15, 1900. + </p> + <p> + MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron: + </p> + <p> + Dear Sir,—Does not your soul cry out upon the red harvest it is + reaping? Perhaps we have been too abstract in conducting our business. Let + us now be concrete. Miss Adelaide Laidlaw is a talented young woman, as + good, we understand, as she is beautiful. She is the daughter of your old + friend, Judge Laidlaw, and we happen to know that you carried her in your + arms when she was an infant. She is your daughter’s closest friend, and at + present is visiting her. When your eyes have read thus far her visit will + have terminated. + </p> + <p> + Very cordially, + </p> + <p> + THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. + </p> + <p> + My God! did we not instantly realize the terrible import! We rushed + through the dayrooms—she was not there—and on to her own + apartments. The door was locked, but we crashed it down by hurling + ourselves against it. There she lay, just as she had finished dressing for + the opera, smothered with pillows torn from the couch, the flush of life + yet on her flesh, the body still flexible and warm. Let me pass over the + rest of this horror. You will surely remember, John, the newspaper + accounts. + </p> + <p> + Late that night Mr. Hale summoned me to him, and before God did pledge me + most solemnly to stand by him and not to compromise, even if all kith and + kin were destroyed. + </p> + <p> + The next day I was surprised at his cheerfulness. I had thought he would + be deeply shocked by this last tragedy—how deep I was soon to learn. + All day he was light-hearted and high-spirited, as though at last he had + found a way out of the frightful difficulty. The next morning we found him + dead in his bed, a peaceful smile upon his careworn face—asphyxiation. + Through the connivance of the police and the authorities, it was given out + to the world as heart disease. We deemed it wise to withhold the truth; + but little good has it done us, little good has anything done us. + </p> + <p> + Barely had I left that chamber of death, when—but too late—the + following extraordinary letter was received: + </p> + <p> + OFFICE OF THE M. of M., February 17, 1900. + </p> + <p> + MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron: + </p> + <p> + Dear Sir,—You will pardon our intrusion, we hope, so closely upon + the sad event of day before yesterday; but what we wish to say may be of + the utmost importance to you. It is in our mind that you may attempt to + escape us. There is but one way, apparently, as you have ere this + doubtless discovered. But we wish to inform you that even this one way is + barred. You may die, but you die failing and acknowledging your failure. + Note this: WE ARE PART AND PARCEL OF YOUR POSSESSIONS. WITH YOUR MILLIONS + WE PASS DOWN TO YOUR HEIRS AND ASSIGNS FOREVER. + </p> + <p> + We are the inevitable. We are the culmination of industrial and social + wrong. We turn upon the society that has created us. We are the successful + failures of the age, the scourges of a degraded civilization. + </p> + <p> + We are the creatures of a perverse social selection. We meet force with + force. Only the strong shall endure. We believe in the survival of the + fittest. You have crushed your wage slaves into the dirt and you have + survived. The captains of war, at your command, have shot down like dogs + your employees in a score of bloody strikes. By such means you have + endured. We do not grumble at the result, for we acknowledge and have our + being in the same natural law. And now the question has arisen: UNDER THE + PRESENT SOCIAL ENVIRONMENT, WHICH OF US SHALL SURVIVE? We believe we are + the fittest. You believe you are the fittest. We leave the eventuality to + time and law. + </p> + <p> + Cordially yours, + </p> + <p> + THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. + </p> + <p> + John, do you wonder now that I shunned pleasure and avoided friends? But + why explain? Surely this narrative will make everything clear. Three weeks + ago Adelaide Laidlaw died. Since then I have waited in hope and fear. + Yesterday the will was probated and made public. To-day I was notified that + a woman of the middle class would be killed in Golden Gate Park, in + faraway San Francisco. The despatches in to-night’s papers give the + details of the brutal happening—details which correspond with those + furnished me in advance. + </p> + <p> + It is useless. I cannot struggle against the inevitable. I have been + faithful to Mr. Hale and have worked hard. Why my faithfulness should have + been thus rewarded I cannot understand. Yet I cannot be false to my trust, + nor break my word by compromising. Still, I have resolved that no more + deaths shall be upon my head. I have willed the many millions I lately + received to their rightful owners. Let the stalwart sons of Eben Hale work + out their own salvation. Ere you read this I shall have passed on. The + Minions of Midas are all-powerful. The police are impotent. I have learned + from them that other millionnaires have been likewise mulcted or + persecuted—how many is not known, for when one yields to the M. of + M., his mouth is thenceforth sealed. Those who have not yielded are even + now reaping their scarlet harvest. The grim game is being played out. The + Federal Government can do nothing. I also understand that similar branch + organizations have made their appearance in Europe. Society is shaken to + its foundations. Principalities and powers are as brands ripe for the + burning. Instead of the masses against the classes, it is a class against + the classes. We, the guardians of human progress, are being singled out + and struck down. Law and order have failed. + </p> + <p> + The officials have begged me to keep this secret. I have done so, but can + do so no longer. It has become a question of public import, fraught with + the direst consequences, and I shall do my duty before I leave this world + by informing it of its peril. Do you, John, as my last request, make this + public. Do not be frightened. The fate of humanity rests in your hand. Let + the press strike off millions of copies; let the electric currents sweep + it round the world; wherever men meet and speak, let them speak of it in + fear and trembling. And then, when thoroughly aroused, let society arise + in its might and cast out this abomination. + </p> + <p> + Yours, in long farewell, + </p> + <p> + WADE ATSHELER. <a id="link2H_4_0006"></a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + THE SHADOW AND THE FLASH + </h2></div> + <p> + When I look back, I realize what a peculiar friendship it was. First, + there was Lloyd Inwood, tall, slender, and finely knit, nervous and dark. + And then Paul Tichlorne, tall, slender, and finely knit, nervous and + blond. Each was the replica of the other in everything except color. + Lloyd’s eyes were black; Paul’s were blue. Under stress of excitement, the + blood coursed olive in the face of Lloyd, crimson in the face of Paul. But + outside this matter of coloring they were as like as two peas. Both were + high-strung, prone to excessive tension and endurance, and they lived at + concert pitch. + </p> + <p> + But there was a trio involved in this remarkable friendship, and the third + was short, and fat, and chunky, and lazy, and, loath to say, it was I. + Paul and Lloyd seemed born to rivalry with each other, and I to be + peacemaker between them. We grew up together, the three of us, and full + often have I received the angry blows each intended for the other. They + were always competing, striving to outdo each other, and when entered upon + some such struggle there was no limit either to their endeavors or + passions. + </p> + <p> + This intense spirit of rivalry obtained in their studies and their games. + If Paul memorized one canto of “Marmion,” Lloyd memorized two cantos, Paul + came back with three, and Lloyd again with four, till each knew the whole + poem by heart. I remember an incident that occurred at the swimming hole—an + incident tragically significant of the life-struggle between them. The + boys had a game of diving to the bottom of a ten-foot pool and holding on + by submerged roots to see who could stay under the longest. Paul and Lloyd + allowed themselves to be bantered into making the descent together. When I + saw their faces, set and determined, disappear in the water as they sank + swiftly down, I felt a foreboding of something dreadful. The moments sped, + the ripples died away, the face of the pool grew placid and untroubled, + and neither black nor golden head broke surface in quest of air. We above + grew anxious. The longest record of the longest-winded boy had been + exceeded, and still there was no sign. Air bubbles trickled slowly upward, + showing that the breath had been expelled from their lungs, and after that + the bubbles ceased to trickle upward. Each second became interminable, + and, unable longer to endure the suspense, I plunged into the water. + </p> + <p> + I found them down at the bottom, clutching tight to the roots, their heads + not a foot apart, their eyes wide open, each glaring fixedly at the other. + They were suffering frightful torment, writhing and twisting in the pangs + of voluntary suffocation; for neither would let go and acknowledge himself + beaten. I tried to break Paul’s hold on the root, but he resisted me + fiercely. Then I lost my breath and came to the surface, badly scared. I + quickly explained the situation, and half a dozen of us went down and by + main strength tore them loose. By the time we got them out, both were + unconscious, and it was only after much barrel-rolling and rubbing and + pounding that they finally came to their senses. They would have drowned + there, had no one rescued them. + </p> + <p> + When Paul Tichlorne entered college, he let it be generally understood + that he was going in for the social sciences. Lloyd Inwood, entering at + the same time, elected to take the same course. But Paul had had it + secretly in mind all the time to study the natural sciences, specializing + on chemistry, and at the last moment he switched over. Though Lloyd had + already arranged his year’s work and attended the first lectures, he at + once followed Paul’s lead and went in for the natural sciences and + especially for chemistry. Their rivalry soon became a noted thing + throughout the university. Each was a spur to the other, and they went + into chemistry deeper than did ever students before—so deep, in + fact, that ere they took their sheepskins they could have stumped any + chemistry or “cow college” professor in the institution, save “old” Moss, + head of the department, and even him they puzzled and edified more than + once. Lloyd’s discovery of the “death bacillus” of the sea toad, and his + experiments on it with potassium cyanide, sent his name and that of his + university ringing round the world; nor was Paul a whit behind when he + succeeded in producing laboratory colloids exhibiting amoeba-like + activities, and when he cast new light upon the processes of fertilization + through his startling experiments with simple sodium chlorides and + magnesium solutions on low forms of marine life. + </p> + <p> + It was in their undergraduate days, however, in the midst of their + profoundest plunges into the mysteries of organic chemistry, that Doris + Van Benschoten entered into their lives. Lloyd met her first, but within + twenty-four hours Paul saw to it that he also made her acquaintance. Of + course, they fell in love with her, and she became the only thing in life + worth living for. They wooed her with equal ardor and fire, and so intense + became their struggle for her that half the student-body took to wagering + wildly on the result. Even “old” Moss, one day, after an astounding + demonstration in his private laboratory by Paul, was guilty to the extent + of a month’s salary of backing him to become the bridegroom of Doris Van + Benschoten. + </p> + <p> + In the end she solved the problem in her own way, to everybody’s + satisfaction except Paul’s and Lloyd’s. Getting them together, she said + that she really could not choose between them because she loved them both + equally well; and that, unfortunately, since polyandry was not permitted + in the United States she would be compelled to forego the honor and + happiness of marrying either of them. Each blamed the other for this + lamentable outcome, and the bitterness between them grew more bitter. + </p> + <p> + But things came to a head enough. It was at my home, after they had taken + their degrees and dropped out of the world’s sight, that the beginning of + the end came to pass. Both were men of means, with little inclination and + no necessity for professional life. My friendship and their mutual + animosity were the two things that linked them in any way together. While + they were very often at my place, they made it a fastidious point to avoid + each other on such visits, though it was inevitable, under the + circumstances, that they should come upon each other occasionally. + </p> + <p> + On the day I have in recollection, Paul Tichlorne had been mooning all + morning in my study over a current scientific review. This left me free to + my own affairs, and I was out among my roses when Lloyd Inwood arrived. + Clipping and pruning and tacking the climbers on the porch, with my mouth + full of nails, and Lloyd following me about and lending a hand now and + again, we fell to discussing the mythical race of invisible people, that + strange and vagrant people the traditions of which have come down to us. + Lloyd warmed to the talk in his nervous, jerky fashion, and was soon + interrogating the physical properties and possibilities of invisibility. A + perfectly black object, he contended, would elude and defy the acutest + vision. + </p> + <p> + “Color is a sensation,” he was saying. “It has no objective reality. + Without light, we can see neither colors nor objects themselves. All + objects are black in the dark, and in the dark it is impossible to see + them. If no light strikes upon them, then no light is flung back from them + to the eye, and so we have no vision-evidence of their being.” + </p> + <p> + “But we see black objects in daylight,” I objected. + </p> + <p> + “Very true,” he went on warmly. “And that is because they are not + perfectly black. Were they perfectly black, absolutely black, as it were, + we could not see them—ay, not in the blaze of a thousand suns could + we see them! And so I say, with the right pigments, properly compounded, + an absolutely black paint could be produced which would render invisible + whatever it was applied to.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be a remarkable discovery,” I said non-committally, for the + whole thing seemed too fantastic for aught but speculative purposes. + </p> + <p> + “Remarkable!” Lloyd slapped me on the shoulder. “I should say so. Why, old + chap, to coat myself with such a paint would be to put the world at my + feet. The secrets of kings and courts would be mine, the machinations of + diplomats and politicians, the play of stock-gamblers, the plans of trusts + and corporations. I could keep my hand on the inner pulse of things and + become the greatest power in the world. And I—” He broke off + shortly, then added, “Well, I have begun my experiments, and I don’t mind + telling you that I’m right in line for it.” + </p> + <p> + A laugh from the doorway startled us. Paul Tichlorne was standing there, a + smile of mockery on his lips. + </p> + <p> + “You forget, my dear Lloyd,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Forget what?” + </p> + <p> + “You forget,” Paul went on—“ah, you forget the shadow.” + </p> + <p> + I saw Lloyd’s face drop, but he answered sneeringly, “I can carry a + sunshade, you know.” Then he turned suddenly and fiercely upon him. “Look + here, Paul, you’ll keep out of this if you know what’s good for you.” + </p> + <p> + A rupture seemed imminent, but Paul laughed good-naturedly. “I wouldn’t + lay fingers on your dirty pigments. Succeed beyond your most sanguine + expectations, yet you will always fetch up against the shadow. You can’t + get away from it. Now I shall go on the very opposite tack. In the very + nature of my proposition the shadow will be eliminated—” + </p> + <p> + “Transparency!” ejaculated Lloyd, instantly. “But it can’t be achieved.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; of course not.” And Paul shrugged his shoulders and strolled off + down the briar-rose path. + </p> + <p> + This was the beginning of it. Both men attacked the problem with all the + tremendous energy for which they were noted, and with a rancor and + bitterness that made me tremble for the success of either. Each trusted me + to the utmost, and in the long weeks of experimentation that followed I + was made a party to both sides, listening to their theorizings and + witnessing their demonstrations. Never, by word or sign, did I convey to + either the slightest hint of the other’s progress, and they respected me + for the seal I put upon my lips. + </p> + <p> + Lloyd Inwood, after prolonged and unintermittent application, when the + tension upon his mind and body became too great to bear, had a strange way + of obtaining relief. He attended prize fights. It was at one of these + brutal exhibitions, whither he had dragged me in order to tell his latest + results, that his theory received striking confirmation. + </p> + <p> + “Do you see that red-whiskered man?” he asked, pointing across the ring to + the fifth tier of seats on the opposite side. “And do you see the next man + to him, the one in the white hat? Well, there is quite a gap between them, + is there not?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” I answered. “They are a seat apart. The gap is the unoccupied + seat.” + </p> + <p> + He leaned over to me and spoke seriously. “Between the red-whiskered man + and the white-hatted man sits Ben Wasson. You have heard me speak of him. + He is the cleverest pugilist of his weight in the country. He is also a + Caribbean negro, full-blooded, and the blackest in the United States. He + has on a black overcoat buttoned up. I saw him when he came in and took + that seat. As soon as he sat down he disappeared. Watch closely; he may + smile.” + </p> + <p> + I was for crossing over to verify Lloyd’s statement, but he restrained me. + “Wait,” he said. + </p> + <p> + I waited and watched, till the red-whiskered man turned his head as though + addressing the unoccupied seat; and then, in that empty space, I saw the + rolling whites of a pair of eyes and the white double-crescent of two rows + of teeth, and for the instant I could make out a negro’s face. But with + the passing of the smile his visibility passed, and the chair seemed + vacant as before. + </p> + <p> + “Were he perfectly black, you could sit alongside him and not see him,” + Lloyd said; and I confess the illustration was apt enough to make me + well-nigh convinced. + </p> + <p> + I visited Lloyd’s laboratory a number of times after that, and found him + always deep in his search after the absolute black. His experiments + covered all sorts of pigments, such as lamp-blacks, tars, carbonized + vegetable matters, soots of oils and fats, and the various carbonized + animal substances. + </p> + <p> + “White light is composed of the seven primary colors,” he argued to me. + “But it is itself, of itself, invisible. Only by being reflected from + objects do it and the objects become visible. But only that portion of it + that is reflected becomes visible. For instance, here is a blue + tobacco-box. The white light strikes against it, and, with one exception, + all its component colors—violet, indigo, green, yellow, orange, and + red—are absorbed. The one exception is BLUE. It is not absorbed, but + reflected. Wherefore the tobacco-box gives us a sensation of blueness. We + do not see the other colors because they are absorbed. We see only the + blue. For the same reason grass is GREEN. The green waves of white light + are thrown upon our eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “When we paint our houses, we do not apply color to them,” he said at + another time. “What we do is to apply certain substances that have the + property of absorbing from white light all the colors except those that we + would have our houses appear. When a substance reflects all the colors to + the eye, it seems to us white. When it absorbs all the colors, it is + black. But, as I said before, we have as yet no perfect black. All the + colors are not absorbed. The perfect black, guarding against high lights, + will be utterly and absolutely invisible. Look at that, for example.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to the palette lying on his work-table. Different shades of + black pigments were brushed on it. One, in particular, I could hardly see. + It gave my eyes a blurring sensation, and I rubbed them and looked again. + </p> + <p> + “That,” he said impressively, “is the blackest black you or any mortal man + ever looked upon. But just you wait, and I’ll have a black so black that + no mortal man will be able to look upon it—and see it!” + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, I used to find Paul Tichlorne plunged as deeply into + the study of light polarization, diffraction, and interference, single and + double refraction, and all manner of strange organic compounds. + </p> + <p> + “Transparency: a state or quality of body which permits all rays of light + to pass through,” he defined for me. “That is what I am seeking. Lloyd + blunders up against the shadow with his perfect opaqueness. But I escape + it. A transparent body casts no shadow; neither does it reflect + light-waves—that is, the perfectly transparent does not. So, + avoiding high lights, not only will such a body cast no shadow, but, since + it reflects no light, it will also be invisible.” + </p> + <p> + We were standing by the window at another time. Paul was engaged in + polishing a number of lenses, which were ranged along the sill. Suddenly, + after a pause in the conversation, he said, “Oh! I’ve dropped a lens. + Stick your head out, old man, and see where it went to.” + </p> + <p> + Out I started to thrust my head, but a sharp blow on the forehead caused + me to recoil. I rubbed my bruised brow and gazed with reproachful inquiry + at Paul, who was laughing in gleeful, boyish fashion. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” I echoed. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you investigate?” he demanded. And investigate I did. Before + thrusting out my head, my senses, automatically active, had told me there + was nothing there, that nothing intervened between me and out-of-doors, + that the aperture of the window opening was utterly empty. I stretched + forth my hand and felt a hard object, smooth and cool and flat, which my + touch, out of its experience, told me to be glass. I looked again, but + could see positively nothing. + </p> + <p> + “White quartzose sand,” Paul rattled off, “sodic carbonate, slaked lime, + cutlet, manganese peroxide—there you have it, the finest French + plate glass, made by the great St. Gobain Company, who made the finest + plate glass in the world, and this is the finest piece they ever made. It + cost a king’s ransom. But look at it! You can’t see it. You don’t know + it’s there till you run your head against it. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, old boy! That’s merely an object-lesson—certain elements, in + themselves opaque, yet so compounded as to give a resultant body which is + transparent. But that is a matter of inorganic chemistry, you say. Very + true. But I dare to assert, standing here on my two feet, that in the + organic I can duplicate whatever occurs in the inorganic. + </p> + <p> + “Here!” He held a test-tube between me and the light, and I noted the + cloudy or muddy liquid it contained. He emptied the contents of another + test-tube into it, and almost instantly it became clear and sparkling. + </p> + <p> + “Or here!” With quick, nervous movements among his array of test-tubes, he + turned a white solution to a wine color, and a light yellow solution to a + dark brown. He dropped a piece of litmus paper into an acid, when it + changed instantly to red, and on floating it in an alkali it turned as + quickly to blue. + </p> + <p> + “The litmus paper is still the litmus paper,” he enunciated in the formal + manner of the lecturer. “I have not changed it into something else. Then + what did I do? I merely changed the arrangement of its molecules. Where, + at first, it absorbed all colors from the light but red, its molecular + structure was so changed that it absorbed red and all colors except blue. + And so it goes, ad infinitum. Now, what I purpose to do is this.” He + paused for a space. “I purpose to seek—ay, and to find—the + proper reagents, which, acting upon the living organism, will bring about + molecular changes analogous to those you have just witnessed. But these + reagents, which I shall find, and for that matter, upon which I already + have my hands, will not turn the living body to blue or red or black, but + they will turn it to transparency. All light will pass through it. It will + be invisible. It will cast no shadow.” + </p> + <p> + A few weeks later I went hunting with Paul. He had been promising me for + some time that I should have the pleasure of shooting over a wonderful dog—the + most wonderful dog, in fact, that ever man shot over, so he averred, and + continued to aver till my curiosity was aroused. But on the morning in + question I was disappointed, for there was no dog in evidence. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t see him about,” Paul remarked unconcernedly, and we set off across + the fields. + </p> + <p> + I could not imagine, at the time, what was ailing me, but I had a feeling + of some impending and deadly illness. My nerves were all awry, and, from + the astounding tricks they played me, my senses seemed to have run riot. + Strange sounds disturbed me. At times I heard the swish-swish of grass + being shoved aside, and once the patter of feet across a patch of stony + ground. + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear anything, Paul?” I asked once. + </p> + <p> + But he shook his head, and thrust his feet steadily forward. + </p> + <p> + While climbing a fence, I heard the low, eager whine of a dog, apparently + from within a couple of feet of me; but on looking about me I saw nothing. + </p> + <p> + I dropped to the ground, limp and trembling. + </p> + <p> + “Paul,” I said, “we had better return to the house. I am afraid I am going + to be sick.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, old man,” he answered. “The sunshine has gone to your head like + wine. You’ll be all right. It’s famous weather.” + </p> + <p> + But, passing along a narrow path through a clump of cottonwoods, some + object brushed against my legs and I stumbled and nearly fell. I looked + with sudden anxiety at Paul. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Tripping over your own feet?” + </p> + <p> + I kept my tongue between my teeth and plodded on, though sore perplexed + and thoroughly satisfied that some acute and mysterious malady had + attacked my nerves. So far my eyes had escaped; but, when we got to the + open fields again, even my vision went back on me. Strange flashes of + vari-colored, rainbow light began to appear and disappear on the path + before me. Still, I managed to keep myself in hand, till the vari-colored + lights persisted for a space of fully twenty seconds, dancing and flashing + in continuous play. Then I sat down, weak and shaky. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all up with me,” I gasped, covering my eyes with my hands. “It has + attacked my eyes. Paul, take me home.” + </p> + <p> + But Paul laughed long and loud. “What did I tell you?—the most + wonderful dog, eh? Well, what do you think?” + </p> + <p> + He turned partly from me and began to whistle. I heard the patter of feet, + the panting of a heated animal, and the unmistakable yelp of a dog. Then + Paul stooped down and apparently fondled the empty air. + </p> + <p> + “Here! Give me your fist.” + </p> + <p> + And he rubbed my hand over the cold nose and jowls of a dog. A dog it + certainly was, with the shape and the smooth, short coat of a pointer. + </p> + <p> + Suffice to say, I speedily recovered my spirits and control. Paul put a + collar about the animal’s neck and tied his handkerchief to its tail. And + then was vouchsafed us the remarkable sight of an empty collar and a + waving handkerchief cavorting over the fields. It was something to see + that collar and handkerchief pin a bevy of quail in a clump of locusts and + remain rigid and immovable till we had flushed the birds. + </p> + <p> + Now and again the dog emitted the vari-colored light-flashes I have + mentioned. The one thing, Paul explained, which he had not anticipated and + which he doubted could be overcome. + </p> + <p> + “They’re a large family,” he said, “these sun dogs, wind dogs, rainbows, + halos, and parhelia. They are produced by refraction of light from mineral + and ice crystals, from mist, rain, spray, and no end of things; and I am + afraid they are the penalty I must pay for transparency. I escaped Lloyd’s + shadow only to fetch up against the rainbow flash.” + </p> + <p> + A couple of days later, before the entrance to Paul’s laboratory, I + encountered a terrible stench. So overpowering was it that it was easy to + discover the source—a mass of putrescent matter on the doorstep + which in general outlines resembled a dog. + </p> + <p> + Paul was startled when he investigated my find. It was his invisible dog, + or rather, what had been his invisible dog, for it was now plainly + visible. It had been playing about but a few minutes before in all health + and strength. Closer examination revealed that the skull had been crushed + by some heavy blow. While it was strange that the animal should have been + killed, the inexplicable thing was that it should so quickly decay. + </p> + <p> + “The reagents I injected into its system were harmless,” Paul explained. + “Yet they were powerful, and it appears that when death comes they force + practically instantaneous disintegration. Remarkable! Most remarkable! + Well, the only thing is not to die. They do not harm so long as one lives. + But I do wonder who smashed in that dog’s head.” + </p> + <p> + Light, however, was thrown upon this when a frightened housemaid brought + the news that Gaffer Bedshaw had that very morning, not more than an hour + back, gone violently insane, and was strapped down at home, in the + huntsman’s lodge, where he raved of a battle with a ferocious and gigantic + beast that he had encountered in the Tichlorne pasture. He claimed that + the thing, whatever it was, was invisible, that with his own eyes he had + seen that it was invisible; wherefore his tearful wife and daughters shook + their heads, and wherefore he but waxed the more violent, and the gardener + and the coachman tightened the straps by another hole. + </p> + <p> + Nor, while Paul Tichlorne was thus successfully mastering the problem of + invisibility, was Lloyd Inwood a whit behind. I went over in answer to a + message of his to come and see how he was getting on. Now his laboratory + occupied an isolated situation in the midst of his vast grounds. It was + built in a pleasant little glade, surrounded on all sides by a dense + forest growth, and was to be gained by way of a winding and erratic path. + But I have travelled that path so often as to know every foot of it, and + conceive my surprise when I came upon the glade and found no laboratory. + The quaint shed structure with its red sandstone chimney was not. Nor did + it look as if it ever had been. There were no signs of ruin, no debris, + nothing. + </p> + <p> + I started to walk across what had once been its site. “This,” I said to + myself, “should be where the step went up to the door.” Barely were the + words out of my mouth when I stubbed my toe on some obstacle, pitched + forward, and butted my head into something that FELT very much like a + door. I reached out my hand. It WAS a door. I found the knob and turned + it. And at once, as the door swung inward on its hinges, the whole + interior of the laboratory impinged upon my vision. Greeting Lloyd, I + closed the door and backed up the path a few paces. I could see nothing of + the building. Returning and opening the door, at once all the furniture + and every detail of the interior were visible. It was indeed startling, + the sudden transition from void to light and form and color. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of it, eh?” Lloyd asked, wringing my hand. “I slapped a + couple of coats of absolute black on the outside yesterday afternoon to + see how it worked. How’s your head? you bumped it pretty solidly, I + imagine.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that,” he interrupted my congratulations. “I’ve something + better for you to do.” + </p> + <p> + While he talked he began to strip, and when he stood naked before me he + thrust a pot and brush into my hand and said, “Here, give me a coat of + this.” + </p> + <p> + It was an oily, shellac-like stuff, which spread quickly and easily over + the skin and dried immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Merely preliminary and precautionary,” he explained when I had finished; + “but now for the real stuff.” + </p> + <p> + I picked up another pot he indicated, and glanced inside, but could see + nothing. + </p> + <p> + “It’s empty,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Stick your finger in it.” + </p> + <p> + I obeyed, and was aware of a sensation of cool moistness. On withdrawing + my hand I glanced at the forefinger, the one I had immersed, but it had + disappeared. I moved and knew from the alternate tension and relaxation of + the muscles that I moved it, but it defied my sense of sight. To all + appearances I had been shorn of a finger; nor could I get any visual + impression of it till I extended it under the skylight and saw its shadow + plainly blotted on the floor. + </p> + <p> + Lloyd chuckled. “Now spread it on, and keep your eyes open.” + </p> + <p> + I dipped the brush into the seemingly empty pot, and gave him a long + stroke across his chest. With the passage of the brush the living flesh + disappeared from beneath. I covered his right leg, and he was a one-legged + man defying all laws of gravitation. And so, stroke by stroke, member by + member, I painted Lloyd Inwood into nothingness. It was a creepy + experience, and I was glad when naught remained in sight but his burning + black eyes, poised apparently unsupported in mid-air. + </p> + <p> + “I have a refined and harmless solution for them,” he said. “A fine spray + with an air-brush, and presto! I am not.” + </p> + <p> + This deftly accomplished, he said, “Now I shall move about, and do you + tell me what sensations you experience.” + </p> + <p> + “In the first place, I cannot see you,” I said, and I could hear his + gleeful laugh from the midst of the emptiness. “Of course,” I continued, + “you cannot escape your shadow, but that was to be expected. When you pass + between my eye and an object, the object disappears, but so unusual and + incomprehensible is its disappearance that it seems to me as though my + eyes had blurred. When you move rapidly, I experience a bewildering + succession of blurs. The blurring sensation makes my eyes ache and my + brain tired.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you any other warnings of my presence?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, and yes,” I answered. “When you are near me I have feelings similar + to those produced by dank warehouses, gloomy crypts, and deep mines. And + as sailors feel the loom of the land on dark nights, so I think I feel the + loom of your body. But it is all very vague and intangible.” + </p> + <p> + Long we talked that last morning in his laboratory; and when I turned to + go, he put his unseen hand in mine with nervous grip, and said, “Now I + shall conquer the world!” And I could not dare to tell him of Paul + Tichlorne’s equal success. + </p> + <p> + At home I found a note from Paul, asking me to come up immediately, and it + was high noon when I came spinning up the driveway on my wheel. Paul + called me from the tennis court, and I dismounted and went over. But the + court was empty. As I stood there, gaping open-mouthed, a tennis ball + struck me on the arm, and as I turned about, another whizzed past my ear. + For aught I could see of my assailant, they came whirling at me from out + of space, and right well was I peppered with them. But when the balls + already flung at me began to come back for a second whack, I realized the + situation. Seizing a racquet and keeping my eyes open, I quickly saw a + rainbow flash appearing and disappearing and darting over the ground. I + took out after it, and when I laid the racquet upon it for a half-dozen + stout blows, Paul’s voice rang out: + </p> + <p> + “Enough! Enough! Oh! Ouch! Stop! You’re landing on my naked skin, you + know! Ow! O-w-w! I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I only wanted you to see my + metamorphosis,” he said ruefully, and I imagined he was rubbing his hurts. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later we were playing tennis—a handicap on my part, + for I could have no knowledge of his position save when all the angles + between himself, the sun, and me, were in proper conjunction. Then he + flashed, and only then. But the flashes were more brilliant than the + rainbow—purest blue, most delicate violet, brightest yellow, and all + the intermediary shades, with the scintillant brilliancy of the diamond, + dazzling, blinding, iridescent. + </p> + <p> + But in the midst of our play I felt a sudden cold chill, reminding me of + deep mines and gloomy crypts, such a chill as I had experienced that very + morning. The next moment, close to the net, I saw a ball rebound in + mid-air and empty space, and at the same instant, a score of feet away, + Paul Tichlorne emitted a rainbow flash. It could not be he from whom the + ball had rebounded, and with sickening dread I realized that Lloyd Inwood + had come upon the scene. To make sure, I looked for his shadow, and there + it was, a shapeless blotch the girth of his body, (the sun was overhead), + moving along the ground. I remembered his threat, and felt sure that all + the long years of rivalry were about to culminate in uncanny battle. + </p> + <p> + I cried a warning to Paul, and heard a snarl as of a wild beast, and an + answering snarl. I saw the dark blotch move swiftly across the court, and + a brilliant burst of vari-colored light moving with equal swiftness to + meet it; and then shadow and flash came together and there was the sound + of unseen blows. The net went down before my frightened eyes. I sprang + toward the fighters, crying: + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake!” + </p> + <p> + But their locked bodies smote against my knees, and I was overthrown. + </p> + <p> + “You keep out of this, old man!” I heard the voice of Lloyd Inwood from + out of the emptiness. And then Paul’s voice crying, “Yes, we’ve had enough + of peacemaking!” + </p> + <p> + From the sound of their voices I knew they had separated. I could not + locate Paul, and so approached the shadow that represented Lloyd. But from + the other side came a stunning blow on the point of my jaw, and I heard + Paul scream angrily, “Now will you keep away?” + </p> + <p> + Then they came together again, the impact of their blows, their groans and + gasps, and the swift flashings and shadow-movings telling plainly of the + deadliness of the struggle. + </p> + <p> + I shouted for help, and Gaffer Bedshaw came running into the court. I + could see, as he approached, that he was looking at me strangely, but he + collided with the combatants and was hurled headlong to the ground. With + despairing shriek and a cry of “O Lord, I’ve got ‘em!” he sprang to his + feet and tore madly out of the court. + </p> + <p> + I could do nothing, so I sat up, fascinated and powerless, and watched the + struggle. The noonday sun beat down with dazzling brightness on the naked + tennis court. And it was naked. All I could see was the blotch of shadow + and the rainbow flashes, the dust rising from the invisible feet, the + earth tearing up from beneath the straining foot-grips, and the wire + screen bulge once or twice as their bodies hurled against it. That was + all, and after a time even that ceased. There were no more flashes, and + the shadow had become long and stationary; and I remembered their set + boyish faces when they clung to the roots in the deep coolness of the + pool. + </p> + <p> + They found me an hour afterward. Some inkling of what had happened got to + the servants and they quitted the Tichlorne service in a body. Gaffer + Bedshaw never recovered from the second shock he received, and is confined + in a madhouse, hopelessly incurable. The secrets of their marvellous + discoveries died with Paul and Lloyd, both laboratories being destroyed by + grief-stricken relatives. As for myself, I no longer care for chemical + research, and science is a tabooed topic in my household. I have returned + to my roses. Nature’s colors are good enough for me. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0007"></a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + ALL GOLD CANYON + </h2></div> + <p> + It was the green heart of the canyon, where the walls swerved back from + the rigid plan and relieved their harshness of line by making a little + sheltered nook and filling it to the brim with sweetness and roundness and + softness. Here all things rested. Even the narrow stream ceased its + turbulent down-rush long enough to form a quiet pool. Knee-deep in the + water, with drooping head and half-shut eyes, drowsed a red-coated, + many-antlered buck. + </p> + <p> + On one side, beginning at the very lip of the pool, was a tiny meadow, a + cool, resilient surface of green that extended to the base of the frowning + wall. Beyond the pool a gentle slope of earth ran up and up to meet the + opposing wall. Fine grass covered the slope—grass that was spangled + with flowers, with here and there patches of color, orange and purple and + golden. Below, the canyon was shut in. There was no view. The walls leaned + together abruptly and the canyon ended in a chaos of rocks, moss-covered + and hidden by a green screen of vines and creepers and boughs of trees. Up + the canyon rose far hills and peaks, the big foothills, pine-covered and + remote. And far beyond, like clouds upon the border of the sky, towered + minarets of white, where the Sierra’s eternal snows flashed austerely the + blazes of the sun. + </p> + <p> + There was no dust in the canyon. The leaves and flowers were clean and + virginal. The grass was young velvet. Over the pool three cottonwoods sent + their scurvy fluffs fluttering down the quiet air. On the slope the + blossoms of the wine-wooded manzanita filled the air with springtime + odors, while the leaves, wise with experience, were already beginning + their vertical twist against the coming aridity of summer. In the open + spaces on the slope, beyond the farthest shadow-reach of the manzanita, + poised the mariposa lilies, like so many flights of jewelled moths + suddenly arrested and on the verge of trembling into flight again. Here + and there that woods harlequin, the madrone, permitting itself to be + caught in the act of changing its pea-green trunk to madder-red, breathed + its fragrance into the air from great clusters of waxen bells. Creamy + white were these bells, shaped like lilies-of-the-valley, with the + sweetness of perfume that is of the springtime. + </p> + <p> + There was not a sigh of wind. The air was drowsy with its weight of + perfume. It was a sweetness that would have been cloying had the air been + heavy and humid. But the air was sharp and thin. It was as starlight + transmuted into atmosphere, shot through and warmed by sunshine, and + flower-drenched with sweetness. + </p> + <p> + An occasional butterfly drifted in and out through the patches of light + and shade. And from all about rose the low and sleepy hum of mountain bees—feasting + Sybarites that jostled one another good-naturedly at the board, nor found + time for rough discourtesy. So quietly did the little stream drip and + ripple its way through the canyon that it spoke only in faint and + occasional gurgles. The voice of the stream was as a drowsy whisper, ever + interrupted by dozings and silences, ever lifted again in the awakenings. + </p> + <p> + The motion of all things was a drifting in the heart of the canyon. + Sunshine and butterflies drifted in and out among the trees. The hum of + the bees and the whisper of the stream were a drifting of sound. And the + drifting sound and drifting color seemed to weave together in the making + of a delicate and intangible fabric which was the spirit of the place. It + was a spirit of peace that was not of death, but of smooth-pulsing life, + of quietude that was not silence, of movement that was not action, of + repose that was quick with existence without being violent with struggle + and travail. The spirit of the place was the spirit of the peace of the + living, somnolent with the easement and content of prosperity, and + undisturbed by rumors of far wars. + </p> + <p> + The red-coated, many-antlered buck acknowledged the lordship of the spirit + of the place and dozed knee-deep in the cool, shaded pool. There seemed no + flies to vex him and he was languid with rest. Sometimes his ears moved + when the stream awoke and whispered; but they moved lazily, with, + foreknowledge that it was merely the stream grown garrulous at discovery + that it had slept. + </p> + <p> + But there came a time when the buck’s ears lifted and tensed with swift + eagerness for sound. His head was turned down the canyon. His sensitive, + quivering nostrils scented the air. His eyes could not pierce the green + screen through which the stream rippled away, but to his ears came the + voice of a man. It was a steady, monotonous, singsong voice. Once the buck + heard the harsh clash of metal upon rock. At the sound he snorted with a + sudden start that jerked him through the air from water to meadow, and his + feet sank into the young velvet, while he pricked his ears and again + scented the air. Then he stole across the tiny meadow, pausing once and + again to listen, and faded away out of the canyon like a wraith, + soft-footed and without sound. + </p> + <p> + The clash of steel-shod soles against the rocks began to be heard, and the + man’s voice grew louder. It was raised in a sort of chant and became + distinct with nearness, so that the words could be heard: + </p> +<div class='poem'> + “Turn around an’ tu’n yo’ face + Untoe them sweet hills of grace + (D’ pow’rs of sin yo’ am scornin’!). + Look about an’ look aroun’, + Fling yo’ sin-pack on d’ groun’ + (Yo’ will meet wid d’ Lord in d’ mornin’!).” + </div> + <p> + A sound of scrambling accompanied the song, and the spirit of the place + fled away on the heels of the red-coated buck. The green screen was burst + asunder, and a man peered out at the meadow and the pool and the sloping + side-hill. He was a deliberate sort of man. He took in the scene with one + embracing glance, then ran his eyes over the details to verify the general + impression. Then, and not until then, did he open his mouth in vivid and + solemn approval: + </p> + <p> + “Smoke of life an’ snakes of purgatory! Will you just look at that! Wood + an’ water an’ grass an’ a side-hill! A pocket-hunter’s delight an’ a + cayuse’s paradise! Cool green for tired eyes! Pink pills for pale people + ain’t in it. A secret pasture for prospectors and a resting-place for + tired burros, by damn!” + </p> + <p> + He was a sandy-complexioned man in whose face geniality and humor seemed + the salient characteristics. It was a mobile face, quick-changing to + inward mood and thought. Thinking was in him a visible process. Ideas + chased across his face like wind-flaws across the surface of a lake. His + hair, sparse and unkempt of growth, was as indeterminate and colorless as + his complexion. It would seem that all the color of his frame had gone + into his eyes, for they were startlingly blue. Also, they were laughing + and merry eyes, within them much of the naivete and wonder of the child; + and yet, in an unassertive way, they contained much of calm self-reliance + and strength of purpose founded upon self-experience and experience of the + world. + </p> + <p> + From out the screen of vines and creepers he flung ahead of him a miner’s + pick and shovel and gold-pan. Then he crawled out himself into the open. + He was clad in faded overalls and black cotton shirt, with hobnailed + brogans on his feet, and on his head a hat whose shapelessness and stains + advertised the rough usage of wind and rain and sun and camp-smoke. He + stood erect, seeing wide-eyed the secrecy of the scene and sensuously + inhaling the warm, sweet breath of the canyon-garden through nostrils that + dilated and quivered with delight. His eyes narrowed to laughing slits of + blue, his face wreathed itself in joy, and his mouth curled in a smile as + he cried aloud: + </p> + <p> + “Jumping dandelions and happy hollyhocks, but that smells good to me! Talk + about your attar o’ roses an’ cologne factories! They ain’t in it!” + </p> + <p> + He had the habit of soliloquy. His quick-changing facial expressions might + tell every thought and mood, but the tongue, perforce, ran hard after, + repeating, like a second Boswell. + </p> + <p> + The man lay down on the lip of the pool and drank long and deep of its + water. “Tastes good to me,” he murmured, lifting his head and gazing + across the pool at the side-hill, while he wiped his mouth with the back + of his hand. The side-hill attracted his attention. Still lying on his + stomach, he studied the hill formation long and carefully. It was a + practised eye that travelled up the slope to the crumbling canyon-wall and + back and down again to the edge of the pool. He scrambled to his feet and + favored the side-hill with a second survey. + </p> + <p> + “Looks good to me,” he concluded, picking up his pick and shovel and + gold-pan. + </p> + <p> + He crossed the stream below the pool, stepping agilely from stone to + stone. Where the sidehill touched the water he dug up a shovelful of dirt + and put it into the gold-pan. He squatted down, holding the pan in his two + hands, and partly immersing it in the stream. Then he imparted to the pan + a deft circular motion that sent the water sluicing in and out through the + dirt and gravel. The larger and the lighter particles worked to the + surface, and these, by a skilful dipping movement of the pan, he spilled + out and over the edge. Occasionally, to expedite matters, he rested the + pan and with his fingers raked out the large pebbles and pieces of rock. + </p> + <p> + The contents of the pan diminished rapidly until only fine dirt and the + smallest bits of gravel remained. At this stage he began to work very + deliberately and carefully. It was fine washing, and he washed fine and + finer, with a keen scrutiny and delicate and fastidious touch. At last the + pan seemed empty of everything but water; but with a quick semicircular + flirt that sent the water flying over the shallow rim into the stream, he + disclosed a layer of black sand on the bottom of the pan. So thin was this + layer that it was like a streak of paint. He examined it closely. In the + midst of it was a tiny golden speck. He dribbled a little water in over + the depressed edge of the pan. With a quick flirt he sent the water + sluicing across the bottom, turning the grains of black sand over and + over. A second tiny golden speck rewarded his effort. + </p> + <p> + The washing had now become very fine—fine beyond all need of + ordinary placer-mining. He worked the black sand, a small portion at a + time, up the shallow rim of the pan. Each small portion he examined + sharply, so that his eyes saw every grain of it before he allowed it to + slide over the edge and away. Jealously, bit by bit, he let the black sand + slip away. A golden speck, no larger than a pin-point, appeared on the + rim, and by his manipulation of the riveter it returned to the bottom of + the pan. And in such fashion another speck was disclosed, and another. + Great was his care of them. Like a shepherd he herded his flock of golden + specks so that not one should be lost. At last, of the pan of dirt nothing + remained but his golden herd. He counted it, and then, after all his + labor, sent it flying out of the pan with one final swirl of water. + </p> + <p> + But his blue eyes were shining with desire as he rose to his feet. + “Seven,” he muttered aloud, asserting the sum of the specks for which he + had toiled so hard and which he had so wantonly thrown away. “Seven,” he + repeated, with the emphasis of one trying to impress a number on his + memory. + </p> + <p> + He stood still a long while, surveying the hill-side. In his eyes was a + curiosity, new-aroused and burning. There was an exultance about his + bearing and a keenness like that of a hunting animal catching the fresh + scent of game. + </p> + <p> + He moved down the stream a few steps and took a second panful of dirt. + </p> + <p> + Again came the careful washing, the jealous herding of the golden specks, + and the wantonness with which he sent them flying into the stream when he + had counted their number. + </p> + <p> + “Five,” he muttered, and repeated, “five.” + </p> + <p> + He could not forbear another survey of the hill before filling the pan + farther down the stream. His golden herds diminished. “Four, three, two, + two, one,” were his memory-tabulations as he moved down the stream. When + but one speck of gold rewarded his washing, he stopped and built a fire of + dry twigs. Into this he thrust the gold-pan and burned it till it was + blue-black. He held up the pan and examined it critically. Then he nodded + approbation. Against such a color-background he could defy the tiniest + yellow speck to elude him. + </p> + <p> + Still moving down the stream, he panned again. A single speck was his + reward. A third pan contained no gold at all. Not satisfied with this, he + panned three times again, taking his shovels of dirt within a foot of one + another. Each pan proved empty of gold, and the fact, instead of + discouraging him, seemed to give him satisfaction. His elation increased + with each barren washing, until he arose, exclaiming jubilantly: + </p> + <p> + “If it ain’t the real thing, may God knock off my head with sour apples!” + </p> + <p> + Returning to where he had started operations, he began to pan up the + stream. At first his golden herds increased—increased prodigiously. + “Fourteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-six,” ran his memory tabulations. + Just above the pool he struck his richest pan—thirty-five colors. + </p> + <p> + “Almost enough to save,” he remarked regretfully as he allowed the water + to sweep them away. + </p> + <p> + The sun climbed to the top of the sky. The man worked on. Pan by pan, he + went up the stream, the tally of results steadily decreasing. + </p> + <p> + “It’s just booful, the way it peters out,” he exulted when a shovelful of + dirt contained no more than a single speck of gold. + </p> + <p> + And when no specks at all were found in several pans, he straightened up + and favored the hillside with a confident glance. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, ha! Mr. Pocket!” he cried out, as though to an auditor hidden + somewhere above him beneath the surface of the slope. “Ah, ha! Mr. Pocket! + I’m a-comin’, I’m a-comin’, an’ I’m shorely gwine to get yer! You heah me, + Mr. Pocket? I’m gwine to get yer as shore as punkins ain’t cauliflowers!” + </p> + <p> + He turned and flung a measuring glance at the sun poised above him in the + azure of the cloudless sky. Then he went down the canyon, following the + line of shovel-holes he had made in filling the pans. He crossed the + stream below the pool and disappeared through the green screen. There was + little opportunity for the spirit of the place to return with its quietude + and repose, for the man’s voice, raised in ragtime song, still dominated + the canyon with possession. + </p> + <p> + After a time, with a greater clashing of steel-shod feet on rock, he + returned. The green screen was tremendously agitated. It surged back and + forth in the throes of a struggle. There was a loud grating and clanging + of metal. The man’s voice leaped to a higher pitch and was sharp with + imperativeness. A large body plunged and panted. There was a snapping and + ripping and rending, and amid a shower of falling leaves a horse burst + through the screen. On its back was a pack, and from this trailed broken + vines and torn creepers. The animal gazed with astonished eyes at the + scene into which it had been precipitated, then dropped its head to the + grass and began contentedly to graze. A second horse scrambled into view, + slipping once on the mossy rocks and regaining equilibrium when its hoofs + sank into the yielding surface of the meadow. It was riderless, though on + its back was a high-horned Mexican saddle, scarred and discolored by long + usage. + </p> + <p> + The man brought up the rear. He threw off pack and saddle, with an eye to + camp location, and gave the animals their freedom to graze. He unpacked + his food and got out frying-pan and coffee-pot. He gathered an armful of + dry wood, and with a few stones made a place for his fire. + </p> + <p> + “My!” he said, “but I’ve got an appetite. I could scoff iron-filings an’ + horseshoe nails an’ thank you kindly, ma’am, for a second helpin’.” + </p> + <p> + He straightened up, and, while he reached for matches in the pocket of his + overalls, his eyes travelled across the pool to the side-hill. His fingers + had clutched the match-box, but they relaxed their hold and the hand came + out empty. The man wavered perceptibly. He looked at his preparations for + cooking and he looked at the hill. + </p> + <p> + “Guess I’ll take another whack at her,” he concluded, starting to cross + the stream. + </p> + <p> + “They ain’t no sense in it, I know,” he mumbled apologetically. “But + keepin’ grub back an hour ain’t goin’ to hurt none, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + A few feet back from his first line of test-pans he started a second line. + The sun dropped down the western sky, the shadows lengthened, but the man + worked on. He began a third line of test-pans. He was cross-cutting the + hillside, line by line, as he ascended. The centre of each line produced + the richest pans, while the ends came where no colors showed in the pan. + And as he ascended the hillside the lines grew perceptibly shorter. The + regularity with which their length diminished served to indicate that + somewhere up the slope the last line would be so short as to have scarcely + length at all, and that beyond could come only a point. The design was + growing into an inverted “V.” The converging sides of this “V” marked the + boundaries of the gold-bearing dirt. + </p> + <p> + The apex of the “V” was evidently the man’s goal. Often he ran his eye + along the converging sides and on up the hill, trying to divine the apex, + the point where the gold-bearing dirt must cease. Here resided “Mr. + Pocket”—for so the man familiarly addressed the imaginary point + above him on the slope, crying out: + </p> + <p> + “Come down out o’ that, Mr. Pocket! Be right smart an’ agreeable, an’ come + down!” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he would add later, in a voice resigned to determination. + “All right, Mr. Pocket. It’s plain to me I got to come right up an’ snatch + you out bald-headed. An’ I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” he would threaten still + later. + </p> + <p> + Each pan he carried down to the water to wash, and as he went higher up + the hill the pans grew richer, until he began to save the gold in an empty + baking-powder can which he carried carelessly in his hip-pocket. So + engrossed was he in his toil that he did not notice the long twilight of + oncoming night. It was not until he tried vainly to see the gold colors in + the bottom of the pan that he realized the passage of time. He + straightened up abruptly. An expression of whimsical wonderment and awe + overspread his face as he drawled: + </p> + <p> + “Gosh darn my buttons! if I didn’t plumb forget dinner!” + </p> + <p> + He stumbled across the stream in the darkness and lighted his long-delayed + fire. Flapjacks and bacon and warmed-over beans constituted his supper. + Then he smoked a pipe by the smouldering coals, listening to the night + noises and watching the moonlight stream through the canyon. After that he + unrolled his bed, took off his heavy shoes, and pulled the blankets up to + his chin. His face showed white in the moonlight, like the face of a + corpse. But it was a corpse that knew its resurrection, for the man rose + suddenly on one elbow and gazed across at his hillside. + </p> + <p> + “Good night, Mr. Pocket,” he called sleepily. “Good night.” + </p> + <p> + He slept through the early gray of morning until the direct rays of the + sun smote his closed eyelids, when he awoke with a start and looked about + him until he had established the continuity of his existence and + identified his present self with the days previously lived. + </p> + <p> + To dress, he had merely to buckle on his shoes. He glanced at his + fireplace and at his hillside, wavered, but fought down the temptation and + started the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Keep yer shirt on, Bill; keep yer shirt on,” he admonished himself. + “What’s the good of rushin’? No use in gettin’ all het up an’ sweaty. Mr. + Pocket’ll wait for you. He ain’t a-runnin’ away before you can get yer + breakfast. Now, what you want, Bill, is something fresh in yer bill o’ + fare. So it’s up to you to go an’ get it.” + </p> + <p> + He cut a short pole at the water’s edge and drew from one of his pockets a + bit of line and a draggled fly that had once been a royal coachman. + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe they’ll bite in the early morning,” he muttered, as he made his + first cast into the pool. And a moment later he was gleefully crying: + “What’d I tell you, eh? What’d I tell you?” + </p> + <p> + He had no reel, nor any inclination to waste time, and by main strength, + and swiftly, he drew out of the water a flashing ten-inch trout. Three + more, caught in rapid succession, furnished his breakfast. When he came to + the stepping-stones on his way to his hillside, he was struck by a sudden + thought, and paused. + </p> + <p> + “I’d just better take a hike down-stream a ways,” he said. “There’s no + tellin’ what cuss may be snoopin’ around.” + </p> + <p> + But he crossed over on the stones, and with a “I really oughter take that + hike,” the need of the precaution passed out of his mind and he fell to + work. + </p> + <p> + At nightfall he straightened up. The small of his back was stiff from + stooping toil, and as he put his hand behind him to soothe the protesting + muscles, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Now what d’ye think of that, by damn? I clean forgot my dinner again! If + I don’t watch out, I’ll sure be degeneratin’ into a two-meal-a-day crank.” + </p> + <p> + “Pockets is the damnedest things I ever see for makin’ a man + absent-minded,” he communed that night, as he crawled into his blankets. + Nor did he forget to call up the hillside, “Good night, Mr. Pocket! Good + night!” + </p> + <p> + Rising with the sun, and snatching a hasty breakfast, he was early at + work. A fever seemed to be growing in him, nor did the increasing richness + of the test-pans allay this fever. There was a flush in his cheek other + than that made by the heat of the sun, and he was oblivious to fatigue and + the passage of time. When he filled a pan with dirt, he ran down the hill + to wash it; nor could he forbear running up the hill again, panting and + stumbling profanely, to refill the pan. + </p> + <p> + He was now a hundred yards from the water, and the inverted “V” was + assuming definite proportions. The width of the pay-dirt steadily + decreased, and the man extended in his mind’s eye the sides of the “V” to + their meeting-place far up the hill. This was his goal, the apex of the + “V,” and he panned many times to locate it. + </p> + <p> + “Just about two yards above that manzanita bush an’ a yard to the right,” + he finally concluded. + </p> + <p> + Then the temptation seized him. “As plain as the nose on your face,” he + said, as he abandoned his laborious cross-cutting and climbed to the + indicated apex. He filled a pan and carried it down the hill to wash. It + contained no trace of gold. He dug deep, and he dug shallow, filling and + washing a dozen pans, and was unrewarded even by the tiniest golden speck. + He was enraged at having yielded to the temptation, and cursed himself + blasphemously and pridelessly. Then he went down the hill and took up the + cross-cutting. + </p> + <p> + “Slow an’ certain, Bill; slow an’ certain,” he crooned. “Short-cuts to + fortune ain’t in your line, an’ it’s about time you know it. Get wise, + Bill; get wise. Slow an’ certain’s the only hand you can play; so go to + it, an’ keep to it, too.” + </p> + <p> + As the cross-cuts decreased, showing that the sides of the “V” were + converging, the depth of the “V” increased. The gold-trace was dipping + into the hill. It was only at thirty inches beneath the surface that he + could get colors in his pan. The dirt he found at twenty-five inches from + the surface, and at thirty-five inches, yielded barren pans. At the base + of the “V,” by the water’s edge, he had found the gold colors at the grass + roots. The higher he went up the hill, the deeper the gold dipped. + </p> + <p> + To dig a hole three feet deep in order to get one test-pan was a task of + no mean magnitude; while between the man and the apex intervened an untold + number of such holes to be. “An’ there’s no tellin’ how much deeper it’ll + pitch,” he sighed, in a moment’s pause, while his fingers soothed his + aching back. + </p> + <p> + Feverish with desire, with aching back and stiffening muscles, with pick + and shovel gouging and mauling the soft brown earth, the man toiled up the + hill. Before him was the smooth slope, spangled with flowers and made + sweet with their breath. Behind him was devastation. It looked like some + terrible eruption breaking out on the smooth skin of the hill. His slow + progress was like that of a slug, befouling beauty with a monstrous trail. + </p> + <p> + Though the dipping gold-trace increased the man’s work, he found + consolation in the increasing richness of the pans. Twenty cents, thirty + cents, fifty cents, sixty cents, were the values of the gold found in the + pans, and at nightfall he washed his banner pan, which gave him a dollar’s + worth of gold-dust from a shovelful of dirt. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll just bet it’s my luck to have some inquisitive cuss come buttin’ in + here on my pasture,” he mumbled sleepily that night as he pulled the + blankets up to his chin. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he sat upright. “Bill!” he called sharply. “Now, listen to me, + Bill; d’ye hear! It’s up to you, to-morrow mornin’, to mosey round an’ see + what you can see. Understand? To-morrow morning, an’ don’t you forget it!” + </p> + <p> + He yawned and glanced across at his side-hill. “Good night, Mr. Pocket,” + he called. + </p> + <p> + In the morning he stole a march on the sun, for he had finished breakfast + when its first rays caught him, and he was climbing the wall of the canyon + where it crumbled away and gave footing. From the outlook at the top he + found himself in the midst of loneliness. As far as he could see, chain + after chain of mountains heaved themselves into his vision. To the east + his eyes, leaping the miles between range and range and between many + ranges, brought up at last against the white-peaked Sierras—the main + crest, where the backbone of the Western world reared itself against the + sky. To the north and south he could see more distinctly the cross-systems + that broke through the main trend of the sea of mountains. To the west the + ranges fell away, one behind the other, diminishing and fading into the + gentle foothills that, in turn, descended into the great valley which he + could not see. + </p> + <p> + And in all that mighty sweep of earth he saw no sign of man nor of the + handiwork of man—save only the torn bosom of the hillside at his + feet. The man looked long and carefully. Once, far down his own canyon, he + thought he saw in the air a faint hint of smoke. He looked again and + decided that it was the purple haze of the hills made dark by a + convolution of the canyon wall at its back. + </p> + <p> + “Hey, you, Mr. Pocket!” he called down into the canyon. “Stand out from + under! I’m a-comin’, Mr. Pocket! I’m a-comin’!” + </p> + <p> + The heavy brogans on the man’s feet made him appear clumsy-footed, but he + swung down from the giddy height as lightly and airily as a mountain goat. + A rock, turning under his foot on the edge of the precipice, did not + disconcert him. He seemed to know the precise time required for the turn + to culminate in disaster, and in the meantime he utilized the false + footing itself for the momentary earth-contact necessary to carry him on + into safety. Where the earth sloped so steeply that it was impossible to + stand for a second upright, the man did not hesitate. His foot pressed the + impossible surface for but a fraction of the fatal second and gave him the + bound that carried him onward. Again, where even the fraction of a + second’s footing was out of the question, he would swing his body past by + a moment’s hand-grip on a jutting knob of rock, a crevice, or a + precariously rooted shrub. At last, with a wild leap and yell, he + exchanged the face of the wall for an earth-slide and finished the descent + in the midst of several tons of sliding earth and gravel. + </p> + <p> + His first pan of the morning washed out over two dollars in coarse gold. + It was from the centre of the “V.” To either side the diminution in the + values of the pans was swift. His lines of crosscutting holes were growing + very short. The converging sides of the inverted “V” were only a few yards + apart. Their meeting-point was only a few yards above him. But the + pay-streak was dipping deeper and deeper into the earth. By early + afternoon he was sinking the test-holes five feet before the pans could + show the gold-trace. + </p> + <p> + For that matter, the gold-trace had become something more than a trace; it + was a placer mine in itself, and the man resolved to come back after he + had found the pocket and work over the ground. But the increasing richness + of the pans began to worry him. By late afternoon the worth of the pans + had grown to three and four dollars. The man scratched his head + perplexedly and looked a few feet up the hill at the manzanita bush that + marked approximately the apex of the “V.” He nodded his head and said + oracularly: + </p> + <p> + “It’s one o’ two things, Bill; one o’ two things. Either Mr. Pocket’s + spilled himself all out an’ down the hill, or else Mr. Pocket’s that + damned rich you maybe won’t be able to carry him all away with you. And + that’d be hell, wouldn’t it, now?” He chuckled at contemplation of so + pleasant a dilemma. + </p> + <p> + Nightfall found him by the edge of the stream his eyes wrestling with the + gathering darkness over the washing of a five-dollar pan. + </p> + <p> + “Wisht I had an electric light to go on working,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He found sleep difficult that night. Many times he composed himself and + closed his eyes for slumber to overtake him; but his blood pounded with + too strong desire, and as many times his eyes opened and he murmured + wearily, “Wisht it was sun-up.” + </p> + <p> + Sleep came to him in the end, but his eyes were open with the first paling + of the stars, and the gray of dawn caught him with breakfast finished and + climbing the hillside in the direction of the secret abiding-place of Mr. + Pocket. + </p> + <p> + The first cross-cut the man made, there was space for only three holes, so + narrow had become the pay-streak and so close was he to the fountainhead + of the golden stream he had been following for four days. + </p> + <p> + “Be ca’m, Bill; be ca’m,” he admonished himself, as he broke ground for + the final hole where the sides of the “V” had at last come together in a + point. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got the almighty cinch on you, Mr. Pocket, an’ you can’t lose me,” + he said many times as he sank the hole deeper and deeper. + </p> + <p> + Four feet, five feet, six feet, he dug his way down into the earth. The + digging grew harder. His pick grated on broken rock. He examined the rock. + “Rotten quartz,” was his conclusion as, with the shovel, he cleared the + bottom of the hole of loose dirt. He attacked the crumbling quartz with + the pick, bursting the disintegrating rock asunder with every stroke. + </p> + <p> + He thrust his shovel into the loose mass. His eye caught a gleam of + yellow. He dropped the shovel and squatted suddenly on his heels. As a + farmer rubs the clinging earth from fresh-dug potatoes, so the man, a + piece of rotten quartz held in both hands, rubbed the dirt away. + </p> + <p> + “Sufferin’ Sardanopolis!” he cried. “Lumps an’ chunks of it! Lumps an’ + chunks of it!” + </p> + <p> + It was only half rock he held in his hand. The other half was virgin gold. + He dropped it into his pan and examined another piece. Little yellow was + to be seen, but with his strong fingers he crumbled the rotten quartz away + till both hands were filled with glowing yellow. He rubbed the dirt away + from fragment after fragment, tossing them into the gold-pan. It was a + treasure-hole. So much had the quartz rotted away that there was less of + it than there was of gold. Now and again he found a piece to which no rock + clung—a piece that was all gold. A chunk, where the pick had laid + open the heart of the gold, glittered like a handful of yellow jewels, and + he cocked his head at it and slowly turned it around and over to observe + the rich play of the light upon it. + </p> + <p> + “Talk about yer Too Much Gold diggin’s!” the man snorted contemptuously. + “Why, this diggin’ ‘d make it look like thirty cents. This diggin’ is All + Gold. An’ right here an’ now I name this yere canyon ‘All Gold Canyon,’ b’ + gosh!” + </p> + <p> + Still squatting on his heels, he continued examining the fragments and + tossing them into the pan. Suddenly there came to him a premonition of + danger. It seemed a shadow had fallen upon him. But there was no shadow. + His heart had given a great jump up into his throat and was choking him. + Then his blood slowly chilled and he felt the sweat of his shirt cold + against his flesh. + </p> + <p> + He did not spring up nor look around. He did not move. He was considering + the nature of the premonition he had received, trying to locate the source + of the mysterious force that had warned him, striving to sense the + imperative presence of the unseen thing that threatened him. There is an + aura of things hostile, made manifest by messengers refined for the senses + to know; and this aura he felt, but knew not how he felt it. His was the + feeling as when a cloud passes over the sun. It seemed that between him + and life had passed something dark and smothering and menacing; a gloom, + as it were, that swallowed up life and made for death—his death. + </p> + <p> + Every force of his being impelled him to spring up and confront the unseen + danger, but his soul dominated the panic, and he remained squatting on his + heels, in his hands a chunk of gold. He did not dare to look around, but + he knew by now that there was something behind him and above him. He made + believe to be interested in the gold in his hand. He examined it + critically, turned it over and over, and rubbed the dirt from it. And all + the time he knew that something behind him was looking at the gold over + his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Still feigning interest in the chunk of gold in his hand, he listened + intently and he heard the breathing of the thing behind him. His eyes + searched the ground in front of him for a weapon, but they saw only the + uprooted gold, worthless to him now in his extremity. There was his pick, + a handy weapon on occasion; but this was not such an occasion. The man + realized his predicament. He was in a narrow hole that was seven feet + deep. His head did not come to the surface of the ground. He was in a + trap. + </p> + <p> + He remained squatting on his heels. He was quite cool and collected; but + his mind, considering every factor, showed him only his helplessness. He + continued rubbing the dirt from the quartz fragments and throwing the gold + into the pan. There was nothing else for him to do. Yet he knew that he + would have to rise up, sooner or later, and face the danger that breathed + at his back. + </p> + <p> + The minutes passed, and with the passage of each minute he knew that by so + much he was nearer the time when he must stand up, or else—and his + wet shirt went cold against his flesh again at the thought—or else + he might receive death as he stooped there over his treasure. + </p> + <p> + Still he squatted on his heels, rubbing dirt from gold and debating in + just what manner he should rise up. He might rise up with a rush and claw + his way out of the hole to meet whatever threatened on the even footing + above ground. Or he might rise up slowly and carelessly, and feign + casually to discover the thing that breathed at his back. His instinct and + every fighting fibre of his body favored the mad, clawing rush to the + surface. His intellect, and the craft thereof, favored the slow and + cautious meeting with the thing that menaced and which he could not see. + And while he debated, a loud, crashing noise burst on his ear. At the same + instant he received a stunning blow on the left side of the back, and from + the point of impact felt a rush of flame through his flesh. He sprang up + in the air, but halfway to his feet collapsed. His body crumpled in like a + leaf withered in sudden heat, and he came down, his chest across his pan + of gold, his face in the dirt and rock, his legs tangled and twisted + because of the restricted space at the bottom of the hole. His legs + twitched convulsively several times. His body was shaken as with a mighty + ague. There was a slow expansion of the lungs, accompanied by a deep sigh. + Then the air was slowly, very slowly, exhaled, and his body as slowly + flattened itself down into inertness. + </p> + <p> + Above, revolver in hand, a man was peering down over the edge of the hole. + He peered for a long time at the prone and motionless body beneath him. + After a while the stranger sat down on the edge of the hole so that he + could see into it, and rested the revolver on his knee. Reaching his hand + into a pocket, he drew out a wisp of brown paper. Into this he dropped a + few crumbs of tobacco. The combination became a cigarette, brown and + squat, with the ends turned in. Not once did he take his eyes from the + body at the bottom of the hole. He lighted the cigarette and drew its + smoke into his lungs with a caressing intake of the breath. He smoked + slowly. Once the cigarette went out and he relighted it. And all the while + he studied the body beneath him. + </p> + <p> + In the end he tossed the cigarette stub away and rose to his feet. He + moved to the edge of the hole. Spanning it, a hand resting on each edge, + and with the revolver still in the right hand, he muscled his body down + into the hole. While his feet were yet a yard from the bottom he released + his hands and dropped down. + </p> + <p> + At the instant his feet struck bottom he saw the pocket-miner’s arm leap + out, and his own legs knew a swift, jerking grip that overthrew him. In + the nature of the jump his revolver-hand was above his head. Swiftly as + the grip had flashed about his legs, just as swiftly he brought the + revolver down. He was still in the air, his fall in process of completion, + when he pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening in the confined + space. The smoke filled the hole so that he could see nothing. He struck + the bottom on his back, and like a cat’s the pocket-miner’s body was on + top of him. Even as the miner’s body passed on top, the stranger crooked + in his right arm to fire; and even in that instant the miner, with a quick + thrust of elbow, struck his wrist. The muzzle was thrown up and the bullet + thudded into the dirt of the side of the hole. + </p> + <p> + The next instant the stranger felt the miner’s hand grip his wrist. The + struggle was now for the revolver. Each man strove to turn it against the + other’s body. The smoke in the hole was clearing. The stranger, lying on + his back, was beginning to see dimly. But suddenly he was blinded by a + handful of dirt deliberately flung into his eyes by his antagonist. In + that moment of shock his grip on the revolver was broken. In the next + moment he felt a smashing darkness descend upon his brain, and in the + midst of the darkness even the darkness ceased. + </p> + <p> + But the pocket-miner fired again and again, until the revolver was empty. + Then he tossed it from him and, breathing heavily, sat down on the dead + man’s legs. + </p> + <p> + The miner was sobbing and struggling for breath. “Measly skunk!” he + panted; “a-campin’ on my trail an’ lettin’ me do the work, an’ then + shootin’ me in the back!” + </p> + <p> + He was half crying from anger and exhaustion. He peered at the face of the + dead man. It was sprinkled with loose dirt and gravel, and it was + difficult to distinguish the features. + </p> + <p> + “Never laid eyes on him before,” the miner concluded his scrutiny. “Just a + common an’ ordinary thief, damn him! An’ he shot me in the back! He shot + me in the back!” + </p> + <p> + He opened his shirt and felt himself, front and back, on his left side. + </p> + <p> + “Went clean through, and no harm done!” he cried jubilantly. “I’ll bet he + aimed right all right, but he drew the gun over when he pulled the trigger—the + cuss! But I fixed ‘m! Oh, I fixed ‘m!” + </p> + <p> + His fingers were investigating the bullet-hole in his side, and a shade of + regret passed over his face. “It’s goin’ to be stiffer’n hell,” he said. + “An’ it’s up to me to get mended an’ get out o’ here.” + </p> + <p> + He crawled out of the hole and went down the hill to his camp. Half an + hour later he returned, leading his pack-horse. His open shirt disclosed + the rude bandages with which he had dressed his wound. He was slow and + awkward with his left-hand movements, but that did not prevent his using + the arm. + </p> + <p> + The bight of the pack-rope under the dead man’s shoulders enabled him to + heave the body out of the hole. Then he set to work gathering up his gold. + He worked steadily for several hours, pausing often to rest his stiffening + shoulder and to exclaim: + </p> + <p> + “He shot me in the back, the measly skunk! He shot me in the back!” + </p> + <p> + When his treasure was quite cleaned up and wrapped securely into a number + of blanket-covered parcels, he made an estimate of its value. + </p> + <p> + “Four hundred pounds, or I’m a Hottentot,” he concluded. “Say two hundred + in quartz an’ dirt—that leaves two hundred pounds of gold. Bill! + Wake up! Two hundred pounds of gold! Forty thousand dollars! An’ it’s + yourn—all yourn!” + </p> + <p> + He scratched his head delightedly and his fingers blundered into an + unfamiliar groove. They quested along it for several inches. It was a + crease through his scalp where the second bullet had ploughed. + </p> + <p> + He walked angrily over to the dead man. + </p> + <p> + “You would, would you?” he bullied. “You would, eh? Well, I fixed you good + an’ plenty, an’ I’ll give you decent burial, too. That’s more’n you’d have + done for me.” + </p> + <p> + He dragged the body to the edge of the hole and toppled it in. It struck + the bottom with a dull crash, on its side, the face twisted up to the + light. The miner peered down at it. + </p> + <p> + “An’ you shot me in the back!” he said accusingly. + </p> + <p> + With pick and shovel he filled the hole. Then he loaded the gold on his + horse. It was too great a load for the animal, and when he had gained his + camp he transferred part of it to his saddle-horse. Even so, he was + compelled to abandon a portion of his outfit—pick and shovel and + gold-pan, extra food and cooking utensils, and divers odds and ends. + </p> + <p> + The sun was at the zenith when the man forced the horses at the screen of + vines and creepers. To climb the huge boulders the animals were compelled + to uprear and struggle blindly through the tangled mass of vegetation. + Once the saddle-horse fell heavily and the man removed the pack to get the + animal on its feet. After it started on its way again the man thrust his + head out from among the leaves and peered up at the hillside. + </p> + <p> + “The measly skunk!” he said, and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + There was a ripping and tearing of vines and boughs. The trees surged back + and forth, marking the passage of the animals through the midst of them. + There was a clashing of steel-shod hoofs on stone, and now and again an + oath or a sharp cry of command. Then the voice of the man was raised in + song:— + </p> +<div class='poem'> + “Tu’n around an’ tu’n yo’ face + Untoe them sweet hills of grace + (D’ pow’rs of sin yo’ am scornin’!). + Look about an, look aroun’, + Fling yo’ sin-pack on d’ groun’ + (Yo’ will meet wid d’ Lord in d’ mornin’!).” + </div> + <p> + The song grew faint and fainter, and through the silence crept back the + spirit of the place. The stream once more drowsed and whispered; the hum + of the mountain bees rose sleepily. Down through the perfume-weighted air + fluttered the snowy fluffs of the cottonwoods. The butterflies drifted in + and out among the trees, and over all blazed the quiet sunshine. Only + remained the hoof-marks in the meadow and the torn hillside to mark the + boisterous trail of the life that had broken the peace of the place and + passed on. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0008"></a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + PLANCHETTE + </h2></div> + <p> + “It is my right to know,” the girl said. + </p> + <p> + Her voice was firm-fibred with determination. There was no hint of + pleading in it, yet it was the determination that is reached through a + long period of pleading. But in her case it had been pleading, not of + speech, but of personality. Her lips had been ever mute, but her face and + eyes, and the very attitude of her soul, had been for a long time eloquent + with questioning. This the man had known, but he had never answered; and + now she was demanding by the spoken word that he answer. + </p> + <p> + “It is my right,” the girl repeated. + </p> + <p> + “I know it,” he answered, desperately and helplessly. + </p> + <p> + She waited, in the silence which followed, her eyes fixed upon the light + that filtered down through the lofty boughs and bathed the great redwood + trunks in mellow warmth. This light, subdued and colored, seemed almost a + radiation from the trunks themselves, so strongly did they saturate it + with their hue. The girl saw without seeing, as she heard, without + hearing, the deep gurgling of the stream far below on the canyon bottom. + </p> + <p> + She looked down at the man. “Well?” she asked, with the firmness which + feigns belief that obedience will be forthcoming. + </p> + <p> + She was sitting upright, her back against a fallen tree-trunk, while he + lay near to her, on his side, an elbow on the ground and the hand + supporting his head. + </p> + <p> + “Dear, dear Lute,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + She shivered at the sound of his voice—not from repulsion, but from + struggle against the fascination of its caressing gentleness. She had come + to know well the lure of the man—the wealth of easement and rest + that was promised by every caressing intonation of his voice, by the mere + touch of hand on hand or the faint impact of his breath on neck or cheek. + The man could not express himself by word nor look nor touch without + weaving into the expression, subtly and occultly, the feeling as of a hand + that passed and that in passing stroked softly and soothingly. Nor was + this all-pervading caress a something that cloyed with too great + sweetness; nor was it sickly sentimental; nor was it maudlin with love’s + madness. It was vigorous, compelling, masculine. For that matter, it was + largely unconscious on the man’s part. He was only dimly aware of it. It + was a part of him, the breath of his soul as it were, involuntary and + unpremeditated. + </p> + <p> + But now, resolved and desperate, she steeled herself against him. He tried + to face her, but her gray eyes looked out to him, steadily, from under + cool, level brows, and he dropped his head upon her knee. Her hand strayed + into his hair softly, and her face melted into solicitude and tenderness. + But when he looked up again, her gray eyes were steady, her brows cool and + level. + </p> + <p> + “What more can I tell you?” the man said. He raised his head and met her + gaze. “I cannot marry you. I cannot marry any woman. I love you—you + know that—better than my own life. I weigh you in the scales against + all the dear things of living, and you outweigh everything. I would give + everything to possess you, yet I may not. I cannot marry you. I can never + marry you.” + </p> + <p> + Her lips were compressed with the effort of control. His head was sinking + back to her knee, when she checked him. + </p> + <p> + “You are already married, Chris?” + </p> + <p> + “No! no!” he cried vehemently. “I have never been married. I want to marry + only you, and I cannot!” + </p> + <p> + “Then—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t!” he interrupted. “Don’t ask me!” + </p> + <p> + “It is my right to know,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “I know it,” he again interrupted. “But I cannot tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “You have not considered me, Chris,” she went on gently. + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know,” he broke in. + </p> + <p> + “You cannot have considered me. You do not know what I have to bear from + my people because of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not think they felt so very unkindly toward me,” he said bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “It is true. They can scarcely tolerate you. They do not show it to you, + but they almost hate you. It is I who have had to bear all this. It was + not always so, though. They liked you at first as... as I liked you. But + that was four years ago. The time passed by—a year, two years; and + then they began to turn against you. They are not to be blamed. You spoke + no word. They felt that you were destroying my life. It is four years, + now, and you have never once mentioned marriage to them. What were they to + think? What they have thought, that you were destroying my life.” + </p> + <p> + As she talked, she continued to pass her fingers caressingly through his + hair, sorrowful for the pain that she was inflicting. + </p> + <p> + “They did like you at first. Who can help liking you? You seem to draw + affection from all living things, as the trees draw the moisture from the + ground. It comes to you as it were your birthright. Aunt Mildred and Uncle + Robert thought there was nobody like you. The sun rose and set in you. + They thought I was the luckiest girl alive to win the love of a man like + you. ‘For it looks very much like it,’ Uncle Robert used to say, wagging + his head wickedly at me. Of course they liked you. Aunt Mildred used to + sigh, and look across teasingly at Uncle, and say, ‘When I think of Chris, + it almost makes me wish I were younger myself.’ And Uncle would answer, ‘I + don’t blame you, my dear, not in the least.’ And then the pair of them + would beam upon me their congratulations that I had won the love of a man + like you. + </p> + <p> + “And they knew I loved you as well. How could I hide it?—this great, + wonderful thing that had entered into my life and swallowed up all my + days! For four years, Chris, I have lived only for you. Every moment was + yours. Waking, I loved you. Sleeping, I dreamed of you. Every act I have + performed was shaped by you, by the thought of you. Even my thoughts were + moulded by you, by the invisible presence of you. I had no end, petty or + great, that you were not there for me.” + </p> + <p> + “I had no idea of imposing such slavery,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “You imposed nothing. You always let me have my own way. It was you who + were the obedient slave. You did for me without offending me. You + forestalled my wishes without the semblance of forestalling them, so + natural and inevitable was everything you did for me. I said, without + offending me. You were no dancing puppet. You made no fuss. Don’t you see? + You did not seem to do things at all. Somehow they were always there, just + done, as a matter of course. + </p> + <p> + “The slavery was love’s slavery. It was just my love for you that made you + swallow up all my days. You did not force yourself into my thoughts. You + crept in, always, and you were there always—how much, you will never + know. + </p> + <p> + “But as time went by, Aunt Mildred and Uncle grew to dislike you. They + grew afraid. What was to become of me? You were destroying my life. My + music? You know how my dream of it has dimmed away. That spring, when I + first met you—I was twenty, and I was about to start for Germany. I + was going to study hard. That was four years ago, and I am still here in + California. + </p> + <p> + “I had other lovers. You drove them away—No! no! I don’t mean that. + It was I that drove them away. What did I care for lovers, for anything, + when you were near? But as I said, Aunt Mildred and Uncle grew afraid. + There has been talk—friends, busybodies, and all the rest. The time + went by. You did not speak. I could only wonder, wonder. I knew you loved + me. Much was said against you by Uncle at first, and then by Aunt Mildred. + They were father and mother to me, you know. I could not defend you. Yet I + was loyal to you. I refused to discuss you. I closed up. There was + half-estrangement in my home—Uncle Robert with a face like an + undertaker, and Aunt Mildred’s heart breaking. But what could I do, Chris? + What could I do?” + </p> + <p> + The man, his head resting on her knee again, groaned, but made no other + reply. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Mildred was mother to me, yet I went to her no more with my + confidences. My childhood’s book was closed. It was a sweet book, Chris. + The tears come into my eyes sometimes when I think of it. But never mind + that. Great happiness has been mine as well. I am glad I can talk frankly + of my love for you. And the attaining of such frankness has been very + sweet. I do love you, Chris. I love you... I cannot tell you how. You are + everything to me, and more besides. You remember that Christmas tree of + the children?—when we played blindman’s buff? and you caught me by + the arm so, with such a clutching of fingers that I cried out with the + hurt? I never told you, but the arm was badly bruised. And such sweet I + got of it you could never guess. There, black and blue, was the imprint of + your fingers—your fingers, Chris, your fingers. It was the touch of + you made visible. It was there a week, and I kissed the marks—oh, so + often! I hated to see them go; I wanted to rebruise the arm and make them + linger. I was jealous of the returning white that drove the bruise away. + Somehow,—oh! I cannot explain, but I loved you so!” + </p> + <p> + In the silence that fell, she continued her caressing of his hair, while + she idly watched a great gray squirrel, boisterous and hilarious, as it + scampered back and forth in a distant vista of the redwoods. A + crimson-crested woodpecker, energetically drilling a fallen trunk, caught + and transferred her gaze. The man did not lift his head. Rather, he + crushed his face closer against her knee, while his heaving shoulders + marked the hardness with which he breathed. + </p> + <p> + “You must tell me, Chris,” the girl said gently. “This mystery—it is + killing me. I must know why we cannot be married. Are we always to be this + way?—merely lovers, meeting often, it is true, and yet with the long + absences between the meetings? Is it all the world holds for you and me, + Chris? Are we never to be more to each other? Oh, it is good just to love, + I know—you have made me madly happy; but one does get so hungry at + times for something more! I want more and more of you, Chris. I want all + of you. I want all our days to be together. I want all the companionship, + the comradeship, which cannot be ours now, and which will be ours when we + are married—” She caught her breath quickly. “But we are never to be + married. I forgot. And you must tell me why.” + </p> + <p> + The man raised his head and looked her in the eyes. It was a way he had + with whomever he talked, of looking them in the eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I have considered you, Lute,” he began doggedly. “I did consider you at + the very first. I should never have gone on with it. I should have gone + away. I knew it. And I considered you in the light of that knowledge, and + yet... I did not go away. My God! what was I to do? I loved you. I could + not go away. I could not help it. I stayed. I resolved, but I broke my + resolves. I was like a drunkard. I was drunk of you. I was weak, I know. I + failed. I could not go away. I tried. I went away—you will remember, + though you did not know why. You know now. I went away, but I could not + remain away. Knowing that we could never marry, I came back to you. I am + here, now, with you. Send me away, Lute. I have not the strength to go + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “But why should you go away?” she asked. “Besides, I must know why, before + I can send you away.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ask me.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” she said, her voice tenderly imperative. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t, Lute; don’t force me,” the man pleaded, and there was appeal in + his eyes and voice. + </p> + <p> + “But you must tell me,” she insisted. “It is justice you owe me.” + </p> + <p> + The man wavered. “If I do...” he began. Then he ended with determination, + “I should never be able to forgive myself. No, I cannot tell you. Don’t + try to compel me, Lute. You would be as sorry as I.” + </p> + <p> + “If there is anything... if there are obstacles... if this mystery does + really prevent....” She was speaking slowly, with long pauses, seeking the + more delicate ways of speech for the framing of her thought. “Chris, I do + love you. I love you as deeply as it is possible for any woman to love, I + am sure. If you were to say to me now ‘Come,’ I would go with you. I would + follow wherever you led. I would be your page, as in the days of old when + ladies went with their knights to far lands. You are my knight, Chris, and + you can do no wrong. Your will is my wish. I was once afraid of the + censure of the world. Now that you have come into my life I am no longer + afraid. I would laugh at the world and its censure for your sake—for + my sake too. I would laugh, for I should have you, and you are more to me + than the good will and approval of the world. If you say ‘Come,’ I will—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t! Don’t!” he cried. “It is impossible! Marriage or not, I cannot + even say ‘Come.’ I dare not. I’ll show you. I’ll tell you.” + </p> + <p> + He sat up beside her, the action stamped with resolve. He took her hand in + his and held it closely. His lips moved to the verge of speech. The + mystery trembled for utterance. The air was palpitant with its presence. + As if it were an irrevocable decree, the girl steeled herself to hear. But + the man paused, gazing straight out before him. She felt his hand relax in + hers, and she pressed it sympathetically, encouragingly. But she felt the + rigidity going out of his tensed body, and she knew that spirit and flesh + were relaxing together. His resolution was ebbing. He would not speak—she + knew it; and she knew, likewise, with the sureness of faith, that it was + because he could not. + </p> + <p> + She gazed despairingly before her, a numb feeling at her heart, as though + hope and happiness had died. She watched the sun flickering down through + the warm-trunked redwoods. But she watched in a mechanical, absent way. + She looked at the scene as from a long way off, without interest, herself + an alien, no longer an intimate part of the earth and trees and flowers + she loved so well. + </p> + <p> + So far removed did she seem, that she was aware of a curiosity, strangely + impersonal, in what lay around her. Through a near vista she looked at a + buckeye tree in full blossom as though her eyes encountered it for the + first time. Her eyes paused and dwelt upon a yellow cluster of Diogenes’ + lanterns that grew on the edge of an open space. It was the way of flowers + always to give her quick pleasure-thrills, but no thrill was hers now. She + pondered the flower slowly and thoughtfully, as a hasheesh-eater, heavy + with the drug, might ponder some whim-flower that obtruded on his vision. + In her ears was the voice of the stream—a hoarse-throated, sleepy + old giant, muttering and mumbling his somnolent fancies. But her fancy was + not in turn aroused, as was its wont; she knew the sound merely for water + rushing over the rocks of the deep canyon-bottom, that and nothing more. + </p> + <p> + Her gaze wandered on beyond the Diogenes’ lanterns into the open space. + Knee-deep in the wild oats of the hillside grazed two horses, + chestnut-sorrels the pair of them, perfectly matched, warm and golden in + the sunshine, their spring-coats a sheen of high-lights shot through with + color-flashes that glowed like fiery jewels. She recognized, almost with a + shock, that one of them was hers, Dolly, the companion of her girlhood and + womanhood, on whose neck she had sobbed her sorrows and sung her joys. A + moistness welled into her eyes at the sight, and she came back from the + remoteness of her mood, quick with passion and sorrow, to be part of the + world again. + </p> + <p> + The man sank forward from the hips, relaxing entirely, and with a groan + dropped his head on her knee. She leaned over him and pressed her lips + softly and lingeringly to his hair. + </p> + <p> + “Come, let us go,” she said, almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + She caught her breath in a half-sob, then tightened her lips as she rose. + His face was white to ghastliness, so shaken was he by the struggle + through which he had passed. They did not look at each other, but walked + directly to the horses. She leaned against Dolly’s neck while he tightened + the girths. Then she gathered the reins in her hand and waited. He looked + at her as he bent down, an appeal for forgiveness in his eyes; and in that + moment her own eyes answered. Her foot rested in his hands, and from there + she vaulted into the saddle. Without speaking, without further looking at + each other, they turned the horses’ heads and took the narrow trail that + wound down through the sombre redwood aisles and across the open glades to + the pasture-lands below. The trail became a cow-path, the cow-path became + a wood-road, which later joined with a hay-road; and they rode down + through the low-rolling, tawny California hills to where a set of bars let + out on the county road which ran along the bottom of the valley. The girl + sat her horse while the man dismounted and began taking down the bars. + </p> + <p> + “No—wait!” she cried, before he had touched the two lower bars. + </p> + <p> + She urged the mare forward a couple of strides, and then the animal lifted + over the bars in a clean little jump. The man’s eyes sparkled, and he + clapped his hands. + </p> + <p> + “You beauty! you beauty!” the girl cried, leaning forward impulsively in + the saddle and pressing her cheek to the mare’s neck where it burned + flame-color in the sun. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s trade horses for the ride in,” she suggested, when he had led his + horse through and finished putting up the bars. “You’ve never sufficiently + appreciated Dolly.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” he protested. + </p> + <p> + “You think she is too old, too sedate,” Lute insisted. “She’s only + sixteen, and she can outrun nine colts out of ten. Only she never cuts up. + She’s too steady, and you don’t approve of her—no, don’t deny it, + sir. I know. And I know also that she can outrun your vaunted Washoe Ban. + There! I challenge you! And furthermore, you may ride her yourself. You + know what Ban can do; so you must ride Dolly and see for yourself what she + can do.” + </p> + <p> + They proceeded to exchange the saddles on the horses, glad of the + diversion and making the most of it. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad I was born in California,” Lute remarked, as she swung astride + of Ban. “It’s an outrage both to horse and woman to ride in a sidesaddle.” + </p> + <p> + “You look like a young Amazon,” the man said approvingly, his eyes passing + tenderly over the girl as she swung the horse around. + </p> + <p> + “Are you ready?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “All ready!” + </p> + <p> + “To the old mill,” she called, as the horses sprang forward. “That’s less + than a mile.” + </p> + <p> + “To a finish?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + She nodded, and the horses, feeling the urge of the reins, caught the + spirit of the race. The dust rose in clouds behind as they tore along the + level road. They swung around the bend, horses and riders tilted at sharp + angles to the ground, and more than once the riders ducked low to escape + the branches of outreaching and overhanging trees. They clattered over the + small plank bridges, and thundered over the larger iron ones to an ominous + clanking of loose rods. + </p> + <p> + They rode side by side, saving the animals for the rush at the finish, yet + putting them at a pace that drew upon vitality and staying power. Curving + around a clump of white oaks, the road straightened out before them for + several hundred yards, at the end of which they could see the ruined mill. + </p> + <p> + “Now for it!” the girl cried. + </p> + <p> + She urged the horse by suddenly leaning forward with her body, at the same + time, for an instant, letting the rein slack and touching the neck with + her bridle hand. She began to draw away from the man. + </p> + <p> + “Touch her on the neck!” she cried to him. + </p> + <p> + With this, the mare pulled alongside and began gradually to pass the girl. + Chris and Lute looked at each other for a moment, the mare still drawing + ahead, so that Chris was compelled slowly to turn his head. The mill was a + hundred yards away. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I give him the spurs?” Lute shouted. + </p> + <p> + The man nodded, and the girl drove the spurs in sharply and quickly, + calling upon the horse for its utmost, but watched her own horse forge + slowly ahead of her. + </p> + <p> + “Beaten by three lengths!” Lute beamed triumphantly, as they pulled into a + walk. “Confess, sir, confess! You didn’t think the old mare had it in + her.” + </p> + <p> + Lute leaned to the side and rested her hand for a moment on Dolly’s wet + neck. + </p> + <p> + “Ban’s a sluggard alongside of her,” Chris affirmed. “Dolly’s all right, + if she is in her Indian Summer.” + </p> + <p> + Lute nodded approval. “That’s a sweet way of putting it—Indian + Summer. It just describes her. But she’s not lazy. She has all the fire + and none of the folly. She is very wise, what of her years.” + </p> + <p> + “That accounts for it,” Chris demurred. “Her folly passed with her youth. + Many’s the lively time she’s given you.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” Lute answered. “I never knew her really to cut up. I think the only + trouble she ever gave me was when I was training her to open gates. She + was afraid when they swung back upon her—the animal’s fear of the + trap, perhaps. But she bravely got over it. And she never was vicious. She + never bolted, nor bucked, nor cut up in all her life—never, not + once.” + </p> + <p> + The horses went on at a walk, still breathing heavily from their run. The + road wound along the bottom of the valley, now and again crossing the + stream. From either side rose the drowsy purr of mowing-machines, + punctuated by occasional sharp cries of the men who were gathering the + hay-crop. On the western side of the valley the hills rose green and dark, + but the eastern side was already burned brown and tan by the sun. + </p> + <p> + “There is summer, here is spring,” Lute said. “Oh, beautiful Sonoma + Valley!” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were glistening and her face was radiant with love of the land. + Her gaze wandered on across orchard patches and sweeping vineyard + stretches, seeking out the purple which seemed to hang like a dim smoke in + the wrinkles of the hills and in the more distant canyon gorges. Far up, + among the more rugged crests, where the steep slopes were covered with + manzanita, she caught a glimpse of a clear space where the wild grass had + not yet lost its green. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever heard of the secret pasture?” she asked, her eyes still + fixed on the remote green. + </p> + <p> + A snort of fear brought her eyes back to the man beside her. Dolly, + upreared, with distended nostrils and wild eyes, was pawing the air madly + with her fore legs. Chris threw himself forward against her neck to keep + her from falling backward, and at the same time touched her with the spurs + to compel her to drop her fore feet to the ground in order to obey the + go-ahead impulse of the spurs. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Dolly, this is most remarkable,” Lute began reprovingly. + </p> + <p> + But, to her surprise, the mare threw her head down, arched her back as she + went up in the air, and, returning, struck the ground stiff-legged and + bunched. + </p> + <p> + “A genuine buck!” Chris called out, and the next moment the mare was + rising under him in a second buck. + </p> + <p> + Lute looked on, astounded at the unprecedented conduct of her mare, and + admiring her lover’s horsemanship. He was quite cool, and was himself + evidently enjoying the performance. Again and again, half a dozen times, + Dolly arched herself into the air and struck, stiffly bunched. Then she + threw her head straight up and rose on her hind legs, pivoting about and + striking with her fore feet. Lute whirled into safety the horse she was + riding, and as she did so caught a glimpse of Dolly’s eyes, with the look + in them of blind brute madness, bulging until it seemed they must burst + from her head. The faint pink in the white of the eyes was gone, replaced + by a white that was like dull marble and that yet flashed as from some + inner fire. + </p> + <p> + A faint cry of fear, suppressed in the instant of utterance, slipped past + Lute’s lips. One hind leg of the mare seemed to collapse, and for a moment + the whole quivering body, upreared and perpendicular, swayed back and + forth, and there was uncertainty as to whether it would fall forward or + backward. The man, half-slipping sidewise from the saddle, so as to fall + clear if the mare toppled backward, threw his weight to the front and + alongside her neck. This overcame the dangerous teetering balance, and the + mare struck the ground on her feet again. + </p> + <p> + But there was no let-up. Dolly straightened out so that the line of the + face was almost a continuation of the line of the stretched neck; this + position enabled her to master the bit, which she did by bolting straight + ahead down the road. + </p> + <p> + For the first time Lute became really frightened. She spurred Washoe Ban + in pursuit, but he could not hold his own with the mad mare, and dropped + gradually behind. Lute saw Dolly check and rear in the air again, and + caught up just as the mare made a second bolt. As Dolly dashed around a + bend, she stopped suddenly, stiff-legged. Lute saw her lover torn out of + the saddle, his thigh-grip broken by the sudden jerk. Though he had lost + his seat, he had not been thrown, and as the mare dashed on Lute saw him + clinging to the side of the horse, a hand in the mane and a leg across the + saddle. With a quick cavort he regained his seat and proceeded to fight + with the mare for control. + </p> + <p> + But Dolly swerved from the road and dashed down a grassy slope yellowed + with innumerable mariposa lilies. An ancient fence at the bottom was no + obstacle. She burst through as though it were filmy spider-web and + disappeared in the underbrush. Lute followed unhesitatingly, putting Ban + through the gap in the fence and plunging on into the thicket. She lay + along his neck, closely, to escape the ripping and tearing of the trees + and vines. She felt the horse drop down through leafy branches and into + the cool gravel of a stream’s bottom. From ahead came a splashing of + water, and she caught a glimpse of Dolly, dashing up the small bank and + into a clump of scrub-oaks, against the trunks of which she was trying to + scrape off her rider. + </p> + <p> + Lute almost caught up amongst the trees, but was hopelessly outdistanced + on the fallow field adjoining, across which the mare tore with a fine + disregard for heavy ground and gopher-holes. When she turned at a sharp + angle into the thicket-land beyond, Lute took the long diagonal, skirted + the ticket, and reined in Ban at the other side. She had arrived first. + From within the thicket she could hear a tremendous crashing of brush and + branches. Then the mare burst through and into the open, falling to her + knees, exhausted, on the soft earth. She arose and staggered forward, then + came limply to a halt. She was in lather-sweat of fear, and stood + trembling pitiably. + </p> + <p> + Chris was still on her back. His shirt was in ribbons. The backs of his + hands were bruised and lacerated, while his face was streaming blood from + a gash near the temple. Lute had controlled herself well, but now she was + aware of a quick nausea and a trembling of weakness. + </p> + <p> + “Chris!” she said, so softly that it was almost a whisper. Then she + sighed, “Thank God.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m all right,” he cried to her, putting into his voice all the + heartiness he could command, which was not much, for he had himself been + under no mean nervous strain. + </p> + <p> + He showed the reaction he was undergoing, when he swung down out of the + saddle. He began with a brave muscular display as he lifted his leg over, + but ended, on his feet, leaning against the limp Dolly for support. Lute + flashed out of her saddle, and her arms were about him in an embrace of + thankfulness. + </p> + <p> + “I know where there is a spring,” she said, a moment later. + </p> + <p> + They left the horses standing untethered, and she led her lover into the + cool recesses of the thicket to where crystal water bubbled from out the + base of the mountain. + </p> + <p> + “What was that you said about Dolly’s never cutting up?” he asked, when + the blood had been stanched and his nerves and pulse-beats were normal + again. + </p> + <p> + “I am stunned,” Lute answered. “I cannot understand it. She never did + anything like it in all her life. And all animals like you so—it’s + not because of that. Why, she is a child’s horse. I was only a little girl + when I first rode her, and to this day—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, this day she was everything but a child’s horse,” Chris broke in. + “She was a devil. She tried to scrape me off against the trees, and to + batter my brains out against the limbs. She tried all the lowest and + narrowest places she could find. You should have seen her squeeze through. + And did you see those bucks?” + </p> + <p> + Lute nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Regular bucking-bronco proposition.” + </p> + <p> + “But what should she know about bucking?” Lute demanded. “She was never + known to buck—never.” + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders. “Some forgotten instinct, perhaps, long-lapsed + and come to life again.” + </p> + <p> + The girl rose to her feet determinedly. “I’m going to find out,” she said. + </p> + <p> + They went back to the horses, where they subjected Dolly to a rigid + examination that disclosed nothing. Hoofs, legs, bit, mouth, body—everything + was as it should be. The saddle and saddle-cloth were innocent of bur or + sticker; the back was smooth and unbroken. They searched for sign of + snake-bite and sting of fly or insect, but found nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever it was, it was subjective, that much is certain,” Chris said. + </p> + <p> + “Obsession,” Lute suggested. + </p> + <p> + They laughed together at the idea, for both were twentieth-century + products, healthy-minded and normal, with souls that delighted in the + butterfly-chase of ideals but that halted before the brink where + superstition begins. + </p> + <p> + “An evil spirit,” Chris laughed; “but what evil have I done that I should + be so punished?” + </p> + <p> + “You think too much of yourself, sir,” she rejoined. “It is more likely + some evil, I don’t know what, that Dolly has done. You were a mere + accident. I might have been on her back at the time, or Aunt Mildred, or + anybody.” + </p> + <p> + As she talked, she took hold of the stirrup-strap and started to shorten + it. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing?” Chris demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to ride Dolly in.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you’re not,” he announced. “It would be bad discipline. After what + has happened I am simply compelled to ride her in myself.” + </p> + <p> + But it was a very weak and very sick mare he rode, stumbling and halting, + afflicted with nervous jerks and recurring muscular spasms—the + aftermath of the tremendous orgasm through which she had passed. + </p> + <p> + “I feel like a book of verse and a hammock, after all that has happened,” + Lute said, as they rode into camp. + </p> + <p> + It was a summer camp of city-tired people, pitched in a grove of towering + redwoods through whose lofty boughs the sunshine trickled down, broken and + subdued to soft light and cool shadow. Apart from the main camp were the + kitchen and the servants’ tents; and midway between was the great dining + hall, walled by the living redwood columns, where fresh whispers of air + were always to be found, and where no canopy was needed to keep the sun + away. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Dolly, she is really sick,” Lute said that evening, when they had + returned from a last look at the mare. “But you weren’t hurt, Chris, and + that’s enough for one small woman to be thankful for. I thought I knew, + but I really did not know till to-day, how much you meant to me. I could + hear only the plunging and struggle in the thicket. I could not see you, + nor know how it went with you.” + </p> + <p> + “My thoughts were of you,” Chris answered, and felt the responsive + pressure of the hand that rested on his arm. + </p> + <p> + She turned her face up to his and met his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Good night,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Lute, dear Lute,” he caressed her with his voice as she moved away + among the shadows. + </p> +<div class='poem'> + * * * +</div> + <p> + “Who’s going for the mail?” called a woman’s voice through the trees. + </p> + <p> + Lute closed the book from which they had been reading, and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “We weren’t going to ride to-day,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Let me go,” Chris proposed. “You stay here. I’ll be down and back in no + time.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s going for the mail?” the voice insisted. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Martin?” Lute called, lifting her voice in answer. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” came the voice. “I think Robert took him along somewhere—horse-buying, + or fishing, or I don’t know what. There’s really nobody left but Chris and + you. Besides, it will give you an appetite for dinner. You’ve been + lounging in the hammock all day. And Uncle Robert must have his + newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Aunty, we’re starting,” Lute called back, getting out of the + hammock. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later, in riding-clothes, they were saddling the horses. + They rode out on to the county road, where blazed the afternoon sun, and + turned toward Glen Ellen. The little town slept in the sun, and the + somnolent storekeeper and postmaster scarcely kept his eyes open long + enough to make up the packet of letters and newspapers. + </p> + <p> + An hour later Lute and Chris turned aside from the road and dipped along a + cow-path down the high bank to water the horses, before going into camp. + </p> + <p> + “Dolly looks as though she’d forgotten all about yesterday,” Chris said, + as they sat their horses knee-deep in the rushing water. “Look at her.” + </p> + <p> + The mare had raised her head and cocked her ears at the rustling of a + quail in the thicket. Chris leaned over and rubbed around her ears. + Dolly’s enjoyment was evident, and she drooped her head over against the + shoulder of his own horse. + </p> + <p> + “Like a kitten,” was Lute’s comment. + </p> + <p> + “Yet I shall never be able wholly to trust her again,” Chris said. “Not + after yesterday’s mad freak.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a feeling myself that you are safer on Ban,” Lute laughed. “It is + strange. My trust in Dolly is as implicit as ever. I feel confident so far + as I am concerned, but I should never care to see you on her back again. + Now with Ban, my faith is still unshaken. Look at that neck! Isn’t he + handsome! He’ll be as wise as Dolly when he is as old as she.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel the same way,” Chris laughed back. “Ban could never possibly + betray me.” + </p> + <p> + They turned their horses out of the stream. Dolly stopped to brush a fly + from her knee with her nose, and Ban urged past into the narrow way of the + path. The space was too restricted to make him return, save with much + trouble, and Chris allowed him to go on. Lute, riding behind, dwelt with + her eyes upon her lover’s back, pleasuring in the lines of the bare neck + and the sweep out to the muscular shoulders. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she reined in her horse. She could do nothing but look, so brief + was the duration of the happening. Beneath and above was the almost + perpendicular bank. The path itself was barely wide enough for footing. + Yet Washoe Ban, whirling and rearing at the same time, toppled for a + moment in the air and fell backward off the path. + </p> + <p> + So unexpected and so quick was it, that the man was involved in the fall. + There had been no time for him to throw himself to the path. He was + falling ere he knew it, and he did the only thing possible—slipped + the stirrups and threw his body into the air, to the side, and at the same + time down. It was twelve feet to the rocks below. He maintained an upright + position, his head up and his eyes fixed on the horse above him and + falling upon him. + </p> + <p> + Chris struck like a cat, on his feet, on the instant making a leap to the + side. The next instant Ban crashed down beside him. The animal struggled + little, but sounded the terrible cry that horses sometimes sound when they + have received mortal hurt. He had struck almost squarely on his back, and + in that position he remained, his head twisted partly under, his hind legs + relaxed and motionless, his fore legs futilely striking the air. + </p> + <p> + Chris looked up reassuringly. + </p> + <p> + “I am getting used to it,” Lute smiled down to him. “Of course I need not + ask if you are hurt. Can I do anything?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled back and went over to the fallen beast, letting go the girths of + the saddle and getting the head straightened out. + </p> + <p> + “I thought so,” he said, after a cursory examination. “I thought so at the + time. Did you hear that sort of crunching snap?” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that was the punctuation of life, the final period dropped at the + end of Ban’s usefulness.” He started around to come up by the path. “I’ve + been astride of Ban for the last time. Let us go home.” + </p> + <p> + At the top of the bank Chris turned and looked down. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Washoe Ban!” he called out. “Good-by, old fellow.” + </p> + <p> + The animal was struggling to lift its head. There were tears in Chris’s + eyes as he turned abruptly away, and tears in Lute’s eyes as they met his. + She was silent in her sympathy, though the pressure of her hand was firm + in his as he walked beside her horse down the dusty road. + </p> + <p> + “It was done deliberately,” Chris burst forth suddenly. “There was no + warning. He deliberately flung himself over backward.” + </p> + <p> + “There was no warning,” Lute concurred. “I was looking. I saw him. He + whirled and threw himself at the same time, just as if you had done it + yourself, with a tremendous jerk and backward pull on the bit.” + </p> + <p> + “It was not my hand, I swear it. I was not even thinking of him. He was + going up with a fairly loose rein, as a matter of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I should have seen it, had you done it,” Lute said. “But it was all done + before you had a chance to do anything. It was not your hand, not even + your unconscious hand.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it was some invisible hand, reaching out from I don’t know where.” + </p> + <p> + He looked up whimsically at the sky and smiled at the conceit. + </p> + <p> + Martin stepped forward to receive Dolly, when they came into the stable + end of the grove, but his face expressed no surprise at sight of Chris + coming in on foot. Chris lingered behind Lute for moment. + </p> + <p> + “Can you shoot a horse?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The groom nodded, then added, “Yes, sir,” with a second and deeper nod. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Draw a line from the eyes to the ears—I mean the opposite ears, + sir. And where the lines cross—” + </p> + <p> + “That will do,” Chris interrupted. “You know the watering place at the + second bend. You’ll find Ban there with a broken back.” + </p> +<div class='poem'> + * * * +</div> + <p> + “Oh, here you are, sir. I have been looking for you everywhere since + dinner. You are wanted immediately.” + </p> + <p> + Chris tossed his cigar away, then went over and pressed his foot on its + glowing fire. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t told anybody about it?—Ban?” he queried. + </p> + <p> + Lute shook her head. “They’ll learn soon enough. Martin will mention it to + Uncle Robert to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “But don’t feel too bad about it,” she said, after a moment’s pause, + slipping her hand into his. + </p> + <p> + “He was my colt,” he said. “Nobody has ridden him but you. I broke him + myself. I knew him from the time he was born. I knew every bit of him, + every trick, every caper, and I would have staked my life that it was + impossible for him to do a thing like this. There was no warning, no + fighting for the bit, no previous unruliness. I have been thinking it + over. He didn’t fight for the bit, for that matter. He wasn’t unruly, nor + disobedient. There wasn’t time. It was an impulse, and he acted upon it + like lightning. I am astounded now at the swiftness with which it took + place. Inside the first second we were over the edge and falling. + </p> + <p> + “It was deliberate—deliberate suicide. And attempted murder. It was + a trap. I was the victim. He had me, and he threw himself over with me. + Yet he did not hate me. He loved me... as much as it is possible for a + horse to love. I am confounded. I cannot understand it any more than you + can understand Dolly’s behavior yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “But horses go insane, Chris,” Lute said. “You know that. It’s merely + coincidence that two horses in two days should have spells under you.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the only explanation,” he answered, starting off with her. “But + why am I wanted urgently?” + </p> + <p> + “Planchette.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I remember. It will be a new experience to me. Somehow I missed it + when it was all the rage long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “So did all of us,” Lute replied, “except Mrs. Grantly. It is her favorite + phantom, it seems.” + </p> + <p> + “A weird little thing,” he remarked. “Bundle of nerves and black eyes. + I’ll wager she doesn’t weigh ninety pounds, and most of that’s magnetism.” + </p> + <p> + “Positively uncanny... at times.” Lute shivered involuntarily. “She gives + me the creeps.” + </p> + <p> + “Contact of the healthy with the morbid,” he explained dryly. “You will + notice it is the healthy that always has the creeps. The morbid never has + the creeps. It gives the creeps. That’s its function. Where did you people + pick her up, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—yes, I do, too. Aunt Mildred met her in Boston, I + think—oh, I don’t know. At any rate, Mrs. Grantly came to + California, and of course had to visit Aunt Mildred. You know the open + house we keep.” + </p> + <p> + They halted where a passageway between two great redwood trunks gave + entrance to the dining room. Above, through lacing boughs, could be seen + the stars. Candles lighted the tree-columned space. About the table, + examining the Planchette contrivance, were four persons. Chris’s gaze + roved over them, and he was aware of a guilty sorrow-pang as he paused for + a moment on Lute’s Aunt Mildred and Uncle Robert, mellow with ripe middle + age and genial with the gentle buffets life had dealt them. He passed + amusedly over the black-eyed, frail-bodied Mrs. Grantly, and halted on the + fourth person, a portly, massive-headed man, whose gray temples belied the + youthful solidity of his face. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s that?” Chris whispered. + </p> + <p> + “A Mr. Barton. The train was late. That’s why you didn’t see him at + dinner. He’s only a capitalist—water-power-long-distance-electricity + transmitter, or something like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t look as though he could give an ox points on imagination.” + </p> + <p> + “He can’t. He inherited his money. But he knows enough to hold on to it + and hire other men’s brains. He is very conservative.” + </p> + <p> + “That is to be expected,” was Chris’s comment. His gaze went back to the + man and woman who had been father and mother to the girl beside him. “Do + you know,” he said, “it came to me with a shock yesterday when you told me + that they had turned against me and that I was scarcely tolerated. I met + them afterwards, last evening, guiltily, in fear and trembling—and + to-day, too. And yet I could see no difference from of old.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear man,” Lute sighed. “Hospitality is as natural to them as the act of + breathing. But it isn’t that, after all. It is all genuine in their dear + hearts. No matter how severe the censure they put upon you when you are + absent, the moment they are with you they soften and are all kindness and + warmth. As soon as their eyes rest on you, affection and love come + bubbling up. You are so made. Every animal likes you. All people like you. + They can’t help it. You can’t help it. You are universally lovable, and + the best of it is that you don’t know it. You don’t know it now. Even as I + tell it to you, you don’t realize it, you won’t realize it—and that + very incapacity to realize it is one of the reasons why you are so loved. + You are incredulous now, and you shake your head; but I know, who am your + slave, as all people know, for they likewise are your slaves. + </p> + <p> + “Why, in a minute we shall go in and join them. Mark the affection, almost + maternal, that will well up in Aunt Mildred’s eyes. Listen to the tones of + Uncle Robert’s voice when he says, ‘Well, Chris, my boy?’ Watch Mrs. + Grantly melt, literally melt, like a dewdrop in the sun. + </p> + <p> + “Take Mr. Barton, there. You have never seen him before. Why, you will + invite him out to smoke a cigar with you when the rest of us have gone to + bed—you, a mere nobody, and he a man of many millions, a man of + power, a man obtuse and stupid like the ox; and he will follow you about, + smoking; the cigar, like a little dog, your little dog, trotting at your + back. He will not know he is doing it, but he will be doing it just the + same. Don’t I know, Chris? Oh, I have watched you, watched you, so often, + and loved you for it, and loved you again for it, because you were so + delightfully and blindly unaware of what you were doing.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m almost bursting with vanity from listening to you,” he laughed, + passing his arm around her and drawing her against him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she whispered, “and in this very moment, when you are laughing at + all that I have said, you, the feel of you, your soul,—call it what + you will, it is you,—is calling for all the love that is in me.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned more closely against him, and sighed as with fatigue. He + breathed a kiss into her hair and held her with firm tenderness. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Mildred stirred briskly and looked up from the Planchette board. + </p> + <p> + “Come, let us begin,” she said. “It will soon grow chilly. Robert, where + are those children?” + </p> + <p> + “Here we are,” Lute called out, disengaging herself. + </p> + <p> + “Now for a bundle of creeps,” Chris whispered, as they started in. + </p> + <p> + Lute’s prophecy of the manner in which her lover would be received was + realized. Mrs. Grantly, unreal, unhealthy, scintillant with frigid + magnetism, warmed and melted as though of truth she were dew and he sun. + Mr. Barton beamed broadly upon him, and was colossally gracious. Aunt + Mildred greeted him with a glow of fondness and motherly kindness, while + Uncle Robert genially and heartily demanded, “Well, Chris, my boy, and + what of the riding?” + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Mildred drew her shawl more closely around her and hastened them + to the business in hand. On the table was a sheet of paper. On the paper, + rifling on three supports, was a small triangular board. Two of the + supports were easily moving casters. The third support, placed at the apex + of the triangle, was a lead pencil. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s first?” Uncle Robert demanded. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s hesitancy, then Aunt Mildred placed her hand on the + board, and said: “Some one has always to be the fool for the delectation + of the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “Brave woman,” applauded her husband. “Now, Mrs. Grantly, do your worst.” + </p> + <p> + “I?” that lady queried. “I do nothing. The power, or whatever you care to + think it, is outside of me, as it is outside of all of you. As to what + that power is, I will not dare to say. There is such a power. I have had + evidences of it. And you will undoubtedly have evidences of it. Now please + be quiet, everybody. Touch the board very lightly, but firmly, Mrs. Story; + but do nothing of your own volition.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Mildred nodded, and stood with her hand on Planchette; while the rest + formed about her in a silent and expectant circle. But nothing happened. + The minutes ticked away, and Planchette remained motionless. + </p> + <p> + “Be patient,” Mrs. Grantly counselled. “Do not struggle against any + influences you may feel working on you. But do not do anything yourself. + The influence will take care of that. You will feel impelled to do things, + and such impulses will be practically irresistible.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish the influence would hurry up,” Aunt Mildred protested at the end + of five motionless minutes. + </p> + <p> + “Just a little longer, Mrs. Story, just a little longer,” Mrs. Grantly + said soothingly. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Aunt Mildred’s hand began to twitch into movement. A mild concern + showed in her face as she observed the movement of her hand and heard the + scratching of the pencil-point at the apex of Planchette. + </p> + <p> + For another five minutes this continued, when Aunt Mildred withdrew her + hand with an effort, and said, with a nervous laugh: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether I did it myself or not. I do know that I was growing + nervous, standing there like a psychic fool with all your solemn faces + turned upon me.” + </p> + <p> + “Hen-scratches,” was Uncle Robert’s judgement, when he looked over the + paper upon which she had scrawled. + </p> + <p> + “Quite illegible,” was Mrs. Grantly’s dictum. “It does not resemble + writing at all. The influences have not got to working yet. Do you try it, + Mr. Barton.” + </p> + <p> + That gentleman stepped forward, ponderously willing to please, and placed + his hand on the board. And for ten solid, stolid minutes he stood there, + motionless, like a statue, the frozen personification of the commercial + age. Uncle Robert’s face began to work. He blinked, stiffened his mouth, + uttered suppressed, throaty sounds, deep down; finally he snorted, lost + his self-control, and broke out in a roar of laughter. All joined in this + merriment, including Mrs. Grantly. Mr. Barton laughed with them, but he + was vaguely nettled. + </p> + <p> + “You try it, Story,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Robert, still laughing, and urged on by Lute and his wife, took the + board. Suddenly his face sobered. His hand had begun to move, and the + pencil could be heard scratching across the paper. + </p> + <p> + “By George!” he muttered. “That’s curious. Look at it. I’m not doing it. I + know I’m not doing it. Look at that hand go! Just look at it!” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Robert, none of your ridiculousness,” his wife warned him. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I’m not doing it,” he replied indignantly. “The force has got + hold of me. Ask Mrs. Grantly. Tell her to make it stop, if you want it to + stop. I can’t stop it. By George! look at that flourish. I didn’t do that. + I never wrote a flourish in my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Do try to be serious,” Mrs. Grantly warned them. “An atmosphere of levity + does not conduce to the best operation of Planchette.” + </p> + <p> + “There, that will do, I guess,” Uncle Robert said as he took his hand + away. “Now let’s see.” + </p> + <p> + He bent over and adjusted his glasses. “It’s handwriting at any rate, and + that’s better than the rest of you did. Here, Lute, your eyes are young.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what flourishes!” Lute exclaimed, as she looked at the paper. “And + look there, there are two different handwritings.” + </p> + <p> + She began to read: “This is the first lecture. Concentrate on this + sentence: ‘I am a positive spirit and not negative to any condition.’ Then + follow with concentration on positive love. After that peace and harmony + will vibrate through and around your body. Your soul—The other + writing breaks right in. This is the way it goes: Bullfrog 95, Dixie 16, + Golden Anchor 65, Gold Mountain 13, Jim Butler 70, Jumbo 75, North Star + 42, Rescue 7, Black Butte 75, Brown Hope 16, Iron Top 3.” + </p> + <p> + “Iron Top’s pretty low,” Mr. Barton murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Robert, you’ve been dabbling again!” Aunt Mildred cried accusingly. + </p> + <p> + “No, I’ve not,” he denied. “I only read the quotations. But how the devil—I + beg your pardon—they got there on that piece of paper I’d like to + know.” + </p> + <p> + “Your subconscious mind,” Chris suggested. “You read the quotations in + to-day’s paper.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn’t; but last week I glanced over the column.” + </p> + <p> + “A day or a year is all the same in the subconscious mind,” said Mrs. + Grantly. “The subconscious mind never forgets. But I am not saying that + this is due to the subconscious mind. I refuse to state to what I think it + is due.” + </p> + <p> + “But how about that other stuff?” Uncle Robert demanded. “Sounds like what + I’d think Christian Science ought to sound like.” + </p> + <p> + “Or theosophy,” Aunt Mildred volunteered. “Some message to a neophyte.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, read the rest,” her husband commanded. + </p> + <p> + “This puts you in touch with the mightier spirits,” Lute read. “You shall + become one with us, and your name shall be ‘Arya,’ and you shall—Conqueror + 20, Empire 12, Columbia Mountain 18, Midway 140—and, and that is + all. Oh, no! here’s a last flourish, Arya, from Kandor—that must + surely be the Mahatma.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to have you explain that theosophy stuff on the basis of the + subconscious mind, Chris,” Uncle Robert challenged. + </p> + <p> + Chris shrugged his shoulders. “No explanation. You must have got a message + intended for some one else.” + </p> + <p> + “Lines were crossed, eh?” Uncle Robert chuckled. “Multiplex spiritual + wireless telegraphy, I’d call it.” + </p> + <p> + “It IS nonsense,” Mrs. Grantly said. “I never knew Planchette to behave so + outrageously. There are disturbing influences at work. I felt them from + the first. Perhaps it is because you are all making too much fun of it. + You are too hilarious.” + </p> + <p> + “A certain befitting gravity should grace the occasion,” Chris agreed, + placing his hand on Planchette. “Let me try. And not one of you must laugh + or giggle, or even think ‘laugh’ or ‘giggle.’ And if you dare to snort, + even once, Uncle Robert, there is no telling what occult vengeance may be + wreaked upon you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be good,” Uncle Robert rejoined. “But if I really must snort, may I + silently slip away?” + </p> + <p> + Chris nodded. His hand had already begun to work. There had been no + preliminary twitchings nor tentative essays at writing. At once his hand + had started off, and Planchette was moving swiftly and smoothly across the + paper. + </p> + <p> + “Look at him,” Lute whispered to her aunt. “See how white he is.” + </p> + <p> + Chris betrayed disturbance at the sound of her voice, and thereafter + silence was maintained. Only could be heard the steady scratching of the + pencil. Suddenly, as though it had been stung, he jerked his hand away. + With a sigh and a yawn he stepped back from the table, then glanced with + the curiosity of a newly awakened man at their faces. + </p> + <p> + “I think I wrote something,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I should say you did,” Mrs. Grantly remarked with satisfaction, holding + up the sheet of paper and glancing at it. + </p> + <p> + “Read it aloud,” Uncle Robert said. + </p> + <p> + “Here it is, then. It begins with ‘beware’ written three times, and in + much larger characters than the rest of the writing. BEWARE! BEWARE! + BEWARE! Chris Dunbar, I intend to destroy you. I have already made two + attempts upon your life, and failed. I shall yet succeed. So sure am I + that I shall succeed that I dare to tell you. I do not need to tell you + why. In your own heart you know. The wrong you are doing—And here it + abruptly ends.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Grantly laid the paper down on the table and looked at Chris, who had + already become the centre of all eyes, and who was yawning as from an + overpowering drowsiness. + </p> + <p> + “Quite a sanguinary turn, I should say,” Uncle Robert remarked. + </p> + <p> + “I have already made two attempts upon your life,” Mrs. Grantly read from + the paper, which she was going over a second time. + </p> + <p> + “On my life?” Chris demanded between yawns. “Why, my life hasn’t been + attempted even once. My! I am sleepy!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my boy, you are thinking of flesh-and-blood men,” Uncle Robert + laughed. “But this is a spirit. Your life has been attempted by unseen + things. Most likely ghostly hands have tried to throttle you in your + sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Chris!” Lute cried impulsively. “This afternoon! The hand you said + must have seized your rein!” + </p> + <p> + “But I was joking,” he objected. + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless...” Lute left her thought unspoken. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Grantly had become keen on the scent. “What was that about this + afternoon? Was your life in danger?” + </p> + <p> + Chris’s drowsiness had disappeared. “I’m becoming interested myself,” he + acknowledged. “We haven’t said anything about it. Ban broke his back this + afternoon. He threw himself off the bank, and I ran the risk of being + caught underneath.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder, I wonder,” Mrs. Grantly communed aloud. “There is something in + this.... It is a warning.... Ah! You were hurt yesterday riding Miss + Story’s horse! That makes the two attempts!” + </p> + <p> + She looked triumphantly at them. Planchette had been vindicated. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense,” laughed Uncle Robert, but with a slight hint of irritation in + his manner. “Such things do not happen these days. This is the twentieth + century, my dear madam. The thing, at the very latest, smacks of + mediaevalism.” + </p> + <p> + “I have had such wonderful tests with Planchette,” Mrs. Grantly began, + then broke off suddenly to go to the table and place her hand on the + board. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?” + </p> + <p> + The board immediately began to write. By this time all heads, with the + exception of Mr. Barton’s, were bent over the table and following the + pencil. + </p> + <p> + “It’s Dick,” Aunt Mildred cried, a note of the mildly hysterical in her + voice. + </p> + <p> + Her husband straightened up, his face for the first time grave. + </p> + <p> + “It’s Dick’s signature,” he said. “I’d know his fist in a thousand.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Dick Curtis,’” Mrs. Grantly read aloud. “Who is Dick Curtis?” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove, that’s remarkable!” Mr. Barton broke in. “The handwriting in + both instances is the same. Clever, I should say, really clever,” he added + admiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Let me see,” Uncle Robert demanded, taking the paper and examining it. + “Yes, it is Dick’s handwriting.” + </p> + <p> + “But who is Dick?” Mrs. Grantly insisted. “Who is this Dick Curtis?” + </p> + <p> + “Dick Curtis, why, he was Captain Richard Curtis,” Uncle Robert answered. + </p> + <p> + “He was Lute’s father,” Aunt Mildred supplemented. “Lute took our name. + She never saw him. He died when she was a few weeks old. He was my + brother.” + </p> + <p> + “Remarkable, most remarkable.” Mrs. Grantly was revolving the message in + her mind. “There were two attempts on Mr. Dunbar’s life. The subconscious + mind cannot explain that, for none of us knew of the accident to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew,” Chris answered, “and it was I that operated Planchette. The + explanation is simple.” + </p> + <p> + “But the handwriting,” interposed Mr. Barton. “What you wrote and what + Mrs. Grantly wrote are identical.” + </p> + <p> + Chris bent over and compared the handwriting. + </p> + <p> + “Besides,” Mrs. Grantly cried, “Mr. Story recognizes the handwriting.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him for verification. + </p> + <p> + He nodded his head. “Yes, it is Dick’s fist. I’ll swear to that.” + </p> + <p> + But to Lute had come a visioning. While the rest argued pro and con and + the air was filled with phrases,—“psychic phenomena,” + “self-hypnotism,” “residuum of unexplained truth,” and “spiritism,”—she + was reviving mentally the girlhood pictures she had conjured of this + soldier-father she had never seen. She possessed his sword, there were + several old-fashioned daguerreotypes, there was much that had been said of + him, stories told of him—and all this had constituted the material + out of which she had builded him in her childhood fancy. + </p> + <p> + “There is the possibility of one mind unconsciously suggesting to another + mind,” Mrs. Grantly was saying; but through Lute’s mind was trooping her + father on his great roan war-horse. Now he was leading his men. She saw + him on lonely scouts, or in the midst of the yelling Indians at Salt + Meadows, when of his command he returned with one man in ten. And in the + picture she had of him, in the physical semblance she had made of him, was + reflected his spiritual nature, reflected by her worshipful artistry in + form and feature and expression—his bravery, his quick temper, his + impulsive championship, his madness of wrath in a righteous cause, his + warm generosity and swift forgiveness, and his chivalry that epitomized + codes and ideals primitive as the days of knighthood. And first, last, and + always, dominating all, she saw in the face of him the hot passion and + quickness of deed that had earned for him the name “Fighting Dick Curtis.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me put it to the test,” she heard Mrs. Grantly saying. “Let Miss + Story try Planchette. There may be a further message.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, I beg of you,” Aunt Mildred interposed. “It is too uncanny. It + surely is wrong to tamper with the dead. Besides, I am nervous. Or, + better, let me go to bed, leaving you to go on with your experiments. That + will be the best way, and you can tell me in the morning.” Mingled with + the “Good-nights,” were half-hearted protests from Mrs. Grantly, as Aunt + Mildred withdrew. + </p> + <p> + “Robert can return,” she called back, “as soon as he has seen me to my + tent.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be a shame to give it up now,” Mrs. Grantly said. “There is no + telling what we are on the verge of. Won’t you try it, Miss Story?” + </p> + <p> + Lute obeyed, but when she placed her hand on the board she was conscious + of a vague and nameless fear at this toying with the supernatural. She was + twentieth-century, and the thing in essence, as her uncle had said, was + mediaeval. Yet she could not shake off the instinctive fear that arose in + her—man’s inheritance from the wild and howling ages when his hairy, + apelike prototype was afraid of the dark and personified the elements into + things of fear. + </p> + <p> + But as the mysterious influence seized her hand and sent it meriting + across the paper, all the unusual passed out of the situation and she was + unaware of more than a feeble curiosity. For she was intent on another + visioning—this time of her mother, who was also unremembered in the + flesh. Not sharp and vivid like that of her father, but dim and nebulous + was the picture she shaped of her mother—a saint’s head in an + aureole of sweetness and goodness and meekness, and withal, shot through + with a hint of reposeful determination, of will, stubborn and unobtrusive, + that in life had expressed itself mainly in resignation. + </p> + <p> + Lute’s hand had ceased moving, and Mrs. Grantly was already reading the + message that had been written. + </p> + <p> + “It is a different handwriting,” she said. “A woman’s hand. ‘Martha,’ it + is signed. Who is Martha?” + </p> + <p> + Lute was not surprised. “It is my mother,” she said simply. “What does she + say?” + </p> + <p> + She had not been made sleepy, as Chris had; but the keen edge of her + vitality had been blunted, and she was experiencing a sweet and pleasing + lassitude. And while the message was being read, in her eyes persisted the + vision of her mother. + </p> + <p> + “Dear child,” Mrs. Grantly read, “do not mind him. He was ever quick of + speech and rash. Be no niggard with your love. Love cannot hurt you. To + deny love is to sin. Obey your heart and you can do no wrong. Obey worldly + considerations, obey pride, obey those that prompt you against your + heart’s prompting, and you do sin. Do not mind your father. He is angry + now, as was his way in the earth-life; but he will come to see the wisdom + of my counsel, for this, too, was his way in the earth-life. Love, my + child, and love well.—Martha.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me see it,” Lute cried, seizing the paper and devouring the + handwriting with her eyes. She was thrilling with unexpressed love for the + mother she had never seen, and this written speech from the grave seemed + to give more tangibility to her having ever existed, than did the vision + of her. + </p> + <p> + “This IS remarkable,” Mrs. Grantly was reiterating. “There was never + anything like it. Think of it, my dear, both your father and mother here + with us to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Lute shivered. The lassitude was gone, and she was her natural self again, + vibrant with the instinctive fear of things unseen. And it was offensive + to her mind that, real or illusion, the presence or the memorized + existences of her father and mother should be touched by these two persons + who were practically strangers—Mrs. Grantly, unhealthy and morbid, + and Mr. Barton, stolid and stupid with a grossness both of the flesh and + the spirit. And it further seemed a trespass that these strangers should + thus enter into the intimacy between her and Chris. + </p> + <p> + She could hear the steps of her uncle approaching, and the situation + flashed upon her, luminous and clear. She hurriedly folded the sheet of + paper and thrust it into her bosom. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say anything to him about this second message, Mrs. Grantly, + please, and Mr. Barton. Nor to Aunt Mildred. It would only cause them + irritation and needless anxiety.” + </p> + <p> + In her mind there was also the desire to protect her lover, for she knew + that the strain of his present standing with her aunt and uncle would be + added to, unconsciously in their minds, by the weird message of + Planchette. + </p> + <p> + “And please don’t let us have any more Planchette,” Lute continued + hastily. “Let us forget all the nonsense that has occurred.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Nonsense,’ my dear child?” Mrs. Grantly was indignantly protesting when + Uncle Robert strode into the circle. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” he demanded. “What’s being done?” + </p> + <p> + “Too late,” Lute answered lightly. “No more stock quotations for you. + Planchette is adjourned, and we’re just winding up the discussion of the + theory of it. Do you know how late it is?” + </p> +<div class='poem'> + * * * +</div> + <p> + “Well, what did you do last night after we left?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, took a stroll,” Chris answered. + </p> + <p> + Lute’s eyes were quizzical as she asked with a tentativeness that was + palpably assumed, “With—a—with Mr. Barton?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And a smoke?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and now what’s it all about?” + </p> + <p> + Lute broke into merry laughter. “Just as I told you that you would do. Am + I not a prophet? But I knew before I saw you that my forecast had come + true. I have just left Mr. Barton, and I knew he had walked with you last + night, for he is vowing by all his fetishes and idols that you are a + perfectly splendid young man. I could see it with my eyes shut. The Chris + Dunbar glamour has fallen upon him. But I have not finished the catechism + by any means. Where have you been all morning?” + </p> + <p> + “Where I am going to take you this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “You plan well without knowing my wishes.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew well what your wishes are. It is to see a horse I have found.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice betrayed her delight, as she cried, “Oh, good!” + </p> + <p> + “He is a beauty,” Chris said. + </p> + <p> + But her face had suddenly gone grave, and apprehension brooded in her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “He’s called Comanche,” Chris went on. “A beauty, a regular beauty, the + perfect type of the Californian cow-pony. And his lines—why, what’s + the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let us ride any more,” Lute said, “at least for a while. Really, I + think I am a tiny bit tired of it, too.” + </p> + <p> + He was looking at her in astonishment, and she was bravely meeting his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I see hearses and flowers for you,” he began, “and a funeral oration; I + see the end of the world, and the stars falling out of the sky, and the + heavens rolling up as a scroll; I see the living and the dead gathered + together for the final judgement, the sheep and the goats, the lambs and + the rams and all the rest of it, the white-robed saints, the sound of + golden harps, and the lost souls howling as they fall into the Pit—all + this I see on the day that you, Lute Story, no longer care to ride a + horse. A horse, Lute! a horse!” + </p> + <p> + “For a while, at least,” she pleaded. + </p> + <p> + “Ridiculous!” he cried. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you well?—you who + are always so abominably and adorably well!” + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s not that,” she answered. “I know it is ridiculous, Chris, I know + it, but the doubt will arise. I cannot help it. You always say I am so + sanely rooted to the earth and reality and all that, but—perhaps + it’s superstition, I don’t know—but the whole occurrence, the + messages of Planchette, the possibility of my father’s hand, I know not + how, reaching, out to Ban’s rein and hurling him and you to death, the + correspondence between my father’s statement that he has twice attempted + your life and the fact that in the last two days your life has twice been + endangered by horses—my father was a great horseman—all this, + I say, causes the doubt to arise in my mind. What if there be something in + it? I am not so sure. Science may be too dogmatic in its denial of the + unseen. The forces of the unseen, of the spirit, may well be too subtle, + too sublimated, for science to lay hold of, and recognize, and formulate. + Don’t you see, Chris, that there is rationality in the very doubt? It may + be a very small doubt—oh, so small; but I love you too much to run + even that slight risk. Besides, I am a woman, and that should in itself + fully account for my predisposition toward superstition. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I know, call it unreality. But I’ve heard you paradoxing upon + the reality of the unreal—the reality of delusion to the mind that + is sick. And so with me, if you will; it is delusion and unreal, but to + me, constituted as I am, it is very real—is real as a nightmare is + real, in the throes of it, before one awakes.” + </p> + <p> + “The most logical argument for illogic I have ever heard,” Chris smiled. + “It is a good gaming proposition, at any rate. You manage to embrace more + chances in your philosophy than do I in mine. It reminds me of Sam—the + gardener you had a couple of years ago. I overheard him and Martin arguing + in the stable. You know what a bigoted atheist Martin is. Well, Martin had + deluged Sam with floods of logic. Sam pondered awhile, and then he said, + ‘Foh a fack, Mis’ Martin, you jis’ tawk like a house afire; but you ain’t + got de show I has.’ ‘How’s that?’ Martin asked. ‘Well, you see, Mis’ + Martin, you has one chance to mah two.’ ‘I don’t see it,’ Martin said. + ‘Mis’ Martin, it’s dis way. You has jis’ de chance, lak you say, to become + worms foh de fruitification of de cabbage garden. But I’s got de chance to + lif’ mah voice to de glory of de Lawd as I go paddin’ dem golden streets—along + ‘ith de chance to be jis’ worms along ‘ith you, Mis’ Martin.’” + </p> + <p> + “You refuse to take me seriously,” Lute said, when she had laughed her + appreciation. + </p> + <p> + “How can I take that Planchette rigmarole seriously?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t explain it—the handwriting of my father, which Uncle + Robert recognized—oh, the whole thing, you don’t explain it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know all the mysteries of mind,” Chris answered. “But I believe + such phenomena will all yield to scientific explanation in the not distant + future.” + </p> + <p> + “Just the same, I have a sneaking desire to find out some more from + Planchette,” Lute confessed. “The board is still down in the dining room. + We could try it now, you and I, and no one would know.” + </p> + <p> + Chris caught her hand, crying: “Come on! It will be a lark.” + </p> + <p> + Hand in hand they ran down the path to the tree-pillared room. + </p> + <p> + “The camp is deserted,” Lute said, as she placed Planchette on the table. + “Mrs. Grantly and Aunt Mildred are lying down, and Mr. Barton has gone off + with Uncle Robert. There is nobody to disturb us.” She placed her hand on + the board. “Now begin.” + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes nothing happened. Chris started to speak, but she hushed + him to silence. The preliminary twitchings had appeared in her hand and + arm. Then the pencil began to write. They read the message, word by word, + as it was written: + </p> + <p> + There is wisdom greater than the wisdom of reason. Love proceeds not out + of the dry-as-dust way of the mind. Love is of the heart, and is beyond + all reason, and logic, and philosophy. Trust your own heart, my daughter. + And if your heart bids you have faith in your lover, then laugh at the + mind and its cold wisdom, and obey your heart, and have faith in your + lover.—Martha. + </p> + <p> + “But that whole message is the dictate of your own heart,” Chris cried. + “Don’t you see, Lute? The thought is your very own, and your subconscious + mind has expressed it there on the paper.” + </p> + <p> + “But there is one thing I don’t see,” she objected. + </p> + <p> + “And that?” + </p> + <p> + “Is the handwriting. Look at it. It does not resemble mine at all. It is + mincing, it is old-fashioned, it is the old-fashioned feminine of a + generation ago.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t mean to tell me that you really believe that this is a + message from the dead?” he interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, Chris,” she wavered. “I am sure I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “It is absurd!” he cried. “These are cobwebs of fancy. When one dies, he + is dead. He is dust. He goes to the worms, as Martin says. The dead? I + laugh at the dead. They do not exist. They are not. I defy the powers of + the grave, the men dead and dust and gone! + </p> + <p> + “And what have you to say to that?” he challenged, placing his hand on + Planchette. + </p> + <p> + On the instant his hand began to write. Both were startled by the + suddenness of it. The message was brief: + </p> + <p> + BEWARE! BEWARE! BEWARE! + </p> + <p> + He was distinctly sobered, but he laughed. “It is like a miracle play. + Death we have, speaking to us from the grave. But Good Deeds, where art + thou? And Kindred? and Joy? and Household Goods? and Friendship? and all + the goodly company?” + </p> + <p> + But Lute did not share his bravado. Her fright showed itself in her face. + She laid her trembling hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Chris, let us stop. I am sorry we began it. Let us leave the quiet + dead to their rest. It is wrong. It must be wrong. I confess I am affected + by it. I cannot help it. As my body is trembling, so is my soul. This + speech of the grave, this dead man reaching out from the mould of a + generation to protect me from you. There is reason in it. There is the + living mystery that prevents you from marrying me. Were my father alive, + he would protect me from you. Dead, he still strives to protect me. His + hands, his ghostly hands, are against your life!” + </p> + <p> + “Do be calm,” Chris said soothingly. “Listen to me. It is all a lark. We + are playing with the subjective forces of our own being, with phenomena + which science has not yet explained, that is all. Psychology is so young a + science. The subconscious mind has just been discovered, one might say. It + is all mystery as yet; the laws of it are yet to be formulated. This is + simply unexplained phenomena. But that is no reason that we should + immediately account for it by labelling it spiritism. As yet we do not + know, that is all. As for Planchette—” + </p> + <p> + He abruptly ceased, for at that moment, to enforce his remark, he had + placed his hand on Planchette, and at that moment his hand had been + seized, as by a paroxysm, and sent dashing, willy-nilly, across the paper, + writing as the hand of an angry person would write. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t care for any more of it,” Lute said, when the message was + completed. “It is like witnessing a fight between you and my father in the + flesh. There is the savor in it of struggle and blows.” + </p> + <p> + She pointed out a sentence that read: “You cannot escape me nor the just + punishment that is yours!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I visualize too vividly for my own comfort, for I can see his + hands at your throat. I know that he is, as you say, dead and dust, but + for all that, I can see him as a man that is alive and walks the earth; I + see the anger in his face, the anger and the vengeance, and I see it all + directed against you.” + </p> + <p> + She crumpled up the scrawled sheets of paper, and put Planchette away. + </p> + <p> + “We won’t bother with it any more,” Chris said. “I didn’t think it would + affect you so strongly. But it’s all subjective, I’m sure, with possibly a + bit of suggestion thrown in—that and nothing more. And the whole + strain of our situation has made conditions unusually favorable for + striking phenomena.” + </p> + <p> + “And about our situation,” Lute said, as they went slowly up the path they + had run down. “What we are to do, I don’t know. Are we to go on, as we + have gone on? What is best? Have you thought of anything?” + </p> + <p> + He debated for a few steps. “I have thought of telling your uncle and + aunt.” + </p> + <p> + “What you couldn’t tell me?” she asked quickly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered slowly; “but just as much as I have told you. I have no + right to tell them more than I have told you.” + </p> + <p> + This time it was she that debated. “No, don’t tell them,” she said + finally. “They wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand, for that matter, + but I have faith in you, and in the nature of things they are not capable + of this same implicit faith. You raise up before me a mystery that + prevents our marriage, and I believe you; but they could not believe you + without doubts arising as to the wrong and ill-nature of the mystery. + Besides, it would but make their anxieties greater.” + </p> + <p> + “I should go away, I know I should go away,” he said, half under his + breath. “And I can. I am no weakling. Because I have failed to remain away + once, is no reason that I shall fail again.” + </p> + <p> + She caught her breath with a quick gasp. “It is like a bereavement to hear + you speak of going away and remaining away. I should never see you again. + It is too terrible. And do not reproach yourself for weakness. It is I who + am to blame. It is I who prevented you from remaining away before, I know. + I wanted you so. I want you so. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to be done, Chris, nothing to be done but to go on with + it and let it work itself out somehow. That is one thing we are sure of: + it will work out somehow.” + </p> + <p> + “But it would be easier if I went away,” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “I am happier when you are here.” + </p> + <p> + “The cruelty of circumstance,” he muttered savagely. + </p> + <p> + “Go or stay—that will be part of the working out. But I do not want + you to go, Chris; you know that. And now no more about it. Talk cannot + mend it. Let us never mention it again—unless... unless some time, + some wonderful, happy time, you can come to me and say: ‘Lute, all is well + with me. The mystery no longer binds me. I am free.’ Until that time let + us bury it, along with Planchette and all the rest, and make the most of + the little that is given us. + </p> + <p> + “And now, to show you how prepared I am to make the most of that little, I + am even ready to go with you this afternoon to see the horse—though + I wish you wouldn’t ride any more... for a few days, anyway, or for a + week. What did you say was his name?” + </p> + <p> + “Comanche,” he answered. “I know you will like him.” + </p> +<div class='poem'> + * * * +</div> + <p> + Chris lay on his back, his head propped by the bare jutting wall of stone, + his gaze attentively directed across the canyon to the opposing + tree-covered slope. There was a sound of crashing through underbrush, the + ringing of steel-shod hoofs on stone, and an occasional and mossy descent + of a dislodged boulder that bounded from the hill and fetched up with a + final splash in the torrent that rushed over a wild chaos of rocks beneath + him. Now and again he caught glimpses, framed in green foliage, of the + golden brown of Lute’s corduroy riding-habit and of the bay horse that + moved beneath her. + </p> + <p> + She rode out into an open space where a loose earth-slide denied lodgement + to trees and grass. She halted the horse at the brink of the slide and + glanced down it with a measuring eye. Forty feet beneath, the slide + terminated in a small, firm-surfaced terrace, the banked accumulation of + fallen earth and gravel. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a good test,” she called across the canyon. “I’m going to put him + down it.” + </p> + <p> + The animal gingerly launched himself on the treacherous footing, + irregularly losing and gaining his hind feet, keeping his fore legs stiff, + and steadily and calmly, without panic or nervousness, extricating the + fore feet as fast as they sank too deep into the sliding earth that surged + along in a wave before him. When the firm footing at the bottom was + reached, he strode out on the little terrace with a quickness and + springiness of gait and with glintings of muscular fires that gave the lie + to the calm deliberation of his movements on the slide. + </p> + <p> + “Bravo!” Chris shouted across the canyon, clapping his hands. + </p> + <p> + “The wisest-footed, clearest-headed horse I ever saw,” Lute called back, + as she turned the animal to the side and dropped down a broken slope of + rubble and into the trees again. + </p> + <p> + Chris followed her by the sound of her progress, and by occasional + glimpses where the foliage was more open, as she zigzagged down the steep + and trailless descent. She emerged below him at the rugged rim of the + torrent, dropped the horse down a three-foot wall, and halted to study the + crossing. + </p> + <p> + Four feet out in the stream, a narrow ledge thrust above the surface of + the water. Beyond the ledge boiled an angry pool. But to the left, from + the ledge, and several feet lower, was a tiny bed of gravel. A giant + boulder prevented direct access to the gravel bed. The only way to gain it + was by first leaping to the ledge of rock. She studied it carefully, and + the tightening of her bridle-arm advertised that she had made up her mind. + </p> + <p> + Chris, in his anxiety, had sat up to observe more closely what she + meditated. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tackle it,” he called. + </p> + <p> + “I have faith in Comanche,” she called in return. + </p> + <p> + “He can’t make that side-jump to the gravel,” Chris warned. “He’ll never + keep his legs. He’ll topple over into the pool. Not one horse in a + thousand could do that stunt.” + </p> + <p> + “And Comanche is that very horse,” she answered. “Watch him.” + </p> + <p> + She gave the animal his head, and he leaped cleanly and accurately to the + ledge, striking with feet close together on the narrow space. On the + instant he struck, Lute lightly touched his neck with the rein, impelling + him to the left; and in that instant, tottering on the insecure footing, + with front feet slipping over into the pool beyond, he lifted on his hind + legs, with a half turn, sprang to the left, and dropped squarely down to + the tiny gravel bed. An easy jump brought him across the stream, and Lute + angled him up the bank and halted before her lover. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I am all tense,” Chris answered. “I was holding my breath.” + </p> + <p> + “Buy him, by all means,” Lute said, dismounting. “He is a bargain. I could + dare anything on him. I never in my life had such confidence in a horse’s + feet.” + </p> + <p> + “His owner says that he has never been known to lose his feet, that it is + impossible to get him down.” + </p> + <p> + “Buy him, buy him at once,” she counselled, “before the man changes his + mind. If you don’t, I shall. Oh, such feet! I feel such confidence in them + that when I am on him I don’t consider he has feet at all. And he’s quick + as a cat, and instantly obedient. Bridle-wise is no name for it! You could + guide him with silken threads. Oh, I know I’m enthusiastic, but if you + don’t buy him, Chris. I shall. Remember, I’ve second refusal.” + </p> + <p> + Chris smiled agreement as he changed the saddles. Meanwhile she compared + the two horses. + </p> + <p> + “Of course he doesn’t match Dolly the way Ban did,” she concluded + regretfully; “but his coat is splendid just the same. And think of the + horse that is under the coat!” + </p> + <p> + Chris gave her a hand into the saddle, and followed her up the slope to + the county road. She reined in suddenly, saying: + </p> + <p> + “We won’t go straight back to camp.” + </p> + <p> + “You forget dinner,” he warned. + </p> + <p> + “But I remember Comanche,” she retorted. “We’ll ride directly over to the + ranch and buy him. Dinner will keep.” + </p> + <p> + “But the cook won’t,” Chris laughed. “She’s already threatened to leave, + what of our late-comings.” + </p> + <p> + “Even so,” was the answer. “Aunt Mildred may have to get another cook, but + at any rate we shall have got Comanche.” + </p> + <p> + They turned the horses in the other direction, and took the climb of the + Nun Canyon road that led over the divide and down into the Napa Valley. + But the climb was hard, the going was slow. Sometimes they topped the bed + of the torrent by hundreds of feet, and again they dipped down and crossed + and recrossed it twenty times in twice as many rods. They rode through the + deep shade of clean-bunked maples and towering redwoods, to emerge on open + stretches of mountain shoulder where the earth lay dry and cracked under + the sun. + </p> + <p> + On one such shoulder they emerged, where the road stretched level before + them, for a quarter of a mile. On one side rose the huge bulk of the + mountain. On the other side the steep wall of the canyon fell away in + impossible slopes and sheer drops to the torrent at the bottom. It was an + abyss of green beauty and shady depths, pierced by vagrant shafts of the + sun and mottled here and there by the sun’s broader blazes. The sound of + rushing water ascended on the windless air, and there was a hum of + mountain bees. + </p> + <p> + The horses broke into an easy lope. Chris rode on the outside, looking + down into the great depths and pleasuring with his eyes in what he saw. + Dissociating itself from the murmur of the bees, a murmur arose of falling + water. It grew louder with every stride of the horses. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + Lute leaned well out from her horse to see. Beneath them the water slid + foaming down a smooth-faced rock to the lip, whence it leaped clear—a + pulsating ribbon of white, a-breath with movement, ever falling and ever + remaining, changing its substance but never its form, an aerial waterway + as immaterial as gauze and as permanent as the hills, that spanned space + and the free air from the lip of the rock to the tops of the trees far + below, into whose green screen it disappeared to fall into a secret pool. + </p> + <p> + They had flashed past. The descending water became a distant murmur that + merged again into the murmur of the bees and ceased. Swayed by a common + impulse, they looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Chris, it is good to be alive... and to have you here by my side!” + </p> + <p> + He answered her by the warm light in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + All things tended to key them to an exquisite pitch—the movement of + their bodies, at one with the moving bodies of the animals beneath them; + the gently stimulated blood caressing the flesh through and through with + the soft vigors of health; the warm air fanning their faces, flowing over + the skin with balmy and tonic touch, permeating them and bathing them, + subtly, with faint, sensuous delight; and the beauty of the world, more + subtly still, flowing upon them and bathing them in the delight that is of + the spirit and is personal and holy, that is inexpressible yet + communicable by the flash of an eye and the dissolving of the veils of the + soul. + </p> + <p> + So looked they at each other, the horses bounding beneath them, the spring + of the world and the spring of their youth astir in their blood, the + secret of being trembling in their eyes to the brink of disclosure, as if + about to dispel, with one magic word, all the irks and riddles of + existence. + </p> + <p> + The road curved before them, so that the upper reaches of the canyon could + be seen, the distant bed of it towering high above their heads. They were + rounding the curve, leaning toward the inside, gazing before them at the + swift-growing picture. There was no sound of warning. She heard nothing, + but even before the horse went down she experienced the feeling that the + unison of the two leaping animals was broken. She turned her head, and so + quickly that she saw Comanche fall. It was not a stumble nor a trip. He + fell as though, abruptly, in midleap, he had died or been struck a + stunning blow. + </p> + <p> + And in that moment she remembered Planchette; it seared her brain as a + lightning-flash of all-embracing memory. Her horse was back on its + haunches, the weight of her body on the reins; but her head was turned and + her eyes were on the falling Comanche. He struck the road-bed squarely, + with his legs loose and lifeless beneath him. + </p> + <p> + It all occurred in one of those age-long seconds that embrace an eternity + of happening. There was a slight but perceptible rebound from the impact + of Comanche’s body with the earth. The violence with which he struck + forced the air from his great lungs in an audible groan. His momentum + swept him onward and over the edge. The weight of the rider on his neck + turned him over head first as he pitched to the fall. + </p> + <p> + She was off her horse, she knew not how, and to the edge. Her lover was + out of the saddle and clear of Comanche, though held to the animal by his + right foot, which was caught in the stirrup. The slope was too steep for + them to come to a stop. Earth and small stones, dislodged by their + struggles, were rolling down with them and before them in a miniature + avalanche. She stood very quietly, holding one hand against her heart and + gazing down. But while she saw the real happening, in her eyes was also + the vision of her father dealing the spectral blow that had smashed + Comanche down in mid-leap and sent horse and rider hurtling over the edge. + </p> + <p> + Beneath horse and man the steep terminated in an up-and-down wall, from + the base of which, in turn, a second slope ran down to a second wall. A + third slope terminated in a final wall that based itself on the canyon-bed + four hundred feet beneath the point where the girl stood and watched. She + could see Chris vainly kicking his leg to free the foot from the trap of + the stirrup. Comanche fetched up hard against an outputting point of rock. + For a fraction of a second his fall was stopped, and in the slight + interval the man managed to grip hold of a young shoot of manzanita. Lute + saw him complete the grip with his other hand. Then Comanche’s fall began + again. She saw the stirrup-strap draw taut, then her lover’s body and + arms. The manzanita shoot yielded its roots, and horse and man plunged + over the edge and out of sight. + </p> + <p> + They came into view on the next slope, together and rolling over and over, + with sometimes the man under and sometimes the horse. Chris no longer + struggled, and together they dashed over to the third slope. Near the edge + of the final wall, Comanche lodged on a buttock of stone. He lay quietly, + and near him, still attached to him by the stirrup, face downward, lay his + rider. + </p> + <p> + “If only he will lie quietly,” Lute breathed aloud, her mind at work on + the means of rescue. + </p> + <p> + But she saw Comanche begin to struggle again, and clear on her vision, it + seemed, was the spectral arm of her father clutching the reins and + dragging the animal over. Comanche floundered across the hummock, the + inert body following, and together, horse and man, they plunged from + sight. They did not appear again. They had fetched bottom. + </p> + <p> + Lute looked about her. She stood alone on the world. Her lover was gone. + There was naught to show of his existence, save the marks of Comanche’s + hoofs on the road and of his body where it had slid over the brink. + </p> + <p> + “Chris!” she called once, and twice; but she called hopelessly. + </p> + <p> + Out of the depths, on the windless air, arose only the murmur of bees and + of running water. + </p> + <p> + “Chris!” she called yet a third time, and sank slowly down in the dust of + the road. + </p> + <p> + She felt the touch of Dolly’s muzzle on her arm, and she leaned her head + against the mare’s neck and waited. She knew not why she waited, nor for + what, only there seemed nothing else but waiting left for her to do. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + + + + + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1089 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |