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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/16257-8.txt b/16257-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4d49d1a --- /dev/null +++ b/16257-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6627 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Turtles of Tasman, by Jack London + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Turtles of Tasman + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: July 10, 2005 [EBook #16257] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TURTLES OF TASMAN *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Taavi Kalju and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + +THE TURTLES OF TASMAN + +BY + +JACK LONDON + +AUTHOR OF THE CALL OF THE WILD, TERRY, ADVENTURE, ETC. + +NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS + +Published by Arrangement with The Macmillan Company + +Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1916. Reprinted October, +November, 1916; February, 1917, December, 1919. + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + +BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN + +THE ETERNITY OF FORMS + +TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD + +THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY + +THE PRODIGAL FATHER + +THE FIRST POET + +FINIS + +THE END OF THE STORY + + + + +THE TURTLES OF TASMAN + + + + +BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN + + +I + +Law, order, and restraint had carved Frederick Travers' face. It was the +strong, firm face of one used to power and who had used power with +wisdom and discretion. Clean living had made the healthy skin, and the +lines graved in it were honest lines. Hard and devoted work had left its +wholesome handiwork, that was all. Every feature of the man told the +same story, from the clear blue of the eyes to the full head of hair, +light brown, touched with grey, and smoothly parted and drawn straight +across above the strong-domed forehead. He was a seriously groomed man, +and the light summer business suit no more than befitted his alert +years, while it did not shout aloud that its possessor was likewise the +possessor of numerous millions of dollars and property. + +For Frederick Travers hated ostentation. The machine that waited outside +for him under the porte-cochère was sober black. It was the most +expensive machine in the county, yet he did not care to flaunt its price +or horse-power in a red flare across the landscape, which also was +mostly his, from the sand dunes and the everlasting beat of the Pacific +breakers, across the fat bottomlands and upland pastures, to the far +summits clad with redwood forest and wreathed in fog and cloud. + +A rustle of skirts caused him to look over his shoulder. Just the +faintest hint of irritation showed in his manner. Not that his daughter +was the object, however. Whatever it was, it seemed to lie on the desk +before him. + +"What is that outlandish name again?" she asked. "I know I shall never +remember it. See, I've brought a pad to write it down." + +Her voice was low and cool, and she was a tall, well-formed, +clear-skinned young woman. In her voice and complacence she, too, +showed the drill-marks of order and restraint. + +Frederick Travers scanned the signature of one of two letters on the +desk. "Bronislawa Plaskoweitzkaia Travers," he read; then spelled the +difficult first portion, letter by letter, while his daughter wrote it +down. + +"Now, Mary," he added, "remember Tom was always harum scarum, and you +must make allowances for this daughter of his. Her very name +is--ah--disconcerting. I haven't seen him for years, and as for her...." +A shrug epitomised his apprehension. He smiled with an effort at wit. +"Just the same, they're as much your family as mine. If he _is_ my +brother, he is your uncle. And if she's my niece, you're both cousins." + +Mary nodded. "Don't worry, father. I'll be nice to her, poor thing. What +nationality was her mother?--to get such an awful name." + +"I don't know. Russian, or Polish, or Spanish, or something. It was just +like Tom. She was an actress or singer--I don't remember. They met in +Buenos Ayres. It was an elopement. Her husband--" + +"Then she was already married!" + +Mary's dismay was unfeigned and spontaneous, and her father's irritation +grew more pronounced. He had not meant that. It had slipped out. + +"There was a divorce afterward, of course. I never knew the details. Her +mother died out in China--no; in Tasmania. It was in China that Tom--" +His lips shut with almost a snap. He was not going to make any more +slips. Mary waited, then turned to the door, where she paused. + +"I've given her the rooms over the rose court," she said. "And I'm going +now to take a last look." + +Frederick Travers turned back to the desk, as if to put the letters +away, changed his mind, and slowly and ponderingly reread them. + + + "Dear Fred: + + "It's been a long time since I was so near to the old home, + and I'd like to take a run up. Unfortunately, I played ducks + and drakes with my Yucatan project--I think I wrote about + it--and I'm broke as usual. Could you advance me funds for + the run? I'd like to arrive first class. Polly is with me, + you know. I wonder how you two will get along. + + "Tom. + + "P.S. If it doesn't bother you too much, send it along + next mail." + + + _"Dear Uncle Fred":_ + +the other letter ran, in what seemed to him a strange, foreign-taught, +yet distinctly feminine hand. + + "Dad doesn't know I am writing this. He told me what he said + to you. It is not true. He is coming home to die. He doesn't + know it, but I've talked with the doctors. And he'll have to + come home, for we have no money. We're in a stuffy little + boarding house, and it is not the place for Dad. He's helped + other persons all his life, and now is the time to help him. + He didn't play ducks and drakes in Yucatan. I was with him, + and I know. He dropped all he had there, and he was robbed. + He can't play the business game against New Yorkers. That + explains it all, and I am proud he can't. + + "He always laughs and says I'll never be able to get along + with you. But I don't agree with him. Besides, I've never seen + a really, truly blood relative in my life, and there's your + daughter. Think of it!--a real live cousin! + + "In anticipation, + "Your niece, + "BRONISLAWA PLASKOWEITZKAIA TRAVERS. + + "P.S. You'd better telegraph the money, or you won't see Dad + at all. He doesn't know how sick he is, and if he meets any + of his old friends he'll be off and away on some wild goose + chase. He's beginning to talk Alaska. Says it will get the + fever out of his bones. Please know that we must pay the + boarding house, or else we'll arrive without luggage. + + "B.P.T." + + +Frederick Travers opened the door of a large, built-in safe and +methodically put the letters away in a compartment labelled "Thomas +Travers." + +"Poor Tom! Poor Tom!" he sighed aloud. + + +II + +The big motor car waited at the station, and Frederick Travers thrilled +as he always thrilled to the distant locomotive whistle of the train +plunging down the valley of Isaac Travers River. First of all westering +white-men, had Isaac Travers gazed on that splendid valley, its +salmon-laden waters, its rich bottoms, and its virgin forest slopes. +Having seen, he had grasped and never let go. "Land-poor," they had +called him in the mid-settler period. But that had been in the days when +the placers petered out, when there were no wagon roads nor tugs to draw +in sailing vessels across the perilous bar, and when his lonely grist +mill had been run under armed guards to keep the marauding Klamaths off +while wheat was ground. Like father, like son, and what Isaac Travers +had grasped, Frederick Travers had held. It had been the same tenacity +of hold. Both had been far-visioned. Both had foreseen the +transformation of the utter West, the coming of the railroad, and the +building of the new empire on the Pacific shore. + +Frederick Travers thrilled, too, at the locomotive whistle, because, +more than any man's, it was his railroad. His father had died still +striving to bring the railroad in across the mountains that averaged a +hundred thousand dollars to the mile. He, Frederick, had brought it in. +He had sat up nights over that railroad; bought newspapers, entered +politics, and subsidised party machines; and he had made pilgrimages, +more than once, at his own expense, to the railroad chiefs of the East. +While all the county knew how many miles of his land were crossed by the +right of way, none of the county guessed nor dreamed the number of his +dollars which had gone into guaranties and railroad bonds. He had done +much for his county, and the railroad was his last and greatest +achievement, the capstone of the Travers' effort, the momentous and +marvellous thing that had been brought about just yesterday. It had +been running two years, and, highest proof of all of his judgment, +dividends were in sight. And farther reaching reward was in sight. It +was written in the books that the next Governor of California was to be +spelled, Frederick A. Travers. + +Twenty years had passed since he had seen his elder brother, and then it +had been after a gap of ten years. He remembered that night well. Tom +was the only man who dared run the bar in the dark, and that last time, +between nightfall and the dawn, with a southeaster breezing up, he had +sailed his schooner in and out again. There had been no warning of his +coming--a clatter of hoofs at midnight, a lathered horse in the stable, +and Tom had appeared, the salt of the sea on his face as his mother +attested. An hour only he remained, and on a fresh horse was gone, while +rain squalls rattled upon the windows and the rising wind moaned through +the redwoods, the memory of his visit a whiff, sharp and strong, from +the wild outer world. A week later, sea-hammered and bar-bound for that +time, had arrived the revenue cutter _Bear_, and there had been a +column of conjecture in the local paper, hints of a heavy landing of +opium and of a vain quest for the mysterious schooner _Halcyon_. Only +Fred and his mother, and the several house Indians, knew of the +stiffened horse in the barn and of the devious way it was afterward +smuggled back to the fishing village on the beach. + +Despite those twenty years, it was the same old Tom Travers that +alighted from the Pullman. To his brother's eyes, he did not look sick. +Older he was of course. The Panama hat did not hide the grey hair, and +though indefinably hinting of shrunkenness, the broad shoulders were +still broad and erect. As for the young woman with him, Frederick +Travers experienced an immediate shock of distaste. He felt it vitally, +yet vaguely. It was a challenge and a mock, yet he could not name nor +place the source of it. It might have been the dress, of tailored linen +and foreign cut, the shirtwaist, with its daring stripe, the black +wilfulness of the hair, or the flaunt of poppies on the large straw hat +or it might have been the flash and colour of her--the black eyes and +brows, the flame of rose in the cheeks, the white of the even teeth that +showed too readily. "A spoiled child," was his thought, but he had no +time to analyse, for his brother's hand was in his and he was making his +niece's acquaintance. + +There it was again. She flashed and talked like her colour, and she +talked with her hands as well. He could not avoid noting the smallness +of them. They were absurdly small, and his eyes went to her feet to make +the same discovery. Quite oblivious of the curious crowd on the station +platform, she had intercepted his attempt to lead to the motor car and +had ranged the brothers side by side. Tom had been laughingly +acquiescent, but his younger brother was ill at ease, too conscious of +the many eyes of his townspeople. He knew only the old Puritan way. +Family displays were for the privacy of the family, not for the public. +He was glad she had not attempted to kiss him. It was remarkable she had +not. Already he apprehended anything of her. + +She embraced them and penetrated them with sun-warm eyes that seemed to +see through them, and over them, and all about them. + +"You're really brothers," she cried, her hands flashing with her eyes. +"Anybody can see it. And yet there is a difference--I don't know. I +can't explain." + +In truth, with a tact that exceeded Frederick Travers' farthest +disciplined forbearance, she did not dare explain. Her wide artist-eyes +had seen and sensed the whole trenchant and essential difference. Alike +they looked, of the unmistakable same stock, their features reminiscent +of a common origin; and there resemblance ceased. Tom was three inches +taller, and well-greyed was the long, Viking moustache. His was the same +eagle-like nose as his brother's, save that it was more eagle-like, +while the blue eyes were pronouncedly so. The lines of the face were +deeper, the cheek-bones higher, the hollows larger, the weather-beat +darker. It was a volcanic face. There had been fire there, and the fire +still lingered. Around the corners of the eyes were more +laughter-wrinkles and in the eyes themselves a promise of deadlier +seriousness than the younger brother possessed. Frederick was bourgeois +in his carriage, but in Tom's was a certain careless ease and +distinction. It was the same pioneer blood of Isaac Travers in both men, +but it had been retorted in widely different crucibles. Frederick +represented the straight and expected line of descent. His brother +expressed a vast and intangible something that was unknown in the +Travers stock. And it was all this that the black-eyed girl saw and knew +on the instant. All that had been inexplicable in the two men and their +relationship cleared up in the moment she saw them side by side. + +"Wake me up," Tom was saying. "I can't believe I arrived on a train. And +the population? There were only four thousand thirty years ago." + +"Sixty thousand now," was the other's answer. "And increasing by leaps +and bounds. Want to spin around for a look at the city? There's plenty +of time." + +As they sped along the broad, well-paved streets, Tom persisted in his +Rip Van Winkle pose. The waterfront perplexed him. Where he had once +anchored his sloop in a dozen feet of water, he found solid land and +railroad yards, with wharves and shipping still farther out. + +"Hold on! Stop!" he cried, a few blocks on, looking up at a solid +business block. "Where is this, Fred?" + +"Fourth and Travers--don't you remember?" + +Tom stood up and gazed around, trying to discern the anciently familiar +configuration of the land under its clutter of buildings. + +"I ... I think...." he began hesitantly. "No; by George, I'm sure of it. +We used to hunt cottontails over that ground, and shoot blackbirds in +the brush. And there, where the bank building is, was a pond." He turned +to Polly. "I built my first raft there, and got my first taste of the +sea." + +"Heaven knows how many gallons of it," Frederick laughed, nodding to the +chauffeur. "They rolled you on a barrel, I remember." + +"Oh! More!" Polly cried, clapping her hands. + +"There's the park," Frederick pointed out a little later, indicating a +mass of virgin redwoods on the first dip of the bigger hills. + +"Father shot three grizzlies there one afternoon," was Tom's remark. + +"I presented forty acres of it to the city," Frederick went on. "Father +bought the quarter section for a dollar an acre from Leroy." + +Tom nodded, and the sparkle and flash in his eyes, like that of his +daughter, were unlike anything that ever appeared in his brother's eyes. + +"Yes," he affirmed, "Leroy, the negro squawman. I remember the time he +carried you and me on his back to Alliance, the night the Indians burned +the ranch. Father stayed behind and fought." + +"But he couldn't save the grist mill. It was a serious setback to him." + +"Just the same he nailed four Indians." + +In Polly's eyes now appeared the flash and sparkle. + +"An Indian-fighter!" she cried. "Tell me about him." + +"Tell her about Travers Ferry," Tom said. + +"That's a ferry on the Klamath River on the way to Orleans Bar and +Siskiyou. There was great packing into the diggings in those days, and, +among other things, father had made a location there. There was rich +bench farming land, too. He built a suspension bridge--wove the cables +on the spot with sailors and materials freighted in from the coast. It +cost him twenty thousand dollars. The first day it was open, eight +hundred mules crossed at a dollar a head, to say nothing of the toll for +foot and horse. That night the river rose. The bridge was one hundred +and forty feet above low water mark. Yet the freshet rose higher than +that, and swept the bridge away. He'd have made a fortune there +otherwise." + +"That wasn't it at all," Tom blurted out impatiently. "It was at Travers +Ferry that father and old Jacob Vance were caught by a war party of Mad +River Indians. Old Jacob was killed right outside the door of the log +cabin. Father dragged the body inside and stood the Indians off for a +week. Father was some shot. He buried Jacob under the cabin floor." + +"I still run the ferry," Frederick went on, "though there isn't so much +travel as in the old days. I freight by wagon-road to the Reservation, +and then mule-back on up the Klamath and clear in to the forks of Little +Salmon. I have twelve stores on that chain now, a stage-line to the +Reservation, and a hotel there. Quite a tourist trade is beginning to +pick up." + +And the girl, with curious brooding eyes, looked from brother to brother +as they so differently voiced themselves and life. + +"Ay, he was some man, father was," Tom murmured. + +There was a drowsy note in his speech that drew a quick glance of +anxiety from her. The machine had turned into the cemetery, and now +halted before a substantial vault on the crest of the hill. + +"I thought you'd like to see it," Frederick was saying. "I built that +mausoleum myself, most of it with my own hands. Mother wanted it. The +estate was dreadfully encumbered. The best bid I could get out of the +contractors was eleven thousand. I did it myself for a little over +eight." + +"Must have worked nights," Tom murmured admiringly and more sleepily +than before. + +"I did, Tom, I did. Many a night by lantern-light. I was so busy. I was +reconstructing the water works then--the artesian wells had failed--and +mother's eyes were troubling her. You remember--cataract--I wrote you. +She was too weak to travel, and I brought the specialists up from San +Francisco. Oh, my hands were full. I was just winding up the disastrous +affairs of the steamer line father had established to San Francisco, and +I was keeping up the interest on mortgages to the tune of one hundred +and eighty thousand dollars." + +A soft stertorous breathing interrupted him. Tom, chin on chest, was +asleep. Polly, with a significant look, caught her uncle's eye. Then +her father, after an uneasy restless movement, lifted drowsy lids. + +"Deuced warm day," he said with a bright apologetic laugh. "I've been +actually asleep. Aren't we near home?" + +Frederick nodded to the chauffeur, and the car rolled on. + + +III + +The house that Frederick Travers had built when his prosperity came, was +large and costly, sober and comfortable, and with no more pretence than +was naturally attendant on the finest country home in the county. Its +atmosphere was just the sort that he and his daughter would create. But +in the days that followed his brother's home-coming, all this was +changed. Gone was the subdued and ordered repose. Frederick was neither +comfortable nor happy. There was an unwonted flurry of life and +violation of sanctions and traditions. Meals were irregular and +protracted, and there were midnight chafing-dish suppers and bursts of +laughter at the most inappropriate hours. + +Frederick was abstemious. A glass of wine at dinner was his wildest +excess. Three cigars a day he permitted himself, and these he smoked +either on the broad veranda or in the smoking room. What else was a +smoking room for? Cigarettes he detested. Yet his brother was ever +rolling thin, brown-paper cigarettes and smoking them wherever he might +happen to be. A litter of tobacco crumbs was always to be found in the +big easy chair he frequented and among the cushions of the window-seats. +Then there were the cocktails. Brought up under the stern tutelage of +Isaac and Eliza Travers, Frederick looked upon liquor in the house as an +abomination. Ancient cities had been smitten by God's wrath for just +such practices. Before lunch and dinner, Tom, aided and abetted by +Polly, mixed an endless variety of drinks, she being particularly adept +with strange swivel-stick concoctions learned at the ends of the earth. +To Frederick, at such times, it seemed that his butler's pantry and +dining room had been turned into bar-rooms. When he suggested this, +under a facetious show, Tom proclaimed that when he made his pile he +would build a liquor cabinet in every living room of his house. + +And there were more young men at the house than formerly, and they +helped in disposing of the cocktails. Frederick would have liked to +account in that manner for their presence, but he knew better. His +brother and his brother's daughter did what he and Mary had failed to +do. They were the magnets. Youth and joy and laughter drew to them. The +house was lively with young life. Ever, day and night, the motor cars +honked up and down the gravelled drives. There were picnics and +expeditions in the summer weather, moonlight sails on the bay, starts +before dawn or home-comings at midnight, and often, of nights, the many +bedrooms were filled as they had never been before. Tom must cover all +his boyhood ramblings, catch trout again on Bull Creek, shoot quail over +Walcott's Prairie, get a deer on Round Mountain. That deer was a cause +of pain and shame to Frederick. What if it was closed season? Tom had +triumphantly brought home the buck and gleefully called it +sidehill-salmon when it was served and eaten at Frederick's own table. + +They had clambakes at the head of the bay and musselbakes down by the +roaring surf; and Tom told shamelessly of the _Halcyon_, and of the run +of contraband, and asked Frederick before them all how he had managed to +smuggle the horse back to the fishermen without discovery. All the young +men were in the conspiracy with Polly to pamper Tom to his heart's +desire. And Frederick heard the true inwardness of the killing of the +deer; of its purchase from the overstocked Golden Gate Park; of its +crated carriage by train, horse-team and mule-back to the fastnesses of +Round Mountain; of Tom falling asleep beside the deer-run the first time +it was driven by; of the pursuit by the young men, the jaded saddle +horses, the scrambles and the falls, and the roping of it at Burnt Ranch +Clearing; and, finally, of the triumphant culmination, when it was +driven past a second time and Tom had dropped it at fifty yards. To +Frederick there was a vague hurt in it all. When had such consideration +been shown him? + +There were days when Tom could not go out, postponements of outdoor +frolics, when, still the centre, he sat and drowsed in the big chair, +waking, at times, in that unexpected queer, bright way of his, to roll +a cigarette and call for his _ukulele_--a sort of miniature guitar of +Portuguese invention. Then, with strumming and tumtuming, the live +cigarette laid aside to the imminent peril of polished wood, his full +baritone would roll out in South Sea _hulas_ and sprightly French and +Spanish songs. + +One, in particular, had pleased Frederick at first. The favourite song +of a Tahitian king, Tom explained--the last of the Pomares, who had +himself composed it and was wont to lie on his mats by the hour singing +it. It consisted of the repetition of a few syllables. "_E meu ru ru a +vau_," it ran, and that was all of it, sung in a stately, endless, +ever-varying chant, accompanied by solemn chords from the _ukelele_. +Polly took great joy in teaching it to her uncle, but when, himself +questing for some of this genial flood of life that bathed about his +brother, Frederick essayed the song, he noted suppressed glee on the +part of his listeners, which increased, through giggles and snickers, to +a great outburst of laughter. To his disgust and dismay, he learned +that the simple phrase he had repeated and repeated was nothing else +than "I am so drunk." He had been made a fool of. Over and over, +solemnly and gloriously, he, Frederick Travers, had announced how drunk +he was. After that, he slipped quietly out of the room whenever it was +sung. Nor could Polly's later explanation that the last word was +"happy," and not "drunk," reconcile him; for she had been compelled to +admit that the old king was a toper, and that he was always in his cups +when he struck up the chant. + +Frederick was constantly oppressed by the feeling of being out of it +all. He was a social being, and he liked fun, even if it were of a more +wholesome and dignified brand than that to which his brother was +addicted. He could not understand why in the past the young people had +voted his house a bore and come no more, save on state and formal +occasions, until now, when they flocked to it and to his brother, but +not to him. Nor could he like the way the young women petted his +brother, and called him Tom, while it was intolerable to see them twist +and pull his buccaneer moustache in mock punishment when his sometimes +too-jolly banter sank home to them. + +Such conduct was a profanation to the memory of Isaac and Eliza Travers. +There was too much an air of revelry in the house. The long table was +never shortened, while there was extra help in the kitchen. Breakfast +extended from four until eleven, and the midnight suppers, entailing +raids on the pantry and complaints from the servants, were a vexation to +Frederick. The house had become a restaurant, a hotel, he sneered +bitterly to himself; and there were times when he was sorely tempted to +put his foot down and reassert the old ways. But somehow the ancient +sorcery of his masterful brother was too strong upon him; and at times +he gazed upon him with a sense almost of awe, groping to fathom the +alchemy of charm, baffled by the strange lights and fires in his +brother's eyes, and by the wisdom of far places and of wild nights and +days written in his face. What was it? What lordly vision had the other +glimpsed?--he, the irresponsible and careless one? Frederick remembered +a line of an old song--"Along the shining ways he came." Why did his +brother remind him of that line? Had he, who in boyhood had known no +law, who in manhood had exalted himself above law, in truth found the +shining ways? + +There was an unfairness about it that perplexed Frederick, until he +found solace in dwelling upon the failure Tom had made of life. Then it +was, in quiet intervals, that he got some comfort and stiffened his own +pride by showing Tom over the estate. + +"You have done well, Fred," Tom would say. "You have done very well." + +He said it often, and often he drowsed in the big smooth-running +machine. + +"Everything orderly and sanitary and spick and span--not a blade of +grass out of place," was Polly's comment. "How do you ever manage it? I +should not like to be a blade of grass on your land," she concluded, +with a little shivery shudder. + +"You have worked hard," Tom said. + +"Yes, I have worked hard," Frederick affirmed. "It was worth it." + +He was going to say more, but the strange flash in the girl's eyes +brought him to an uncomfortable pause. He felt that she measured him, +challenged him. For the first time his honourable career of building a +county commonwealth had been questioned--and by a chit of a girl, the +daughter of a wastrel, herself but a flighty, fly-away, foreign +creature. + +Conflict between them was inevitable. He had disliked her from the first +moment of meeting. She did not have to speak. Her mere presence made him +uncomfortable. He felt her unspoken disapproval, though there were times +when she did not stop at that. Nor did she mince language. She spoke +forthright, like a man, and as no man had ever dared to speak to him. + +"I wonder if you ever miss what you've missed," she told him. "Did you +ever, once in your life, turn yourself loose and rip things up by the +roots? Did you ever once get drunk? Or smoke yourself black in the +face? Or dance a hoe-down on the ten commandments? Or stand up on your +hind legs and wink like a good fellow at God?" + +"Isn't she a rare one!" Tom gurgled. "Her mother over again." + +Outwardly smiling and calm, there was a chill of horror at Frederick's +heart. It was incredible. + +"I think it is the English," she continued, "who have a saying that a +man has not lived until he has kissed his woman and struck his man. I +wonder--confess up, now--if you ever struck a man." + +"Have you?" he countered. + +She nodded, an angry reminiscent flash in her eyes, and waited. + +"No, I have never had that pleasure," he answered slowly. "I early +learned control." + +Later, irritated by his self-satisfied complacence and after listening +to a recital of how he had cornered the Klamath salmon-packing, planted +the first oysters on the bay and established that lucrative monopoly, +and of how, after exhausting litigation and a campaign of years he had +captured the water front of Williamsport and thereby won to control of +the Lumber Combine, she returned to the charge. + +"You seem to value life in terms of profit and loss," she said. "I +wonder if you have ever known love." + +The shaft went home. He had not kissed his woman. His marriage had been +one of policy. It had saved the estate in the days when he had been +almost beaten in the struggle to disencumber the vast holdings Isaac +Travers' wide hands had grasped. The girl was a witch. She had probed an +old wound and made it hurt again. He had never had time to love. He had +worked hard. He had been president of the chamber of commerce, mayor of +the city, state senator, but he had missed love. At chance moments he +had come upon Polly, openly and shamelessly in her father's arms, and he +had noted the warmth and tenderness in their eyes. Again he knew that he +had missed love. Wanton as was the display, not even in private did he +and Mary so behave. Normal, formal, and colourless, she was what was to +be expected of a loveless marriage. He even puzzled to decide whether +the feeling he felt for her was love. Was he himself loveless as well? + +In the moment following Polly's remark, he was aware of a great +emptiness. It seemed that his hands had grasped ashes, until, glancing +into the other room, he saw Tom asleep in the big chair, very grey and +aged and tired. He remembered all that he had done, all that he +possessed. Well, what did Tom possess? What had Tom done?--save play +ducks and drakes with life and wear it out until all that remained was +that dimly flickering spark in a dying body. + +What bothered Frederick in Polly was that she attracted him as well as +repelled him. His own daughter had never interested him in that way. +Mary moved along frictionless grooves, and to forecast her actions was +so effortless that it was automatic. But Polly! many-hued, +protean-natured, he never knew what she was going to do next. + +"Keeps you guessing, eh?" Tom chuckled. + +She was irresistible. She had her way with Frederick in ways that in +Mary would have been impossible. She took liberties with him, cosened +him or hurt him, and compelled always in him a sharp awareness of her +existence. + +Once, after one of their clashes, she devilled him at the piano, playing +a mad damned thing that stirred and irritated him and set his pulse +pounding wild and undisciplined fancies in the ordered chamber of his +brain. The worst of it was she saw and knew just what she was doing. She +was aware before he was, and she made him aware, her face turned to look +at him, on her lips a mocking, contemplative smile that was almost a +superior sneer. It was this that shocked him into consciousness of the +orgy his imagination had been playing him. From the wall above her, the +stiff portraits of Isaac and Eliza Travers looked down like reproachful +spectres. Infuriated, he left the room. He had never dreamed such +potencies resided in music. And then, and he remembered it with shame, +he had stolen back outside to listen, and she had known, and once more +she had devilled him. + +When Mary asked him what he thought of Polly's playing, an unbidden +contrast leaped to his mind. Mary's music reminded him of church. It was +cold and bare as a Methodist meeting house. But Polly's was like the mad +and lawless ceremonial of some heathen temple where incense arose and +nautch girls writhed. + +"She plays like a foreigner," he answered, pleased with the success and +oppositeness of his evasion. + +"She is an artist," Mary affirmed solemnly. "She is a genius. When does +she ever practise? When did she ever practise? You know how I have. My +best is like a five-finger exercise compared with the foolishest thing +she ripples off. Her music tells me things--oh, things wonderful and +unutterable. Mine tells me, 'one-two-three, one-two-three.' Oh, it is +maddening! I work and work and get nowhere. It is unfair. Why should she +be born that way, and not I?" + +"Love," was Frederick's immediate and secret thought; but before he +could dwell upon the conclusion, the unprecedented had happened and Mary +was sobbing in a break-down of tears. He would have liked to take her in +his arms, after Tom's fashion, but he did not know how. He tried, and +found Mary as unschooled as himself. It resulted only in an embarrassed +awkwardness for both of them. + +The contrasting of the two girls was inevitable. Like father like +daughter. Mary was no more than a pale camp-follower of a gorgeous, +conquering general. Frederick's thrift had been sorely educated in the +matter of clothes. He knew just how expensive Mary's clothes were, yet +he could not blind himself to the fact that Polly's vagabond makeshifts, +cheap and apparently haphazard, were always all right and far more +successful. Her taste was unerring. Her ways with a shawl were +inimitable. With a scarf she performed miracles. + +"She just throws things together," Mary complained. "She doesn't even +try. She can dress in fifteen minutes, and when she goes swimming she +beats the boys out of the dressing rooms." Mary was honest and +incredulous in her admiration. "I can't see how she does it. No one +could dare those colours, but they look just right on her." + +"She's always threatened that when I became finally flat broke she'd set +up dressmaking and take care of both of us," Tom contributed. + +Frederick, looking over the top of a newspaper, was witness to an +illuminating scene; Mary, to his certain knowledge, had been primping +for an hour ere she appeared. + +"Oh! How lovely!" was Polly's ready appreciation. Her eyes and face +glowed with honest pleasure, and her hands wove their delight in the +air. "But why not wear that bow so and thus?" + +Her hands flashed to the task, and in a moment the miracle of taste and +difference achieved by her touch was apparent even to Frederick. + +Polly was like her father, generous to the point of absurdity with her +meagre possessions. Mary admired a Spanish fan--a Mexican treasure that +had come down from one of the grand ladies of the Court of the Emperor +Maximilian. Polly's delight flamed like wild-fire. Mary found herself +the immediate owner of the fan, almost labouring under the fictitious +impression that she had conferred an obligation by accepting it. Only a +foreign woman could do such things, and Polly was guilty of similar +gifts to all the young women. It was her way. It might be a lace +handkerchief, a pink Paumotan pearl, or a comb of hawksbill turtle. It +was all the same. Whatever their eyes rested on in joy was theirs. To +women, as to men, she was irresistible. + +"I don't dare admire anything any more," was Mary's plaint. "If I do she +always gives it to me." + +Frederick had never dreamed such a creature could exist. The women of +his own race and place had never adumbrated such a possibility. He knew +that whatever she did--her quick generosities, her hot enthusiasms or +angers, her birdlike caressing ways--was unbelievably sincere. Her +extravagant moods at the same time shocked and fascinated him. Her voice +was as mercurial as her feelings. There were no even tones, and she +talked with her hands. Yet, in her mouth, English was a new and +beautiful language, softly limpid, with an audacity of phrase and +tellingness of expression that conveyed subtleties and nuances as +unambiguous and direct as they were unexpected from one of such +childlikeness and simplicity. He woke up of nights and on his darkened +eyelids saw bright memory-pictures of the backward turn of her vivid, +laughing face. + + +IV + +Like daughter like father. Tom, too, had been irresistible. All the +world still called to him, and strange men came from time to time with +its messages. Never had there been such visitors to the Travers home. +Some came with the reminiscent roll of the sea in their gait. Others +were black-browed ruffians; still others were fever-burnt and sallow; +and about all of them was something bizarre and outlandish. Their talk +was likewise bizarre and outlandish, of things to Frederick unguessed +and undreamed, though he recognised the men for what they were--soldiers +of fortune, adventurers, free lances of the world. But the big patent +thing was the love and loyalty they bore their leader. They named him +variously?--Black Tom, Blondine, Husky Travers, Malemute Tom, +Swiftwater Tom--but most of all he was Captain Tom. Their projects and +propositions were equally various, from the South Sea trader with the +discovery of a new guano island and the Latin-American with a nascent +revolution on his hands, on through Siberian gold chases and the +prospecting of the placer benches of the upper Kuskokeem, to darker +things that were mentioned only in whispers. And Captain Tom regretted +the temporary indisposition that prevented immediate departure with +them, and continued to sit and drowse more and more in the big chair. It +was Polly, with a camaraderie distasteful to her uncle, who got these +men aside and broke the news that Captain Tom would never go out on the +shining ways again. But not all of them came with projects. Many made +love-calls on their leader of old and unforgetable days, and Frederick +sometimes was a witness to their meeting, and he marvelled anew at the +mysterious charm in his brother that drew all men to him. + +"By the turtles of Tasman!" cried one, "when I heard you was in +California, Captain Tom, I just had to come and shake hands. I reckon +you ain't forgot Tasman, eh?--nor the scrap at Thursday Island. +Say--old Tasman was killed by his niggers only last year up German New +Guinea way. Remember his cook-boy?--Ngani-Ngani? He was the ringleader. +Tasman swore by him, but Ngani-Ngani hatcheted him just the same." + +"Shake hands with Captain Carlsen, Fred," was Tom's introduction of his +brother to another visitor. "He pulled me out of a tight place on the +West Coast once. I'd have cashed in, Carlsen, if you hadn't happened +along." + +Captain Carlsen was a giant hulk of a man, with gimlet eyes of palest +blue, a slash-scarred mouth that a blazing red beard could not quite +hide, and a grip in his hand that made Frederick squirm. + +A few minutes later, Tom had his brother aside. + +"Say, Fred, do you think it will bother to advance me a thousand?" + +"Of course," Frederick answered splendidly. "You know half of that I +have is yours, Tom." + +And when Captain Carlsen departed, Frederick was morally certain that +the thousand dollars departed with him. + +Small wonder Tom had made a failure of life--and come home to die. +Frederick sat at his own orderly desk taking stock of the difference +between him and his brother. Yes, and if it hadn't been for him, there +would have been no home for Tom to die in. + +Frederick cast back for solace through their joint history. It was he +who had always been the mainstay, the dependable one. Tom had laughed +and rollicked, played hooky from school, disobeyed Isaac's commandments. +To the mountains or the sea, or in hot water with the neighbours and the +town authorities--it was all the same; he was everywhere save where the +dull plod of work obtained. And work was work in those backwoods days, +and he, Frederick, had done the work. Early and late and all days he had +been at it. He remembered the season when Isaac's wide plans had taken +one of their smashes, when food had been scarce on the table of a man +who owned a hundred thousand acres, when there had been no money to +hire harvesters for the hay, and when Isaac would not let go his grip on +a single one of his acres. He, Frederick, had pitched the hay, while +Isaac mowed and raked. Tom had lain in bed and run up a doctor bill with +a broken leg, gained by falling off the ridge-pole of the barn--which +place was the last in the world to which any one would expect to go to +pitch hay. About the only work Tom had ever done, it seemed to him, was +to fetch in venison and bear-oil, to break colts, and to raise a din in +the valley pastures and wooded canyons with his bear-hounds. + +Tom was the elder, yet when Isaac died, the estate, with all its vast +possibilities would have gone to ruin, had not he, Frederick, buckled +down to it and put the burden on his back. Work! He remembered the +enlargement of the town water-system--how he had manoeuvred and +financed, persuaded small loans at ruinous interest, and laid pipe and +made joints by lantern light while the workmen slept, and then been up +ahead of them to outline and direct and rack his brains over the +raising of the next week-end wages. For he had carried on old Isaac's +policy. He would not let go. The future would vindicate. + +And Tom!--with a bigger pack of bear dogs ranging the mountains and +sleeping out a week at a time. Frederick remembered the final conference +in the kitchen--Tom, and he, and Eliza Travers, who still cooked and +baked and washed dishes on an estate that carried a hundred and eighty +thousand dollars in mortgages. + + +"Don't divide," Eliza Travers had pleaded, resting her soap-flecked, +parboiled arms. "Isaac was right. It will be worth millions. The country +is opening up. We must all pull together." + +"I don't want the estate," Tom cried. "Let Frederick have it. What I +want...." + +He never completed the sentence, but all the vision of the world burned +in his eyes. + +"I can't wait," he went on. "You can have the millions when they come. +In the meantime let me have ten thousand. I'll sign off quitclaim to +everything. And give me the old schooner, and some day I'll be back with +a pot of money to help you out." + +Frederick could see himself, in that far past day, throwing up his arms +in horror and crying: + +"Ten thousand!--when I'm strained to the breaking point to raise this +quarter's interest!" + +"There's the block of land next to the court house," Tom had urged. "I +know the bank has a standing offer for ten thousand." + +"But it will be worth a hundred thousand in ten years," Frederick had +objected. + +"Call it so. Say I quitclaim everything for a hundred thousand. Sell it +for ten and let me have it. It's all I want, and I want it now. You can +have the rest." + +And Tom had had his will as usual (the block had been mortgaged instead +of sold), and sailed away in the old schooner, the benediction of the +town upon his head, for he had carried away in his crew half the +riff-raff of the beach. + +The bones of the schooner had been left on the coast of Java. That had +been when Eliza Travers was being operated on for her eyes, and +Frederick had kept it from her until indubitable proof came that Tom was +still alive. + +Frederick went over to his files and drew out a drawer labelled "Thomas +Travers." In it were packets, methodically arranged. He went over the +letters. They were from everywhere--China, Rangoon, Australia, South +Africa, the Gold Coast, Patagonia, Armenia, Alaska. Briefly and +infrequently written, they epitomised the wanderer's life. Frederick ran +over in his mind a few of the glimpsed highlights of Tom's career. He +had fought in some sort of foreign troubles in Armenia. He had been an +officer in the Chinese army, and it was a certainty that the trade he +later drove in the China Seas was illicit. He had been caught running +arms into Cuba. It seemed he had always been running something somewhere +that it ought not to have been run. And he had never outgrown it. One +letter, on crinkly tissue paper, showed that as late as the +Japanese-Russian War he had been caught running coal into Port Arthur +and been taken to the prize court at Sasebo, where his steamer was +confiscated and he remained a prisoner until the end of the war. + +Frederick smiled as he read a paragraph: "_How do you prosper? Let me +know any time a few thousands will help you_." He looked at the date, +April 18, 1883, and opened another packet. "_May 5th_," 1883, was the +dated sheet he drew out. "_Five thousand will put me on my feet again. +If you can, and love me, send it along pronto--that's Spanish for +rush_." + +He glanced again at the two dates. It was evident that somewhere between +April 18th and May 5th Tom had come a cropper. With a smile, half +bitter, Frederick skimmed on through the correspondence: "_There's a +wreck on Midway Island. A fortune in it, salvage you know. Auction in +two days. Cable me four thousand_." The last he examined, ran: "_A deal +I can swing with a little cash. It's big, I tell you. It's so big I +don't dare tell you_." He remembered that deal--a Latin-American +revolution. He had sent the cash, and Tom had swung it, and himself as +well, into a prison cell and a death sentence. + +Tom had meant well, there was no denying that. And he had always +religiously forwarded his I O U's. Frederick musingly weighed the packet +of them in his hand, as though to determine if any relation existed +between the weight of paper and the sums of money represented on it. + +He put the drawer back in the cabinet and passed out. Glancing in at the +big chair he saw Polly just tiptoeing from the room. Tom's head lay +back, and his breathing was softly heavy, the sickness pronouncedly +apparent on his relaxed face. + + +V + +"I have worked hard," Frederick explained to Polly that evening on the +veranda, unaware that when a man explains it is a sign his situation is +growing parlous. "I have done what came to my hand--how creditably it is +for others to say. And I have been paid for it. I have taken care of +others and taken care of myself. The doctors say they have never seen +such a constitution in a man of my years. Why, almost half my life is +yet before me, and we Travers are a long-lived stock. I took care of +myself, you see, and I have myself to show for it. I was not a waster. I +conserved my heart and my arteries, and yet there are few men who can +boast having done as much work as I have done. Look at that hand. +Steady, eh? It will be as steady twenty years from now. There is nothing +in playing fast and loose with oneself." + +And all the while Polly had been following the invidious comparison that +lurked behind his words. + +"You can write 'Honourable' before your name," she flashed up proudly. +"But my father has been a king. He has lived. Have you lived? What have +you got to show for it? Stocks and bonds, and houses and servants--pouf! +Heart and arteries and a steady hand--is that all? Have you lived merely +to live? Were you afraid to die? I'd rather sing one wild song and burst +my heart with it, than live a thousand years watching my digestion and +being afraid of the wet. When you are dust, my father will be ashes. +That is the difference." + +"But my dear child--" he began. + +"What have you got to show for it?" she flamed on. "Listen!" + +From within, through the open window, came the tinkling of Tom's +_ukulele_ and the rollicking lilt of his voice in an Hawaiian _hula_. It +ended in a throbbing, primitive love-call from the sensuous tropic night +that no one could mistake. There was a burst of young voices, and a +clamour for more. Frederick did not speak. He had sensed something vague +and significant. + +Turning, he glanced through the window at Tom, flushed and royal, +surrounded by the young men and women, under his Viking moustache +lighting a cigarette from a match held to him by one of the girls. It +abruptly struck Frederick that never had he lighted a cigar at a match +held in a woman's hand. + +"Doctor Tyler says he oughtn't to smoke--it only aggravates," he said; +and it was all he could say. + +As the fall of the year came on, a new type of men began to frequent the +house. They proudly called themselves "sour-doughs," and they were +arriving in San Francisco on the winter's furlough from the +gold-diggings of Alaska. More and more of them came, and they pre-empted +a large portion of one of the down-town hotels. Captain Tom was fading +with the season, and almost lived in the big chair. He drowsed oftener +and longer, but whenever he awoke he was surrounded by his court of +young people, or there was some comrade waiting to sit and yarn about +the old gold days and plan for the new gold days. + +For Tom--Husky Travers, the Yukoners named him--never thought that the +end approached. A temporary illness, he called it, the natural +enfeeblement following upon a prolonged bout with Yucatan fever. In the +spring he would be right and fit again. Cold weather was what he needed. +His blood had been cooked. In the meantime it was a case of take it easy +and make the most of the rest. + +And no one undeceived him--not even the Yukoners, who smoked pipes and +black cigars and chewed tobacco on Frederick's broad verandas until he +felt like an intruder in his own house. There was no touch with them. +They regarded him as a stranger to be tolerated. They came to see Tom. +And their manner of seeing him was provocative of innocent envy pangs to +Frederick. Day after day he watched them. He would see the Yukoners +meet, perhaps one just leaving the sick room and one just going in. They +would clasp hands, solemnly and silently, outside the door. The +newcomer would question with his eyes, and the other would shake his +head. And more than once Frederick noted the moisture in their eyes. +Then the newcomer would enter and draw his chair up to Tom's, and with +jovial voice proceed to plan the outfitting for the exploration of the +upper Kuskokeem; for it was there Tom was bound in the spring. Dogs +could be had at Larabee's--a clean breed, too, with no taint of the soft +Southland strains. It was rough country, it was reported, but if +sour-doughs couldn't make the traverse from Larabee's in forty days +they'd like to see a _chechako_ do it in sixty. + +And so it went, until Frederick wondered, when he came to die, if there +was one man in the county, much less in the adjoining county, who would +come to him at his bedside. + +Seated at his desk, through the open windows would drift whiffs of +strong tobacco and rumbling voices, and he could not help catching +snatches of what the Yukoners talked. + +"D'ye recollect that Koyokuk rush in the early nineties?" he would hear +one say. "Well, him an' me was pardners then, tradin' an' such. We had +a dinky little steamboat, the _Blatterbat_. He named her that, an' it +stuck. He was a caution. Well, sir, as I was sayin', him an' me loaded +the little _Blatterbat_ to the guards an' started up the Koyokuk, me +firin' an' engineerin' an' him steerin', an' both of us deck-handin'. +Once in a while we'd tie to the bank an' cut firewood. It was the fall, +an' mush-ice was comin' down, an' everything gettin' ready for the +freeze up. You see, we was north of the Arctic Circle then an' still +headin' north. But they was two hundred miners in there needin' grub if +they wintered, an' we had the grub. + +"Well, sir, pretty soon they begun to pass us, driftin' down the river +in canoes an' rafts. They was pullin' out. We kept track of them. When a +hundred an' ninety-four had passed, we didn't see no reason for keepin' +on. So we turned tail and started down. A cold snap had come, an' the +water was fallin' fast, an' dang me if we didn't ground on a +bar--up-stream side. The _Blatterbat_ hung up solid. Couldn't budge +her. 'It's a shame to waste all that grub,' says I, just as we was +pullin' out in a canoe. 'Let's stay an' eat it,' says he. An' dang me if +we didn't. We wintered right there on the _Blatterbat_, huntin' and +tradin' with the Indians, an' when the river broke next year we brung +down eight thousand dollars' worth of skins. Now a whole winter, just +two of us, is goin' some. But never a cross word out of him. +Best-tempered pardner I ever seen. But fight!" + +"Huh!" came the other voice. "I remember the winter Oily Jones allowed +he'd clean out Forty Mile. Only he didn't, for about the second yap he +let off he ran afoul of Husky Travers. It was in the White Caribou. 'I'm +a wolf!' yaps Jones. You know his style, a gun in his belt, fringes on +his moccasins, and long hair down his back. 'I'm a wolf,' he yaps, 'an' +this is my night to howl. Hear me, you long lean makeshift of a human +critter?'--an' this to Husky Travers." + +"Well?" the other voice queried, after a pause. + +"In about a second an' a half Oily Jones was on the floor an' Husky on +top askin' somebody kindly to pass him a butcher knife. What's he do but +plumb hack off all of Oily Jones' long hair. 'Now howl, damn you, howl,' +says Husky, gettin' up." + +"He was a cool one, for a wild one," the first voice took up. "I seen +him buck roulette in the Little Wolverine, drop nine thousand in two +hours, borrow some more, win it back in fifteen minutes, buy the drinks, +an' cash in--dang me, all in fifteen minutes." + +One evening Tom was unusually brightly awake, and Frederick, joining the +rapt young circle, sat and listened to his brother's serio-comic +narrative of the night of wreck on the island of Blang; of the swim +through the sharks where half the crew was lost; of the great pearl +which Desay brought ashore with him; of the head-decorated palisade that +surrounded the grass palace wherein dwelt the Malay queen with her royal +consort, a shipwrecked Chinese Eurasian; of the intrigue for the pearl +of Desay; of mad feasts and dances in the barbaric night, and quick +dangers and sudden deaths; of the queen's love-making to Desay, of +Desay's love-making to the queen's daughter, and of Desay, every joint +crushed, still alive, staked out on the reef at low tide to be eaten by +the sharks; of the coming of the plague; of the beating of tom-toms and +the exorcising of the devil-devil doctors; of the flight over the +man-trapped, wild-pig runs of the mountain bush-men; and of the final +rescue by Tasman, he who was hatcheted only last year and whose head +reposed in some Melanesian stronghold--and all breathing of the warmth +and abandon and savagery of the burning islands of the sun. + +And despite himself, Frederick sat entranced; and when all the tale was +told, he was aware of a queer emptiness. He remembered back to his +boyhood, when he had pored over the illustrations in the old-fashioned +geography. He, too, had dreamed of amazing adventure in far places and +desired to go out on the shining ways. And he had planned to go; yet he +had known only work and duty. Perhaps that was the difference. Perhaps +that was the secret of the strange wisdom in his brother's eyes. For +the moment, faint and far, vicariously, he glimpsed the lordly vision +his brother had seen. He remembered a sharp saying of Polly's. "You have +missed romance. You traded it for dividends." She was right, and yet, +not fair. He had wanted romance, but the work had been placed ready to +his hand. He had toiled and moiled, day and night, and been faithful to +his trust. Yet he had missed love and the world-living that was forever +a-whisper in his brother. And what had Tom done to deserve it?--a +wastrel and an idle singer of songs. + +His place was high. He was going to be the next governor of California. +But what man would come to him and lie to him out of love? The thought +of all his property seemed to put a dry and gritty taste in his mouth. +Property! Now that he looked at it, one thousand dollars was like any +other thousand dollars; and one day (of his days) was like any other +day. He had never made the pictures in the geography come true. He had +not struck his man, nor lighted his cigar at a match held in a woman's +hand. A man could sleep in only one bed at a time--Tom had said that. He +shuddered as he strove to estimate how many beds he owned, how many +blankets he had bought. And all the beds and blankets would not buy one +man to come from the end of the earth, and grip his hand, and cry, "By +the turtles of Tasman!" + +Something of all this he told Polly, an undercurrent of complaint at the +unfairness of things in his tale. And she had answered: + +"It couldn't have been otherwise. Father bought it. He never drove +bargains. It was a royal thing, and he paid for it royally. You grudged +the price, don't you see. You saved your arteries and your money and +kept your feet dry." + + +VI + +On an afternoon in the late fall all were gathered about the big chair +and Captain Tom. Though he did not know it, he had drowsed the whole day +through and only just awakened to call for his _ukulele_ and light a +cigarette at Polly's hand. But the _ukulele_ lay idle on his arm, and +though the pine logs crackled in the huge fireplace he shivered and took +note of the cold. + +"It's a good sign," he said, unaware that the faintness of his voice +drew the heads of his listeners closer. "The cold weather will be a +tonic. It's a hard job to work the tropics out of one's blood. But I'm +beginning to shape up now for the Kuskokeem. In the spring, Polly, we +start with the dogs, and you'll see the midnight sun. How your mother +would have liked the trip. She was a game one. Forty sleeps with the +dogs, and we'll be shaking out yellow nuggets from the moss-roots. +Larabee has some fine animals. I know the breed. They're timber wolves, +that's what they are, big grey timber wolves, though they sport brown +about one in a litter--isn't that right, Bennington?" + +"One in a litter, that's just about the average," Bennington, the +Yukoner, replied promptly, but in a voice hoarsely unrecognisable. + +"And you must never travel alone with them," Captain Tom went on. "For +if you fall down they'll jump you. Larabee's brutes only respect a man +when he stands upright on his legs. When he goes down, he's meat. I +remember coming over the divide from Tanana to Circle City. That was +before the Klondike strike. It was in '94 ... no, '95, and the bottom +had dropped out of the thermometer. There was a young Canadian with the +outfit. His name was it was ... a peculiar one ... wait a minute it will +come to me...." + +His voice ceased utterly, though his lips still moved. A look of +unbelief and vast surprise dawned on his face. Followed a sharp, +convulsive shudder. And in that moment, without warning, he saw Death. +He looked clear-eyed and steady, as if pondering, then turned to Polly. +His hand moved impotently, as if to reach hers, and when he found it, +his fingers could not close. He gazed at her with a great smile that +slowly faded. The eyes drooped as the life went out, and remained a face +of quietude and repose. The _ukulele_ clattered to the floor. One by one +they went softly from the room, leaving Polly alone. + +From the veranda, Frederick watched a man coming up the driveway. By the +roll of the sea in his walk, Frederick could guess for whom the stranger +came. The face was swarthy with sun and wrinkled with age that was given +the lie by the briskness of his movements and the alertness in the keen +black eyes. In the lobe of each ear was a tiny circlet of gold. + +"How do you do, sir," the man said, and it was patent that English was +not the tongue he had learned at his mother's knee. "How's Captain Tom? +They told me in the town that he was sick." + +"My brother is dead," Frederick answered. + +The stranger turned his head and gazed out over the park-like grounds +and up to the distant redwood peaks, and Frederick noted that he +swallowed with an effort. + +"By the turtles of Tasman, he was a man," he said, in a deep, changed +voice. + +"By the turtles of Tasman, he was a man," Frederick repeated; nor did he +stumble over the unaccustomed oath. + + + + +THE ETERNITY OF FORMS + + +A strange life has come to an end in the death of Mr. Sedley Crayden, of +Crayden Hill. + +Mild, harmless, he was the victim of a strange delusion that kept him +pinned, night and day, in his chair for the last two years of his life. +The mysterious death, or, rather, disappearance, of his elder brother, +James Crayden, seems to have preyed upon his mind, for it was shortly +after that event that his delusion began to manifest itself. + +Mr. Crayden never vouchsafed any explanation of his strange conduct. +There was nothing the matter with him physically; and, mentally, the +alienists found him normal in every way save for his one remarkable +idiosyncrasy. His remaining in his chair was purely voluntary, an act of +his own will. And now he is dead, and the mystery remains unsolved. + +--_Extract from the Newton Courier-Times._ + + +Briefly, I was Mr. Sedley Crayden's confidential servant and valet for +the last eight months of his life. During that time he wrote a great +deal in a manuscript that he kept always beside him, except when he +drowsed or slept, at which times he invariably locked it in a desk +drawer close to his hand. + +I was curious to read what the old gentleman wrote, but he was too +cautious and cunning. I never got a peep at the manuscript. If he were +engaged upon it when I attended on him, he covered the top sheet with a +large blotter. It was I who found him dead in his chair, and it was then +that I took the liberty of abstracting the manuscript. I was very +curious to read it, and I have no excuses to offer. + +After retaining it in my secret possession for several years, and after +ascertaining that Mr. Crayden left no surviving relatives, I have +decided to make the nature of the manuscript known. It is very long, and +I have omitted nearly all of it, giving only the more lucid fragments. +It bears all the earmarks of a disordered mind, and various experiences +are repeated over and over, while much is so vague and incoherent as to +defy comprehension. Nevertheless, from reading it myself, I venture to +predict that if an excavation is made in the main basement, somewhere in +the vicinity of the foundation of the great chimney, a collection of +bones will be found which should very closely resemble those which James +Crayden once clothed in mortal flesh. + +--_Statement of Rudolph Heckler._ + + +Here follows the excerpts from the manuscript, made and arranged by +Rudolph Heckler: + + +I never killed my brother. Let this be my first word and my last. Why +should I kill him? We lived together in unbroken harmony for twenty +years. We were old men, and the fires and tempers of youth had long +since burned out. We never disagreed even over the most trivial things. +Never was there such amity as ours. We were scholars. We cared nothing +for the outside world. Our companionship and our books were +all-satisfying. Never were there such talks as we held. Many a night we +have sat up till two and three in the morning, conversing, weighing +opinions and judgments, referring to authorities--in short, we lived at +high and friendly intellectual altitudes. + + * * * * * + +He disappeared. I suffered a great shock. Why should he have +disappeared? Where could he have gone? It was very strange. I was +stunned. They say I was very sick for weeks. It was brain fever. This +was caused by his inexplicable disappearance. It was at the beginning of +the experience I hope here to relate, that he disappeared. + +How I have endeavoured to find him. I am not an excessively rich man, +yet have I offered continually increasing rewards. I have advertised in +all the papers, and sought the aid of all the detective bureaus. At the +present moment, the rewards I have out aggregate over fifty thousand +dollars. + + * * * * * + +They say he was murdered. They also say murder will out. Then I say, why +does not his murder come out? Who did it? Where is he? Where is Jim? My +Jim? + + * * * * * + +We were so happy together. He had a remarkable mind, a most remarkable +mind, so firmly founded, so widely informed, so rigidly logical, that it +was not at all strange that we agreed in all things. Dissension was +unknown between us. Jim was the most truthful man I have ever met. In +this, too, we were similar, as we were similar in our intellectual +honesty. We never sacrificed truth to make a point. We had no points to +make, we so thoroughly agreed. It is absurd to think that we could +disagree on anything under the sun. + + * * * * * + +I wish he would come back. Why did he go? Who can ever explain it? I am +lonely now, and depressed with grave forebodings--frightened by terrors +that are of the mind and that put at naught all that my mind has ever +conceived. Form is mutable. This is the last word of positive science. +The dead do not come back. This is incontrovertible. The dead are dead, +and that is the end of it, and of them. And yet I have had experiences +here--here, in this very room, at this very desk, that--But wait. Let me +put it down in black and white, in words simple and unmistakable. Let me +ask some questions. Who mislays my pen? That is what I desire to know. +Who uses up my ink so rapidly? Not I. And yet the ink goes. + +The answer to these questions would settle all the enigmas of the +universe. I know the answer. I am not a fool. And some day, if I am +plagued too desperately, I shall give the answer myself. I shall give +the name of him who mislays my pen and uses up my ink. It is so silly to +think that I could use such a quantity of ink. The servant lies. I know. + + * * * * * + +I have got me a fountain pen. I have always disliked the device, but my +old stub had to go. I burned it in the fireplace. The ink I keep under +lock and key. I shall see if I cannot put a stop to these lies that are +being written about me. And I have other plans. It is not true that I +have recanted. I still believe that I live in a mechanical universe. It +has not been proved otherwise to me, for all that I have peered over his +shoulder and read his malicious statement to the contrary. He gives me +credit for no less than average stupidity. He thinks I think he is real. +How silly. I know he is a brain-figment, nothing more. + +There are such things as hallucinations. Even as I looked over his +shoulder and read, I knew that this was such a thing. If I were only +well it would be interesting. All my life I have wanted to experience +such phenomena. And now it has come to me. I shall make the most of it. +What is imagination? It can make something where there is nothing. How +can anything be something where there is nothing? How can anything be +something and nothing at the same time? I leave it for the +metaphysicians to ponder. I know better. No scholastics for me. This is +a real world, and everything in it is real. What is not real, is not. +Therefore he is not. Yet he tries to fool me into believing that he +is ... when all the time I know he has no existence outside of my own +brain cells. + + * * * * * + +I saw him to-day, seated at the desk, writing. It gave me quite a shock, +because I had thought he was quite dispelled. Nevertheless, on looking +steadily, I found that he was not there--the old familiar trick of the +brain. I have dwelt too long on what has happened. I am becoming +morbid, and my old indigestion is hinting and muttering. I shall take +exercise. Each day I shall walk for two hours. + + * * * * * + +It is impossible. I cannot exercise. Each time I return from my walk, he +is sitting in my chair at the desk. It grows more difficult to drive him +away. It is my chair. Upon this I insist. It _was_ his, but he is dead +and it is no longer his. How one can be befooled by the phantoms of his +own imagining! There is nothing real in this apparition. I know it. I am +firmly grounded with my fifty years of study. The dead are dead. + + * * * * * + +And yet, explain one thing. To-day, before going for my walk, I +carefully put the fountain pen in my pocket before leaving the room. I +remember it distinctly. I looked at the clock at the time. It was twenty +minutes past ten. Yet on my return there was the pen lying on the desk. +Some one had been using it. There was very little ink left. I wish he +would not write so much. It is disconcerting. + + * * * * * + +There was one thing upon which Jim and I were not quite agreed. He +believed in the eternity of the forms of things. Therefore, entered in +immediately the consequent belief in immortality, and all the other +notions of the metaphysical philosophers. I had little patience with him +in this. Painstakingly I have traced to him the evolution of his belief +in the eternity of forms, showing him how it has arisen out of his early +infatuation with logic and mathematics. Of course, from that warped, +squinting, abstract view-point, it is very easy to believe in the +eternity of forms. + +I laughed at the unseen world. Only the real was real, I contended, and +what one did not perceive, was not, could not be. I believed in a +mechanical universe. Chemistry and physics explained everything. "Can no +being be?" he demanded in reply. I said that his question was but the +major promise of a fallacious Christian Science syllogism. Oh, believe +me, I know my logic, too. But he was very stubborn. I never had any +patience with philosophic idealists. + + * * * * * + +Once, I made to him my confession of faith. It was simple, brief, +unanswerable. Even as I write it now I know that it is unanswerable. +Here it is. I told him: "I assert, with Hobbes, that it is impossible to +separate thought from matter that thinks. I assert, with Bacon, that all +human understanding arises from the world of sensations. I assert, with +Locke, that all human ideas are due to the functions of the senses. I +assert, with Kant, the mechanical origin of the universe, and that +creation is a natural and historical process. I assert, with Laplace, +that there is no need of the hypothesis of a creator. And, finally, I +assert, because of all the foregoing, that form is ephemeral. Form +passes. Therefore we pass." + +I repeat, it was unanswerable. Yet did he answer with Paley's notorious +fallacy of the watch. Also, he talked about radium, and all but asserted +that the very existence of matter had been exploded by these later-day +laboratory researches. It was childish. I had not dreamed he could be so +immature. + +How could one argue with such a man? I then asserted the reasonableness +of all that is. To this he agreed, reserving, however, one exception. He +looked at me, as he said it, in a way I could not mistake. The inference +was obvious. That he should be guilty of so cheap a quip in the midst of +a serious discussion, astounded me. + + * * * * * + +The eternity of forms. It is ridiculous. Yet is there a strange magic in +the words. If it be true, then has he not ceased to exist. Then does he +exist. This is impossible. + + * * * * * + +I have ceased exercising. As long as I remain in the room, the +hallucination does not bother me. But when I return to the room after an +absence, he is always there, sitting at the desk, writing. Yet I dare +not confide in a physician. I must fight this out by myself. + + * * * * * + +He grows more importunate. To-day, consulting a book on the shelf, I +turned and found him again in the chair. This is the first time he has +dared do this in my presence. Nevertheless, by looking at him steadily +and sternly for several minutes, I compelled him to vanish. This proves +my contention. He does not exist. If he were an eternal form I could not +make him vanish by a mere effort of my will. + + * * * * * + +This is getting damnable. To-day I gazed at him for an entire hour +before I could make him leave. Yet it is so simple. What I see is a +memory picture. For twenty years I was accustomed to seeing him there at +the desk. The present phenomenon is merely a recrudescence of that +memory picture--a picture which was impressed countless times on my +consciousness. + + * * * * * + +I gave up to-day. He exhausted me, and still he would not go. I sat and +watched him hour after hour. He takes no notice of me, but continually +writes. I know what he writes, for I read it over his shoulder. It is +not true. He is taking an unfair advantage. + + * * * * * + +Query: He is a product of my consciousness; is it possible, then, that +entities may be created by consciousness? + + * * * * * + +We did not quarrel. To this day I do not know how it happened. Let me +tell you. Then you will see. We sat up late that never-to-be-forgotten +last night of his existence. It was the old, old discussion--the +eternity of forms. How many hours and how many nights we had consumed +over it! + +On this night he had been particularly irritating, and all my nerves +were screaming. He had been maintaining that the human soul was itself a +form, an eternal form, and that the light within his brain would go on +forever and always. I took up the poker. + +"Suppose," I said, "I should strike you dead with this?" + +"I would go on," he answered. + +"As a conscious entity?" I demanded. + +"Yes, as a conscious entity," was his reply. "I should go on, from +plane to plane of higher existence, remembering my earth-life, you, this +very argument--ay, and continuing the argument with you." + +It was only argument[1]. I swear it was only argument. I never lifted a +hand. How could I? He was my brother, my elder brother, Jim. + +I cannot remember. I was very exasperated. He had always been so +obstinate in this metaphysical belief of his. The next I knew, he was +lying on the hearth. Blood was running. It was terrible. He did not +speak. He did not move. He must have fallen in a fit and struck his +head. I noticed there was blood on the poker. In falling he must have +struck upon it with his head. And yet I fail to see how this can be, for +I held it in my hand all the time. I was still holding it in my hand as +I looked at it. + +[Footnote 1: (Forcible--ha! ha!--comment of Rudolph Heckler on margin.)] + + * * * * * + +It is an hallucination. That is a conclusion of common sense. I have +watched the growth of it. At first it was only in the dimmest light +that I could see him sitting in the chair. But as the time passed, and +the hallucination, by repetition, strengthened, he was able to appear in +the chair under the strongest lights. That is the explanation. It is +quite satisfactory. + + * * * * * + +I shall never forget the first time I saw it. I had dined alone +downstairs. I never drink wine, so that what happened was eminently +normal. It was in the summer twilight that I returned to the study. I +glanced at the desk. There he was, sitting. So natural was it, that +before I knew I cried out "Jim!" Then I remembered all that had +happened. Of course it was an hallucination. I knew that. I took the +poker and went over to it. He did not move nor vanish. The poker cleaved +through the non-existent substance of the thing and struck the back of +the chair. Fabric of fancy, that is all it was. The mark is there on the +chair now where the poker struck. I pause from my writing and turn and +look at it--press the tips of my fingers into the indentation. + + * * * * * + +He _did_ continue the argument. I stole up to-day and looked over his +shoulder. He was writing the history of our discussion. It was the same +old nonsense about the eternity of forms. But as I continued to read, he +wrote down the practical test I had made with the poker. Now this is +unfair and untrue. I made no test. In falling he struck his head on the +poker. + + * * * * * + +Some day, somebody will find and read what he writes. This will be +terrible. I am suspicious of the servant, who is always peeping and +peering, trying to see what I write. I must do something. Every servant +I have had is curious about what I write. + + * * * * * + +Fabric of fancy. That is all it is. There is no Jim who sits in the +chair. I know that. Last night, when the house was asleep, I went down +into the cellar and looked carefully at the soil around the chimney. It +was untampered with. The dead do not rise up. + + * * * * * + +Yesterday morning, when I entered the study, there he was in the chair. +When I had dispelled him, I sat in the chair myself all day. I had my +meals brought to me. And thus I escaped the sight of him for many hours, +for he appears only in the chair. I was weary, but I sat late, until +eleven o'clock. Yet, when I stood up to go to bed, I looked around, and +there he was. He had slipped into the chair on the instant. Being only +fabric of fancy, all day he had resided in my brain. The moment it was +unoccupied, he took up his residence in the chair. Are these his boasted +higher planes of existence--his brother's brain and a chair? After all, +was he not right? Has his eternal form become so attenuated as to be an +hallucination? Are hallucinations real entities? Why not? There is food +for thought here. Some day I shall come to a conclusion upon it. + + * * * * * + +He was very much disturbed to-day. He could not write, for I had made +the servant carry the pen out of the room in his pocket But neither +could I write. + + * * * * * + +The servant never sees him. This is strange. Have I developed a keener +sight for the unseen? Or rather does it not prove the phantom to be what +it is--a product of my own morbid consciousness? + + * * * * * + +He has stolen my pen again. Hallucinations cannot steal pens. This is +unanswerable. And yet I cannot keep the pen always out of the room. I +want to write myself. + + * * * * * + +I have had three different servants since my trouble came upon me, and +not one has seen him. Is the verdict of their senses right? And is that +of mine wrong? Nevertheless, the ink goes too rapidly. I fill my pen +more often than is necessary. And furthermore, only to-day I found my +pen out of order. I did not break it. + + * * * * * + +I have spoken to him many times, but he never answers. I sat and watched +him all morning. Frequently he looked at me, and it was patent that he +knew me. + + * * * * * + +By striking the side of my head violently with the heel of my hand, I +can shake the vision of him out of my eyes. Then I can get into the +chair; but I have learned that I must move very quickly in order to +accomplish this. Often he fools me and is back again before I can sit +down. + + * * * * * + +It is getting unbearable. He is a jack-in-the-box the way he pops into +the chair. He does not assume form slowly. He pops. That is the only way +to describe it. I cannot stand looking at him much more. That way lies +madness, for it compels me almost to believe in the reality of what I +know is not. Besides, hallucinations do not pop. + + * * * * * + +Thank God he only manifests himself in the chair. As long as I occupy +the chair I am quit of him. + + * * * * * + +My device for dislodging him from the chair by striking my head, is +failing. I have to hit much more violently, and I do not succeed perhaps +more than once in a dozen trials. My head is quite sore where I have so +repeatedly struck it. I must use the other hand. + + * * * * * + +My brother was right. There is an unseen world. Do I not see it? Am I +not cursed with the seeing of it all the time? Call it a thought, an +idea, anything you will, still it is there. It is unescapable. Thoughts +are entities. We create with every act of thinking. I have created this +phantom that sits in my chair and uses my ink. Because I have created +him is no reason that he is any the less real. He is an idea; he is an +entity: ergo, ideas are entities, and an entity is a reality. + + * * * * * + +Query: If a man, with the whole historical process behind him, can +create an entity, a real thing, then is not the hypothesis of a Creator +made substantial? If the stuff of life can create, then it is fair to +assume that there can be a He who created the stuff of life. It is +merely a difference of degree. I have not yet made a mountain nor a +solar system, but I have made a something that sits in my chair. This +being so, may I not some day be able to make a mountain or a solar +system? + + * * * * * + +All his days, down to to-day, man has lived in a maze. He has never seen +the light. I am convinced that I am beginning to see the light--not as +my brother saw it, by stumbling upon it accidentally, but deliberately +and rationally. My brother is dead. He has ceased. There is no doubt +about it, for I have made another journey down into the cellar to see. +The ground was untouched. I broke it myself to make sure, and I saw what +made me sure. My brother has ceased, yet have I recreated him. This is +not my old brother, yet it is something as nearly resembling him as I +could fashion it. I am unlike other men. I am a god. I have created. + + * * * * * + +Whenever I leave the room to go to bed, I look back, and there is my +brother sitting in the chair. And then I cannot sleep because of +thinking of him sitting through all the long night-hours. And in the +morning, when I open the study door, there he is, and I know he has sat +there the night long. + + * * * * * + +I am becoming desperate from lack of sleep. I wish I could confide in a +physician. + + * * * * * + +Blessed sleep! I have won to it at last. Let me tell you. Last night I +was so worn that I found myself dozing in my chair. I rang for the +servant and ordered him to bring blankets. I slept. All night was he +banished from my thoughts as he was banished from my chair. I shall +remain in it all day. It is a wonderful relief. + + * * * * * + +It is uncomfortable to sleep in a chair. But it is more uncomfortable to +lie in bed, hour after hour, and not sleep, and to know that he is +sitting there in the cold darkness. + + * * * * * + +It is no use. I shall never be able to sleep in a bed again. I have +tried it now, numerous times, and every such night is a horror. If I +could but only persuade him to go to bed! But no. He sits there, and +sits there--I know he does--while I stare and stare up into the +blackness and think and think, continually think, of him sitting there. +I wish I had never heard of the eternity of forms. + + * * * * * + +The servants think I am crazy. That is but to be expected, and it is why +I have never called in a physician. + + * * * * * + +I am resolved. Henceforth this hallucination ceases. From now on I shall +remain in the chair. I shall never leave it. I shall remain in it night +and day and always. + + * * * * * + +I have succeeded. For two weeks I have not seen him. Nor shall I ever +see him again. I have at last attained the equanimity of mind necessary +for philosophic thought. I wrote a complete chapter to-day. + + * * * * * + +It is very wearisome, sitting in a chair. The weeks pass, the months +come and go, the seasons change, the servants replace each other, while +I remain. I only remain. It is a strange life I lead, but at least I am +at peace. + + * * * * * + +He comes no more. There is no eternity of forms. I have proved it. For +nearly two years now, I have remained in this chair, and I have not seen +him once. True, I was severely tried for a time. But it is clear that +what I thought I saw was merely hallucination. He never was. Yet I do +not leave the chair. I am afraid to leave the chair. + + + + +TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD + + +Me? I'm not a drooler. I'm the assistant, I don't know what Miss Jones +or Miss Kelsey could do without me. There are fifty-five low-grade +droolers in this ward, and how could they ever all be fed if I wasn't +around? I like to feed droolers. They don't make trouble. They can't. +Something's wrong with most of their legs and arms, and they can't talk. +They're very low-grade. I can walk, and talk, and do things. You must be +careful with the droolers and not feed them too fast. Then they choke. +Miss Jones says I'm an expert. When a new nurse comes I show her how to +do it. It's funny watching a new nurse try to feed them. She goes at it +so slow and careful that supper time would be around before she finished +shoving down their breakfast. Then I show her, because I'm an expert. +Dr. Dalrymple says I am, and he ought to know. A drooler can eat twice +as fast if you know how to make him. + +My name's Tom. I'm twenty-eight years old. Everybody knows me in the +institution. This is an institution, you know. It belongs to the State +of California and is run by politics. I know. I've been here a long +time. Everybody trusts me. I run errands all over the place, when I'm +not busy with the droolers. I like droolers. It makes me think how lucky +I am that I ain't a drooler. + +I like it here in the Home. I don't like the outside. I know. I've been +around a bit, and run away, and adopted. Me for the Home, and for the +drooling ward best of all. I don't look like a drooler, do I? You can +tell the difference soon as you look at me. I'm an assistant, expert +assistant. That's going some for a feeb. Feeb? Oh, that's feeble-minded. +I thought you knew. We're all feebs in here. + +But I'm a high-grade feeb. Dr. Dalrymple says I'm too smart to be in the +Home, but I never let on. It's a pretty good place. And I don't throw +fits like lots of the feebs. You see that house up there through the +trees. The high-grade epilecs all live in it by themselves. They're +stuck up because they ain't just ordinary feebs. They call it the club +house, and they say they're just as good as anybody outside, only +they're sick. I don't like them much. They laugh at me, when they ain't +busy throwing fits. But I don't care. I never have to be scared about +falling down and busting my head. Sometimes they run around in circles +trying to find a place to sit down quick, only they don't. Low-grade +epilecs are disgusting, and high-grade epilecs put on airs. I'm glad I +ain't an epilec. There ain't anything to them. They just talk big, +that's all. + +Miss Kelsey says I talk too much. But I talk sense, and that's more than +the other feebs do. Dr. Dalrymple says I have the gift of language. I +know it. You ought to hear me talk when I'm by myself, or when I've got +a drooler to listen. Sometimes I think I'd like to be a politician, only +it's too much trouble. They're all great talkers; that's how they hold +their jobs. + +Nobody's crazy in this institution. They're just feeble in their minds. +Let me tell you something funny. There's about a dozen high-grade girls +that set the tables in the big dining room. Sometimes when they're done +ahead of time, they all sit down in chairs in a circle and talk. I sneak +up to the door and listen, and I nearly die to keep from laughing. Do +you want to know what they talk? It's like this. They don't say a word +for a long time. And then one says, "Thank God I'm not feeble-minded." +And all the rest nod their heads and look pleased. And then nobody says +anything for a time. After which the next girl in the circle says, +"Thank God I'm not feeble-minded," and they nod their heads all over +again. And it goes on around the circle, and they never say anything +else. Now they're real feebs, ain't they? I leave it to you. I'm not +that kind of a feeb, thank God. + +Sometimes I don't think I'm a feeb at all. I play in the band and read +music. We're all supposed to be feebs in the band except the leader. +He's crazy. We know it, but we never talk about it except amongst +ourselves. His job is politics, too, and we don't want him to lose it. I +play the drum. They can't get along without me in this institution. I +was sick once, so I know. It's a wonder the drooling ward didn't break +down while I was in hospital. + +I could get out of here if I wanted to. I'm not so feeble as some might +think. But I don't let on. I have too good a time. Besides, everything +would run down if I went away. I'm afraid some time they'll find out I'm +not a feeb and send me out into the world to earn my own living. I know +the world, and I don't like it. The Home is fine enough for me. + +You see how I grin sometimes. I can't help that. But I can put it on a +lot. I'm not bad, though. I look at myself in the glass. My mouth is +funny, I know that, and it lops down, and my teeth are bad. You can tell +a feeb anywhere by looking at his mouth and teeth. But that doesn't +prove I'm a feeb. It's just because I'm lucky that I look like one. + +I know a lot. If I told you all I know, you'd be surprised. But when I +don't want to know, or when they want me to do something I don't want +to do, I just let my mouth lop down and laugh and make foolish noises. I +watch the foolish noises made by the low-grades, and I can fool anybody. +And I know a lot of foolish noises. Miss Kelsey called me a fool the +other day. She was very angry, and that was where I fooled her. + +Miss Kelsey asked me once why I don't write a book about feebs. I was +telling her what was the matter with little Albert. He's a drooler, you +know, and I can always tell the way he twists his left eye what's the +matter with him. So I was explaining it to Miss Kelsey, and, because she +didn't know, it made her mad. But some day, mebbe, I'll write that book. +Only it's so much trouble. Besides, I'd sooner talk. + +Do you know what a micro is? It's the kind with the little heads no +bigger than your fist. They're usually droolers, and they live a long +time. The hydros don't drool. They have the big heads, and they're +smarter. But they never grow up. They always die. I never look at one +without thinking he's going to die. Sometimes, when I'm feeling lazy, or +the nurse is mad at me, I wish I was a drooler with nothing to do and +somebody to feed me. But I guess I'd sooner talk and be what I am. + +Only yesterday Doctor Dalrymple said to me, "Tom," he said, "I just +don't know what I'd do without you." And he ought to know, seeing as +he's had the bossing of a thousand feebs for going on two years. Dr. +Whatcomb was before him. They get appointed, you know. It's politics. +I've seen a whole lot of doctors here in my time. I was here before any +of them. I've been in this institution twenty-five years. No, I've got +no complaints. The institution couldn't be run better. + +It's a snap to be a high-grade feeb. Just look at Doctor Dalrymple. He +has troubles. He holds his job by politics. You bet we high-graders talk +politics. We know all about it, and it's bad. An institution like this +oughtn't to be run on politics. Look at Doctor Dalrymple. He's been here +two years and learned a lot. Then politics will come along and throw +him out and send a new doctor who don't know anything about feebs. + +I've been acquainted with just thousands of nurses in my time. Some of +them are nice. But they come and go. Most of the women get married. +Sometimes I think I'd like to get married. I spoke to Dr. Whatcomb about +it once, but he told me he was very sorry, because feebs ain't allowed +to get married. I've been in love. She was a nurse. I won't tell you her +name. She had blue eyes, and yellow hair, and a kind voice, and she +liked me. She told me so. And she always told me to be a good boy. And I +was, too, until afterward, and then I ran away. You see, she went off +and got married, and she didn't tell me about it. + +I guess being married ain't what it's cracked up to be. Dr. Anglin and +his wife used to fight. I've seen them. And once I heard her call him a +feeb. Now nobody has a right to call anybody a feeb that ain't. Dr. +Anglin got awful mad when she called him that. But he didn't last long. +Politics drove him out, and Doctor Mandeville came. He didn't have a +wife. I heard him talking one time with the engineer. The engineer and +his wife fought like cats and dogs, and that day Doctor Mandeville told +him he was damn glad he wasn't tied to no petticoats. A petticoat is a +skirt. I knew what he meant, if I was a feeb. But I never let on. You +hear lots when you don't let on. + +I've seen a lot in my time. Once I was adopted, and went away on the +railroad over forty miles to live with a man named Peter Bopp and his +wife. They had a ranch. Doctor Anglin said I was strong and bright, and +I said I was, too. That was because I wanted to be adopted. And Peter +Bopp said he'd give me a good home, and the lawyers fixed up the papers. + +But I soon made up my mind that a ranch was no place for me. Mrs. Bopp +was scared to death of me and wouldn't let me sleep in the house. They +fixed up the woodshed and made me sleep there. I had to get up at four +o'clock and feed the horses, and milk cows, and carry the milk to the +neighbours. They called it chores, but it kept me going all day. I +chopped wood, and cleaned chicken houses, and weeded vegetables, and +did most everything on the place. I never had any fun. I hadn't no time. + +Let me tell you one thing. I'd sooner feed mush and milk to feebs than +milk cows with the frost on the ground. Mrs. Bopp was scared to let me +play with her children. And I was scared, too. They used to make faces +at me when nobody was looking, and call me "Looney." Everybody called me +Looney Tom. And the other boys in the neighbourhood threw rocks at me. +You never see anything like that in the Home here. The feebs are better +behaved. + +Mrs. Bopp used to pinch me and pull my hair when she thought I was too +slow, and I only made foolish noises and went slower. She said I'd be +the death of her some day. I left the boards off the old well in the +pasture, and the pretty new calf fell in and got drowned. Then Peter +Bopp said he was going to give me a licking. He did, too. He took a +strap halter and went at me. It was awful. I'd never had a licking in my +life. They don't do such things in the Home, which is why I say the +Home is the place for me. + +I know the law, and I knew he had no right to lick me with a strap +halter. That was being cruel, and the guardianship papers said he +mustn't be cruel. I didn't say anything. I just waited, which shows you +what kind of a feeb I am. I waited a long time, and got slower, and made +more foolish noises; but he wouldn't, send me back to the Home, which +was what I wanted. But one day, it was the first of the month, Mrs. +Brown gave me three dollars, which was for her milk bill with Peter +Bopp. That was in the morning. When I brought the milk in the evening I +was to bring back the receipt. But I didn't. I just walked down to the +station, bought a ticket like any one, and rode on the train back to the +Home. That's the kind of a feeb I am. + +Doctor Anglin was gone then, and Doctor Mandeville had his place. I +walked right into his office. He didn't know me. "Hello," he said, "this +ain't visiting day." "I ain't a visitor," I said. "I'm Tom. I belong +here." Then he whistled and showed he was surprised. I told him all +about it, and showed him the marks of the strap halter, and he got +madder and madder all the time and said he'd attend to Mr. Peter Bopp's +case. + +And mebbe you think some of them little droolers weren't glad to see me. + +I walked right into the ward. There was a new nurse feeding little +Albert. "Hold on," I said. "That ain't the way. Don't you see how he's +twisting that left eye? Let me show you." Mebbe she thought I was a new +doctor, for she just gave me the spoon, and I guess I filled little +Albert up with the most comfortable meal he'd had since I went away. +Droolers ain't bad when you understand them. I heard Miss Jones tell +Miss Kelsey once that I had an amazing gift in handling droolers. + +Some day, mebbe, I'm going to talk with Doctor Dalrymple and get him to +give me a declaration that I ain't a feeb. Then I'll get him to make me +a real assistant in the drooling ward, with forty dollars a month and my +board. And then I'll marry Miss Jones and live right on here. And if +she won't have me, I'll marry Miss Kelsey or some other nurse. There's +lots of them that want to get married. And I won't care if my wife gets +mad and calls me a feeb. What's the good? And I guess when one's learned +to put up with droolers a wife won't be much worse. + +I didn't tell you about when I ran away. I hadn't no idea of such a +thing, and it was Charley and Joe who put me up to it. They're +high-grade epilecs, you know. I'd been up to Doctor Wilson's office with +a message, and was going back to the drooling ward, when I saw Charley +and Joe hiding around the corner of the gymnasium and making motions to +me. I went over to them. + +"Hello," Joe said. "How's droolers?" + +"Fine," I said. "Had any fits lately?" + +That made them mad, and I was going on, when Joe said, "We're running +away. Come on." + +"What for?" I said. + +"We're going up over the top of the mountain," Joe said. + +"And find a gold mine," said Charley. "We don't have fits any more. +We're cured." + +"All right," I said. And we sneaked around back of the gymnasium and in +among the trees. Mebbe we walked along about ten minutes, when I +stopped. + +"What's the matter?" said Joe. + +"Wait," I said. "I got to go back." + +"What for?" said Joe. + +And I said, "To get little Albert." + +And they said I couldn't, and got mad. But I didn't care. I knew they'd +wait. You see, I've been here twenty-five years, and I know the back +trails that lead up the mountain, and Charley and Joe didn't know those +trails. That's why they wanted me to come. + +So I went back and got little Albert. He can't walk, or talk, or do +anything except drool, and I had to carry him in my arms. We went on +past the last hayfield, which was as far as I'd ever gone. Then the +woods and brush got so thick, and me not finding any more trail, we +followed the cow-path down to a big creek and crawled through the fence +which showed where the Home land stopped. + +We climbed up the big hill on the other side of the creek. It was all +big trees, and no brush, but it was so steep and slippery with dead +leaves we could hardly walk. By and by we came to a real bad place. It +was forty feet across, and if you slipped you'd fall a thousand feet, or +mebbe a hundred. Anyway, you wouldn't fall--just slide. I went across +first, carrying little Albert. Joe came next. But Charley got scared +right in the middle and sat down. + +"I'm going to have a fit," he said. + +"No, you're not," said Joe. "Because if you was you wouldn't 'a' sat +down. You take all your fits standing." + +"This is a different kind of a fit," said Charley, beginning to cry. + +He shook and shook, but just because he wanted to he couldn't scare up +the least kind of a fit. + +Joe got mad and used awful language. But that didn't help none. So I +talked soft and kind to Charley. That's the way to handle feebs. If you +get mad, they get worse. I know. I'm that way myself. That's why I was +almost the death of Mrs. Bopp. She got mad. + +It was getting along in the afternoon, and I knew we had to be on our +way, so I said to Joe: + +"Here, stop your cussing and hold Albert. I'll go back and get him." + +And I did, too; but he was so scared and dizzy he crawled along on hands +and knees while I helped him. When I got him across and took Albert back +in my arms, I heard somebody laugh and looked down. And there was a man +and woman on horseback looking up at us. He had a gun on his saddle, and +it was her who was laughing. + +"Who in hell's that?" said Joe, getting scared. "Somebody to catch us?" + +"Shut up your cussing," I said to him. "That is the man who owns this +ranch and writes books." + +"How do you do, Mr. Endicott," I said down to him. + +"Hello," he said. "What are you doing here?" + +"We're running away," I said. + +And he said, "Good luck. But be sure and get back before dark." + +"But this is a real running away," I said. + +And then both he and his wife laughed. + +"All right," he said. "Good luck just the same. But watch out the bears +and mountain lions don't get you when it gets dark." + +Then they rode away laughing, pleasant like; but I wished he hadn't said +that about the bears and mountain lions. + +After we got around the hill, I found a trail, and we went much faster. +Charley didn't have any more signs of fits, and began laughing and +talking about gold mines. The trouble was with little Albert. He was +almost as big as me. You see, all the time I'd been calling him little +Albert, he'd been growing up. He was so heavy I couldn't keep up with +Joe and Charley. I was all out of breath. So I told them they'd have to +take turns in carrying him, which they said they wouldn't. Then I said +I'd leave them and they'd get lost, and the mountain lions and bears +would eat them. Charley looked like he was going to have a fit right +there, and Joe said, "Give him to me." And after that we carried him in +turn. + +We kept right on up that mountain. I don't think there was any gold +mine, but we might 'a' got to the top and found it, if we hadn't lost +the trail, and if it hadn't got dark, and if little Albert hadn't tired +us all out carrying him. Lots of feebs are scared of the dark, and Joe +said he was going to have a fit right there. Only he didn't. I never saw +such an unlucky boy. He never could throw a fit when he wanted to. Some +of the feebs can throw fits as quick as a wink. + +By and by it got real black, and we were hungry, and we didn't have no +fire. You see, they don't let feebs carry matches, and all we could do +was just shiver. And we'd never thought about being hungry. You see, +feebs always have their food ready for them, and that's why it's better +to be a feeb than earning your living in the world. + +And worse than everything was the quiet. There was only one thing worse, +and it was the noises. There was all kinds of noises every once in a +while, with quiet spells in between. I reckon they were rabbits, but +they made noises in the brush like wild animals--you know, rustle +rustle, thump, bump, crackle crackle, just like that. First Charley got +a fit, a real one, and Joe threw a terrible one. I don't mind fits in +the Home with everybody around. But out in the woods on a dark night is +different. You listen to me, and never go hunting gold mines with +epilecs, even if they are high-grade. + +I never had such an awful night. When Joe and Charley weren't throwing +fits they were making believe, and in the darkness the shivers from the +cold which I couldn't see seemed like fits, too. And I shivered so hard +I thought I was getting fits myself. And little Albert, with nothing to +eat, just drooled and drooled. I never seen him as bad as that before. +Why, he twisted that left eye of his until it ought to have dropped out. +I couldn't see it, but I could tell from the movements he made. And Joe +just lay and cussed and cussed, and Charley cried and wished he was +back in the Home. + +We didn't die, and next morning we went right back the way we'd come. +And little Albert got awful heavy. Doctor Wilson was mad as could be, +and said I was the worst feeb in the institution, along with Joe and +Charley. But Miss Striker, who was a nurse in the drooling ward then, +just put her arms around me and cried, she was that happy I'd got back. +I thought right there that mebbe I'd marry her. But only a month +afterward she got married to the plumber that came up from the city to +fix the gutter-pipes of the new hospital. And little Albert never +twisted his eye for two days, it was that tired. + +Next time I run away I'm going right over that mountain. But I ain't +going to take epilecs along. They ain't never cured, and when they get +scared or excited they throw fits to beat the band. But I'll take little +Albert. Somehow I can't get along without him. And anyway, I ain't going +to run away. The drooling ward's a better snap than gold mines, and I +hear there's a new nurse coming. Besides, little Albert's bigger than I +am now, and I could never carry him over a mountain. And he's growing +bigger every day. It's astonishing. + + + + +THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY + + +He lay on his back. So heavy was his sleep that the stamp of hoofs and +cries of the drivers from the bridge that crossed the creek did not +rouse him. Wagon after wagon, loaded high with grapes, passed the bridge +on the way up the valley to the winery, and the coming of each wagon was +like an explosion of sound and commotion in the lazy quiet of the +afternoon. + +But the man was undisturbed. His head had slipped from the folded +newspaper, and the straggling unkempt hair was matted with the foxtails +and burrs of the dry grass on which it lay. He was not a pretty sight. +His mouth was open, disclosing a gap in the upper row where several +teeth at some time had been knocked out. He breathed stertorously, at +times grunting and moaning with the pain of his sleep. Also, he was very +restless, tossing his arms about, making jerky, half-convulsive +movements, and at times rolling his head from side to side in the burrs. +This restlessness seemed occasioned partly by some internal discomfort, +and partly by the sun that streamed down on his face and by the flies +that buzzed and lighted and crawled upon the nose and cheeks and +eyelids. There was no other place for them to crawl, for the rest of the +face was covered with matted beard, slightly grizzled, but greatly +dirt-stained and weather-discoloured. + +The cheek-bones were blotched with the blood congested by the debauch +that was evidently being slept off. This, too, accounted for the +persistence with which the flies clustered around the mouth, lured by +the alcohol-laden exhalations. He was a powerfully built man, +thick-necked, broad-shouldered, with sinewy wrists and toil-distorted +hands. Yet the distortion was not due to recent toil, nor were the +callouses other than ancient that showed under the dirt of the one palm +upturned. From time to time this hand clenched tightly and spasmodically +into a fist, large, heavy-boned and wicked-looking. + +The man lay in the dry grass of a tiny glade that ran down to the +tree-fringed bank of the stream. On either side of the glade was a +fence, of the old stake-and-rider type, though little of it was to be +seen, so thickly was it overgrown by wild blackberry bushes, scrubby +oaks and young madrono trees. In the rear, a gate through a low paling +fence led to a snug, squat bungalow, built in the California Spanish +style and seeming to have been compounded directly from the landscape of +which it was so justly a part. Neat and trim and modestly sweet was the +bungalow, redolent of comfort and repose, telling with quiet certitude +of some one that knew, and that had sought and found. + +Through the gate and into the glade came as dainty a little maiden as +ever stepped out of an illustration made especially to show how dainty +little maidens may be. Eight years she might have been, and, possibly, a +trifle more, or less. Her little waist and little black-stockinged +calves showed how delicately fragile she was; but the fragility was of +mould only. There was no hint of anæmia in the clear, healthy complexion +nor in the quick, tripping step. She was a little, delicious blond, +with hair spun of gossamer gold and wide blue eyes that were but +slightly veiled by the long lashes. Her expression was of sweetness and +happiness; it belonged by right to any face that sheltered in the +bungalow. + +She carried a child's parasol, which she was careful not to tear against +the scrubby branches and bramble bushes as she sought for wild poppies +along the edge of the fence. They were late poppies, a third generation, +which had been unable to resist the call of the warm October sun. + +Having gathered along one fence, she turned to cross to the opposite +fence. Midway in the glade she came upon the tramp. Her startle was +merely a startle. There was no fear in it. She stood and looked long and +curiously at the forbidding spectacle, and was about to turn back when +the sleeper moved restlessly and rolled his hand among the burrs. She +noted the sun on his face, and the buzzing flies; her face grew +solicitous, and for a moment she debated with herself. Then she tiptoed +to his side, interposed the parasol between him and the sun, and +brushed away the flies. After a time, for greater ease, she sat down +beside him. + +An hour passed, during which she occasionally shifted the parasol from +one tired hand to the other. At first the sleeper had been restless, +but, shielded from the flies and the sun, his breathing became gentler +and his movements ceased. Several times, however, he really frightened +her. The first was the worst, coming abruptly and without warning. +"Christ! How deep! How deep!" the man murmured from some profound of +dream. The parasol was agitated; but the little girl controlled herself +and continued her self-appointed ministrations. + +Another time it was a gritting of teeth, as of some intolerable agony. +So terribly did the teeth crunch and grind together that it seemed they +must crash into fragments. A little later he suddenly stiffened out. The +hands clenched and the face set with the savage resolution of the dream. +The eyelids trembled from the shock of the fantasy, seemed about to +open, but did not. Instead, the lips muttered: + +"No; by God, no. And once more no. I won't peach." The lips paused, then +went on. "You might as well tie me up, warden, and cut me to pieces. +That's all you can get outa me--blood. That's all any of you-uns has +ever got outa me in this hole." + +After this outburst the man slept gently on, while the little girl still +held the parasol aloft and looked down with a great wonder at the +frowsy, unkempt creature, trying to reconcile it with the little part of +life that she knew. To her ears came the cries of men, the stamp of +hoofs on the bridge, and the creak and groan of wagons heavy-laden. It +was a breathless California Indian summer day. Light fleeces of cloud +drifted in the azure sky, but to the west heavy cloud banks threatened +with rain. A bee droned lazily by. From farther thickets came the calls +of quail, and from the fields the songs of meadow larks. And oblivious +to it all slept Ross Shanklin--Ross Shanklin, the tramp and outcast, +ex-convict 4379, the bitter and unbreakable one who had defied all +keepers and survived all brutalities. + +Texas-born, of the old pioneer stock that was always tough and stubborn, +he had been unfortunate. At seventeen years of age he had been +apprehended for horse-stealing. Also, he had been convicted of stealing +seven horses which he had not stolen, and he had been sentenced to +fourteen years' imprisonment. This was severe under any circumstances, +but with him it had been especially severe, because there had been no +prior convictions against him. The sentiment of the people who believed +him guilty had been that two years was adequate punishment for the +youth, but the county attorney, paid according to the convictions he +secured, had made seven charges against him and earned seven fees. Which +goes to show that the county attorney valued twelve years of Ross +Shanklin's life at less than a few dollars. + +Young Ross Shanklin had toiled in hell; he had escaped, more than once; +and he had been caught and sent back to toil in other and various hells. +He had been triced up and lashed till he fainted, had been revived and +lashed again. He had been in the dungeon ninety days at a time. He had +experienced the torment of the straightjacket. He knew what the humming +bird was. He had been farmed out as a chattel by the state to the +contractors. He had been trailed through swamps by blood hounds. Twice +he had been shot. For six years on end he had cut a cord and a half of +wood each day in a convict lumber camp. Sick or well, he had cut that +cord and a half or paid for it under a whip-lash knotted and pickled. + +And Ross Shanklin had not sweetened under the treatment. He had sneered, +and cursed, and defied. He had seen convicts, after the guards had +manhandled them, crippled in body for life, or left to maunder in mind +to the end of their days. He had seen convicts, even his own cell-mate, +goaded to murder by their keepers, go to the gallows cursing God. He had +been in a break in which eleven of his kind were shot down. He had been +through a mutiny, where, in the prison yard, with gatling guns trained +upon them, three hundred convicts had been disciplined with +pick-handles wielded by brawny guards. + +He had known every infamy of human cruelty, and through it all he had +never been broken. He had resented and fought to the last, until, +embittered and bestial, the day came when he was discharged. Five +dollars were given him in payment for the years of his labour and the +flower of his manhood. And he had worked little in the years that +followed. Work he hated and despised. He tramped, begged and stole, lied +or threatened as the case might warrant, and drank to besottedness +whenever he got the chance. + +The little girl was looking at him when he awoke. Like a wild animal, +all of him was awake the instant he opened his eyes. The first he saw +was the parasol, strangely obtruded between him and the sky. He did not +start nor move, though his whole body seemed slightly to tense. His eyes +followed down the parasol handle to the tight-clutched little fingers, +and along the arm to the child's face. Straight and unblinking, he +looked into her eyes, and she, returning the look, was chilled and +frightened by his glittering eyes, cold and harsh, withal bloodshot, and +with no hint in them of the warm humanness she had been accustomed to +see and feel in human eyes. They were the true prison eyes--the eyes of +a man who had learned to talk little, who had forgotten almost how to +talk. + +"Hello," he said finally, making no effort to change his position. "What +game are you up to?" + +His voice was gruff and husky, and at first it had been harsh; but it +had softened queerly in a feeble attempt at forgotten kindliness. + +"How do you do?" she said. "I'm not playing. The sun was on your face, +and mamma says one oughtn't to sleep in the sun." + +The sweet clearness of her child's voice was pleasant to him, and he +wondered why he had never noticed it in children's voices before. He sat +up slowly and stared at her. He felt that he ought to say something, but +speech with him was a reluctant thing. + +"I hope you slept well," she said gravely. + +"I sure did," he answered, never taking his eyes from her, amazed at the +fairness and delicacy of her. "How long was you holdin' that contraption +up over me?" + +"O-oh," she debated with herself, "a long, long time. I thought you +would never wake up." + +"And I thought you was a fairy when I first seen you." + +He felt elated at his contribution to the conversation. + +"No, not a fairy," she smiled. + +He thrilled in a strange, numb way at the immaculate whiteness of her +small even teeth. + +"I was just the good Samaritan," she added. + +"I reckon I never heard of that party." + +He was cudgelling his brains to keep the conversation going. Never +having been at close quarters with a child since he was man-grown, he +found it difficult. + +"What a funny man not to know about the good Samaritan. Don't you +remember? A certain man went down to Jericho--" + +"I reckon I've been there," he interrupted. + +"I knew you were a traveller!" she cried, clapping her hands. "Maybe you +saw the exact spot." + +"What spot?" + +"Why, where he fell among thieves and was left half dead. And then the +good Samaritan went to him, and bound up his wounds, and poured in oil +and wine--was that olive oil, do you think?" + +He shook his head slowly. + +"I reckon you got me there. Olive oil is something the dagoes cooks +with. I never heard of it for busted heads." + +She considered his statement for a moment. + +"Well," she announced, "we use olive oil in our cooking, so we must be +dagoes. I never knew what they were before. I thought it was slang." + +"And the Samaritan dumped oil on his head," the tramp muttered +reminiscently. "Seems to me I recollect a sky pilot sayin' something +about that old gent. D'ye know, I've been looking for him off'n' on all +my life, and never scared up hide or hair of him. They ain't no more +Samaritans." + +"Wasn't I one?" she asked quickly. + +He looked at her steadily, with a great curiosity and wonder. Her ear, +by a movement exposed to the sun, was transparent. It seemed he could +almost see through it. He was amazed at the delicacy of her colouring, +at the blue of her eyes, at the dazzle of the sun-touched golden hair. +And he was astounded by her fragility. It came to him that she was +easily broken. His eye went quickly from his huge, gnarled paw to her +tiny hand in which it seemed to him he could almost see the blood +circulate. He knew the power in his muscles, and he knew the tricks and +turns by which men use their bodies to ill-treat men. In fact, he knew +little else, and his mind for the time ran in its customary channel. It +was his way of measuring the beautiful strangeness of her. He calculated +a grip, and not a strong one, that could grind her little fingers to +pulp. He thought of fist-blows he had given to men's heads, and +received on his own head, and felt that the least of them could shatter +hers like an eggshell. He scanned her little shoulders and slim waist, +and knew in all certitude that with his two hands he could rend her to +pieces. + +"Wasn't I one?" she insisted again. + +He came back to himself with a shock--or away from himself, as the case +happened. He was loth that the conversation should cease. + +"What?" he answered. "Oh, yes; you bet you was a Samaritan, even if you +didn't have no olive oil." He remembered what his mind had been dwelling +on, and asked, "But ain't you afraid?" + +She looked at him uncomprehendingly. + +"Of ... of me?" he added lamely. + +She laughed merrily. + +"Mamma says never to be afraid of anything. She says that if you're +good, and you think good of other people, they'll be good, too." + +"And you was thinkin' good of me when you kept the sun off," he +marvelled. + +"But it's hard to think good of bees and nasty crawly things," she +confessed. + +"But there's men that is nasty and crawly things," he argued. + +"Mamma says no. She says there's good in every one." + +"I bet you she locks the house up tight at night just the same," he +proclaimed triumphantly. + +"But she doesn't. Mamma isn't afraid of anything. That's why she lets me +play out here alone when I want. Why, we had a robber once. Mamma got +right up and found him. And what do you think! He was only a poor hungry +man. And she got him plenty to eat from the pantry, and afterward she +got him work to do." + +Ross Shanklin was stunned. The vista shown him of human nature was +unthinkable. It had been his lot to live in a world of suspicion and +hatred, of evil-believing and evil-doing. It had been his experience, +slouching along village streets at nightfall, to see little children, +screaming with fear, run from him to their mothers. He had even seen +grown women shrink aside from him as he passed along the sidewalk. + +He was aroused by the girl clapping her hands as she cried out. + +"I know what you are! You're an open air crank. That's why you were +sleeping here in the grass." + +He felt a grim desire to laugh, but repressed it. + +"And that's what tramps are--open air cranks," she continued. "I often +wondered. Mamma believes in the open air. I sleep on the porch at night. +So does she. This is our land. You must have climbed the fence. Mamma +lets me when I put on my climbers--they're bloomers, you know. But you +ought to be told something. A person doesn't know when they snore +because they're asleep. But you do worse than that. You grit your teeth. +That's bad. Whenever you are going to sleep you must think to yourself, +'I won't grit my teeth, I won't grit my teeth,' over and over, just like +that, and by and by you'll get out of the habit. + +"All bad things are habits. And so are all good things. And it depends +on us what kind our habits are going to be. I used to pucker my +eyebrows--wrinkle them all up, but mamma said I must overcome that +habit. She said that when my eyebrows were wrinkled it was an +advertisement that my brain was wrinkled inside, and that it wasn't good +to have wrinkles in the brain. And then she smoothed my eyebrows with +her hand and said I must always think _smooth_--_smooth_ inside, and +_smooth_ outside. And do you know, it was easy. I haven't wrinkled my +brows for ever so long. I've heard about filling teeth by thinking. But +I don't believe that. Neither does mamma." + +She paused, rather out of breath. Nor did he speak. Her flow of talk had +been too much for him. Also, sleeping drunkenly, with open mouth, had +made him very thirsty. But, rather than lose one precious moment, he +endured the torment of his scorching throat and mouth. He licked his dry +lips and struggled for speech. + +"What is your name?" he managed at last. + +"Joan." + +She looked her own question at him, and it was not necessary to voice +it. + +"Mine is Ross Shanklin," he volunteered, for the first time in forgotten +years giving his real name. + +"I suppose you've travelled a lot." + +"I sure have, but not as much as I might have wanted to." + +"Papa always wanted to travel, but he was too busy at the office. He +never could get much time. He went to Europe once with mamma. That was +before I was born. It takes money to travel." + +Ross Shanklin did not know whether to agree with this statement or not. + +"But it doesn't cost tramps much for expenses," she took the thought +away from him. "Is that why you tramp?" + +He nodded and licked his lips. + +"Mamma says it's too bad that men must tramp to look for work. But +there's lots of work now in the country. All the farmers in the valley +are trying to get men. Have you been working?" + +He shook his head, angry with himself that he should feel shame at the +confession when his savage reasoning told him he was right in despising +work. But this was followed by another thought. This beautiful little +creature was some man's child. She was one of the rewards of work. + +"I wish I had a little girl like you," he blurted out, stirred by a +sudden consciousness of passion for paternity. "I'd work my hands off. +I ... I'd do anything." + +She considered his case with fitting gravity. + +"Then you aren't married?" + +"Nobody would have me." + +"Yes they would, if...." + +She did not turn up her nose, but she favoured his dirt and rags with a +look of disapprobation he could not mistake. + +"Go on," he half-shouted. "Shoot it into me. If I was washed--if I wore +good clothes--if I was respectable--if I had a job and worked +regular--if I wasn't what I am." + +To each statement she nodded. + +"Well, I ain't that kind," he rushed on. + +"I'm no good. I'm a tramp. I don't want to work, that's what. And I like +dirt." + +Her face was eloquent with reproach as she said, "Then you were only +making believe when you wished you had a little girl like me?" + +This left him speechless, for he knew, in all the deeps of his new-found +passion, that that was just what he did want. + +With ready tact, noting his discomfort, she sought to change the +subject. + +"What do you think of God?" she asked. + +"I ain't never met him. What do you think about him?" + +His reply was evidently angry, and she was frank in her disapproval. + +"You are very strange," she said. "You get angry so easily. I never saw +anybody before that got angry about God, or work, or being clean." + +"He never done anything for me," he muttered resentfully. He cast back +in quick review of the long years of toil in the convict camps and +mines. "And work never done anything for me neither." + +An embarrassing silence fell. + +He looked at her, numb and hungry with the stir of the father-love, +sorry for his ill temper, puzzling his brain for something to say. She +was looking off and away at the clouds, and he devoured her with his +eyes. He reached out stealthily and rested one grimy hand on the very +edge of her little dress. It seemed to him that she was the most +wonderful thing in the world. The quail still called from the coverts, +and the harvest sounds seemed abruptly to become very loud. A great +loneliness oppressed him. + +"I'm ... I'm no good," he murmured huskily and repentantly. + +But, beyond a glance from her blue eyes, she took no notice. The silence +was more embarrassing than ever. He felt that he could give the world +just to touch with his lips that hem of her dress where his hand rested. +But he was afraid of frightening her. He fought to find something to +say, licking his parched lips and vainly attempting to articulate +something, anything. + +"This ain't Sonoma Valley," he declared finally. "This is fairy land, +and you're a fairy. Mebbe I'm asleep and dreaming. I don't know. You and +me don't know how to talk together, because, you see, you're a fairy and +don't know nothing but good things, and I'm a man from the bad, wicked +world." + +Having achieved this much, he was left gasping for ideas like a stranded +fish. + +"And you're going to tell me about the bad, wicked world," she cried, +clapping her hands. "I'm just dying to know." + +He looked at her, startled, remembering the wreckage of womanhood he had +encountered on the sunken ways of life. She was no fairy. She was flesh +and blood, and the possibilities of wreckage were in her as they had +been in him even when he lay at his mother's breast. And there was in +her eagerness to know. + +"Nope," he said lightly, "this man from the bad, wicked world ain't +going to tell you nothing of the kind. He's going to tell you of the +good things in that world. He's going to tell you how he loved hosses +when he was a shaver, and about the first hoss he straddled, and the +first hoss he owned. Hosses ain't like men. They're better. They're +clean--clean all the way through and back again. And, little fairy, I +want to tell you one thing--there sure ain't nothing in the world like +when you're settin' a tired hoss at the end of a long day, and when you +just speak, and that tired animal lifts under you willing and hustles +along. Hosses! They're my long suit. I sure dote on hosses. Yep. I used +to be a cowboy once." + +She clapped her hands in the way that tore so delightfully to his heart, +and her eyes were dancing, as she exclaimed: + +"A Texas cowboy! I always wanted to see one! I heard papa say once that +cowboys are bow-legged. Are you?" + +"I sure was a Texas cowboy," he answered. "But it was a long time ago. +And I'm sure bow-legged. You see, you can't ride much when you're young +and soft without getting the legs bent some. Why, I was only a +three-year-old when I begun. He was a three-year-old, too, fresh-broken. +I led him up alongside the fence, clumb to the top rail, and dropped +on. He was a pinto, and a real devil at bucking, but I could do +anything with him. I reckon he knowed I was only a little shaver. Some +hosses knows lots more 'n' you think." + +For half an hour Ross Shanklin rambled on with his horse reminiscences, +never unconscious for a moment of the supreme joy that was his through +the touch of his hand on the hem of her dress. The sun dropped slowly +into the cloud bank, the quail called more insistently, and empty wagon +after empty wagon rumbled back across the bridge. Then came a woman's +voice. + +"Joan! Joan!" it called. "Where are you, dear?" + +The little girl answered, and Ross Shanklin saw a woman, clad in a soft, +clinging gown, come through the gate from the bungalow. She was a +slender, graceful woman, and to his charmed eyes she seemed rather to +float along than walk like ordinary flesh and blood. + +"What have you been doing all afternoon?" the woman asked, as she came +up. + +"Talking, mamma," the little girl replied "I've had a very interesting +time." + +Ross Shanklin scrambled to his feet and stood watchfully and awkwardly. +The little girl took the mother's hand, and she, in turn, looked at him +frankly and pleasantly, with a recognition of his humanness that was a +new thing to him. In his mind ran the thought: _the woman who ain't +afraid_. Not a hint was there of the timidity he was accustomed to +seeing in women's eyes. And he was quite aware, and never more so, of +his bleary-eyed, forbidding appearance. + +"How do you do?" she greeted him sweetly and naturally. + +"How do you do, ma'am," he responded, unpleasantly conscious of the +huskiness and rawness of his voice. + +"And did you have an interesting time, too?" she smiled. + +"Yes, ma'am. I sure did. I was just telling your little girl about +hosses." + +"He was a cowboy, once, mamma," she cried. + +The mother smiled her acknowledgment to him, and looked fondly down at +the little girl. The thought that came into Ross Shanklin's mind was the +awfulness of the crime if any one should harm either of the wonderful +pair. This was followed by the wish that some terrible danger should +threaten, so that he could fight, as he well knew how, with all his +strength and life, to defend them. + +"You'll have to come along, dear," the mother said. "It's growing late." +She looked at Ross Shanklin hesitantly. "Would you care to have +something to eat?" + +"No, ma'am, thanking you kindly just the same. I ... I ain't hungry." + +"Then say good-bye, Joan," she counselled. + +"Good-bye." The little girl held out her hand, and her eyes lighted +roguishly. "Good-bye, Mr. Man from the bad, wicked world." + +To him, the touch of her hand as he pressed it in his was the capstone +of the whole adventure. + +"Good-bye, little fairy," he mumbled. "I reckon I got to be pullin' +along." + +But he did not pull along. He stood staring after his vision until it +vanished through the gate. The day seemed suddenly empty. He looked +about him irresolutely, then climbed the fence, crossed the bridge, and +slouched along the road. He was in a dream. He did not note his feet nor +the way they led him. At times he stumbled in the dust-filled ruts. + +A mile farther on, he aroused at the crossroads. Before him stood the +saloon. He came to a stop and stared at it, licking his lips. He sank +his hand into his pants pocket and fumbled a solitary dime. "God!" he +muttered. "God!" Then, with dragging, reluctant feet, went on along the +road. + +He came to a big farm. He knew it must be big, because of the bigness of +the house and the size and number of the barns and outbuildings. On the +porch, in shirt sleeves, smoking a cigar, keen-eyed and middle-aged, was +the farmer. + +"What's the chance for a job?" Ross Shanklin asked. + +The keen eyes scarcely glanced at him. + +"A dollar a day and grub," was the answer. + +Ross Shanklin swallowed and braced himself. + +"I'll pick grapes all right, or anything. But what's the chance for a +steady job? You've got a big ranch here. I know hosses. I was born on +one. I can drive team, ride, plough, break, do anything that anybody +ever done with hosses." + +The other looked him over with an appraising, incredulous eye. + +"You don't look it," was the judgment. + +"I know I don't. Give me a chance. That's all. I'll prove it." + +The farmer considered, casting an anxious glance at the cloud bank into +which the sun had sunk. + +"I'm short a teamster, and I'll give you the chance to make good. Go and +get supper with the hands." + +Ross Shanklin's voice was very husky, and be spoke with an effort. + +"All right. I'll make good. Where can I get a drink of water and wash +up?" + + + + +THE PRODIGAL FATHER + +I + + +Josiah Childs was ordinarily an ordinary-appearing, prosperous business +man. He wore a sixty-dollar, business-man's suit, his shoes were +comfortable and seemly and made from the current last, his tie, collars +and cuffs were just what all prosperous business men wore, and an +up-to-date, business-man's derby was his wildest adventure in head-gear. +Oakland, California, is no sleepy country town, and Josiah Childs, as +the leading grocer of a rushing Western metropolis of three hundred +thousand, appropriately lived, acted, and dressed the part. + +But on this morning, before the rush of custom began, his appearance at +the store, while it did not cause a riot, was sufficiently startling to +impair for half an hour the staff's working efficiency. He nodded +pleasantly to the two delivery drivers loading their wagons for the +first trip of the morning, and cast upward the inevitable, complacent +glance at the sign that ran across the front of the building--CHILDS' +CASH STORE. The lettering, not too large, was of dignified black and +gold, suggestive of noble spices, aristocratic condiments, and +everything of the best (which was no more than to be expected of a scale +of prices ten per cent. higher than any other grocery in town). But what +Josiah Childs did not see as he turned his back on the drivers and +entered, was the helpless and mutual fall of surprise those two worthies +perpetrated on each other's necks. They clung together for support. + +"Did you catch the kicks, Bill?" one moaned. + +"Did you pipe the head-piece?" Bill moaned back. + +"Now if he was goin' to a masquerade ball...." + +"Or attendin' a reunion of the Rough Riders...." + +"Or goin' huntin' bear...." + +"Or swearin' off his taxes...." + +"Instead of goin' all the way to the effete East--Monkton says he's +going clear to Boston...." + +The two drivers held each other apart at arm's length, and fell limply +together again. + +For Josiah Childs' outfit was all their actions connotated. His hat was +a light fawn, stiff-rimmed John B. Stetson, circled by a band of Mexican +stamped leather. Over a blue flannel shirt, set off by a drooping +Windsor tie, was a rough-and-ready coat of large-ribbed corduroy. Pants +of the same material were thrust into high-laced shoes of the sort worn +by surveyors, explorers, and linemen. + +A clerk at a near counter almost petrified at sight of his employer's +bizarre rig. Monkton, recently elevated to the managership, gasped, +swallowed, and maintained his imperturbable attentiveness. The lady +bookkeeper, glancing down from her glass eyrie on the inside balcony, +took one look and buried her giggles in the day book. Josiah Childs saw +most of all this, but he did not mind. He was starting on his vacation, +and his head and heart were buzzing with plans and anticipations of the +most adventurous vacation he had taken in ten years. Under his eyelids +burned visions of East Falls, Connecticut, and of all the home scenes he +had been born to and brought up in. Oakland, he was thoroughly aware, +was more modern than East Falls, and the excitement caused by his garb +was only to be expected. Undisturbed by the sensation he knew he was +creating among his employés, he moved about, accompanied by his manager, +making last suggestions, giving final instructions, and radiating fond, +farewell glances at all the loved details of the business he had built +out of nothing. + +He had a right to be proud of Childs' Cash Store. Twelve years before he +had landed in Oakland with fourteen dollars and forty-three cents. Cents +did not circulate so far West, and after the fourteen dollars were gone, +he continued to carry the three pennies in his pocket for a weary while. +Later, when he had got a job clerking in a small grocery for eleven +dollars a week, and had begun sending a small monthly postal order to +one, Agatha Childs, East Falls, Connecticut, he invested the three +coppers in postage stamps. Uncle Sam could not reject his own lawful +coin of the realm. + +Having spent all his life in cramped New England, where sharpness and +shrewdness had been whetted to razor-edge on the harsh stone of meagre +circumstance, he had found himself abruptly in the loose and +free-and-easy West, where men thought in thousand-dollar bills and +newsboys dropped dead at sight of copper cents. Josiah Childs bit like +fresh acid into the new industrial and business conditions. He had +vision. He saw so many ways of making money all at once, that at first +his brain was in a whirl. + +At the same time, being sane and conservative, he had resolutely avoided +speculation. The solid and substantial called to him. Clerking at eleven +dollars a week, he took note of the lost opportunities, of the openings +for safe enterprise, of the countless leaks in the business. If, despite +all this, the boss could make a good living, what couldn't he, Josiah +Childs, do with his Connecticut training? It was like a bottle of wine +to a thirsty hermit, this coming to the active, generous-spending West +after thirty-five years in East Falls, the last fifteen of which had +been spent in humdrum clerking in the humdrum East Falls general store. +Josiah Childs' head buzzed with the easy possibilities he saw. But he +did not lose his head. No detail was overlooked. He spent his spare +hours in studying Oakland, its people, how they made their money, and +why they spent it and where. He walked the central streets, watching the +drift of the buying crowds, even counting them and compiling the +statistics in various notebooks. He studied the general credit system of +the trade, and the particular credit systems of the different districts. +He could tell to a dot the average wage or salary earned by the +householders of any locality, and he made it a point of thoroughness to +know every locality from the waterfront slums to the aristocratic Lake +Merritt and Piedmont sections, from West Oakland, where dwelt the +railroad employés, to the semi-farmers of Fruitvale at the opposite end +of the city. + +Broadway, on the main street and in the very heart of the shopping +district, where no grocer had ever been insane enough to dream of +establishing a business, was his ultimate selection. But that required +money, while he had to start from the smallest of beginnings. His first +store was on lower Filbert, where lived the nail-workers. In half a +year, three other little corner groceries went out of business while he +was compelled to enlarge his premises. He understood the principle of +large sales at small profits, of stable qualities of goods, and of a +square deal. He had glimpsed, also, the secret of advertising. Each week +he set forth one article that sold at a loss to him. This was not an +advertised loss, but an absolute loss. His one clerk prophesied +impending bankruptcy when butter, that cost Childs thirty cents, was +sold for twenty-five cents, when twenty-two-cent coffee was passed +across the counter at eighteen cents. The neighbourhood housewives came +for these bargains and remained to buy other articles that sold at a +profit. Moreover, the whole neighbourhood came quickly to know Josiah +Childs, and the busy crowd of buyers in his store was an attraction in +itself. + +But Josiah Childs made no mistake. He knew the ultimate foundation on +which his prosperity rested. He studied the nail works until he came to +know as much about them as the managing directors. Before the first +whisper had stirred abroad, he sold his store, and with a modest sum of +ready cash went in search of a new location. Six months later the nail +works closed down, and closed down forever. + +His next store was established on Adeline Street, where lived a +comfortable, salaried class. Here, his shelves carried a higher-grade +and a more diversified stock. By the same old method, he drew his crowd. +He established a delicatessen counter. He dealt directly with the +farmers, so that his butter and eggs were not only always dependable but +were a shade better than those sold by the finest groceries in the city. +One of his specialties was Boston baked beans, and so popular did it +become that the Twin Cabin Bakery paid him better than handsomely for +the privilege of taking it over. He made time to study the farmers, the +very apples they grew, and certain farmers he taught how properly to +make cider. As a side-line, his New England apple cider proved his +greatest success, and before long, after he had invaded San Francisco, +Berkeley, and Alameda, he ran it as an independent business. + +But always his eyes were fixed on Broadway. Only one other intermediate +move did he make, which was to as near as he could get to the Ashland +Park Tract, where every purchaser of land was legally pledged to put up +no home that should cost less than four thousand dollars. After that +came Broadway. A strange swirl had come in the tide of the crowd. The +drift was to Washington Street, where real estate promptly soared while +on Broadway it was as if the bottom had fallen out. One big store after +another, as the leases expired, moved to Washington. + +The crowd will come back, Josiah Childs said, but he said it to himself. +He knew the crowd. Oakland was growing, and he knew why it was growing. +Washington Street was too narrow to carry the increasing traffic. Along +Broadway, in the physical nature of things, the electric cars, ever in +greater numbers, would have to run. The realty dealers said that the +crowd would never come back, while the leading merchants followed the +crowd. And then it was, at a ridiculously low figure, that Josiah Childs +got a long lease on a modern, Class A building on Broadway, with a +buying option at a fixed price. It was the beginning of the end for +Broadway, said the realty dealers, when a grocery was established in its +erstwhile sacred midst. Later, when the crowd did come back, they said +Josiah Childs was lucky. Also, they whispered among themselves that he +had cleared at least fifty thousand on the transaction. + +It was an entirely different store from his previous ones. There were no +more bargains. Everything was of the superlative best, and superlative +best prices were charged. He catered to the most expensive trade in +town. Only those who could carelessly afford to pay ten per cent. more +than anywhere else, patronised him, and so excellent was his service +that they could not afford to go elsewhere. His horses and delivery +wagons were more expensive and finer than any one else's in town. He +paid his drivers, and clerks, and bookkeepers higher wages than any +other store could dream of paying. As a result, he got more efficient +men, and they rendered him and his patrons a more satisfying service. In +short, to deal at Childs' Cash Store became almost the infallible index +of social status. + +To cap everything, came the great San Francisco earthquake and fire, +which caused one hundred thousand people abruptly to come across the Bay +and live in Oakland. Not least to profit from so extraordinary a boom, +was Josiah Childs. And now, after twelve years' absence, he was +departing on a visit to East Falls, Connecticut. In the twelve years he +had not received a letter from Agatha, nor had he seen even a photograph +of his and Agatha's boy. + +Agatha and he had never got along together. Agatha was masterful. Agatha +had a tongue. She was strong on old-fashioned morality. She was +unlovely in her rectitude. Josiah never could quite make out how he had +happened to marry her. She was two years his senior, and had long ranked +as an old maid She had taught school, and was known by the young +generation as the sternest disciplinarian in its experience. She had +become set in her ways, and when she married it was merely an exchange +of a number of pupils for one. Josiah had to stand the hectoring and +nagging that thitherto had been distributed among many. As to how the +marriage came about, his Uncle Isaac nearly hit it off one day when he +said in confidence: "Josiah, when Agatha married you it was a case of +marrying a struggling young man. I reckon you was overpowered. Or maybe +you broke your leg and couldn't get away." + +"Uncle Isaac," Josiah answered, "I didn't break my leg. I ran my +dangdest, but she just plum run me down and out of breath." + +"Strong in the wind, eh?" Uncle Isaac chuckled. + +"We've ben married five years now," Josiah agreed, "and I've never known +her to lose it." + +"And never will," Uncle Isaac added. + +This conversation had taken place in the last days, and so dismal an +outlook proved too much for Josiah Childs. Meek he was, under Agatha's +firm tuition, but he was very healthy, and his promise of life was too +long for his patience. He was only thirty-three, and he came of a +long-lived stock. Thirty-three more years with Agatha and Agatha's +nagging was too hideous to contemplate. So, between a sunset and a +rising, Josiah Childs disappeared from East Falls. And from that day, +for twelve years, he had received no letter from her. Not that it was +her fault. He had carefully avoided letting her have his address. His +first postal money orders were sent to her from Oakland, but in the +years that followed he had arranged his remittances so that they bore +the scattered postmarks of most of the states west of the Rockies. + +But twelve years, and the confidence born of deserved success, had +softened his memories. After all, she was the mother of his boy, and it +was incontestable that she had always meant well. Besides, he was not +working so hard now, and he had more time to think of things besides his +business. He wanted to see the boy, whom he had never seen and who had +turned three before his father ever learned he was a father. Then, too, +homesickness had begun to crawl in him. In a dozen years he had not seen +snow, and he was always wondering if New England fruits and berries had +not a finer tang than those of California. Through hazy vistas he saw +the old New England life, and he wanted to see it again in the flesh +before he died. + +And, finally, there was duty. Agatha was his wife. He would bring her +back with him to the West. He felt that he could stand it. He was a man, +now, in the world of men. He ran things, instead of being run, and +Agatha would quickly find it out. Nevertheless, he wanted Agatha to come +to him for his own sake. So it was that he had put on his frontier rig. +He would be the prodigal father, returning as penniless as when he +left, and it would be up to her whether or not she killed the fatted +calf. Empty of hand, and looking it, he would come back wondering if he +could get his old job in the general store. Whatever followed would be +Agatha's affair. + +By the time he said good-bye to his staff and emerged on the sidewalk, +five more of his delivery wagons were backed up and loading. + +He ran his eye proudly over them, took a last fond glance at the +black-and-gold letters, and signalled the electric car at the corner. + + +II + +He ran up to East Falls from New York. In the Pullman smoker he became +acquainted with several business men. The conversation, turning on the +West, was quickly led by him. As president of the Oakland Chamber of +Commerce, he was an authority. His words carried weight, and he knew +what he was talking about, whether it was Asiatic trade, the Panama +Canal, or the Japanese coolie question. It was very exhilarating, this +stimulus of respectful attention accorded him by these prosperous +Eastern men, and before he knew it he was at East Falls. + +He was the only person who alighted, and the station was deserted. +Nobody was there expecting anybody. The long twilight of a January +evening was beginning, and the bite of the keen air made him suddenly +conscious that his clothing was saturated with tobacco smoke. He +shuddered involuntarily. Agatha did not tolerate tobacco. He half-moved +to toss the fresh-lighted cigar away, then it was borne in upon him that +this was the old East Falls atmosphere overpowering him, and he resolved +to combat it, thrusting the cigar between his teeth and gripping it with +the firmness of a dozen years of Western resolution. + +A few steps brought him into the little main street. The chilly, stilted +aspect of it shocked him. Everything seemed frosty and pinched, just as +the cutting air did after the warm balminess of California. Only several +persons, strangers to his recollection, were abroad, and they favoured +him with incurious glances. They were wrapped in an uncongenial and +frosty imperviousness. His first impression was surprise at his +surprise. Through the wide perspective of twelve years of Western life, +he had consistently and steadily discounted the size and importance of +East Falls; but this was worse than all discounting. Things were more +meagre than he had dreamed. The general store took his breath away. +Countless myriads of times he had contrasted it with his own spacious +emporium, but now he saw that in justice he had overdone it. He felt +certain that it could not accommodate two of his delicatessen counters, +and he knew that he could lose all of it in one of his storerooms. + +He took the familiar turning to the right at the head of the street, and +as he plodded along the slippery walk he decided that one of the first +things he must do was to buy sealskin cap and gloves. The thought of +sleighing cheered him for a moment, until, now on the outskirts of the +village, he was sanitarily perturbed by the adjacency of dwelling houses +and barns. Some were even connected. Cruel memories of bitter morning +chores oppressed him. The thought of chapped hands and chilblains was +almost terrifying, and his heart sank at sight of the double +storm-windows, which he knew were solidly fastened and unraisable, while +the small ventilating panes, the size of ladies' handkerchiefs, smote +him with sensations of suffocation. Agatha'll like California, he +thought, calling to his mind visions of roses in dazzling sunshine and +the wealth of flowers that bloomed the twelve months round. + +And then, quite illogically, the years were bridged and the whole leaden +weight of East Falls descended upon him like a damp sea fog. He fought +it from him, thrusting it off and aside by sentimental thoughts on the +"honest snow," the "fine elms," the "sturdy New England spirit," and the +"great homecoming." But at sight of Agatha's house he wilted. Before he +knew it, with a recrudescent guilty pang, he had tossed the half-smoked +cigar away and slackened his pace until his feet dragged in the old +lifeless, East Falls manner. He tried to remember that he was the owner +of Childs' Cash Store, accustomed to command, whose words were listened +to with respect in the Employers' Association, and who wielded the gavel +at the meetings of the Chamber of Commerce. He strove to conjure visions +of the letters in black and gold, and of the string of delivery wagons +backed up to the sidewalk. But Agatha's New England spirit was as sharp +as the frost, and it travelled to him through solid house-walls and +across the intervening hundred yards. + +Then he became aware that despite his will he had thrown the cigar away. +This brought him an awful vision. He saw himself going out in the frost +to the woodshed to smoke. His memory of Agatha he found less softened by +the lapse of years than it had been when three thousand miles +intervened. It was unthinkable. No; he couldn't do it. He was too old, +too used to smoking all over the house, to do the woodshed stunt now. +And everything depended on how he began. He would put his foot down. He +would smoke in the house that very night ... in the kitchen, he feebly +amended. No, by George, he would smoke now. He would arrive smoking. +Mentally imprecating the cold, he exposed his bare hands and lighted +another cigar. His manhood seemed to flare up with the match. He would +show her who was boss. Right from the drop of the hat he would show her. + +Josiah Childs had been born in this house. And it was long before he +was born that his father had built it. Across the low stone fence, +Josiah could see the kitchen porch and door, the connected woodshed, and +the several outbuildings. Fresh from the West, where everything was new +and in constant flux, he was astonished at the lack of change. +Everything was as it had always been. He could almost see himself, a +boy, doing the chores. There, in the woodshed, how many cords of wood +had he bucksawed and split! Well, thank the Lord, that was past. + +The walk to the kitchen showed signs of recent snow-shovelling. That had +been one of his tasks. He wondered who did it now, and suddenly +remembered that his own son must be twelve. In another moment he would +have knocked at the kitchen door, but the _skreek_ of a bucksaw from the +woodshed led him aside. He looked in and saw a boy hard at work. +Evidently, this was his son. Impelled by the wave of warm emotion that +swept over him, he all but rushed in upon the lad. He controlled himself +with an effort. + +"Father here?" he asked curtly, though from under the stiff brim of his +John B. Stetson he studied the boy closely. + +Sizable for his age, he thought. A mite spare in the ribs maybe, and +that possibly due to rapid growth. But the face strong and pleasing and +the eyes like Uncle Isaac's. When all was said, a darn good sample. + +"No, sir," the boy answered, resting on the saw-buck. + +"Where is he?" + +"At sea," was the answer. + +Josiah Childs felt a something very akin to relief and joy tingle +through him. Agatha had married again--evidently a seafaring man. Next, +came an ominous, creepy sensation. Agatha had committed bigamy. He +remembered Enoch Arden, read aloud to the class by the teacher in the +old schoolhouse, and began to think of himself as a hero. He would do +the heroic. By George, he would. He would sneak away and get the first +train for California. She would never know. + +But there was Agatha's New England morality, and her New England +conscience. She received a regular remittance. She knew he was alive. It +was impossible that she could have done this thing. He groped wildly for +a solution. Perhaps she had sold the old home, and this boy was somebody +else's boy. + +"What is your name?" Josiah asked. + +"Johnnie," came the reply. + +"Last name I mean?" + +"Childs, Johnnie Childs." + +"And your father's name?--first name?" + +"Josiah Childs." + +"And he's away at sea, you say?" + +"Yes, sir." + +This set Josiah wondering again. + +"What kind of a man is he?" + +"Oh, he's all right--a good provider, Mom says. And he is. He always +sends his money home, and he works hard for it, too, Mom says. She says +he always was a good worker, and he's better'n other men she ever saw. +He don't smoke, or drink, or swear, or do anything he oughtn't. And he +never did. He was always that way, Mom says, and she knew him all her +life before ever they got married. He's a very kind man, and never hurts +anybody's feelings. Mom says he's the most considerate man she ever +knew." + +Josiah's heart went weak. Agatha had done it after all--had taken a +second husband when she knew her first was still alive. Well, he had +learned charity in the West, and he could be charitable. He would go +quietly away. Nobody would ever know. Though it was rather mean of her, +the thought flashed through him, that she should go on cashing his +remittances when she was married to so model and steady-working a +seafaring husband who brought his wages home. He cudgelled his brains in +an effort to remember such a man out of all the East Falls men he had +known. + +"What's he look like?" + +"Don't know. Never saw him. He's at sea all the time. But I know how +tall he is. Mom says I'm goin' to be bigger'n him, and he was five feet +eleven. There's a picture of him in the album. His face is thin, and he +has whiskers." + +A great illumination came to Josiah. He was himself five feet eleven. He +had worn whiskers, and his face had been thin in those days. And Johnnie +had said his father's name was Josiah Childs. He, Josiah, was this model +husband who neither smoked, swore, nor drank. He was this seafaring man +whose memory had been so carefully shielded by Agatha's forgiving +fiction. He warmed toward her. She must have changed mightily since he +left. He glowed with penitence. Then his heart sank as he thought of +trying to live up to this reputation Agatha had made for him. This boy +with the trusting blue eyes would expect it of him. Well, he'd have to +do it. Agatha had been almighty square with him. He hadn't thought she +had it in her. + +The resolve he might there and then have taken was doomed never to be, +for he heard the kitchen door open to give vent to a woman's nagging, +irritable voice. + +"Johnnie!--you!" it cried. + +How often had he heard it in the old days: "Josiah!--you!" A shiver went +through him. Involuntarily, automatically, with a guilty start, he +turned his hand back upward so that the cigar was hidden. He felt +himself shrinking and shrivelling as she stepped out on the stoop. It +was his unchanged wife, the same shrew wrinkles, with the same +sour-drooping corners to the thin-lipped mouth. But there was more +sourness, an added droop, the lips were thinner, and the shrew wrinkles +were deeper. She swept Josiah with a hostile, withering stare. + +"Do you think your father would stop work to talk to tramps?" she +demanded of the boy, who visibly quailed, even as Josiah. + +"I was only answering his questions," Johnnie pleaded doggedly but +hopelessly. "He wanted to know--" + +"And I suppose you told him," she snapped. "What business is it of his +prying around? No, and he gets nothing to eat. As for you, get to work +at once. I'll teach you, idling at your chores. Your father wa'n't like +that. Can't I ever make you like him?" + +Johnnie bent his back, and the bucksaw resumed its protesting skreek. +Agatha surveyed Josiah sourly. It was patent she did not recognise him. + +"You be off," she commanded harshly. "None of your snooping around +here." + +Josiah felt the numbness of paralysis creeping over him. He moistened +his lips and tried to say something, but found himself bereft of speech. + +"You be off, I say," she rasped in her high-keyed voice, "or I'll put +the constable after you." + +Josiah turned obediently. He heard the door slam as he went down the +walk. As in a nightmare he opened the gate he had opened ten thousand +times and stepped out on the sidewalk. He felt dazed. Surely it was a +dream. Very soon he would wake up with a sigh of relief. He rubbed his +forehead and paused indecisively. The monotonous complaint of the +bucksaw came to his ears. If that boy had any of the old Childs spirit +in him, sooner or later he'd run away. Agatha was beyond the endurance +of human flesh. She had not changed, unless for the worse, if such a +thing were possible. That boy would surely run for it, maybe soon. Maybe +now. + +Josiah Childs straightened up and threw his shoulders back. The +great-spirited West, with its daring and its carelessness of +consequences when mere obstacles stand in the way of its desire, flamed +up in him. He looked at his watch, remembered the time table, and spoke +to himself, solemnly, aloud. It was an affirmation of faith: + +"I don't care a hang about the law. That boy can't be crucified. I'll +give her a double allowance, four times, anything, but he goes with me. +She can follow on to California if she wants, but I'll draw up an +agreement, in which what's what, and she'll sign it, and live up to it, +by George, if she wants to stay. And she will," he added grimly. "She's +got to have somebody to nag." + +He opened the gate and strode back to the woodshed door. Johnnie looked +up, but kept on sawing. + +"What'd you like to do most of anything in the world?" Josiah demanded +in a tense, low voice. + +Johnnie hesitated, and almost stopped sawing. Josiah made signs for him +to keep it up. + +"Go to sea," Johnnie answered. "Along with my father." + +Josiah felt himself trembling. + +"Would you?" he asked eagerly. + +"Would I!" + +The look of joy on Johnnie's face decided everything. + +"Come here, then. Listen. I'm your father. I'm Josiah Childs. Did you +ever want to run away?" + +Johnnie nodded emphatically. + +"That's what I did," Josiah went on. "I ran away." He fumbled for his +watch hurriedly. "We've just time to catch the train for California. I +live there now. Maybe Agatha, your mother, will come along afterward. +I'll tell you all about it on the train. Come on." + +He gathered the half-frightened, half-trusting boy into his arms for a +moment, then, hand in hand, they fled across the yard, out of the gate, +and down the street. They heard the kitchen door open, and the last they +heard was: + +"Johnnie!--you! Why ain't you sawing? I'll attend to your case +directly!" + + + + +THE FIRST POET + + +SCENE: _A summer plain, the eastern side of which is bounded by grassy +hills of limestone, the other sides by a forest. The hill nearest to the +plain terminates in a cliff, in the face of which, nearly at the level +of the ground, are four caves, with low, narrow entrances. Before the +caves, and distant from them less than one hundred feet, is a broad, +flat rock, on which are laid several sharp slivers of flint, which, like +the rock, are blood-stained. Between the rock and the cave-entrances, on +a low pile of stones, is squatted a man, stout and hairy. Across his +knees is a thick club, and behind him crouches a woman. At his right and +left are two men somewhat resembling him, and like him, bearing wooden +clubs. These four face the west, and between them and the bloody rock +squat some threescore of cave-folk, talking loudly among themselves. It +is late afternoon. The name of him on the pile of stones is Uk, the +name of his mate, Ala; and of those at his right and left, Ok and Un._ + +_Uk:_ + +Be still! + +(_Turning to the woman behind him_) + +Thou seest that they become still. None save me can make his kind be +still, except perhaps the chief of the apes, when in the night he deems +he hears a serpent.... At whom dost thou stare so long? At Oan? Oan, +come to me! + +_Oan:_ + +I am thy cub. + +_Uk:_ + +Oan, thou art a fool! + +_Ok and Un:_ + +Ho! ho! Oan is a fool! + +_All the Tribe:_ + +Ho! ho! Oan is a fool! + +_Oan:_ + +Why am I a fool? + +_Uk:_ + +Dost thou not chant strange words? Last night I heard thee chant strange +words at the mouth of thy cave. + +_Oan:_ + +Ay! they are marvellous words; they were born within me in the dark. + +_Uk:_ + +Art thou a woman, that thou shouldst bring forth? Why dost thou not +sleep when it is dark? + +_Oan:_ + +I did half sleep; perhaps I dreamed. + +_Uk:_ + +And why shouldst thou dream, not having had more than thy portion of +flesh? Hast thou slain a deer in the forest and brought it not to the +Stone? + +_All the Tribe:_ + +Wa! Wa! He hath slain in the forest, and brought not the meat to the +Stone! + +_Uk:_ + +Be still, ye! + +(_To Ala_) + +Thou seest that they become still.... Oan, hast thou slain and kept to +thyself? + +_Oan:_ + +Nay, thou knowest that I am not apt at the chase. Also it irks me to +squat on a branch all day above a path, bearing a rock upon my thighs. +Those words did but awaken within me when I was peaceless in the night. + +_Uk:_ + +And why wast thou peaceless in the night? + +_Oan:_ + +Thy mate wept, for that thou didst heat her. + +_Uk:_ + +Ay! she lamented loudly. But thou shalt make thy half-sleep henceforth +at the mouth of the cave, so that when Gurr the tiger cometh, thou +shalt hear him sniff between the boulders, and shalt strike the flints, +whose stare he hatest. Gurr cometh nightly to the caves. + +_One of the Tribe:_ + +Ay! Gurr smelleth the Stone! + +_Uk:_ + +Be still! + +(_To Ala_) + +Had he not become still, Ok and Un would have beaten him with their +clubs.... But, Oan, tell us those words that were born to thee when Ala +did weep. + +_Oan (arising):_ + +They are wonderful words. They are such: + + The bright day is gone-- + +_Uk:_ + +Now I see thou art liar as well as fool: behold, the day is not gone! + +_Oan:_ + +But the day was gone in that hour when my song was born to me. + +_Uk:_ + +Then shouldst thou have sung it only at that time, and not when it is +yet day. But beware lest thou awaken me in the night. Make thou many +stars, that they fly in the whiskers of Gurr. + +_Oan:_ + +My song is even of stars. + +_Uk:_ + +It was Ul, thy father's wont, ere I slew him with four great stones, to +climb to the tops of the tallest trees and reach forth his hand, to see +if he might not pluck a star. But I said: "Perhaps they be as +chestnut-burs." And all the tribe did laugh. Ul was also a fool. But +what dost thou sing of stars? + +_Oan:_ + +I will begin again: + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sad, sad, sad-- + +_Uk:_ + +Nay, the night maketh thee sad; not sad, sad, sad. For when I say to +Ala, "Gather thou dried leaves," I say not, "Gather thou dried leaves, +leaves, leaves." Thou art a fool! + +_Ok and Un:_ + +Thou art a fool! + +_All the Tribe:_ + +Thou art a fool! + +_Uk:_ + +Yea, he is a fool. But say on, Oan, and tell us of thy chestnut-burs. + +_Oan:_ + +I will begin again: + + The bright day is gone-- + +_Uk:_ + +Thou dost not say, "gone, gone, gone!" + +_Oan:_ + +I am thy cub. Suffer that I speak: so shall the tribe admire greatly. + +_Uk:_ + +Speak on! + +_Oan:_ + +I will begin once more: + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sad, sad-- + +_Uk:_ + +Said I not that "sad" should be spoken but once? Shall I set Ok and Un +upon thee with their branches? + +_Oan:_ + +But it was so born within me--even "sad, sad--" + +_Uk:_ + +If again thou twice or thrice say "sad," thou shalt be dragged to the +Stone. + +_Oan:_ + +Owl Ow! I am thy cub! Yet listen: + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sad-- + +Ow! Ow! thou makest me more sad than the night doth! The song-- + +_Uk:_ + +Ok! Un! Be prepared! + +_Oan (hastily):_ + +Nay! have mercy! I will begin afresh: + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sad. + The--the--the-- + +_Uk:_ + +Thou hast forgotten, and art a fool! See, Ala, he is a fool! + +_Ok and Un:_ + +He is a fool! + +_All the Tribe:_ + +He is a fool! + +_Oan:_ + +I am not a fool! This is a new thing. In the past, when ye did chant, O +men, ye did leap about the Stone, beating your breasts and crying, "Hai, +hai, hai!" Or, if the moon was great, "Hai, hai! hai, hai, hai!" But +this song is made even with such words as ye do speak, and is a great +wonder. One may sit at the cave's mouth, and moan it many times as the +light goeth out of the sky. + +_One of the Tribe:_ + +Ay! even thus doth he sit at the mouth of our cave, making us marvel, +and more especially the women. + +_Uk:_ + +Be still!... When I would make women marvel, I do show them a wolf's +brains upon my club, or the great stone that I cast, or perhaps do whirl +my arms mightily, or bring home much meat. How should a man do +otherwise? I will have no songs in this place. + +_Oan:_ + +Yet suffer that I sing my song unto the tribe. Such things have not been +before. It may be that they shall praise thee, seeing that I who do make +this song am thy cub. + +_Uk:_ + +Well, let us have the song. + +_Oan (facing the tribe):_ + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sa--sad. + But the stars are very white. + They whisper that the day shall return. + O stars; little pieces of the day! + +_Uk:_ + +This is indeed madness. Hast thou heard a star whisper? Did Ul, thy +father, tell thee that he heard the stars whisper when he was in the +tree-top? And of what moment is it that a star be a piece of the day, +seeing that its light is of no value? Thou art a fool! + +_Ok and Un:_ + +Thou art a fool! + +_All the Tribe:_ + +Thou art a fool! + +_Oan:_ + +But it was so born unto me. And at that birth it was as though I would +weep, yet had not been stricken; I was moreover glad, yet none had given +me a gift of meat. + +_Uk:_ + +It is a madness. How shall the stars profit us? Will they lead us to a +bear's den, or where the deer foregather, or break for us great bones +that we come at their marrow? Will they tell us anything at all? Wait +thou until the night, and we shall peer forth from between the boulders, +and all men shall take note that the stars cannot whisper.... Yet it may +be that they are pieces of the day. This is a deep matter. + +_Oan:_ + +Ay! they are pieces of the moon! + +_Uk:_ + +What further madness is this? How shall they be pieces of two things +that are not the same? Also it was not thus in the song. + +_Oan:_ + +I will make me a new song. We do change the shape of wood and stone, but +a song is made out of nothing. Ho! ho! I can fashion things from +nothing! Also I say that the stars come down at morning and become the +dew. + +_Uk:_ + +Let us have no more of these stars. It may be that a song is a good +thing, if it be of what a man knoweth. Thus, if thou singest of my club, +or of the bear that I slew, of the stain on the Stone, or the cave and +the warm leaves in the cave, it might be well. + +_Oan:_ + +I will make thee a song of Ala! + +_Uk (furiously):_ + +Thou shalt make me no such song! Thou shalt make me a song of the +deer-liver that thou hast eaten! Did I not give to thee of the liver of +the she-deer, because thou didst bring me crawfish? + +_Oan:_ + +Truly I did eat of the liver of the she-deer; but to sing thereof is +another matter. + +_Uk:_ + +It was no labour for thee to sing of the stars. See now our clubs and +casting-stones, with which we slay flesh to eat; also the caves in which +we dwell, and the Stone whereon we make sacrifice; wilt thou sing no +song of those? + +_Oan:_ + +It may be that I shall sing thee songs of them. But now, as I strive +here to sing of the doe's liver, no words are born unto me: I can but +sing, "O liver! O red liver!" + +_Uk:_ + +That is a good song: thou seest that the liver is red. It is red as +blood. + +_Oan:_ + +But I love not the liver, save to eat of it. + +_Uk:_ + +Yet the song of it is good. When the moon is full we shall sing it about +the Stone. We shall beat upon our breasts and sing, "O liver! O red +liver!" And all the women in the caves shall be affrightened. + +_Oan:_ + +I will not have that song of the liver! It shall be Ok's song; the tribe +must say, "Ok hath made the song!" + +_Ok:_ + +Ay! I shall be a great singer; I shall sing of a wolf's heart, and say, +"Behold, it is red!" + +_Uk:_ + +Thou art a fool, and shalt sing only, "Hai, hai!" as thy father before +thee. But Oan shall make me a song of my club, for the women listen to +his songs. + +_Oan:_ + +I will make thee no songs, neither of thy club, nor thy cave, nor thy +doe's-liver. Yea! though thou give me no more flesh, yet will I live +alone in the forest, and eat the seed of grasses, and likewise rabbits, +that are easily snared. And I will sleep in a tree-top, and I will sing +nightly: + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sad, sad, sad, + sad, sad, sad-- + +_Uk:_ + +Ok and Un, arise and slay! + +(_Ok and Un rush upon Oan, who stoops and picks up two casting-stones, +with one of which he strikes Ok between the eyes, and with the other +mashes the hand of Un, so that he drops his club. Uk arises._) + +_Uk:_ + +Behold! Gurr cometh! he cometh swiftly from the wood! + +(_The Tribe, including Oan and Ala, rush for the cave-mouths. As Oan +passes Uk, the latter runs behind Oan and crushes his skull with a blow +of his club._) + +_Uk:_ + +O men! O men with the heart of hyenas! Behold, Gurr cometh not! I did +but strive to deceive you, that I might the more easily slay this +singer, who is very swift of foot.... Gather ye before me, for I would +speak wisdom.... It is not well that there be any song among us other +than what our fathers sang in the past, or, if there be songs, let them +be of such matters as are of common understanding. If a man sing of a +deer, so shall he be drawn, it may be, to go forth and slay a deer, or +even a moose. And if he sing of his casting-stones, it may be that he +become more apt in the use thereof. And if he sing of his cave, it may +be that he shall defend it more stoutly when Gurr teareth at the +boulders. But it is a vain thing to make songs of the stars, that seem +scornful even of me; or of the moon, which is never two nights the same; +or of the day, which goeth about its business and will not linger though +one pierce a she-babe with a flint. But as for me, I would have none of +these songs. For if I sing of such in the council, how shall I keep my +wits? And if I think thereof, when at the chase, it may be that I babble +it forth, and the meat hear and escape. And ere it be time to eat, I do +give my mind solely to the care of my hunting-gear. And if one sing when +eating, he may fall short of his just portion. And when, one hath eaten, +doth not he go straightway to sleep? So where shall men find a space for +singing? But do ye as ye will: as for me, I will have none of these +songs and stars. + +Be it also known to all the women that if, remembering these wild words +of Oan, they do sing them to themselves, or teach them to the young +ones, they shall be beaten with brambles. Cause swiftly that the wife of +Ok cease from her wailing, and bring hither the horses that were slain +yesterday, that I may apportion them. Had Oan wisdom, he might have +eaten thereof; and had a mammoth fallen into our pit, he might have +feasted many days. But Oan was a fool! + +_Un:_ + +Oan was a fool! + +_All the Tribe:_ + +Oan was a fool! + + + + +FINIS + + +It was the last of Morganson's bacon. In all his life he had never +pampered his stomach. In fact, his stomach had been a sort of negligible +quantity that bothered him little, and about which he thought less. But +now, in the long absence of wonted delights, the keen yearning of his +stomach was tickled hugely by the sharp, salty bacon. + +His face had a wistful, hungry expression. The cheeks were hollow, and +the skin seemed stretched a trifle tightly across the cheek-bones. His +pale blue eyes were troubled. There was that in them that showed the +haunting imminence of something terrible. Doubt was in them, and anxiety +and foreboding. The thin lips were thinner than they were made to be, +and they seemed to hunger towards the polished frying-pan. + +He sat back and drew forth a pipe. He looked into it with sharp +scrutiny, and tapped it emptily on his open palm. He turned the +hair-seal tobacco pouch inside out and dusted the lining, treasuring +carefully each flake and mite of tobacco that his efforts gleaned. The +result was scarce a thimbleful. He searched in his pockets, and brought +forward, between thumb and forefinger, tiny pinches of rubbish. Here and +there in this rubbish were crumbs of tobacco. These he segregated with +microscopic care, though he occasionally permitted small particles of +foreign substance to accompany the crumbs to the hoard in his palm. He +even deliberately added small, semi-hard woolly fluffs, that had come +originally from the coat lining, and that had lain for long months in +the bottoms of the pockets. + +At the end of fifteen minutes he had the pipe part filled. He lighted it +from the camp fire, and sat forward on the blankets, toasting his +moccasined feet and smoking parsimoniously. When the pipe was finished +he sat on, brooding into the dying flame of the fire. Slowly the worry +went out of his eyes and resolve came in. Out of the chaos of his +fortunes he had finally achieved a way. But it was not a pretty way. +His face had become stern and wolfish, and the thin lips were drawn very +tightly. + +With resolve came action. He pulled himself stiffly to his feet and +proceeded to break camp. He packed the rolled blankets, the frying-pan, +rifle, and axe on the sled, and passed a lashing around the load. Then +he warmed his hands at the fire and pulled on his mittens. He was +foot-sore, and limped noticeably as he took his place at the head of the +sled. When he put the looped haul-rope over his shoulder, and leant his +weight against it to start the sled, he winced. His flesh was galled by +many days of contact with the haul-rope. + +The trail led along the frozen breast of the Yukon. At the end of four +hours he came around a bend and entered the town of Minto. It was +perched on top of a high earth bank in the midst of a clearing, and +consisted of a road house, a saloon, and several cabins. He left his +sled at the door and entered the saloon. + +"Enough for a drink?" he asked, laying an apparently empty gold sack +upon the bar. + +The barkeeper looked sharply at it and him, then set out a bottle and a +glass. + +"Never mind the dust," he said. + +"Go on and take it," Morganson insisted. + +The barkeeper held the sack mouth downward over the scales and shook it, +and a few flakes of gold dust fell out. Morganson took the sack from +him, turned it inside out, and dusted it carefully. + +"I thought there was half-a-dollar in it," he said. + +"Not quite," answered the other, "but near enough. I'll get it back with +the down weight on the next comer." + +Morganson shyly poured the whisky into the glass, partly filling it. + +"Go on, make it a man's drink," the barkeeper encouraged. + +Morganson tilted the bottle and filled the glass to the brim. He drank +the liquor slowly, pleasuring in the fire of it that bit his tongue, +sank hotly down his throat, and with warm, gentle caresses permeated his +stomach. + +"Scurvy, eh?" the barkeeper asked. + +"A touch of it," he answered. "But I haven't begun to swell yet. Maybe I +can get to Dyea and fresh vegetables, and beat it out." + +"Kind of all in, I'd say," the other laughed sympathetically. "No dogs, +no money, and the scurvy. I'd try spruce tea if I was you." + +At the end of half-an-hour, Morganson said good-bye and left the saloon. +He put his galled shoulder to the haul-rope and took the river-trail +south. An hour later he halted. An inviting swale left the river and led +off to the right at an acute angle. He left his sled and limped up the +swale for half a mile. Between him and the river was three hundred yards +of flat ground covered with cottonwoods. He crossed the cottonwoods to +the bank of the Yukon. The trail went by just beneath, but he did not +descend to it. South toward Selkirk he could see the trail widen its +sunken length through the snow for over a mile. But to the north, in the +direction of Minto, a tree-covered out-jut in the bank a quarter of a +mile away screened the trail from him. + +He seemed satisfied with the view and returned to the sled the way he +had come. He put the haul-rope over his shoulder and dragged the sled up +the swale. The snow was unpacked and soft, and it was hard work. The +runners clogged and stuck, and he was panting severely ere he had +covered the half-mile. Night had come on by the time he had pitched his +small tent, set up the sheet-iron stove, and chopped a supply of +firewood. He had no candles, and contented himself with a pot of tea +before crawling into his blankets. + +In the morning, as soon as he got up, he drew on his mittens, pulled the +flaps of his cap down over his ears, and crossed through the cottonwoods +to the Yukon. He took his rifle with him. As before, he did not descend +the bank. He watched the empty trail for an hour, beating his hands and +stamping his feet to keep up the circulation, then returned to the tent +for breakfast. There was little tea left in the canister--half a dozen +drawings at most; but so meagre a pinch did he put in the teapot that he +bade fair to extend the lifetime of the tea indefinitely. His entire +food supply consisted of half-a-sack of flour and a part-full can of +baking powder. He made biscuits, and ate them slowly, chewing each +mouthful with infinite relish. When he had had three he called a halt. +He debated a while, reached for another biscuit, then hesitated. He +turned to the part sack of flour, lifted it, and judged its weight. + +"I'm good for a couple of weeks," he spoke aloud. + +"Maybe three," he added, as he put the biscuits away. + +Again he drew on his mittens, pulled down his ear-flaps, took the rifle, +and went out to his station on the river bank. He crouched in the snow, +himself unseen, and watched. After a few minutes of inaction, the frost +began to bite in, and he rested the rifle across his knees and beat his +hands back and forth. Then the sting in his feet became intolerable, and +he stepped back from the bank and tramped heavily up and down among the +trees. But he did not tramp long at a time. Every several minutes he +came to the edge of the bank and peered up and down the trail, as though +by sheer will he could materialise the form of a man upon it. The short +morning passed, though it had seemed century-long to him, and the trail +remained empty. + +It was easier in the afternoon, watching by the bank. The temperature +rose, and soon the snow began to fall--dry and fine and crystalline. +There was no wind, and it fell straight down, in quiet monotony. He +crouched with eyes closed, his head upon his knees, keeping his watch +upon the trail with his ears. But no whining of dogs, churning of sleds, +nor cries of drivers broke the silence. With twilight he returned to the +tent, cut a supply of firewood, ate two biscuits, and crawled into his +blankets. He slept restlessly, tossing about and groaning; and at +midnight he got up and ate another biscuit. + +Each day grew colder. Four biscuits could not keep up the heat of his +body, despite the quantities of hot spruce tea he drank, and he +increased his allowance, morning and evening, to three biscuits. In the +middle of the day he ate nothing, contenting himself with several cups +of excessively weak real tea. This programme became routine. In the +morning three biscuits, at noon real tea, and at night three biscuits. +In between he drank spruce tea for his scurvy. He caught himself making +larger biscuits, and after a severe struggle with himself went back to +the old size. + +On the fifth day the trail returned to life. To the south a dark object +appeared, and grew larger. Morganson became alert. He worked his rifle, +ejecting a loaded cartridge from the chamber, by the same action +replacing it with another, and returning the ejected cartridge into the +magazine. He lowered the trigger to half-cock, and drew on his mitten to +keep the trigger-hand warm. As the dark object came nearer he made it +out to be a man, without dogs or sled, travelling light. He grew +nervous, cocked the trigger, then put it back to half-cock again. The +man developed into an Indian, and Morganson, with a sigh of +disappointment, dropped the rifle across his knees. The Indian went on +past and disappeared towards Minto behind the out-jutting clump of +trees. + +But Morganson conceived an idea. He changed his crouching spot to a +place where cottonwood limbs projected on either side of him. Into these +with his axe he chopped two broad notches. Then in one of the notches he +rested the barrel of his rifle and glanced along the sights. He covered +the trail thoroughly in that direction. He turned about, rested the +rifle in the other notch, and, looking along the sights, swept the trail +to the clump of trees behind which it disappeared. + +He never descended to the trail. A man travelling the trail could have +no knowledge of his lurking presence on the bank above. The snow surface +was unbroken. There was no place where his tracks left the main trail. + +As the nights grew longer, his periods of daylight watching of the trail +grew shorter. Once a sled went by with jingling bells in the darkness, +and with sullen resentment he chewed his biscuits and listened to the +sounds. Chance conspired against him. Faithfully he had watched the +trail for ten days, suffering from the cold all the prolonged torment of +the damned, and nothing had happened. Only an Indian, travelling light, +had passed in. Now, in the night, when it was impossible for him to +watch, men and dogs and a sled loaded with life, passed out, bound south +to the sea and the sun and civilisation. + +So it was that he conceived of the sled for which he waited. It was +loaded with life, his life. His life was fading, fainting, gasping away +in the tent in the snow. He was weak from lack of food, and could not +travel of himself. But on the sled for which he waited were dogs that +would drag him, food that would fan up the flame of his life, money that +would furnish sea and sun and civilisation. Sea and sun and civilisation +became terms interchangeable with life, his life, and they were loaded +there on the sled for which he waited. The idea became an obsession, and +he grew to think of himself as the rightful and deprived owner of the +sled-load of life. + +His flour was running short, and he went back to two biscuits in the +morning and two biscuits at night. Because, of this his weakness +increased and the cold bit in more savagely, and day by day he watched +by the dead trail that would not live for him. At last the scurvy +entered upon its next stage. The skin was unable longer to cast off the +impurity of the blood, and the result was that the body began to swell. +His ankles grew puffy, and the ache in them kept him awake long hours at +night. Next, the swelling jumped to his knees, and the sum of his pain +was more than doubled. + +Then there came a cold snap. The temperature went down and down--forty, +fifty, sixty degrees below zero. He had no thermometer, but this he knew +by the signs and natural phenomena understood by all men in that +country--the crackling of water thrown on the snow, the swift sharpness +of the bite of the frost, and the rapidity with which his breath froze +and coated the canvas walls and roof of the tent. Vainly he fought the +cold and strove to maintain his watch on the bank. In his weak condition +he was an easy prey, and the frost sank its teeth deep into him before +he fled away to the tent and crouched by the fire. His nose and cheeks +were frozen and turned black, and his left thumb had frozen inside the +mitten. He concluded that he would escape with the loss of the first +joint. + +Then it was, beaten into the tent by the frost, that the trail, with +monstrous irony, suddenly teemed with life. Three sleds went by the +first day, and two the second. Once, during each day, he fought his way +out to the bank only to succumb and retreat, and each of the two times, +within half-an-hour after he retreated, a sled went by. + +The cold snap broke, and he was able to remain by the bank once more, +and the trail died again. For a week he crouched and watched, and never +life stirred along it, not a soul passed in or out. He had cut down to +one biscuit night and morning, and somehow he did not seem to notice it. +Sometimes he marvelled at the way life remained in him. He never would +have thought it possible to endure so much. + +When the trail fluttered anew with life it was life with which he could +not cope. A detachment of the North-West police went by, a score of +them, with many sleds and dogs; and he cowered down on the bank above, +and they were unaware of the menace of death that lurked in the form of +a dying man beside the trail. + +His frozen thumb gave him a great deal of trouble. While watching by the +bank he got into the habit of taking his mitten off and thrusting the +hand inside his shirt so as to rest the thumb in the warmth of his +arm-pit. A mail carrier came over the trail, and Morganson let him pass. +A mail carrier was an important person, and was sure to be missed +immediately. + +On the first day after his last flour had gone it snowed. It was always +warm when the snow fell, and he sat out the whole eight hours of +daylight on the bank, without movement, terribly hungry and terribly +patient, for all the world like a monstrous spider waiting for its prey. +But the prey did not come, and he hobbled back to the tent through the +darkness, drank quarts of spruce tea and hot water, and went to bed. + +The next morning circumstance eased its grip on him. As he started to +come out of the tent he saw a huge bull-moose crossing the swale some +four hundred yards away. Morganson felt a surge and bound of the blood +in him, and then went unaccountably weak. A nausea overpowered him, and +he was compelled to sit down a moment to recover. Then he reached for +his rifle and took careful aim. The first shot was a hit: he knew it; +but the moose turned and broke for the wooded hillside that came down to +the swale. Morganson pumped bullets wildly among the trees and brush at +the fleeing animal, until it dawned upon him that he was exhausting the +ammunition he needed for the sled-load of life for which he waited. + +He stopped shooting, and watched. He noted the direction of the animal's +flight, and, high up on the hillside in an opening among the trees, saw +the trunk of a fallen pine. Continuing the moose's flight in his mind he +saw that it must pass the trunk. He resolved on one more shot, and in +the empty air above the trunk he aimed and steadied his wavering rifle. +The animal sprang into his field of vision, with lifted fore-legs as it +took the leap. He pulled the trigger. With the explosion the moose +seemed to somersault in the air. It crashed down to earth in the snow +beyond and flurried the snow into dust. + +Morganson dashed up the hillside--at least he started to dash up. The +next he knew he was coming out of a faint and dragging himself to his +feet. He went up more slowly, pausing from time to time to breathe and +to steady his reeling senses. At last he crawled over the trunk. The +moose lay before him. He sat down heavily upon the carcase and laughed. +He buried his face in his mittened hands and laughed some more. + +He shook the hysteria from him. He drew his hunting knife and worked as +rapidly as his injured thumb and weakness would permit him. He did not +stop to skin the moose, but quartered it with its hide on. It was a +Klondike of meat. + +When he had finished he selected a piece of meat weighing a hundred +pounds, and started to drag it down to the tent. But the snow was soft, +and it was too much for him. He exchanged it for a twenty-pound piece, +and, with many pauses to rest, succeeded in getting it to the tent. He +fried some of the meat, but ate sparingly. Then, and automatically, he +went out to his crouching place on the bank. There were sled-tracks in +the fresh snow on the trail. The sled-load of life had passed by while +he had been cutting up the moose. + +But he did not mind. He was glad that the sled had not passed before the +coming of the moose. The moose had changed his plans. Its meat was worth +fifty cents a pound, and he was but little more than three miles from +Minto. He need no longer wait for the sled-load of life. The moose was +the sled-load of life. He would sell it. He would buy a couple of dogs +at Minto, some food and some tobacco, and the dogs would haul him south +along the trail to the sea, the sun, and civilisation. + +He felt hungry. The dull, monotonous ache of hunger had now become a +sharp and insistent pang. He hobbled back to the tent and fried a slice +of meat. After that he smoked two whole pipefuls of dried tea leaves. +Then he fried another slice of moose. He was aware of an unwonted glow +of strength, and went out and chopped some firewood. He followed that up +with a slice of meat. Teased on by the food, his hunger grew into an +inflammation. It became imperative every little while to fry a slice of +meat. He tried smaller slices and found himself frying oftener. + +In the middle of the day he thought of the wild animals that might eat +his meat, and he climbed the hill, carrying along his axe, the haul +rope, and a sled lashing. In his weak state the making of the cache and +storing of the meat was an all-afternoon task. He cut young saplings, +trimmed them, and tied them together into a tall scaffold. It was not so +strong a cache as he would have desired to make, but he had done his +best. To hoist the meat to the top was heart-breaking. The larger pieces +defied him until he passed the rope over a limb above, and, with one end +fast to a piece of meat, put all his weight on the other end. + +Once in the tent, he proceeded to indulge in a prolonged and solitary +orgy. He did not need friends. His stomach and he were company. Slice +after slice and many slices of meat he fried and ate. He ate pounds of +the meat. He brewed real tea, and brewed it strong. He brewed the last +he had. It did not matter. On the morrow he would be buying tea in +Minto. When it seemed he could eat no more, he smoked. He smoked all his +stock of dried tea leaves. What of it? On the morrow he would be smoking +tobacco. He knocked out his pipe, fried a final slice, and went to bed. +He had eaten so much he seemed bursting, yet he got out of his blankets +and had just one more mouthful of meat. + +In the morning he awoke as from the sleep of death. In his ears were +strange sounds. He did not know where he was, and looked about him +stupidly until he caught sight of the frying-pan with the last piece of +meat in it, partly eaten. Then he remembered all, and with a quick start +turned his attention to the strange sounds. He sprang from the blankets +with an oath. His scurvy-ravaged legs gave under him and he winced with +the pain. He proceeded more slowly to put on his moccasins and leave +the tent. + +From the cache up the hillside arose a confused noise of snapping and +snarling, punctuated by occasional short, sharp yelps. He increased his +speed at much expense of pain, and cried loudly and threateningly. He +saw the wolves hurrying away through the snow and underbrush, many of +them, and he saw the scaffold down on the ground. The animals were heavy +with the meat they had eaten, and they were content to slink away and +leave the wreckage. + +The way of the disaster was clear to him. The wolves had scented his +cache. One of them had leapt from the trunk of the fallen tree to the +top of the cache. He could see marks of the brute's paws in the snow +that covered the trunk. He had not dreamt a wolf could leap so far. A +second had followed the first, and a third and fourth, until the flimsy +scaffold had gone down under their weight and movement. + +His eyes were hard and savage for a moment as he contemplated the extent +of the calamity; then the old look of patience returned into them, and +he began to gather together the bones well picked and gnawed. There was +marrow in them, he knew; and also, here and there, as he sifted the +snow, he found scraps of meat that had escaped the maws of the brutes +made careless by plenty. + +He spent the rest of the morning dragging the wreckage of the moose down +the hillside. In addition, he had at least ten pounds left of the chunk +of meat he had dragged down the previous day. + +"I'm good for weeks yet," was his comment as he surveyed the heap. + +He had learnt how to starve and live. He cleaned his rifle and counted +the cartridges that remained to him. There were seven. He loaded the +weapon and hobbled out to his crouching-place on the bank. All day he +watched the dead trail. He watched all the week, but no life passed over +it. + +Thanks to the meat he felt stronger, though his scurvy was worse and +more painful. He now lived upon soup, drinking endless gallons of the +thin product of the boiling of the moose bones. The soup grew thinner +and thinner as he cracked the bones and boiled them over and over; but +the hot water with the essence of the meat in it was good for him, and +he was more vigorous than he had been previous to the shooting of the +moose. + +It was in the next week that a new factor entered into Morganson's life. +He wanted to know the date. It became an obsession. He pondered and +calculated, but his conclusions were rarely twice the same. The first +thing in the morning and the last thing at night, and all day as well, +watching by the trail, he worried about it. He awoke at night and lay +awake for hours over the problem. To have known the date would have been +of no value to him; but his curiosity grew until it equalled his hunger +and his desire to live. Finally it mastered him, and he resolved to go +to Minto and find out. + +It was dark when he arrived at Minto, but this served him. No one saw +him arrive. Besides, he knew he would have moonlight by which to return. +He climbed the bank and pushed open the saloon door. The light dazzled +him. The source of it was several candles, but he had been living for +long in an unlighted tent. As his eyes adjusted themselves, he saw three +men sitting around the stove. They were trail-travellers--he knew it at +once; and since they had not passed in, they were evidently bound out. +They would go by his tent next morning. + +The barkeeper emitted a long and marvelling whistle. + +"I thought you was dead," he said. + +"Why?" Morganson asked in a faltering voice. + +He had become unused to talking, and he was not acquainted with the +sound of his own voice. It seemed hoarse and strange. + +"You've been dead for more'n two months, now," the barkeeper explained. +"You left here going south, and you never arrived at Selkirk. Where have +you been?" + +"Chopping wood for the steamboat company," Morganson lied unsteadily. + +He was still trying to become acquainted with his own voice. He hobbled +across the floor and leant against the bar. He knew he must lie +consistently; and while he maintained an appearance of careless +indifference, his heart was beating and pounding furiously and +irregularly, and he could not help looking hungrily at the three men by +the stove. They were the possessors of life--his life. + +"But where in hell you been keeping yourself all this time?" the +barkeeper demanded. + +"I located across the river," he answered. "I've got a mighty big stack +of wood chopped." + +The barkeeper nodded. His face beamed with understanding. + +"I heard sounds of chopping several times," he said. "So that was you, +eh? Have a drink?" + +Morganson clutched the bar tightly. A drink! He could have thrown his +arms around the man's legs and kissed his feet. He tried vainly to utter +his acceptance; but the barkeeper had not waited and was already passing +out the bottle. + +"But what did you do for grub?" the latter asked. "You don't look as if +you could chop wood to keep yourself warm. You look terribly bad, +friend." + +Morganson yearned towards the delayed bottle and gulped dryly. + +"I did the chopping before the scurvy got bad," he said. "Then I got a +moose right at the start. I've been living high all right. It's the +scurvy that's run me down." + +He filled the glass, and added, "But the spruce tea's knocking it, I +think." + +"Have another," the barkeeper said. + +The action of the two glasses of whisky on Morganson's empty stomach and +weak condition was rapid. The next he knew he was sitting by the stove +on a box, and it seemed as though ages had passed. A tall, +broad-shouldered, black-whiskered man was paying for drinks. Morganson's +swimming eyes saw him drawing a greenback from a fat roll, and +Morganson's swimming eyes cleared on the instant. They were +hundred-dollar bills. It was life! His life! He felt an almost +irresistible impulse to snatch the money and dash madly out into the +night. + +The black-whiskered man and one of his companions arose. + +"Come on, Oleson," the former said to the third one of the party, a +fair-haired, ruddy-faced giant. + +Oleson came to his feet, yawning and stretching. + +"What are you going to bed so soon for?" the barkeeper asked +plaintively. "It's early yet." + +"Got to make Selkirk to-morrow," said he of the black whiskers. + +"On Christmas Day!" the barkeeper cried. + +"The better the day the better the deed," the other laughed. + +As the three men passed out of the door it came dimly to Morganson that +it was Christmas Eve. That was the date. That was what he had come to +Minto for. But it was overshadowed now by the three men themselves, and +the fat roll of hundred-dollar bills. + +The door slammed. + +"That's Jack Thompson," the barkeeper said. "Made two millions on +Bonanza and Sulphur, and got more coming. I'm going to bed. Have +another drink first." + +Morganson hesitated. + +"A Christmas drink," the other urged. "It's all right. I'll get it back +when you sell your wood." + +Morganson mastered his drunkenness long enough to swallow the whisky, +say good night, and get out on the trail. It was moonlight, and he +hobbled along through the bright, silvery quiet, with a vision of life +before him that took the form of a roll of hundred-dollar bills. + +He awoke. It was dark, and he was in his blankets. He had gone to bed in +his moccasins and mittens, with the flaps of his cap pulled down over +his ears. He got up as quickly as his crippled condition would permit, +and built the fire and boiled some water. As he put the spruce-twigs +into the teapot he noted the first glimmer of the pale morning light. He +caught up his rifle and hobbled in a panic out to the bank. As he +crouched and waited, it came to him that he had forgotten to drink his +spruce tea. The only other thought in his mind was the possibility of +John Thompson changing his mind and not travelling Christmas Day. + +Dawn broke and merged into day. It was cold and clear. Sixty below zero +was Morganson's estimate of the frost. Not a breath stirred the chill +Arctic quiet. He sat up suddenly, his muscular tensity increasing the +hurt of the scurvy. He had heard the far sound of a man's voice and the +faint whining of dogs. He began beating his hands back and forth against +his sides. It was a serious matter to bare the trigger hand to sixty +degrees below zero, and against that time he needed to develop all the +warmth of which his flesh was capable. + +They came into view around the outjutting clump of trees. To the fore +was the third man whose name he had not learnt. Then came eight dogs +drawing the sled. At the front of the sled, guiding it by the gee-pole, +walked John Thompson. The rear was brought up by Oleson, the Swede. He +was certainly a fine man, Morganson thought, as he looked at the bulk of +him in his squirrel-skin _parka_. The men and dogs were silhouetted +sharply against the white of the landscape. They had the seeming of two +dimension, cardboard figures that worked mechanically. + +Morganson rested his cocked rifle in the notch in the tree. He became +abruptly aware that his fingers were cold, and discovered that his right +hand was bare. He did not know that he had taken off the mitten. He +slipped it on again hastily. The men and dogs drew closer, and he could +see their breaths spouting into visibility in the cold air. When the +first man was fifty yards away, Morganson slipped the mitten from his +right hand. He placed the first finger on the trigger and aimed low. +When he fired the first man whirled half around and went down on the +trail. + +In the instant of surprise, Morganson pulled the trigger on John +Thompson--too low, for the latter staggered and sat down suddenly on the +sled. Morganson raised his aim and fired again. John Thompson sank down +backward along the top of the loaded sled. + +Morganson turned his attention to Oleson. At the same time that he noted +the latter running away towards Minto he noted that the dogs, coming to +where the first man's body blocked the trail, had halted. Morganson +fired at the fleeing man and missed, and Oleson swerved. He continued to +swerve back and forth, while Morganson fired twice in rapid succession +and missed both shots. Morganson stopped himself just as he was pulling +the trigger again. He had fired six shots. Only one more cartridge +remained, and it was in the chamber. It was imperative that he should +not miss his last shot. + +He held his fire and desperately studied Oleson's flight. The giant was +grotesquely curving and twisting and running at top speed along the +trail, the tail of his _parka_ flapping smartly behind. Morganson +trained his rifle on the man and with a swaying action followed his +erratic flight. Morganson's finger was getting numb. He could scarcely +feel the trigger. "God help me," he breathed a prayer aloud, and pulled +the trigger. The running man pitched forward on his face, rebounded from +the hard trail, and slid along, rolling over and over. He threshed for +a moment with his arms and then lay quiet. + +Morganson dropped his rifle (worthless now that the last cartridge was +gone) and slid down the bank through the soft snow. Now that he had +sprung the trap, concealment of his lurking-place was no longer +necessary. He hobbled along the trail to the sled, his fingers making +involuntary gripping and clutching movements inside the mittens. + +The snarling of the dogs halted him. The leader, a heavy dog, half +Newfoundland and half Hudson Bay, stood over the body of the man that +lay on the trail, and menaced Morganson with bristling hair and bared +fangs. The other seven dogs of the team were likewise bristling and +snarling. Morganson approached tentatively, and the team surged towards +him. He stopped again and talked to the animals, threatening and +cajoling by turns. He noticed the face of the man under the leader's +feet, and was surprised at how quickly it had turned white with the ebb +of life and the entrance of the frost. John Thompson lay back along the +top of the loaded sled, his head sunk in a space between two sacks and +his chin tilted upwards, so that all Morganson could see was the black +beard pointing skyward. + +Finding it impossible to face the dogs Morganson stepped off the trail +into the deep snow and floundered in a wide circle to the rear of the +sled. Under the initiative of the leader, the team swung around in its +tangled harness. Because of his crippled condition, Morganson could move +only slowly. He saw the animals circling around on him and tried to +retreat. He almost made it, but the big leader, with a savage lunge, +sank its teeth into the calf of his leg. The flesh was slashed and torn, +but Morganson managed to drag himself clear. + +He cursed the brutes fiercely, but could not cow them. They replied with +neck-bristling and snarling, and with quick lunges against their +breastbands. He remembered Oleson, and turned his back upon them and +went along the trail. He scarcely took notice of his lacerated leg. It +was bleeding freely; the main artery had been torn, but he did not know +it. + +Especially remarkable to Morganson was the extreme pallor of the Swede, +who the preceding night had been so ruddy-faced. Now his face was like +white marble. What with his fair hair and lashes he looked like a carved +statue rather than something that had been a man a few minutes before. +Morganson pulled off his mittens and searched the body. There was no +money-belt around the waist next to the skin, nor did he find a +gold-sack. In a breast pocket he lit on a small wallet. With fingers +that swiftly went numb with the frost, he hurried through the contents +of the wallet. There were letters with foreign stamps and postmarks on +them, and several receipts and memorandum accounts, and a letter of +credit for eight hundred dollars. That was all. There was no money. + +He made a movement to start back toward the sled, but found his foot +rooted to the trail. He glanced down and saw that he stood in a fresh +deposit of frozen red. There was red ice on his torn pants leg and on +the moccasin beneath. With a quick effort he broke the frozen clutch of +his blood and hobbled along the trail to the sled. The big leader that +had bitten him began snarling and lunging, and was followed in this +conduct by the whole team. + +Morganson wept weakly for a space, and weakly swayed from one side to +the other. Then he brushed away the frozen tears that gemmed his lashes. +It was a joke. Malicious chance was having its laugh at him. Even John +Thompson, with his heaven-aspiring whiskers, was laughing at him. + +He prowled around the sled demented, at times weeping and pleading with +the brutes for his life there on the sled, at other times raging +impotently against them. Then calmness came upon him. He had been making +a fool of himself. All he had to do was to go to the tent, get the axe, +and return and brain the dogs. He'd show them. + +In order to get to the tent he had to go wide of the sled and the savage +animals. He stepped off the trail into the soft snow. Then he felt +suddenly giddy and stood still. He was afraid to go on for fear he would +fall down. He stood still for a long time, balancing himself on his +crippled legs that were trembling violently from weakness. He looked +down and saw the snow reddening at his feet. The blood flowed freely as +ever. He had not thought the bite was so severe. He controlled his +giddiness and stooped to examine the wound. The snow seemed rushing up +to meet him, and he recoiled from it as from a blow. He had a panic fear +that he might fall down, and after a struggle he managed to stand +upright again. He was afraid of that snow that had rushed up to him. + +Then the white glimmer turned black, and the next he knew he was +awakening in the snow where he had fallen. He was no longer giddy. The +cobwebs were gone. But he could not get up. There was no strength in his +limbs. His body seemed lifeless. By a desperate effort he managed to +roll over on his side. In this position he caught a glimpse of the sled +and of John Thompson's black beard pointing skyward. Also he saw the +lead dog licking the face of the man who lay on the trail. Morganson +watched curiously. The dog was nervous and eager. Sometimes it uttered +short, sharp yelps, as though to arouse the man, and surveyed him with +ears cocked forward and wagging tail. At last it sat down, pointed its +nose upward, and began to howl. Soon all the team was howling. + +Now that he was down, Morganson was no longer afraid. He had a vision of +himself being found dead in the snow, and for a while he wept in +self-pity. But he was not afraid. The struggle had gone out of him. When +he tried to open his eyes he found that the wet tears had frozen them +shut. He did not try to brush the ice away. It did not matter. He had +not dreamed death was so easy. He was even angry that he had struggled +and suffered through so many weary weeks. He had been bullied and +cheated by the fear of death. Death did not hurt. Every torment he had +endured had been a torment of life. Life had defamed death. It was a +cruel thing. + +But his anger passed. The lies and frauds of life were of no consequence +now that he was coming to his own. He became aware of drowsiness, and +felt a sweet sleep stealing upon him, balmy with promises of easement +and rest. He heard faintly the howling of the dogs, and had a fleeting +thought that in the mastering of his flesh the frost no longer bit. Then +the light and the thought ceased to pulse beneath the tear-gemmed +eyelids, and with a tired sigh of comfort he sank into sleep. + + + + +THE END OF THE STORY + + +I + +The table was of hand-hewn spruce boards, and the men who played whist +had frequent difficulties in drawing home their tricks across the uneven +surface. Though they sat in their undershirts, the sweat noduled and +oozed on their faces; yet their feet, heavily moccasined and +woollen-socked, tingled with the bite of the frost. Such was the +difference of temperature in the small cabin between the floor level and +a yard or more above it. The sheet-iron Yukon Stove roared red-hot, yet, +eight feet away, on the meat-shelf, placed low and beside the door, lay +chunks of solidly frozen moose and bacon. The door, a third of the way +up from the bottom, was a thick rime. In the chinking between the logs +at the back of the bunks the frost showed white and glistening. A window +of oiled paper furnished light. The lower portion of the paper, on the +inside, was coated an inch deep with the frozen moisture of the men's +breath. + +They played a momentous rubber of whist, for the pair that lost was to +dig a fishing hole through the seven feet of ice and snow that covered +the Yukon. + +"It's mighty unusual, a cold snap like this in March," remarked the man +who shuffled. "What would you call it, Bob?" + +"Oh, fifty-five or sixty below--all of that. What do you make it, Doc?" + +Doc turned his head and glanced at the lower part of the door with a +measuring eye. + +"Not a bit worse than fifty. If anything, slightly under--say +forty-nine. See the ice on the door. It's just about the fifty mark, but +you'll notice the upper edge is ragged. The time she went seventy the +ice climbed a full four inches higher." He picked up his hand, and +without ceasing from sorting called "Come in," to a knock on the door. + +The man who entered was a big, broad-shouldered Swede, though his +nationality was not discernible until he had removed his ear-flapped cap +and thawed away the ice which had formed on beard and moustache and +which served to mask his face. While engaged in this, the men at the +table played out the hand. + +"I hear one doctor faller stop this camp," the Swede said inquiringly, +looking anxiously from face to face, his own face haggard and drawn from +severe and long endured pain. "I come long way. North fork of the Whyo." + +"I'm the doctor. What's the matter?" + +In response, the man held up his left hand, the second finger of which +was monstrously swollen. At the same time he began a rambling, +disjointed history of the coming and growth of his affliction. + +"Let me look at it," the doctor broke in impatiently. "Lay it on the +table. There, like that." + +Tenderly, as if it were a great boil, the man obeyed. + +"Humph," the doctor grumbled. "A weeping sinew. And travelled a hundred +miles to have it fixed. I'll fix it in a jiffy. You watch me, and next +time you can do it yourself." + +Without warning, squarely and at right angles, and savagely, the doctor +brought the edge of his hand down on the swollen crooked finger. The man +yelled with consternation and agony. It was more like the cry of a wild +beast, and his face was a wild beast's as he was about to spring on the +man who had perpetrated the joke. + +"That's all right," the doctor placated sharply and authoritatively. +"How do you feel? Better, eh? Of course. Next time you can do it +yourself--Go on and deal, Strothers. I think we've got you." + +Slow and ox-like, on the face of the Swede dawned relief and +comprehension. The pang over, the finger felt better. The pain was gone. +He examined the finger curiously, with wondering eyes, slowly crooking +it back and forth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a +gold-sack. + +"How much?" + +The doctor shook his head impatiently. "Nothing. I'm not +practising--Your play, Bob." + +The Swede moved heavily on his feet, re-examined the finger, then turned +an admiring gaze on the doctor. + +"You are good man. What your name?" + +"Linday, Doctor Linday," Strothers answered, as if solicitous to save +his opponent from further irritation. + +"The day's half done," Linday said to the Swede, at the end of the hand, +while he shuffled. "Better rest over to-night. It's too cold for +travelling. There's a spare bunk." + +He was a slender brunette of a man, lean-cheeked, thin-lipped, and +strong. The smooth-shaven face was a healthy sallow. All his movements +were quick and precise. He did not fumble his cards. The eyes were +black, direct, and piercing, with the trick of seeming to look beneath +the surfaces of things. His hands, slender, fine and nervous, appeared +made for delicate work, and to the most casual eye they conveyed an +impression of strength. + +"Our game," he announced, drawing in the last trick. "Now for the rub +and who digs the fishing hole." + +A knock at the door brought a quick exclamation from him. + +"Seems we just can't finish this rubber," he complained, as the door +opened. "What's the matter with _you_?"--this last to the stranger who +entered. + +The newcomer vainly strove to move his icebound jaws and jowls. That he +had been on trail for long hours and days was patent. The skin across +the cheekbones was black with repeated frost-bite. From nose to chin was +a mass of solid ice perforated by the hole through which he breathed. +Through this he had also spat tobacco juice, which had frozen, as it +trickled, into an amber-coloured icicle, pointed like a Van Dyke beard. + +He shook his head dumbly, grinned with his eyes, and drew near to the +stove to thaw his mouth to speech. He assisted the process with his +fingers, clawing off fragments of melting ice which rattled and sizzled +on the stove. + +"Nothing the matter with me," he finally announced. "But if they's a +doctor in the outfit he's sure needed. They's a man up the Little Peco +that's had a ruction with a panther, an' the way he's clawed is +something scand'lous." + +"How far up?" Doctor Linday demanded. + +"A matter of a hundred miles." + +"How long since?" + +"I've ben three days comin' down." + +"Bad?" + +"Shoulder dislocated. Some ribs broke for sure. Right arm broke. An' +clawed clean to the bone most all over but the face. We sewed up two or +three bad places temporary, and tied arteries with twine." + +"That settles it," Linday sneered. "Where were they?" + +"Stomach." + +"He's a sight by now." + +"Not on your life. Washed clean with bug-killin' dope before we +stitched. Only temporary anyway. Had nothin' but linen thread, but +washed that, too." + +"He's as good as dead," was Linday's judgment, as he angrily fingered +the cards. + +"Nope. That man ain't goin' to die. He knows I've come for a doctor, an' +he'll make out to live until you get there. He won't let himself die. I +know him." + +"Christian Science and gangrene, eh?" came the sneer. "Well, I'm not +practising. Nor can I see myself travelling a hundred miles at fifty +below for a dead man." + +"I can see you, an' for a man a long ways from dead." + +Linday shook his head. "Sorry you had your trip for nothing. Better stop +over for the night." + +"Nope. We'll be pullin' out in ten minutes." + +"What makes you so cocksure?" Linday demanded testily. + +Then it was that Tom Daw made the speech of his life. + +"Because he's just goin' on livin' till you get there, if it takes you a +week to make up your mind. Besides, his wife's with him, not sheddin' a +tear, or nothin', an' she's helpin' him live till you come. They think a +almighty heap of each other, an' she's got a will like hisn. If he +weakened, she'd just put her immortal soul into hisn an' make him live. +Though he ain't weakenin' none, you can stack on that. I'll stack on it. +I'll lay you three to one, in ounces, he's alive when you get there. I +got a team of dawgs down the bank. You ought to allow to start in ten +minutes, an' we ought to make it back in less'n three days because the +trail's broke. I'm goin' down to the dawgs now, an' I'll look for you in +ten minutes." + +Tom Daw pulled down his earflaps, drew on his mittens, and passed out. + +"Damn him!" Linday cried, glaring vindictively at the closed door. + + +II + +That night, long after dark, with twenty-five miles behind them, Linday +and Tom Daw went into camp. It was a simple but adequate affair: a fire +built in the snow; alongside, their sleeping-furs spread in a single bed +on a mat of spruce boughs; behind the bed an oblong of canvas stretched +to refract the heat. Daw fed the dogs and chopped ice and firewood. +Linday's cheeks burned with frost-bite as he squatted over the cooking. +They ate heavily, smoked a pipe and talked while they dried their +moccasins before the fire, and turned in to sleep the dead sleep of +fatigue and health. + +Morning found the unprecedented cold snap broken. Linday estimated the +temperature at fifteen below and rising. Daw was worried. That day would +see them in the canyon, he explained, and if the spring thaw set in the +canyon would run open water. The walls of the canyon were hundreds to +thousands of feet high. They could be climbed, but the going would be +slow. + +Camped well in the dark and forbidding gorge, over their pipe that +evening they complained of the heat, and both agreed that the +thermometer must be above zero--the first time in six months. + +"Nobody ever heard tell of a panther this far north," Daw was saying. +"Rocky called it a cougar. But I shot a-many of 'em down in Curry +County, Oregon, where I come from, an' we called 'em panther. Anyway, it +was a bigger cat than ever I seen. It was sure a monster cat. Now how'd +it ever stray to such out of the way huntin' range?--that's the +question." + +Linday made no comment. He was nodding. Propped on sticks, his moccasins +steamed unheeded and unturned. The dogs, curled in furry balls, slept in +the snow. The crackle of an ember accentuated the profound of silence +that reigned. He awoke with a start and gazed at Daw, who nodded and +returned the gaze. Both listened. From far off came a vague disturbance +that increased to a vast and sombre roaring. As it neared, +ever-increasing, riding the mountain tops as well as the canyon depths, +bowing the forest before it, bending the meagre, crevice-rooted pines on +the walls of the gorge, they knew it for what it was. A wind, strong and +warm, a balmy gale, drove past them, flinging a rocket-shower of sparks +from the fire. The dogs, aroused, sat on their haunches, bleak noses +pointed upward, and raised the long wolf howl. + +"It's the Chinook," Daw said. + +"It means the river trail, I suppose?" + +"Sure thing. And ten miles of it is easier than one over the tops." Daw +surveyed Linday for a long, considering minute. "We've just had fifteen +hours of trail," he shouted above the wind, tentatively, and again +waited. "Doc," he said finally, "are you game?" + +For answer, Linday knocked out his pipe and began to pull on his damp +moccasins. Between them, and in few minutes, bending to the force of the +wind, the dogs were harnessed, camp broken, and the cooking outfit and +unused sleeping furs lashed on the sled. Then, through the darkness, for +a night of travel, they churned out on the trail Daw had broken nearly a +week before. And all through the night the Chinook roared and they urged +the weary dogs and spurred their own jaded muscles. Twelve hours of it +they made, and stopped for breakfast after twenty-seven hours on trail. + +"An hour's sleep," said Daw, when they had wolfed pounds of straight +moose-meat fried with bacon. + +Two hours he let his companion sleep, afraid himself to close his eyes. +He occupied himself with making marks upon the soft-surfaced, shrinking +snow. Visibly it shrank. In two hours the snow level sank three inches. +From every side, faintly heard and near, under the voice of the spring +wind, came the trickling of hidden waters. The Little Peco, strengthened +by the multitudinous streamlets, rose against the manacles of winter, +riving the ice with crashings and snappings. + +Daw touched Linday on the shoulder; touched him again; shook, and shook +violently. + +"Doc," he murmured admiringly. "You can sure go some." + +The weary black eyes, under heavy lids, acknowledged the compliment. + +"But that ain't the question. Rocky is clawed something scand'lous. As I +said before, I helped sew up his in'ards. Doc...." He shook the man, +whose eyes had again closed. "I say, Doc! The question is: can you go +some more?--hear me? I say, can you go some more?" + +The weary dogs snapped and whimpered when kicked from their sleep. The +going was slow, not more than two miles an hour, and the animals took +every opportunity to lie down in the wet snow. + +"Twenty miles of it, and we'll be through the gorge," Daw encouraged. +"After that the ice can go to blazes, for we can take to the bank, and +it's only ten more miles to camp. Why, Doc, we're almost there. And when +you get Rocky fixed up, you can come down in a canoe in one day." + +But the ice grew more uneasy under them, breaking loose from the +shore-line and rising steadily inch by inch. In places where it still +held to the shore, the water overran and they waded and slushed across. +The Little Peco growled and muttered. Cracks and fissures were forming +everywhere as they battled on for the miles that each one of which meant +ten along the tops. + +"Get on the sled, Doc, an' take a snooze," Daw invited. + +The glare from the black eyes prevented him from repeating the +suggestion. + +As early as midday they received definite warning of the beginning of +the end. Cakes of ice, borne downward in the rapid current, began to +thunder beneath the ice on which they stood. The dogs whimpered +anxiously and yearned for the bank. + +"That means open water above," Daw explained. "Pretty soon she'll jam +somewheres, an' the river'll raise a hundred feet in a hundred minutes. +It's us for the tops if we can find a way to climb out. Come on! Hit her +up I! An' just to think, the Yukon'll stick solid for weeks." + +Unusually narrow at this point, the great walls of the canyon were too +precipitous to scale. Daw and Linday had to keep on; and they kept on +till the disaster happened. With a loud explosion, the ice broke asunder +midway under the team. The two animals in the middle of the string went +into the fissure, and the grip of the current on their bodies dragged +the lead-dog backward and in. Swept downstream under the ice, these +three bodies began to drag to the edge the two whining dogs that +remained. The men held back frantically on the sled, but were slowly +drawn along with it. It was all over in the space of seconds. Daw +slashed the wheel-dog's traces with his sheath-knife, and the animal +whipped over the ice-edge and was gone. The ice on which they stood, +broke into a large and pivoting cake that ground and splintered against +the shore ice and rocks. Between them they got the sled ashore and up +into a crevice in time to see the ice-cake up-edge, sink, and +down-shelve from view. + +Meat and sleeping furs were made into packs, and the sled was abandoned. +Linday resented Daw's taking the heavier pack, but Daw had his will. + +"You got to work as soon as you get there. Come on." + +It was one in the afternoon when they started to climb. At eight that +evening they cleared the rim and for half an hour lay where they had +fallen. Then came the fire, a pot of coffee, and an enormous feed of +moosemeat. But first Linday hefted the two packs, and found his own +lighter by half. + +"You're an iron man, Daw," he admired. + +"Who? Me? Oh, pshaw! You ought to see Rocky. He's made out of platinum, +an' armour plate, an' pure gold, an' all strong things. I'm mountaineer, +but he plumb beats me out. Down in Curry County I used to 'most kill the +boys when we run bear. So when I hooks up with Rocky on our first hunt I +had a mean idea to show 'm a few. I let out the links good an' generous, +'most nigh keepin' up with the dawgs, an' along comes Rocky a-treadin' +on my heels. I knowed he couldn't last that way, and I just laid down +an' did my dangdest. An' there he was, at the end of another hour, +a-treadin' steady an' regular on my heels. I was some huffed. 'Mebbe +you'd like to come to the front an' show me how to travel,' I says. +'Sure,' says he. An' he done it! I stayed with 'm, but let me tell you I +was plumb tuckered by the time the bear tree'd. + +"They ain't no stoppin' that man. He ain't afraid of nothin'. Last fall, +before the freeze-up, him an' me was headin' for camp about twilight. I +was clean shot out--ptarmigan--an' he had one cartridge left. An' the +dawgs tree'd a she grizzly. Small one. Only weighed about three hundred, +but you know what grizzlies is. 'Don't do it,' says I, when he ups with +his rifle. 'You only got that one shot, an' it's too dark to see the +sights.' + +"'Climb a tree,' says he. I didn't climb no tree, but when that bear +come down a-cussin' among the dawgs, an' only creased, I want to tell +you I was sure hankerin' for a tree. It was some ruction. Then things +come on real bad. The bear slid down a hollow against a big log. +Downside, that log was four feet up an' down. Dawgs couldn't get at bear +that way. Upside was steep gravel, an' the dawgs'd just naturally slide +down into the bear. They was no jumpin' back, an' the bear was +a-manglin' 'em fast as they come. All underbrush, gettin' pretty dark, +no cartridges, nothin'. + +"What's Rocky up an' do? He goes downside of log, reaches over with his +knife, an' begins slashin'. But he can only reach bear's rump, an' dawgs +bein' ruined fast, one-two-three time. Rocky gets desperate. He don't +like to lose his dawgs. He jumps on top log, grabs bear by the slack of +the rump, an' heaves over back'ard right over top of that log. Down they +go, kit an' kaboodle, twenty feet, bear, dawgs, an' Rocky, slidin', +cussin', an' scratchin', ker-plump into ten feet of water in the bed of +stream. They all swum out different ways. Nope, he didn't get the bear, +but he saved the dawgs. That's Rocky. They's no stoppin' him when his +mind's set." + +It was at the next camp that Linday heard how Rocky had come to be +injured. + +"I'd ben up the draw, about a mile from the cabin, lookin' for a piece +of birch likely enough for an axe-handle. Comin' back I heard the +darndest goings-on where we had a bear trap set. Some trapper had left +the trap in an old cache an' Rocky'd fixed it up. But the goings-on. It +was Rocky an' his brother Harry. First I'd hear one yell and laugh, an' +then the other, like it was some game. An' what do you think the fool +game was? I've saw some pretty nervy cusses down in Curry County, but +they beat all. They'd got a whoppin' big panther in the trap an' was +takin' turns rappin' it on the nose with a light stick. But that wa'n't +the point. I just come out of the brush in time to see Harry rap it. +Then he chops six inches off the stick an' passes it to Rocky. You see, +that stick was growin' shorter all the time. It ain't as easy as you +think. The panther'd slack back an' hunch down an' spit, an' it was +mighty lively in duckin' the stick. An' you never knowed when it'd jump. +It was caught by the hind leg, which was curious, too, an' it had some +slack I'm tellin' you. + +"It was just a game of dare they was playin', an' the stick gettin' +shorter an' shorter an' the panther madder 'n madder. Bimeby they wa'n't +no stick left--only a nubbin, about four inches long, an' it was Rocky's +turn. 'Better quit now,' says Harry. 'What for?' says Rocky. 'Because if +you rap him again they won't be no stick left for me,' Harry answers. +'Then you'll quit an' I win,' says Rocky with a laugh, an' goes to it. + +"An' I don't want to see anything like it again. That cat'd bunched back +an' down till it had all of six feet slack in its body. An' Rocky's +stick four inches long. The cat got him. You couldn't see one from +t'other. No chance to shoot. It was Harry, in the end, that got his +knife into the panther's jugular." + +"If I'd known how he got it I'd never have come," was Linday's comment. + +Daw nodded concurrence. + +"That's what she said. She told me sure not to whisper how it +happened." + +"Is he crazy?" Linday demanded in his wrath. + +"They're all crazy. Him an' his brother are all the time devilin' each +other to tom-fool things. I seen them swim the riffle last fall, bad +water an' mush-ice runnin'--on a dare. They ain't nothin' they won't +tackle. An' she's 'most as bad. Not afraid some herself. She'll do +anything Rocky'll let her. But he's almighty careful with her. Treats +her like a queen. No camp-work or such for her. That's why another man +an' me are hired on good wages. They've got slathers of money an' +they're sure dippy on each other. 'Looks like good huntin',' says Rocky, +when they struck that section last fall. 'Let's make a camp then,' says +Harry. An' me all the time thinkin' they was lookin' for gold. Ain't ben +a prospect pan washed the whole winter." + +Linday's anger mounted. "I haven't any patience with fools. For two +cents I'd turn back." + +"No you wouldn't," Daw assured him confidently. "They ain't enough grub +to turn back, an' we'll be there to-morrow. Just got to cross that last +divide an' drop down to the cabin. An' they's a better reason. You're +too far from home, an' I just naturally wouldn't let you turn back." + +Exhausted as Linday was, the flash in his black eyes warned Daw that he +had overreached himself. His hand went out. + +"My mistake, Doc. Forget it. I reckon I'm gettin' some cranky what of +losin' them dawgs." + + +III + +Not one day, but three days later, the two men, after being snowed in on +the summit by a spring blizzard, staggered up to a cabin that stood in a +fat bottom beside the roaring Little Peco. Coming in from the bright +sunshine to the dark cabin, Linday observed little of its occupants. He +was no more than aware of two men and a woman. But he was not interested +in them. He went directly to the bunk where lay the injured man. The +latter was lying on his back, with eyes closed, and Linday noted the +slender stencilling of the brows and the kinky silkiness of the brown +hair. Thin and wan, the face seemed too small for the muscular neck, yet +the delicate features, despite their waste, were firmly moulded. + +"What dressings have you been using?" Linday asked of the woman. + +"Corrosive, sublimate, regular solution," came the answer. + +He glanced quickly at her, shot an even quicker glance at the face of +the injured man, and stood erect. She breathed sharply, abruptly biting +off the respiration with an effort of will. Linday turned to the men. + +"You clear out--chop wood or something. Clear out." + +One of them demurred. + +"This is a serious case," Linday went on. "I want to talk to his wife." + +"I'm his brother," said the other. + +To him the woman looked, praying him with her eyes. He nodded +reluctantly and turned toward the door. + +"Me, too?" Daw queried from the bench where he had flung himself down. + +"You, too." + +Linday busied himself with a superficial examination of the patient +while the cabin was emptying. + +"So?" he said. "So that's your Rex Strang." + +She dropped her eyes to the man in the bunk as if to reassure herself of +his identity, and then in silence returned Linday's gaze. + +"Why don't you speak?" + +She shrugged her shoulders. "What is the use? You know it is Rex +Strang." + +"Thank you. Though I might remind you that it is the first time I have +ever seen him. Sit down." He waved her to a stool, himself taking the +bench. "I'm really about all in, you know. There's no turnpike from the +Yukon here." + +He drew a penknife and began extracting a thorn from his thumb. + +"What are you going to do?" she asked, after a minute's wait. + +"Eat and rest up before I start back." + +"What are you going to do about...." She inclined her head toward the +unconscious man. + +"Nothing." + +She went over to the bunk and rested her fingers lightly on the +tight-curled hair. + +"You mean you will kill him," she said slowly. "Kill him by doing +nothing, for you can save him if you will." + +"Take it that way." He considered a moment, and stated his thought with +a harsh little laugh. "From time immemorial in this weary old world it +has been a not uncommon custom so to dispose of wife-stealers." + +"You are unfair, Grant," she answered gently. "You forget that I was +willing and that I desired. I was a free agent. Rex never stole me. It +was you who lost me. I went with him, willing and eager, with song on my +lips. As well accuse me of stealing him. We went together." + +"A good way of looking at it," Linday conceded. "I see you are as keen a +thinker as ever, Madge. That must have bothered him." + +"A keen thinker can be a good lover--" + +"And not so foolish," he broke in. + +"Then you admit the wisdom of my course?" + +He threw up his hands. "That's the devil of it, talking with clever +women. A man always forgets and traps himself. I wouldn't wonder if you +won him with a syllogism." + +Her reply was the hint of a smile in her straight-looking blue eyes and +a seeming emanation of sex pride from all the physical being of her. + +"No, I take that back, Madge. If you'd been a numbskull you'd have won +him, or any one else, on your looks, and form, and carriage. I ought to +know. I've been through that particular mill, and, the devil take me, +I'm not through it yet." + +His speech was quick and nervous and irritable, as it always was, and, +as she knew, it was always candid. She took her cue from his last +remark. + +"Do you remember Lake Geneva?" + +"I ought to. I was rather absurdly happy." + +She nodded, and her eyes were luminous. "There is such a thing as old +sake. Won't you, Grant, please, just remember back ... a little ... oh, +so little ... of what we were to each other ... then?" + +"Now you're taking advantage," he smiled, and returned to the attack on +his thumb. He drew the thorn out, inspected it critically, then +concluded. "No, thank you. I'm not playing the Good Samaritan." + +"Yet you made this hard journey for an unknown man," she urged. + +His impatience was sharply manifest. "Do you fancy I'd have moved a step +had I known he was my wife's lover?" + +"But you are here ... now. And there he lies. What are you going to do?" + +"Nothing. Why should I? I am not at the man's service. He pilfered me." + +She was about to speak, when a knock came on the door. + +"Get out!" he shouted. + +"If you want any assistance--" + +"Get out! Get a bucket of water! Set it down outside!" + +"You are going to...?" she began tremulously. + +"Wash up." + +She recoiled from the brutality, and her lips tightened. + +"Listen, Grant," she said steadily. "I shall tell his brother. I know +the Strang breed. If you can forget old sake, so can I. If you don't do +something, he'll kill you. Why, even Tom Daw would if I asked." + +"You should know me better than to threaten," he reproved gravely, then +added, with a sneer: "Besides, I don't see how killing me will help your +Rex Strang." + +She gave a low gasp, closed her lips tightly, and watched his quick eyes +take note of the trembling that had beset her. + +"It's not hysteria, Grant," she cried hastily and anxiously, with +clicking teeth. "You never saw me with hysteria. I've never had it. I +don't know what it is, but I'll control it. I am merely beside myself. +It's partly anger--with you. And it's apprehension and fear. I don't +want to lose him. I do love him, Grant. He is my king, my lover. And I +have sat here beside him so many dreadful days now. Oh, Grant, please, +please." + +"Just nerves," he commented drily. "Stay with it. You can best it. If +you were a man I'd say take a smoke." + +She went unsteadily back to the stool, where she watched him and fought +for control. From the rough fireplace came the singing of a cricket. +Outside two wolf-dogs bickered. The injured man's chest rose and fell +perceptibly under the fur robes. She saw a smile, not altogether +pleasant, form on Linday's lips. + +"How much do you love him?" he asked. + +Her breast filled and rose, and her eyes shone with a light unashamed +and proud. He nodded in token that he was answered. + +"Do you mind if I take a little time?" He stopped, casting about for the +way to begin. "I remember reading a story--Herbert Shaw wrote it, I +think. I want to tell you about it. There was a woman, young and +beautiful; a man magnificent, a lover of beauty and a wanderer. I don't +know how much like your Rex Strang he was, but I fancy a sort of +resemblance. Well, this man was a painter, a bohemian, a vagabond. He +kissed--oh, several times and for several weeks--and rode away. She +possessed for him what I thought you possessed for me ... at Lake +Geneva. In ten years she wept the beauty out of her face. Some women +turn yellow, you know, when grief upsets their natural juices. + +"Now it happened that the man went blind, and ten years afterward, led +as a child by the hand, he stumbled back to her. There was nothing left. +He could no longer paint. And she was very happy, and glad he could not +see her face. Remember, he worshipped beauty. And he continued to hold +her in his arms and believe in her beauty. The memory of it was vivid in +him. He never ceased to talk about it, and to lament that he could not +behold it. + +"One day he told her of five great pictures he wished to paint. If only +his sight could be restored to paint them, he could write _finis_ and be +content. And then, no matter how, there came into her hands an elixir. +Anointed on his eyes, the sight would surely and fully return." + +Linday shrugged his shoulders. + +"You see her struggle. With sight, he could paint his five pictures. +Also, he would leave her. Beauty was his religion. It was impossible +that he could abide her ruined face. Five days she struggled. Then she +anointed his eyes." + +Linday broke off and searched her with his eyes, the high lights focused +sharply in the brilliant black. + +"The question is, do you love Rex Strang as much as that?" + +"And if I do?" she countered. + +"Do you?" + +"Yes." + +"You can sacrifice? You can give him up?" + +Slow and reluctant was her "Yes." + +"And you will come with me?" + +"Yes." This time her voice was a whisper. "When he is well--yes." + +"You understand. It must be Lake Geneva over again. You will be my +wife." + +She seemed to shrink and droop, but her head nodded. + +"Very well." He stood up briskly, went to his pack, and began +unstrapping. "I shall need help. Bring his brother in. Bring them all +in. Boiling water--let there be lots of it. I've brought bandages, but +let me see what you have in that line.--Here, Daw, build up that fire +and start boiling all the water you can.--Here you," to the other man, +"get that table out and under the window there. Clean it; scrub it; +scald it. Clean, man, clean, as you never cleaned a thing before. You, +Mrs. Strang, will be my helper. No sheets, I suppose. Well, we'll manage +somehow.--You're his brother, sir. I'll give the anæsthetic, but you +must keep it going afterward. Now listen, while I instruct you. In the +first place--but before that, can you take a pulse?..." + + +IV + +Noted for his daring and success as a surgeon, through the days and +weeks that followed Linday exceeded himself in daring and success. +Never, because of the frightful mangling and breakage, and because of +the long delay, had he encountered so terrible a case. But he had never +had a healthier specimen of human wreck to work upon. Even then he would +have failed, had it not been for the patient's catlike vitality and +almost uncanny physical and mental grip on life. + +There were days of high temperature and delirium; days of heart-sinking +when Strang's pulse was barely perceptible; days when he lay conscious, +eyes weary and drawn, the sweat of pain on his face. Linday was +indefatigable, cruelly efficient, audacious and fortunate, daring hazard +after hazard and winning. He was not content to make the man live. He +devoted himself to the intricate and perilous problem of making him +whole and strong again. + +"He will be a cripple?" Madge queried. + +"He will not merely walk and talk and be a limping caricature of his +former self," Linday told her. "He shall run and leap, swim riffles, +ride bears, fight panthers, and do all things to the top of his fool +desire. And, I warn you, he will fascinate women just as of old. Will +you like that? Are you content? Remember, you will not be with him." + +"Go on, go on," she breathed. "Make him whole. Make him what he was." + +More than once, whenever Strang's recuperation permitted, Linday put him +under the anæsthetic and did terrible things, cutting and sewing, +rewiring and connecting up the disrupted organism. Later, developed a +hitch in the left arm. Strang could lift it so far, and no farther. +Linday applied himself to the problem. It was a case of more wires, +shrunken, twisted, disconnected. Again it was cut and switch and ease +and disentangle. And all that saved Strang was his tremendous vitality +and the health of his flesh. + +"You will kill him," his brother complained. "Let him be. For God's sake +let him be. A live and crippled man is better than a whole and dead +one." + +Linday flamed in wrath. "You get out! Out of this cabin with you till +you can come back and say that I make him live. Pull--by God, man, +you've got to pull with me with all your soul. Your brother's travelling +a hairline razor-edge. Do you understand? A thought can topple him off. +Now get out, and come back sweet and wholesome, convinced beyond all +absoluteness that he will live and be what he was before you and he +played the fool together. Get out, I say." + +The brother, with clenched hands and threatening eyes, looked to Madge +for counsel. + +"Go, go, please," she begged. "He is right. I know he is right." + +Another time, when Strang's condition seemed more promising, the brother +said: + +"Doc, you're a wonder, and all this time I've forgotten to ask your +name." + +"None of your damn business. Don't bother me. Get out." + +The mangled right arm ceased from its healing, burst open again in a +frightful wound. + +"Necrosis," said Linday. + +"That does settle it," groaned the brother. + +"Shut up!" Linday snarled. "Get out! Take Daw with you. Take Bill, too. +Get rabbits--alive--healthy ones. Trap them. Trap everywhere." + +"How many?" the brother asked. + +"Forty of them--four thousand--forty thousand--all you can get. You'll +help me, Mrs. Strang. I'm going to dig into that arm and size up the +damage. Get out, you fellows. You for the rabbits." + +And he dug in, swiftly, unerringly, scraping away disintegrating bone, +ascertaining the extent of the active decay. + +"It never would have happened," he told Madge, "if he hadn't had so many +other things needing vitality first. Even he didn't have vitality +enough to go around. I was watching it, but I had to wait and chance it. +That piece must go. He could manage without it, but rabbit-bone will +make it what it was." + +From the hundreds of rabbits brought in, he weeded out, rejected, +selected, tested, selected and tested again, until he made his final +choice. He used the last of his chloroform and achieved the +bone-graft--living bone to living bone, living man and living rabbit +immovable and indissolubly bandaged and bound together, their mutual +processes uniting and reconstructing a perfect arm. + +And through the whole trying period, especially as Strang mended, +occurred passages of talk between Linday and Madge. Nor was he kind, nor +she rebellious. + +"It's a nuisance," he told her. "But the law is the law, and you'll need +a divorce before we can marry again. What do you say? Shall we go to +Lake Geneva?" + +"As you will," she said. + +And he, another time: "What the deuce did you see in him anyway? I know +he had money. But you and I were managing to get along with some sort +of comfort. My practice was averaging around forty thousand a year +then--I went over the books afterward. Palaces and steam yachts were +about all that was denied you." + +"Perhaps you've explained it," she answered. "Perhaps you were too +interested in your practice. Maybe you forgot me." + +"Humph," he sneered. "And may not your Rex be too interested in panthers +and short sticks?" + +He continually girded her to explain what he chose to call her +infatuation for the other man. + +"There is no explanation," she replied. And, finally, she retorted, "No +one can explain love, I least of all. I only knew love, the divine and +irrefragable fact, that is all. There was once, at Fort Vancouver, a +baron of the Hudson Bay Company who chided the resident Church of +England parson. The dominie had written home to England complaining that +the Company folk, from the head factor down, were addicted to Indian +wives. 'Why didn't you explain the extenuating circumstances?' demanded +the baron. Replied the dominie: 'A cow's tail grows downward. I do not +attempt to explain why the cow's tail grows downward. I merely cite the +fact.'" + +"Damn clever women!" cried Linday, his eyes flashing his irritation. + +"What brought you, of all places, into the Klondike?" she asked once. + +"Too much money. No wife to spend it. Wanted a rest. Possibly overwork. +I tried Colorado, but their telegrams followed me, and some of them did +themselves. I went on to Seattle. Same thing. Ransom ran his wife out to +me in a special train. There was no escaping it. Operation successful. +Local newspapers got wind of it. You can imagine the rest. I had to +hide, so I ran away to Klondike. And--well, Tom Daw found me playing +whist in a cabin down on the Yukon." + +Came the day when Strang's bed was carried out of doors and into the +sunshine. + +"Let me tell him now," she said to Linday. + +"No; wait," he answered. + +Later, Strang was able to sit up on the edge of the bed, able to walk +his first giddy steps, supported on either side. + +"Let me tell him now," she said. + +"No. I'm making a complete job of this. I want no set-backs. There's a +slight hitch still in that left arm. It's a little thing, but I am going +to remake him as God made him. Tomorrow I've planned to get into that +arm and take out the kink. It will mean a couple of days on his back. +I'm sorry there's no more chloroform. He'll just have to bite his teeth +on a spike and hang on. He can do it. He's got grit for a dozen men." + +Summer came on. The snow disappeared, save on the far peaks of the +Rockies to the east. The days lengthened till there was no darkness, the +sun dipping at midnight, due north, for a few minutes beneath the +horizon. Linday never let up on Strang. He studied his walk, his body +movements, stripped him again and again and for the thousandth time made +him flex all his muscles. Massage was given him without end, until +Linday declared that Tom Daw, Bill, and the brother were properly +qualified for Turkish bath and osteopathic hospital attendants. But +Linday was not yet satisfied. He put Strang through his whole repertoire +of physical feats, searching him the while for hidden weaknesses. He put +him on his back again for a week, opened up his leg, played a deft trick +or two with the smaller veins, scraped a spot of bone no larger than a +coffee grain till naught but a surface of healthy pink remained to be +sewed over with the living flesh. + +"Let me tell him," Madge begged. + +"Not yet," was the answer. "You will tell him only when I am ready." + +July passed, and August neared its end, when he ordered Strang out on +trail to get a moose. Linday kept at his heels, watching him, studying +him. He was slender, a cat in the strength of his muscles, and he walked +as Linday had seen no man walk, effortlessly, with all his body, seeming +to lift the legs with supple muscles clear to the shoulders. But it was +without heaviness, so easy that it invested him with a peculiar grace, +so easy that to the eye the speed was deceptive. It was the killing +pace of which Tom Daw had complained. Linday toiled behind, sweating and +panting; from time to time, when the ground favoured, making short runs +to keep up. At the end of ten miles he called a halt and threw himself +down on the moss. + +"Enough!" he cried. "I can't keep up with you." + +He mopped his heated face, and Strang sat down on a spruce log, smiling +at the doctor, and, with the camaraderie of a pantheist, at all the +landscape. + +"Any twinges, or hurts, or aches, or hints of aches?" Linday demanded. + +Strang shook his curly head and stretched his lithe body, living and +joying in every fibre of it. + +"You'll do, Strang. For a winter or two you may expect to feel the cold +and damp in the old wounds. But that will pass, and perhaps you may +escape it altogether." + +"God, Doctor, you have performed miracles with me. I don't know how to +thank you. I don't even know your name." + +"Which doesn't matter. I've pulled you through, and that's the main +thing." + +"But it's a name men must know out in the world," Strang persisted. +"I'll wager I'd recognise it if I heard it." + +"I think you would," was Linday's answer. "But it's beside the matter. I +want one final test, and then I'm done with you. Over the divide at the +head of this creek is a tributary of the Big Windy. Daw tells me that +last year you went over, down to the middle fork, and back again, in +three days. He said you nearly killed him, too. You are to wait here and +camp to-night. I'll send Daw along with the camp outfit. Then it's up to +you to go to the middle fork and back in the same time as last year." + + +V + +"Now," Linday said to Madge. "You have an hour in which to pack. I'll go +and get the canoe ready. Bill's bringing in the moose and won't get back +till dark. We'll make my cabin to-day, and in a week we'll be in +Dawson." + +"I was in hope...." She broke off proudly. + +"That I'd forego the fee?" + +"Oh, a compact is a compact, but you needn't have been so hateful in the +collecting. You have not been fair. You have sent him away for three +days, and robbed me of my last words to him." + +"Leave a letter." + +"I shall tell him all." + +"Anything less than all would be unfair to the three of us," was +Linday's answer. + +When he returned from the canoe, her outfit was packed, the letter +written. + +"Let me read it," he said, "if you don't mind." + +Her hesitation was momentary, then she passed it over. + +"Pretty straight," he said, when he had finished it. "Now, are you +ready?" + +He carried her pack down to the bank, and, kneeling, steadied the canoe +with one hand while he extended the other to help her in. He watched her +closely, but without a tremor she held out her hand to his and prepared +to step on board. + +"Wait," he said. "One moment. You remember the story I told you of the +elixir. I failed to tell you the end. And when she had anointed his eyes +and was about to depart, it chanced she saw in the mirror that her +beauty had been restored to her. And he opened his eyes, and cried out +with joy at the sight of her beauty, and folded her in his arms." + +She waited, tense but controlled, for him to continue, a dawn of wonder +faintly beginning to show in her face and eyes. + +"You are very beautiful, Madge." He paused, then added drily, "The rest +is obvious. I fancy Rex Strang's arms won't remain long empty. +Good-bye." + +"Grant...." she said, almost whispered, and in her voice was all the +speech that needs not words for understanding. + +He gave a nasty little laugh. "I just wanted to show you I wasn't such a +bad sort. Coals of fire, you know." + +"Grant...." + +He stepped into the canoe and put out a slender, nervous hand. + +"Good-bye," he said. + +She folded both her own hands about his. + +"Dear, strong hand," she murmured, and bent and kissed it. + +He jerked it away, thrust the canoe out from the bank, dipped the paddle +in the swift rush of the current, and entered the head of the riffle +where the water poured glassily ere it burst into a white madness of +foam. + + + + +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + +ZANE GREY'S NOVELS + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list + + * * * * * + +THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS + +A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of +frontier warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is +captured by bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a +delightful close. + + +THE RAINBOW TRAIL + +The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great +western uplands--until at last love and faith awake. + + +DESERT GOLD + +The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with +the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who +is the story's heroine. + + +RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE + +A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon +authority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the +story. + + +THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN + +This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, +known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert +and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant +pines." + + +THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT + +A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young +New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall +become the second wife of one of the Mormons--Well, that's the problem +of this great story. + + +THE SHORT STOP + +The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and +fortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are +followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty +ought to win. + + +BETTY ZANE + +This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful +young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. + + +THE LONE STAR RANGER + +After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along +the Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a +young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down +upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one +side by honest men, on the other by outlaws. + + +THE BORDER LEGION + +Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless +Western mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved +him--she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, +and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader--and nurses him to +health again. Here enters another romance--when Joan, disguised as an +outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, a +thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. + + +THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS, by Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey + +The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," as told by +his sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his +first encounter with an Indian. We see "Bill" as a pony express rider, +then near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the +most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting +account of the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character in public +life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than "Buffalo +Bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list + + * * * * * + +MICHAEL O'HALLORAN, Illustrated by Frances Rogers. + +Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern +Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes +the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and +onward. + + +LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. + +This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story +is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it +is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs +of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and +the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood +and about whose family there hangs a mystery. + + +THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W.L. Jacobs. + +"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had +nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. +But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romance +of the rarest idyllic quality. + + +FRECKLES. Illustrated. + +Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he +takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great +Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to +the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The +Angel" are full of real sentiment. + + +A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated. + +The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of +the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness +towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of +her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and +unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. + + +AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors. + +The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The +story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing one. The +novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its +pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. + + +THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated. + +A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and +humor. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. + + + * * * * * + +LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. + +A charming story of a quaint corner of New England, where bygone romance +finds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love to +the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of the +prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old-fashioned Love stories. + + +MASTER OF THE VINEYARD. + +A pathetic love story of a young girl, Rosemary. The teacher of the +country school, who is also master of the vineyard, comes to know her +through her desire for books. She is happy in his love till another +woman comes into his life. But happiness and emancipation from her many +trials come to Rosemary at last. The book has a touch of humor and +pathos that will appeal to every reader. + + +OLD ROSE AND SILVER. + +A love story,--sentimental and humorous,--with the plot subordinate to +the character delineation of its quaint people and to the exquisite +descriptions of picturesque spots and of lovely, old, rare treasures. + + +A WEAVER OF DREAMS. + +This story tells of the love-affairs of three young people, with an +old-fashioned romance in the background. A tiny dog plays an important +role in serving as a foil for the heroine's talking ingeniousness. There +is poetry, as well as tenderness and charm, in this tale of a weaver of +dreams. + + +A SPINNER IN THE SUN. + +An old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in solitude and +whose features her neighbors have never seen. There is a mystery at the +heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of romance. + + +THE MASTER'S VIOLIN. + +A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuoso +consents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an +aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth cannot +express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life as can the +master. But a girl comes into his life, and through his passionate love +for her, he learns the lessons that life has to give--and his soul +awakes. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list + + * * * * * + +MOTHER. Illustrated by F.C. Yohn. + +This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy reality +of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother's +experiences. + + +SATURDAY'S CHILD. + +Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes. + +Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a +quest for happiness. She passes through three stages--poverty, wealth +and service--and works out a creditable salvation. + + +THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. + +Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock. + +The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be +swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied +interests, and has her own romance. + + +THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. + +Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert. + +How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted +herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life. + + +THE HEART OF RACHAEL. + +Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. + +Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and is working out these, +there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's most +appealing characters. + + * * * * * + +_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_ + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask far Grosset & Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +"K." Illustrated. + +K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him, +and goes to live in a little town where beautiful Sidney Page lives. She +is in training to become a nurse. The joys and troubles of their young +love are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has made +the author famous. + + +THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. + +Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. + +An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the +"Man in Lower Ten." The strongest elements of Mrs. Rinehart's success +are found in this book. + + +WHEN A MAN MARRIES. + +Illustrated by Harrison fisher and Mayo Bunker. + +A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him; finds that his +aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family +income and who has never seen the wife, knows nothing of the domestic +upheaval. How the young man met the situation is humorously and most +entertainingly told. + + +THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Illus. by Lester Ralph + +The summer occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of Arnold +Armstrong, the son of the owner, on the circular staircase. Following +the murder a bank failure is announced. Around these two events is woven +a plot of absorbing interest. + + +THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. + +Illustrated (Photo Play Edition.) + +Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly +realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious +doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with +world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and +slender means. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +SEWELL FORD'S STORIES + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, +sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. + + +SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. + +Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human +nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for +"side-stepping with Shorty." + + +SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. + +Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to +the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund," +and gives joy to all concerned. + + +SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS + +Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for +physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at +swell yachting parties. + + +TORCHY. Illus. by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg. + +A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the +youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his +experiences. + + +TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the +previous book. + + +ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but +that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, +which brings about many hilariously funny situations. + + +TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for +the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious +American slang. + + +WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. by F. Snapp and A.W. Brown. + +Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast, +in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his +friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to place +an engagement ring on Vee's finger. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +THE NOVELS OF CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +JEWEL: A Chapter in Her Life. + +Illustrated by Maude and Genevieve Cowles. + +A story breathing the doctrine of love and patience as exemplified in +the life of a child. Jewel will never grow old because of the +immortality of her love. + + +JEWEL'S STORY BOOK. Illustrated by Albert Schmitt. + +A sequel to "Jewel," in which the same characteristics of love and +cheerfulness touch and uplift the reader. + + +THE INNER FLAME. Frontispiece in color. + +A young mining engineer, whose chief ambition is to become an artist, +but who has no friends with whom to realize his hopes, has a way opened +to him to try his powers, and, of course, he is successful. + + +THE RIGHT PRINCESS. + +At a fashionable Long Island resort, a stately English woman employs a +forcible New England housekeeper to serve in her interesting home. Many +humorous situations result. A delightful love affair runs through it +all. + + +THE OPENED SHUTTERS. + +Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo Play. + +A beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by her +new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessed +sunlight of joy by casting aside self love. + + +THE RIGHT TRACK. + +Frontispiece in color by Greene Blumenschien. + +A story of a young girl who marries for money so that she can enjoy +things intellectual. Neglect of her husband and of her two step children +makes an unhappy home till a friend brings a new philosophy of happiness +into the household. + + +CLEVER BETSY. Illustrated by Rose O'Neill. + +The "Clever Betsy" was a boat--named for the unyielding spinster whom +the captain hoped to marry. Through the two Betsy's a delightful group +of people are introduced. + + * * * * * + +_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_ + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +B.M. BOWER'S NOVELS + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +CHIP OF THE FLYING U. + +Wherein the love affairs of Chip and Delia Whitman are charmingly and +humorously told. + + +THE HAPPY FAMILY. + +A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen +jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. + + +HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT. + +Describing a gay party of Easterners who exchange a cottage at Newport +for a Montana ranch-house. + + +THE RANGE DWELLERS. + +Spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and +Juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly story. + + +THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS. + +A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author among the +cowboys. + + +THE LONESOME TRAIL. + +A little branch of sage brush and the recollection of a pair of large +brown eyes upset "Weary" Davidson's plans. + + +THE LONG SHADOW. + +A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free outdoor life of a +mountain ranch. It is a fine love story. + + +GOOD INDIAN. + +A stirring romance of life on an Idaho ranch. + + +FLYING U RANCH. + +Another delightful story about Chip and his pals. + + +THE FLYING U'S LAST STAND. + +An amusing account of Chip and the other boys opposing a party of school +teachers. + + +THE UPHILL CLIMB. + +A story of a mountain ranch and of a man's hard fight on the uphill road +to manliness. + + +THE PHANTOM HERD. + +The title of a moving-picture staged it New Mexico by the "Flying U" +boys. + + +THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX. + +The "Flying U" boys stage a fake bank robbery for film purposes which +precedes a real one for lust of gold. + + +THE GRINGOS. + +A story of love and adventure on a ranch in California. + + +STARR OF THE DESERT. + +A New Mexico ranch story of mystery and adventure. + + +THE LOOKOUT MAN. + +A Northern California story full of action, excitement and love. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +THE NOVELS OF WINSTON CHURCHILL + + * * * * * + +THE INSIDE OF THE CUP. Illustrated by Howard Giles. + +The Reverend John Hodder is called to a fashionable church in a +middle-western city. He knows little of modern problems and in his +theology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church could +desire. But the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakening +follows and in the end he works out a solution. + + +A FAR COUNTRY. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. + +This novel is concerned with big problems of the day. As _The Inside of +the Cup_ gets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, so +_A Far Country_ deals in a story that is intense and dramatic, with +other vital issues confronting the twentieth century. + + +A MODERN CHRONICLE. Illustrated by J.H. Gardner Soper. + +This, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, +is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. It +is frankly a modern love story. + + +MR. CREWE'S CAREER. Illus. by A.I. Keller and Kinneys. + +A new England state is under the political domination of a railway and +Mr. Crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the people +is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own +interest in a political way. The daughter of the railway president plays +no small part in the situation. + + +THE CROSSING. Illustrated by S. Adamson and L. Baylis. + +Describing the battle of Fort Moultrie, the blazing of the Kentucky +wilderness, the expedition of Clark and his handful of followers in +Illinois, the beginning of civilization along the Ohio and Mississippi, +and the treasonable schemes against Washington. + + +CONISTON. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn. + +A deft blending of love and politics. A New Englander is the hero, a +crude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then +surrendered all for the love of a woman. + + +THE CELEBRITY. An episode. + +An inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities +between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. It is the purest, +keenest fun--and is American to the core. + + +THE CRISIS. Illustrated with scenes from the Photo-Play. + +A book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid +power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are +inspiring. + + +RICHARD CARVEL. Illustrated by Malcolm Frazer. + +An historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of Colonial +times, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases and +interesting throughout. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +JOHN FOX, JR'S. STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE. + +Illustrated by F.C. Yohn. + +The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree +that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine +lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he +finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the +_foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and +the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder +chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." + + +THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME + +Illustrated by F.C. Yohn. + +This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come." It +is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often +springs the flower of civilization. + +"Chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he +came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, +seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and +mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, +by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the +mountains. + + +A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND. + +Illustrated by F.C. Yohn. + +The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of +moonshiner and of feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the +heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight." Two +impetuous young Southerners' fall under the spell of "The Blight's" +charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the +love making of the mountaineers. + +Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some of +Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives. + + * * * * * + +_Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_ + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown. + +No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young +people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the +time when the reader was Seventeen. + + +PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant. + +This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, +tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a +finished, exquisite work. + + +PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm. + +Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases +of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness +that have ever been written. + + +THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C.E. Chambers. + +Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his +father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a +fine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success. + + +THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece. + +A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country +editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love +interest. + + +THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. + +The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, +drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another +to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising +suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. + + * * * * * + +_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_ + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE + +HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. + +May be had wherever books are sold Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +MAVERICKS. + +A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations +are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. One +of the sweetest love stories ever told. + + +A TEXAS RANGER. + +How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into +the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of +thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed +through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. + + +WYOMING. + +In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured the +breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the +frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. + + +RIDGWAY OF MONTANA. + +The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and +mining industries are the religion of the country. The political +contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story +great strength and charm.. + + +BUCKY O'CONNOR. + +Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with +the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing +fascination of style and plot. + + +CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT. + +A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter +feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusual +woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly +characteristic of the great free West. + + +BRAND BLOTTERS. + +A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life of +the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love +interest running through its 320 pages. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Turtles of Tasman, by Jack London + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TURTLES OF TASMAN *** + +***** This file should be named 16257-8.txt or 16257-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/2/5/16257/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Taavi Kalju and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Turtles of Tasman + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: July 10, 2005 [EBook #16257] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TURTLES OF TASMAN *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Taavi Kalju and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/cover.jpg" + alt="Cover" + title="Cover" /> +</div> + +<h1>THE TURTLES OF TASMAN</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>JACK LONDON</h2> + +<h4>AUTHOR OF THE CALL OF THE WILD, TERRY, ADVENTURE, ETC.</h4> + +<h5>NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS</h5> + +<h5>Published by Arrangement with The Macmillan Company</h5> + +<h5>Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1916. Reprinted October, +November, 1916; February, 1917, December, 1919.</h5> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>TABLE OF CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#BY_THE_TURTLES_OF_TASMAN"><b>BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_ETERNITY_OF_FORMS"><b>THE ETERNITY OF FORMS</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#TOLD_IN_THE_DROOLING_WARD"><b>TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_HOBO_AND_THE_FAIRY"><b>THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_PRODIGAL_FATHER"><b>THE PRODIGAL FATHER</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_FIRST_POET"><b>THE FIRST POET</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#FINIS"><b>FINIS</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_END_OF_THE_STORY"><b>THE END OF THE STORY</b></a></td></tr> + +</table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE TURTLES OF TASMAN</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="BY_THE_TURTLES_OF_TASMAN" id="BY_THE_TURTLES_OF_TASMAN">BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN</a></h2> + +<h5>I</h5> + + +<p>Law, order, and restraint had carved Frederick Travers' face. It was the +strong, firm face of one used to power and who had used power with +wisdom and discretion. Clean living had made the healthy skin, and the +lines graved in it were honest lines. Hard and devoted work had left its +wholesome handiwork, that was all. Every feature of the man told the +same story, from the clear blue of the eyes to the full head of hair, +light brown, touched with grey, and smoothly parted and drawn straight +across above the strong-domed forehead. He was a seriously groomed man, +and the light summer business suit no more than befitted his alert +years, while it did not shout aloud that its possessor was likewise the +possessor of numerous millions of dollars and property.</p> + +<p>For Frederick Travers hated ostentation. The machine that waited outside +for him under the porte-cochère was sober black. It was the most +expensive machine in the county, yet he did not care to flaunt its price +or horse-power in a red flare across the landscape, which also was +mostly his, from the sand dunes and the everlasting beat of the Pacific +breakers, across the fat bottomlands and upland pastures, to the far +summits clad with redwood forest and wreathed in fog and cloud.</p> + +<p>A rustle of skirts caused him to look over his shoulder. Just the +faintest hint of irritation showed in his manner. Not that his daughter +was the object, however. Whatever it was, it seemed to lie on the desk +before him.</p> + +<p>"What is that outlandish name again?" she asked. "I know I shall never +remember it. See, I've brought a pad to write it down."</p> + +<p>Her voice was low and cool, and she was a tall, well-formed, +clear-skinned young woman. In her voice and complacence she, too, +showed the drill-marks of order and restraint.</p> + +<p>Frederick Travers scanned the signature of one of two letters on the +desk. "Bronislawa Plaskoweitzkaia Travers," he read; then spelled the +difficult first portion, letter by letter, while his daughter wrote it +down.</p> + +<p>"Now, Mary," he added, "remember Tom was always harum scarum, and you +must make allowances for this daughter of his. Her very name +is—ah—disconcerting. I haven't seen him for years, and as for her...." +A shrug epitomised his apprehension. He smiled with an effort at wit. +"Just the same, they're as much your family as mine. If he <i>is</i> my +brother, he is your uncle. And if she's my niece, you're both cousins."</p> + +<p>Mary nodded. "Don't worry, father. I'll be nice to her, poor thing. What +nationality was her mother?—to get such an awful name."</p> + +<p>"I don't know. Russian, or Polish, or Spanish, or something. It was just +like Tom. She was an actress or singer—I don't remember. They met in +Buenos Ayres. It was an elopement. Her husband—"</p> + +<p>"Then she was already married!"</p> + +<p>Mary's dismay was unfeigned and spontaneous, and her father's irritation +grew more pronounced. He had not meant that. It had slipped out.</p> + +<p>"There was a divorce afterward, of course. I never knew the details. Her +mother died out in China—no; in Tasmania. It was in China that Tom—" +His lips shut with almost a snap. He was not going to make any more +slips. Mary waited, then turned to the door, where she paused.</p> + +<p>"I've given her the rooms over the rose court," she said. "And I'm going +now to take a last look."</p> + +<p>Frederick Travers turned back to the desk, as if to put the letters +away, changed his mind, and slowly and ponderingly reread them.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>"Dear Fred:</p> + +<p>"It's been a long time since I was so near to the old home, and I'd like +to take a run up. Unfortunately, I played ducks and drakes with my +Yucatan project—I think I wrote about it—and I'm broke as usual. Could +you advance me funds for the run? I'd like to arrive first class. Polly +is with me, you know. I wonder how you two will get along.</p> + +<p class="signature"> +"Tom. +</p> + +<p>"P.S. If it doesn't bother you too much, send it along next mail."</p> +</div> +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><i>"Dear Uncle Fred":</i></p> +</div> +<p>the other letter ran, in what seemed to him a strange, foreign-taught, +yet distinctly feminine hand.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>"Dad doesn't know I am writing this. He told me what he said to you. It +is not true. He is coming home to die. He doesn't know it, but I've +talked with the doctors. And he'll have to come home, for we have no +money. We're in a stuffy little boarding house, and it is not the place +for Dad. He's helped other persons all his life, and now is the time to +help him. He didn't play ducks and drakes in Yucatan. I was with him, +and I know. He dropped all he had there, and he was robbed. He can't +play the business game against New Yorkers. That explains it all, and I +am proud he can't.</p> + +<p>"He always laughs and says I'll never be able to get along with you. +But I don't agree with him. Besides, I've never seen a really, truly +blood relative in my life, and there's your daughter. Think of it!—a +real live cousin!</p> + +<p class="signature"> +"In anticipation,<br /> +"Your niece,<br /> +<span class="smcap">"Bronislawa Plaskoweitzkaia Travers.</span> +</p> + +<p>"P.S. You'd better telegraph the money, or you won't see Dad at all. He +doesn't know how sick he is, and if he meets any of his old friends +he'll be off and away on some wild goose chase. He's beginning to talk +Alaska. Says it will get the fever out of his bones. Please know that we +must pay the boarding house, or else we'll arrive without luggage.</p> + +<p class="signature"> +"B.P.T." +</p> +</div> + +<p>Frederick Travers opened the door of a large, built-in safe and +methodically put the letters away in a compartment labelled "Thomas +Travers."</p> + +<p>"Poor Tom! Poor Tom!" he sighed aloud.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>The big motor car waited at the station, and Frederick Travers thrilled +as he always thrilled to the distant locomotive whistle of the train +plunging down the valley of Isaac Travers River. First of all westering +white-men, had Isaac Travers gazed on that splendid valley, its +salmon-laden waters, its rich bottoms, and its virgin forest slopes. +Having seen, he had grasped and never let go. "Land-poor," they had +called him in the mid-settler period. But that had been in the days when +the placers petered out, when there were no wagon roads nor tugs to draw +in sailing vessels across the perilous bar, and when his lonely grist +mill had been run under armed guards to keep the marauding Klamaths off +while wheat was ground. Like father, like son, and what Isaac Travers +had grasped, Frederick Travers had held. It had been the same tenacity +of hold. Both had been far-visioned. Both had foreseen the +transformation of the utter West, the coming of the railroad, and the +building of the new empire on the Pacific shore.</p> + +<p>Frederick Travers thrilled, too, at the locomotive whistle, because, +more than any man's, it was his railroad. His father had died still +striving to bring the railroad in across the mountains that averaged a +hundred thousand dollars to the mile. He, Frederick, had brought it in. +He had sat up nights over that railroad; bought newspapers, entered +politics, and subsidised party machines; and he had made pilgrimages, +more than once, at his own expense, to the railroad chiefs of the East. +While all the county knew how many miles of his land were crossed by the +right of way, none of the county guessed nor dreamed the number of his +dollars which had gone into guaranties and railroad bonds. He had done +much for his county, and the railroad was his last and greatest +achievement, the capstone of the Travers' effort, the momentous and +marvellous thing that had been brought about just yesterday. It had +been running two years, and, highest proof of all of his judgment, +dividends were in sight. And farther reaching reward was in sight. It +was written in the books that the next Governor of California was to be +spelled, Frederick A. Travers.</p> + +<p>Twenty years had passed since he had seen his elder brother, and then it +had been after a gap of ten years. He remembered that night well. Tom +was the only man who dared run the bar in the dark, and that last time, +between nightfall and the dawn, with a southeaster breezing up, he had +sailed his schooner in and out again. There had been no warning of his +coming—a clatter of hoofs at midnight, a lathered horse in the stable, +and Tom had appeared, the salt of the sea on his face as his mother +attested. An hour only he remained, and on a fresh horse was gone, while +rain squalls rattled upon the windows and the rising wind moaned through +the redwoods, the memory of his visit a whiff, sharp and strong, from +the wild outer world. A week later, sea-hammered and bar-bound for that +time, had arrived the revenue cutter <i>Bear</i>, and there had been a +column of conjecture in the local paper, hints of a heavy landing of +opium and of a vain quest for the mysterious schooner <i>Halcyon</i>. Only +Fred and his mother, and the several house Indians, knew of the +stiffened horse in the barn and of the devious way it was afterward +smuggled back to the fishing village on the beach.</p> + +<p>Despite those twenty years, it was the same old Tom Travers that +alighted from the Pullman. To his brother's eyes, he did not look sick. +Older he was of course. The Panama hat did not hide the grey hair, and +though indefinably hinting of shrunkenness, the broad shoulders were +still broad and erect. As for the young woman with him, Frederick +Travers experienced an immediate shock of distaste. He felt it vitally, +yet vaguely. It was a challenge and a mock, yet he could not name nor +place the source of it. It might have been the dress, of tailored linen +and foreign cut, the shirtwaist, with its daring stripe, the black +wilfulness of the hair, or the flaunt of poppies on the large straw hat +or it might have been the flash and colour of her—the black eyes and +brows, the flame of rose in the cheeks, the white of the even teeth that +showed too readily. "A spoiled child," was his thought, but he had no +time to analyse, for his brother's hand was in his and he was making his +niece's acquaintance.</p> + +<p>There it was again. She flashed and talked like her colour, and she +talked with her hands as well. He could not avoid noting the smallness +of them. They were absurdly small, and his eyes went to her feet to make +the same discovery. Quite oblivious of the curious crowd on the station +platform, she had intercepted his attempt to lead to the motor car and +had ranged the brothers side by side. Tom had been laughingly +acquiescent, but his younger brother was ill at ease, too conscious of +the many eyes of his townspeople. He knew only the old Puritan way. +Family displays were for the privacy of the family, not for the public. +He was glad she had not attempted to kiss him. It was remarkable she had +not. Already he apprehended anything of her.</p> + +<p>She embraced them and penetrated them with sun-warm eyes that seemed to +see through them, and over them, and all about them.</p> + +<p>"You're really brothers," she cried, her hands flashing with her eyes. +"Anybody can see it. And yet there is a difference—I don't know. I +can't explain."</p> + +<p>In truth, with a tact that exceeded Frederick Travers' farthest +disciplined forbearance, she did not dare explain. Her wide artist-eyes +had seen and sensed the whole trenchant and essential difference. Alike +they looked, of the unmistakable same stock, their features reminiscent +of a common origin; and there resemblance ceased. Tom was three inches +taller, and well-greyed was the long, Viking moustache. His was the same +eagle-like nose as his brother's, save that it was more eagle-like, +while the blue eyes were pronouncedly so. The lines of the face were +deeper, the cheek-bones higher, the hollows larger, the weather-beat +darker. It was a volcanic face. There had been fire there, and the fire +still lingered. Around the corners of the eyes were more +laughter-wrinkles and in the eyes themselves a promise of deadlier +seriousness than the younger brother possessed. Frederick was bourgeois +in his carriage, but in Tom's was a certain careless ease and +distinction. It was the same pioneer blood of Isaac Travers in both men, +but it had been retorted in widely different crucibles. Frederick +represented the straight and expected line of descent. His brother +expressed a vast and intangible something that was unknown in the +Travers stock. And it was all this that the black-eyed girl saw and knew +on the instant. All that had been inexplicable in the two men and their +relationship cleared up in the moment she saw them side by side.</p> + +<p>"Wake me up," Tom was saying. "I can't believe I arrived on a train. And +the population? There were only four thousand thirty years ago."</p> + +<p>"Sixty thousand now," was the other's answer. "And increasing by leaps +and bounds. Want to spin around for a look at the city? There's plenty +of time."</p> + +<p>As they sped along the broad, well-paved streets, Tom persisted in his +Rip Van Winkle pose. The waterfront perplexed him. Where he had once +anchored his sloop in a dozen feet of water, he found solid land and +railroad yards, with wharves and shipping still farther out.</p> + +<p>"Hold on! Stop!" he cried, a few blocks on, looking up at a solid +business block. "Where is this, Fred?"</p> + +<p>"Fourth and Travers—don't you remember?"</p> + +<p>Tom stood up and gazed around, trying to discern the anciently familiar +configuration of the land under its clutter of buildings.</p> + +<p>"I ... I think...." he began hesitantly. "No; by George, I'm sure of it. +We used to hunt cottontails over that ground, and shoot blackbirds in +the brush. And there, where the bank building is, was a pond." He turned +to Polly. "I built my first raft there, and got my first taste of the +sea."</p> + +<p>"Heaven knows how many gallons of it," Frederick laughed, nodding to the +chauffeur. "They rolled you on a barrel, I remember."</p> + +<p>"Oh! More!" Polly cried, clapping her hands.</p> + +<p>"There's the park," Frederick pointed out a little later, indicating a +mass of virgin redwoods on the first dip of the bigger hills.</p> + +<p>"Father shot three grizzlies there one afternoon," was Tom's remark.</p> + +<p>"I presented forty acres of it to the city," Frederick went on. "Father +bought the quarter section for a dollar an acre from Leroy."</p> + +<p>Tom nodded, and the sparkle and flash in his eyes, like that of his +daughter, were unlike anything that ever appeared in his brother's eyes.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he affirmed, "Leroy, the negro squawman. I remember the time he +carried you and me on his back to Alliance, the night the Indians burned +the ranch. Father stayed behind and fought."</p> + +<p>"But he couldn't save the grist mill. It was a serious setback to him."</p> + +<p>"Just the same he nailed four Indians."</p> + +<p>In Polly's eyes now appeared the flash and sparkle.</p> + +<p>"An Indian-fighter!" she cried. "Tell me about him."</p> + +<p>"Tell her about Travers Ferry," Tom said.</p> + +<p>"That's a ferry on the Klamath River on the way to Orleans Bar and +Siskiyou. There was great packing into the diggings in those days, and, +among other things, father had made a location there. There was rich +bench farming land, too. He built a suspension bridge—wove the cables +on the spot with sailors and materials freighted in from the coast. It +cost him twenty thousand dollars. The first day it was open, eight +hundred mules crossed at a dollar a head, to say nothing of the toll for +foot and horse. That night the river rose. The bridge was one hundred +and forty feet above low water mark. Yet the freshet rose higher than +that, and swept the bridge away. He'd have made a fortune there +otherwise."</p> + +<p>"That wasn't it at all," Tom blurted out impatiently. "It was at Travers +Ferry that father and old Jacob Vance were caught by a war party of Mad +River Indians. Old Jacob was killed right outside the door of the log +cabin. Father dragged the body inside and stood the Indians off for a +week. Father was some shot. He buried Jacob under the cabin floor."</p> + +<p>"I still run the ferry," Frederick went on, "though there isn't so much +travel as in the old days. I freight by wagon-road to the Reservation, +and then mule-back on up the Klamath and clear in to the forks of Little +Salmon. I have twelve stores on that chain now, a stage-line to the +Reservation, and a hotel there. Quite a tourist trade is beginning to +pick up."</p> + +<p>And the girl, with curious brooding eyes, looked from brother to brother +as they so differently voiced themselves and life.</p> + +<p>"Ay, he was some man, father was," Tom murmured.</p> + +<p>There was a drowsy note in his speech that drew a quick glance of +anxiety from her. The machine had turned into the cemetery, and now +halted before a substantial vault on the crest of the hill.</p> + +<p>"I thought you'd like to see it," Frederick was saying. "I built that +mausoleum myself, most of it with my own hands. Mother wanted it. The +estate was dreadfully encumbered. The best bid I could get out of the +contractors was eleven thousand. I did it myself for a little over +eight."</p> + +<p>"Must have worked nights," Tom murmured admiringly and more sleepily +than before.</p> + +<p>"I did, Tom, I did. Many a night by lantern-light. I was so busy. I was +reconstructing the water works then—the artesian wells had failed—and +mother's eyes were troubling her. You remember—cataract—I wrote you. +She was too weak to travel, and I brought the specialists up from San +Francisco. Oh, my hands were full. I was just winding up the disastrous +affairs of the steamer line father had established to San Francisco, and +I was keeping up the interest on mortgages to the tune of one hundred +and eighty thousand dollars."</p> + +<p>A soft stertorous breathing interrupted him. Tom, chin on chest, was +asleep. Polly, with a significant look, caught her uncle's eye. Then +her father, after an uneasy restless movement, lifted drowsy lids.</p> + +<p>"Deuced warm day," he said with a bright apologetic laugh. "I've been +actually asleep. Aren't we near home?"</p> + +<p>Frederick nodded to the chauffeur, and the car rolled on.</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>The house that Frederick Travers had built when his prosperity came, was +large and costly, sober and comfortable, and with no more pretence than +was naturally attendant on the finest country home in the county. Its +atmosphere was just the sort that he and his daughter would create. But +in the days that followed his brother's home-coming, all this was +changed. Gone was the subdued and ordered repose. Frederick was neither +comfortable nor happy. There was an unwonted flurry of life and +violation of sanctions and traditions. Meals were irregular and +protracted, and there were midnight chafing-dish suppers and bursts of +laughter at the most inappropriate hours.</p> + +<p>Frederick was abstemious. A glass of wine at dinner was his wildest +excess. Three cigars a day he permitted himself, and these he smoked +either on the broad veranda or in the smoking room. What else was a +smoking room for? Cigarettes he detested. Yet his brother was ever +rolling thin, brown-paper cigarettes and smoking them wherever he might +happen to be. A litter of tobacco crumbs was always to be found in the +big easy chair he frequented and among the cushions of the window-seats. +Then there were the cocktails. Brought up under the stern tutelage of +Isaac and Eliza Travers, Frederick looked upon liquor in the house as an +abomination. Ancient cities had been smitten by God's wrath for just +such practices. Before lunch and dinner, Tom, aided and abetted by +Polly, mixed an endless variety of drinks, she being particularly adept +with strange swivel-stick concoctions learned at the ends of the earth. +To Frederick, at such times, it seemed that his butler's pantry and +dining room had been turned into bar-rooms. When he suggested this, +under a facetious show, Tom proclaimed that when he made his pile he +would build a liquor cabinet in every living room of his house.</p> + +<p>And there were more young men at the house than formerly, and they +helped in disposing of the cocktails. Frederick would have liked to +account in that manner for their presence, but he knew better. His +brother and his brother's daughter did what he and Mary had failed to +do. They were the magnets. Youth and joy and laughter drew to them. The +house was lively with young life. Ever, day and night, the motor cars +honked up and down the gravelled drives. There were picnics and +expeditions in the summer weather, moonlight sails on the bay, starts +before dawn or home-comings at midnight, and often, of nights, the many +bedrooms were filled as they had never been before. Tom must cover all +his boyhood ramblings, catch trout again on Bull Creek, shoot quail over +Walcott's Prairie, get a deer on Round Mountain. That deer was a cause +of pain and shame to Frederick. What if it was closed season? Tom had +triumphantly brought home the buck and gleefully called it +sidehill-salmon when it was served and eaten at Frederick's own table.</p> + +<p>They had clambakes at the head of the bay and musselbakes down by the +roaring surf; and Tom told shamelessly of the <i>Halcyon</i>, and of the run +of contraband, and asked Frederick before them all how he had managed to +smuggle the horse back to the fishermen without discovery. All the young +men were in the conspiracy with Polly to pamper Tom to his heart's +desire. And Frederick heard the true inwardness of the killing of the +deer; of its purchase from the overstocked Golden Gate Park; of its +crated carriage by train, horse-team and mule-back to the fastnesses of +Round Mountain; of Tom falling asleep beside the deer-run the first time +it was driven by; of the pursuit by the young men, the jaded saddle +horses, the scrambles and the falls, and the roping of it at Burnt Ranch +Clearing; and, finally, of the triumphant culmination, when it was +driven past a second time and Tom had dropped it at fifty yards. To +Frederick there was a vague hurt in it all. When had such consideration +been shown him?</p> + +<p>There were days when Tom could not go out, postponements of outdoor +frolics, when, still the centre, he sat and drowsed in the big chair, +waking, at times, in that unexpected queer, bright way of his, to roll +a cigarette and call for his <i>ukulele</i>—a sort of miniature guitar of +Portuguese invention. Then, with strumming and tumtuming, the live +cigarette laid aside to the imminent peril of polished wood, his full +baritone would roll out in South Sea <i>hulas</i> and sprightly French and +Spanish songs.</p> + +<p>One, in particular, had pleased Frederick at first. The favourite song +of a Tahitian king, Tom explained—the last of the Pomares, who had +himself composed it and was wont to lie on his mats by the hour singing +it. It consisted of the repetition of a few syllables. "<i>E meu ru ru a +vau</i>," it ran, and that was all of it, sung in a stately, endless, +ever-varying chant, accompanied by solemn chords from the <i>ukelele</i>. +Polly took great joy in teaching it to her uncle, but when, himself +questing for some of this genial flood of life that bathed about his +brother, Frederick essayed the song, he noted suppressed glee on the +part of his listeners, which increased, through giggles and snickers, to +a great outburst of laughter. To his disgust and dismay, he learned +that the simple phrase he had repeated and repeated was nothing else +than "I am so drunk." He had been made a fool of. Over and over, +solemnly and gloriously, he, Frederick Travers, had announced how drunk +he was. After that, he slipped quietly out of the room whenever it was +sung. Nor could Polly's later explanation that the last word was +"happy," and not "drunk," reconcile him; for she had been compelled to +admit that the old king was a toper, and that he was always in his cups +when he struck up the chant.</p> + +<p>Frederick was constantly oppressed by the feeling of being out of it +all. He was a social being, and he liked fun, even if it were of a more +wholesome and dignified brand than that to which his brother was +addicted. He could not understand why in the past the young people had +voted his house a bore and come no more, save on state and formal +occasions, until now, when they flocked to it and to his brother, but +not to him. Nor could he like the way the young women petted his +brother, and called him Tom, while it was intolerable to see them twist +and pull his buccaneer moustache in mock punishment when his sometimes +too-jolly banter sank home to them.</p> + +<p>Such conduct was a profanation to the memory of Isaac and Eliza Travers. +There was too much an air of revelry in the house. The long table was +never shortened, while there was extra help in the kitchen. Breakfast +extended from four until eleven, and the midnight suppers, entailing +raids on the pantry and complaints from the servants, were a vexation to +Frederick. The house had become a restaurant, a hotel, he sneered +bitterly to himself; and there were times when he was sorely tempted to +put his foot down and reassert the old ways. But somehow the ancient +sorcery of his masterful brother was too strong upon him; and at times +he gazed upon him with a sense almost of awe, groping to fathom the +alchemy of charm, baffled by the strange lights and fires in his +brother's eyes, and by the wisdom of far places and of wild nights and +days written in his face. What was it? What lordly vision had the other +glimpsed?—he, the irresponsible and careless one? Frederick remembered +a line of an old song—"Along the shining ways he came." Why did his +brother remind him of that line? Had he, who in boyhood had known no +law, who in manhood had exalted himself above law, in truth found the +shining ways?</p> + +<p>There was an unfairness about it that perplexed Frederick, until he +found solace in dwelling upon the failure Tom had made of life. Then it +was, in quiet intervals, that he got some comfort and stiffened his own +pride by showing Tom over the estate.</p> + +<p>"You have done well, Fred," Tom would say. "You have done very well."</p> + +<p>He said it often, and often he drowsed in the big smooth-running +machine.</p> + +<p>"Everything orderly and sanitary and spick and span—not a blade of +grass out of place," was Polly's comment. "How do you ever manage it? I +should not like to be a blade of grass on your land," she concluded, +with a little shivery shudder.</p> + +<p>"You have worked hard," Tom said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have worked hard," Frederick affirmed. "It was worth it."</p> + +<p>He was going to say more, but the strange flash in the girl's eyes +brought him to an uncomfortable pause. He felt that she measured him, +challenged him. For the first time his honourable career of building a +county commonwealth had been questioned—and by a chit of a girl, the +daughter of a wastrel, herself but a flighty, fly-away, foreign +creature.</p> + +<p>Conflict between them was inevitable. He had disliked her from the first +moment of meeting. She did not have to speak. Her mere presence made him +uncomfortable. He felt her unspoken disapproval, though there were times +when she did not stop at that. Nor did she mince language. She spoke +forthright, like a man, and as no man had ever dared to speak to him.</p> + +<p>"I wonder if you ever miss what you've missed," she told him. "Did you +ever, once in your life, turn yourself loose and rip things up by the +roots? Did you ever once get drunk? Or smoke yourself black in the +face? Or dance a hoe-down on the ten commandments? Or stand up on your +hind legs and wink like a good fellow at God?"</p> + +<p>"Isn't she a rare one!" Tom gurgled. "Her mother over again."</p> + +<p>Outwardly smiling and calm, there was a chill of horror at Frederick's +heart. It was incredible.</p> + +<p>"I think it is the English," she continued, "who have a saying that a +man has not lived until he has kissed his woman and struck his man. I +wonder—confess up, now—if you ever struck a man."</p> + +<p>"Have you?" he countered.</p> + +<p>She nodded, an angry reminiscent flash in her eyes, and waited.</p> + +<p>"No, I have never had that pleasure," he answered slowly. "I early +learned control."</p> + +<p>Later, irritated by his self-satisfied complacence and after listening +to a recital of how he had cornered the Klamath salmon-packing, planted +the first oysters on the bay and established that lucrative monopoly, +and of how, after exhausting litigation and a campaign of years he had +captured the water front of Williamsport and thereby won to control of +the Lumber Combine, she returned to the charge.</p> + +<p>"You seem to value life in terms of profit and loss," she said. "I +wonder if you have ever known love."</p> + +<p>The shaft went home. He had not kissed his woman. His marriage had been +one of policy. It had saved the estate in the days when he had been +almost beaten in the struggle to disencumber the vast holdings Isaac +Travers' wide hands had grasped. The girl was a witch. She had probed an +old wound and made it hurt again. He had never had time to love. He had +worked hard. He had been president of the chamber of commerce, mayor of +the city, state senator, but he had missed love. At chance moments he +had come upon Polly, openly and shamelessly in her father's arms, and he +had noted the warmth and tenderness in their eyes. Again he knew that he +had missed love. Wanton as was the display, not even in private did he +and Mary so behave. Normal, formal, and colourless, she was what was to +be expected of a loveless marriage. He even puzzled to decide whether +the feeling he felt for her was love. Was he himself loveless as well?</p> + +<p>In the moment following Polly's remark, he was aware of a great +emptiness. It seemed that his hands had grasped ashes, until, glancing +into the other room, he saw Tom asleep in the big chair, very grey and +aged and tired. He remembered all that he had done, all that he +possessed. Well, what did Tom possess? What had Tom done?—save play +ducks and drakes with life and wear it out until all that remained was +that dimly flickering spark in a dying body.</p> + +<p>What bothered Frederick in Polly was that she attracted him as well as +repelled him. His own daughter had never interested him in that way. +Mary moved along frictionless grooves, and to forecast her actions was +so effortless that it was automatic. But Polly! many-hued, +protean-natured, he never knew what she was going to do next.</p> + +<p>"Keeps you guessing, eh?" Tom chuckled.</p> + +<p>She was irresistible. She had her way with Frederick in ways that in +Mary would have been impossible. She took liberties with him, cosened +him or hurt him, and compelled always in him a sharp awareness of her +existence.</p> + +<p>Once, after one of their clashes, she devilled him at the piano, playing +a mad damned thing that stirred and irritated him and set his pulse +pounding wild and undisciplined fancies in the ordered chamber of his +brain. The worst of it was she saw and knew just what she was doing. She +was aware before he was, and she made him aware, her face turned to look +at him, on her lips a mocking, contemplative smile that was almost a +superior sneer. It was this that shocked him into consciousness of the +orgy his imagination had been playing him. From the wall above her, the +stiff portraits of Isaac and Eliza Travers looked down like reproachful +spectres. Infuriated, he left the room. He had never dreamed such +potencies resided in music. And then, and he remembered it with shame, +he had stolen back outside to listen, and she had known, and once more +she had devilled him.</p> + +<p>When Mary asked him what he thought of Polly's playing, an unbidden +contrast leaped to his mind. Mary's music reminded him of church. It was +cold and bare as a Methodist meeting house. But Polly's was like the mad +and lawless ceremonial of some heathen temple where incense arose and +nautch girls writhed.</p> + +<p>"She plays like a foreigner," he answered, pleased with the success and +oppositeness of his evasion.</p> + +<p>"She is an artist," Mary affirmed solemnly. "She is a genius. When does +she ever practise? When did she ever practise? You know how I have. My +best is like a five-finger exercise compared with the foolishest thing +she ripples off. Her music tells me things—oh, things wonderful and +unutterable. Mine tells me, 'one-two-three, one-two-three.' Oh, it is +maddening! I work and work and get nowhere. It is unfair. Why should she +be born that way, and not I?"</p> + +<p>"Love," was Frederick's immediate and secret thought; but before he +could dwell upon the conclusion, the unprecedented had happened and Mary +was sobbing in a break-down of tears. He would have liked to take her in +his arms, after Tom's fashion, but he did not know how. He tried, and +found Mary as unschooled as himself. It resulted only in an embarrassed +awkwardness for both of them.</p> + +<p>The contrasting of the two girls was inevitable. Like father like +daughter. Mary was no more than a pale camp-follower of a gorgeous, +conquering general. Frederick's thrift had been sorely educated in the +matter of clothes. He knew just how expensive Mary's clothes were, yet +he could not blind himself to the fact that Polly's vagabond makeshifts, +cheap and apparently haphazard, were always all right and far more +successful. Her taste was unerring. Her ways with a shawl were +inimitable. With a scarf she performed miracles.</p> + +<p>"She just throws things together," Mary complained. "She doesn't even +try. She can dress in fifteen minutes, and when she goes swimming she +beats the boys out of the dressing rooms." Mary was honest and +incredulous in her admiration. "I can't see how she does it. No one +could dare those colours, but they look just right on her."</p> + +<p>"She's always threatened that when I became finally flat broke she'd set +up dressmaking and take care of both of us," Tom contributed.</p> + +<p>Frederick, looking over the top of a newspaper, was witness to an +illuminating scene; Mary, to his certain knowledge, had been primping +for an hour ere she appeared.</p> + +<p>"Oh! How lovely!" was Polly's ready appreciation. Her eyes and face +glowed with honest pleasure, and her hands wove their delight in the +air. "But why not wear that bow so and thus?"</p> + +<p>Her hands flashed to the task, and in a moment the miracle of taste and +difference achieved by her touch was apparent even to Frederick.</p> + +<p>Polly was like her father, generous to the point of absurdity with her +meagre possessions. Mary admired a Spanish fan—a Mexican treasure that +had come down from one of the grand ladies of the Court of the Emperor +Maximilian. Polly's delight flamed like wild-fire. Mary found herself +the immediate owner of the fan, almost labouring under the fictitious +impression that she had conferred an obligation by accepting it. Only a +foreign woman could do such things, and Polly was guilty of similar +gifts to all the young women. It was her way. It might be a lace +handkerchief, a pink Paumotan pearl, or a comb of hawksbill turtle. It +was all the same. Whatever their eyes rested on in joy was theirs. To +women, as to men, she was irresistible.</p> + +<p>"I don't dare admire anything any more," was Mary's plaint. "If I do she +always gives it to me."</p> + +<p>Frederick had never dreamed such a creature could exist. The women of +his own race and place had never adumbrated such a possibility. He knew +that whatever she did—her quick generosities, her hot enthusiasms or +angers, her birdlike caressing ways—was unbelievably sincere. Her +extravagant moods at the same time shocked and fascinated him. Her voice +was as mercurial as her feelings. There were no even tones, and she +talked with her hands. Yet, in her mouth, English was a new and +beautiful language, softly limpid, with an audacity of phrase and +tellingness of expression that conveyed subtleties and nuances as +unambiguous and direct as they were unexpected from one of such +childlikeness and simplicity. He woke up of nights and on his darkened +eyelids saw bright memory-pictures of the backward turn of her vivid, +laughing face.</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>Like daughter like father. Tom, too, had been irresistible. All the +world still called to him, and strange men came from time to time with +its messages. Never had there been such visitors to the Travers home. +Some came with the reminiscent roll of the sea in their gait. Others +were black-browed ruffians; still others were fever-burnt and sallow; +and about all of them was something bizarre and outlandish. Their talk +was likewise bizarre and outlandish, of things to Frederick unguessed +and undreamed, though he recognised the men for what they were—soldiers +of fortune, adventurers, free lances of the world. But the big patent +thing was the love and loyalty they bore their leader. They named him +variously?—Black Tom, Blondine, Husky Travers, Malemute Tom, +Swiftwater Tom—but most of all he was Captain Tom. Their projects and +propositions were equally various, from the South Sea trader with the +discovery of a new guano island and the Latin-American with a nascent +revolution on his hands, on through Siberian gold chases and the +prospecting of the placer benches of the upper Kuskokeem, to darker +things that were mentioned only in whispers. And Captain Tom regretted +the temporary indisposition that prevented immediate departure with +them, and continued to sit and drowse more and more in the big chair. It +was Polly, with a camaraderie distasteful to her uncle, who got these +men aside and broke the news that Captain Tom would never go out on the +shining ways again. But not all of them came with projects. Many made +love-calls on their leader of old and unforgetable days, and Frederick +sometimes was a witness to their meeting, and he marvelled anew at the +mysterious charm in his brother that drew all men to him.</p> + +<p>"By the turtles of Tasman!" cried one, "when I heard you was in +California, Captain Tom, I just had to come and shake hands. I reckon +you ain't forgot Tasman, eh?—nor the scrap at Thursday Island. +Say—old Tasman was killed by his niggers only last year up German New +Guinea way. Remember his cook-boy?—Ngani-Ngani? He was the ringleader. +Tasman swore by him, but Ngani-Ngani hatcheted him just the same."</p> + +<p>"Shake hands with Captain Carlsen, Fred," was Tom's introduction of his +brother to another visitor. "He pulled me out of a tight place on the +West Coast once. I'd have cashed in, Carlsen, if you hadn't happened +along."</p> + +<p>Captain Carlsen was a giant hulk of a man, with gimlet eyes of palest +blue, a slash-scarred mouth that a blazing red beard could not quite +hide, and a grip in his hand that made Frederick squirm.</p> + +<p>A few minutes later, Tom had his brother aside.</p> + +<p>"Say, Fred, do you think it will bother to advance me a thousand?"</p> + +<p>"Of course," Frederick answered splendidly. "You know half of that I +have is yours, Tom."</p> + +<p>And when Captain Carlsen departed, Frederick was morally certain that +the thousand dollars departed with him.</p> + +<p>Small wonder Tom had made a failure of life—and come home to die. +Frederick sat at his own orderly desk taking stock of the difference +between him and his brother. Yes, and if it hadn't been for him, there +would have been no home for Tom to die in.</p> + +<p>Frederick cast back for solace through their joint history. It was he +who had always been the mainstay, the dependable one. Tom had laughed +and rollicked, played hooky from school, disobeyed Isaac's commandments. +To the mountains or the sea, or in hot water with the neighbours and the +town authorities—it was all the same; he was everywhere save where the +dull plod of work obtained. And work was work in those backwoods days, +and he, Frederick, had done the work. Early and late and all days he had +been at it. He remembered the season when Isaac's wide plans had taken +one of their smashes, when food had been scarce on the table of a man +who owned a hundred thousand acres, when there had been no money to +hire harvesters for the hay, and when Isaac would not let go his grip on +a single one of his acres. He, Frederick, had pitched the hay, while +Isaac mowed and raked. Tom had lain in bed and run up a doctor bill with +a broken leg, gained by falling off the ridge-pole of the barn—which +place was the last in the world to which any one would expect to go to +pitch hay. About the only work Tom had ever done, it seemed to him, was +to fetch in venison and bear-oil, to break colts, and to raise a din in +the valley pastures and wooded canyons with his bear-hounds.</p> + +<p>Tom was the elder, yet when Isaac died, the estate, with all its vast +possibilities would have gone to ruin, had not he, Frederick, buckled +down to it and put the burden on his back. Work! He remembered the +enlargement of the town water-system—how he had manoeuvred and +financed, persuaded small loans at ruinous interest, and laid pipe and +made joints by lantern light while the workmen slept, and then been up +ahead of them to outline and direct and rack his brains over the +raising of the next week-end wages. For he had carried on old Isaac's +policy. He would not let go. The future would vindicate.</p> + +<p>And Tom!—with a bigger pack of bear dogs ranging the mountains and +sleeping out a week at a time. Frederick remembered the final conference +in the kitchen—Tom, and he, and Eliza Travers, who still cooked and +baked and washed dishes on an estate that carried a hundred and eighty +thousand dollars in mortgages.</p> + + +<p>"Don't divide," Eliza Travers had pleaded, resting her soap-flecked, +parboiled arms. "Isaac was right. It will be worth millions. The country +is opening up. We must all pull together."</p> + +<p>"I don't want the estate," Tom cried. "Let Frederick have it. What I +want...."</p> + +<p>He never completed the sentence, but all the vision of the world burned +in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"I can't wait," he went on. "You can have the millions when they come. +In the meantime let me have ten thousand. I'll sign off quitclaim to +everything. And give me the old schooner, and some day I'll be back with +a pot of money to help you out."</p> + +<p>Frederick could see himself, in that far past day, throwing up his arms +in horror and crying:</p> + +<p>"Ten thousand!—when I'm strained to the breaking point to raise this +quarter's interest!"</p> + +<p>"There's the block of land next to the court house," Tom had urged. "I +know the bank has a standing offer for ten thousand."</p> + +<p>"But it will be worth a hundred thousand in ten years," Frederick had +objected.</p> + +<p>"Call it so. Say I quitclaim everything for a hundred thousand. Sell it +for ten and let me have it. It's all I want, and I want it now. You can +have the rest."</p> + +<p>And Tom had had his will as usual (the block had been mortgaged instead +of sold), and sailed away in the old schooner, the benediction of the +town upon his head, for he had carried away in his crew half the +riff-raff of the beach.</p> + +<p>The bones of the schooner had been left on the coast of Java. That had +been when Eliza Travers was being operated on for her eyes, and +Frederick had kept it from her until indubitable proof came that Tom was +still alive.</p> + +<p>Frederick went over to his files and drew out a drawer labelled "Thomas +Travers." In it were packets, methodically arranged. He went over the +letters. They were from everywhere—China, Rangoon, Australia, South +Africa, the Gold Coast, Patagonia, Armenia, Alaska. Briefly and +infrequently written, they epitomised the wanderer's life. Frederick ran +over in his mind a few of the glimpsed highlights of Tom's career. He +had fought in some sort of foreign troubles in Armenia. He had been an +officer in the Chinese army, and it was a certainty that the trade he +later drove in the China Seas was illicit. He had been caught running +arms into Cuba. It seemed he had always been running something somewhere +that it ought not to have been run. And he had never outgrown it. One +letter, on crinkly tissue paper, showed that as late as the +Japanese-Russian War he had been caught running coal into Port Arthur +and been taken to the prize court at Sasebo, where his steamer was +confiscated and he remained a prisoner until the end of the war.</p> + +<p>Frederick smiled as he read a paragraph: "<i>How do you prosper? Let me +know any time a few thousands will help you</i>." He looked at the date, +April 18, 1883, and opened another packet. "<i>May 5th</i>," 1883, was the +dated sheet he drew out. "<i>Five thousand will put me on my feet again. +If you can, and love me, send it along pronto—that's Spanish for +rush</i>."</p> + +<p>He glanced again at the two dates. It was evident that somewhere between +April 18th and May 5th Tom had come a cropper. With a smile, half +bitter, Frederick skimmed on through the correspondence: "<i>There's a +wreck on Midway Island. A fortune in it, salvage you know. Auction in +two days. Cable me four thousand</i>." The last he examined, ran: "<i>A deal +I can swing with a little cash. It's big, I tell you. It's so big I +don't dare tell you</i>." He remembered that deal—a Latin-American +revolution. He had sent the cash, and Tom had swung it, and himself as +well, into a prison cell and a death sentence.</p> + +<p>Tom had meant well, there was no denying that. And he had always +religiously forwarded his I O U's. Frederick musingly weighed the packet +of them in his hand, as though to determine if any relation existed +between the weight of paper and the sums of money represented on it.</p> + +<p>He put the drawer back in the cabinet and passed out. Glancing in at the +big chair he saw Polly just tiptoeing from the room. Tom's head lay +back, and his breathing was softly heavy, the sickness pronouncedly +apparent on his relaxed face.</p> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>"I have worked hard," Frederick explained to Polly that evening on the +veranda, unaware that when a man explains it is a sign his situation is +growing parlous. "I have done what came to my hand—how creditably it is +for others to say. And I have been paid for it. I have taken care of +others and taken care of myself. The doctors say they have never seen +such a constitution in a man of my years. Why, almost half my life is +yet before me, and we Travers are a long-lived stock. I took care of +myself, you see, and I have myself to show for it. I was not a waster. I +conserved my heart and my arteries, and yet there are few men who can +boast having done as much work as I have done. Look at that hand. +Steady, eh? It will be as steady twenty years from now. There is nothing +in playing fast and loose with oneself."</p> + +<p>And all the while Polly had been following the invidious comparison that +lurked behind his words.</p> + +<p>"You can write 'Honourable' before your name," she flashed up proudly. +"But my father has been a king. He has lived. Have you lived? What have +you got to show for it? Stocks and bonds, and houses and servants—pouf! +Heart and arteries and a steady hand—is that all? Have you lived merely +to live? Were you afraid to die? I'd rather sing one wild song and burst +my heart with it, than live a thousand years watching my digestion and +being afraid of the wet. When you are dust, my father will be ashes. +That is the difference."</p> + +<p>"But my dear child—" he began.</p> + +<p>"What have you got to show for it?" she flamed on. "Listen!"</p> + +<p>From within, through the open window, came the tinkling of Tom's +<i>ukulele</i> and the rollicking lilt of his voice in an Hawaiian <i>hula</i>. It +ended in a throbbing, primitive love-call from the sensuous tropic night +that no one could mistake. There was a burst of young voices, and a +clamour for more. Frederick did not speak. He had sensed something vague +and significant.</p> + +<p>Turning, he glanced through the window at Tom, flushed and royal, +surrounded by the young men and women, under his Viking moustache +lighting a cigarette from a match held to him by one of the girls. It +abruptly struck Frederick that never had he lighted a cigar at a match +held in a woman's hand.</p> + +<p>"Doctor Tyler says he oughtn't to smoke—it only aggravates," he said; +and it was all he could say.</p> + +<p>As the fall of the year came on, a new type of men began to frequent the +house. They proudly called themselves "sour-doughs," and they were +arriving in San Francisco on the winter's furlough from the +gold-diggings of Alaska. More and more of them came, and they pre-empted +a large portion of one of the down-town hotels. Captain Tom was fading +with the season, and almost lived in the big chair. He drowsed oftener +and longer, but whenever he awoke he was surrounded by his court of +young people, or there was some comrade waiting to sit and yarn about +the old gold days and plan for the new gold days.</p> + +<p>For Tom—Husky Travers, the Yukoners named him—never thought that the +end approached. A temporary illness, he called it, the natural +enfeeblement following upon a prolonged bout with Yucatan fever. In the +spring he would be right and fit again. Cold weather was what he needed. +His blood had been cooked. In the meantime it was a case of take it easy +and make the most of the rest.</p> + +<p>And no one undeceived him—not even the Yukoners, who smoked pipes and +black cigars and chewed tobacco on Frederick's broad verandas until he +felt like an intruder in his own house. There was no touch with them. +They regarded him as a stranger to be tolerated. They came to see Tom. +And their manner of seeing him was provocative of innocent envy pangs to +Frederick. Day after day he watched them. He would see the Yukoners +meet, perhaps one just leaving the sick room and one just going in. They +would clasp hands, solemnly and silently, outside the door. The +newcomer would question with his eyes, and the other would shake his +head. And more than once Frederick noted the moisture in their eyes. +Then the newcomer would enter and draw his chair up to Tom's, and with +jovial voice proceed to plan the outfitting for the exploration of the +upper Kuskokeem; for it was there Tom was bound in the spring. Dogs +could be had at Larabee's—a clean breed, too, with no taint of the soft +Southland strains. It was rough country, it was reported, but if +sour-doughs couldn't make the traverse from Larabee's in forty days +they'd like to see a <i>chechako</i> do it in sixty.</p> + +<p>And so it went, until Frederick wondered, when he came to die, if there +was one man in the county, much less in the adjoining county, who would +come to him at his bedside.</p> + +<p>Seated at his desk, through the open windows would drift whiffs of +strong tobacco and rumbling voices, and he could not help catching +snatches of what the Yukoners talked.</p> + +<p>"D'ye recollect that Koyokuk rush in the early nineties?" he would hear +one say. "Well, him an' me was pardners then, tradin' an' such. We had +a dinky little steamboat, the <i>Blatterbat</i>. He named her that, an' it +stuck. He was a caution. Well, sir, as I was sayin', him an' me loaded +the little <i>Blatterbat</i> to the guards an' started up the Koyokuk, me +firin' an' engineerin' an' him steerin', an' both of us deck-handin'. +Once in a while we'd tie to the bank an' cut firewood. It was the fall, +an' mush-ice was comin' down, an' everything gettin' ready for the +freeze up. You see, we was north of the Arctic Circle then an' still +headin' north. But they was two hundred miners in there needin' grub if +they wintered, an' we had the grub.</p> + +<p>"Well, sir, pretty soon they begun to pass us, driftin' down the river +in canoes an' rafts. They was pullin' out. We kept track of them. When a +hundred an' ninety-four had passed, we didn't see no reason for keepin' +on. So we turned tail and started down. A cold snap had come, an' the +water was fallin' fast, an' dang me if we didn't ground on a +bar—up-stream side. The <i>Blatterbat</i> hung up solid. Couldn't budge +her. 'It's a shame to waste all that grub,' says I, just as we was +pullin' out in a canoe. 'Let's stay an' eat it,' says he. An' dang me if +we didn't. We wintered right there on the <i>Blatterbat</i>, huntin' and +tradin' with the Indians, an' when the river broke next year we brung +down eight thousand dollars' worth of skins. Now a whole winter, just +two of us, is goin' some. But never a cross word out of him. +Best-tempered pardner I ever seen. But fight!"</p> + +<p>"Huh!" came the other voice. "I remember the winter Oily Jones allowed +he'd clean out Forty Mile. Only he didn't, for about the second yap he +let off he ran afoul of Husky Travers. It was in the White Caribou. 'I'm +a wolf!' yaps Jones. You know his style, a gun in his belt, fringes on +his moccasins, and long hair down his back. 'I'm a wolf,' he yaps, 'an' +this is my night to howl. Hear me, you long lean makeshift of a human +critter?'—an' this to Husky Travers."</p> + +<p>"Well?" the other voice queried, after a pause.</p> + +<p>"In about a second an' a half Oily Jones was on the floor an' Husky on +top askin' somebody kindly to pass him a butcher knife. What's he do but +plumb hack off all of Oily Jones' long hair. 'Now howl, damn you, howl,' +says Husky, gettin' up."</p> + +<p>"He was a cool one, for a wild one," the first voice took up. "I seen +him buck roulette in the Little Wolverine, drop nine thousand in two +hours, borrow some more, win it back in fifteen minutes, buy the drinks, +an' cash in—dang me, all in fifteen minutes."</p> + +<p>One evening Tom was unusually brightly awake, and Frederick, joining the +rapt young circle, sat and listened to his brother's serio-comic +narrative of the night of wreck on the island of Blang; of the swim +through the sharks where half the crew was lost; of the great pearl +which Desay brought ashore with him; of the head-decorated palisade that +surrounded the grass palace wherein dwelt the Malay queen with her royal +consort, a shipwrecked Chinese Eurasian; of the intrigue for the pearl +of Desay; of mad feasts and dances in the barbaric night, and quick +dangers and sudden deaths; of the queen's love-making to Desay, of +Desay's love-making to the queen's daughter, and of Desay, every joint +crushed, still alive, staked out on the reef at low tide to be eaten by +the sharks; of the coming of the plague; of the beating of tom-toms and +the exorcising of the devil-devil doctors; of the flight over the +man-trapped, wild-pig runs of the mountain bush-men; and of the final +rescue by Tasman, he who was hatcheted only last year and whose head +reposed in some Melanesian stronghold—and all breathing of the warmth +and abandon and savagery of the burning islands of the sun.</p> + +<p>And despite himself, Frederick sat entranced; and when all the tale was +told, he was aware of a queer emptiness. He remembered back to his +boyhood, when he had pored over the illustrations in the old-fashioned +geography. He, too, had dreamed of amazing adventure in far places and +desired to go out on the shining ways. And he had planned to go; yet he +had known only work and duty. Perhaps that was the difference. Perhaps +that was the secret of the strange wisdom in his brother's eyes. For +the moment, faint and far, vicariously, he glimpsed the lordly vision +his brother had seen. He remembered a sharp saying of Polly's. "You have +missed romance. You traded it for dividends." She was right, and yet, +not fair. He had wanted romance, but the work had been placed ready to +his hand. He had toiled and moiled, day and night, and been faithful to +his trust. Yet he had missed love and the world-living that was forever +a-whisper in his brother. And what had Tom done to deserve it?—a +wastrel and an idle singer of songs.</p> + +<p>His place was high. He was going to be the next governor of California. +But what man would come to him and lie to him out of love? The thought +of all his property seemed to put a dry and gritty taste in his mouth. +Property! Now that he looked at it, one thousand dollars was like any +other thousand dollars; and one day (of his days) was like any other +day. He had never made the pictures in the geography come true. He had +not struck his man, nor lighted his cigar at a match held in a woman's +hand. A man could sleep in only one bed at a time—Tom had said that. He +shuddered as he strove to estimate how many beds he owned, how many +blankets he had bought. And all the beds and blankets would not buy one +man to come from the end of the earth, and grip his hand, and cry, "By +the turtles of Tasman!"</p> + +<p>Something of all this he told Polly, an undercurrent of complaint at the +unfairness of things in his tale. And she had answered:</p> + +<p>"It couldn't have been otherwise. Father bought it. He never drove +bargains. It was a royal thing, and he paid for it royally. You grudged +the price, don't you see. You saved your arteries and your money and +kept your feet dry."</p> + + +<h4>VI</h4> + +<p>On an afternoon in the late fall all were gathered about the big chair +and Captain Tom. Though he did not know it, he had drowsed the whole day +through and only just awakened to call for his <i>ukulele</i> and light a +cigarette at Polly's hand. But the <i>ukulele</i> lay idle on his arm, and +though the pine logs crackled in the huge fireplace he shivered and took +note of the cold.</p> + +<p>"It's a good sign," he said, unaware that the faintness of his voice +drew the heads of his listeners closer. "The cold weather will be a +tonic. It's a hard job to work the tropics out of one's blood. But I'm +beginning to shape up now for the Kuskokeem. In the spring, Polly, we +start with the dogs, and you'll see the midnight sun. How your mother +would have liked the trip. She was a game one. Forty sleeps with the +dogs, and we'll be shaking out yellow nuggets from the moss-roots. +Larabee has some fine animals. I know the breed. They're timber wolves, +that's what they are, big grey timber wolves, though they sport brown +about one in a litter—isn't that right, Bennington?"</p> + +<p>"One in a litter, that's just about the average," Bennington, the +Yukoner, replied promptly, but in a voice hoarsely unrecognisable.</p> + +<p>"And you must never travel alone with them," Captain Tom went on. "For +if you fall down they'll jump you. Larabee's brutes only respect a man +when he stands upright on his legs. When he goes down, he's meat. I +remember coming over the divide from Tanana to Circle City. That was +before the Klondike strike. It was in '94 ... no, '95, and the bottom +had dropped out of the thermometer. There was a young Canadian with the +outfit. His name was it was ... a peculiar one ... wait a minute it will +come to me...."</p> + +<p>His voice ceased utterly, though his lips still moved. A look of +unbelief and vast surprise dawned on his face. Followed a sharp, +convulsive shudder. And in that moment, without warning, he saw Death. +He looked clear-eyed and steady, as if pondering, then turned to Polly. +His hand moved impotently, as if to reach hers, and when he found it, +his fingers could not close. He gazed at her with a great smile that +slowly faded. The eyes drooped as the life went out, and remained a face +of quietude and repose. The <i>ukulele</i> clattered to the floor. One by one +they went softly from the room, leaving Polly alone.</p> + +<p>From the veranda, Frederick watched a man coming up the driveway. By the +roll of the sea in his walk, Frederick could guess for whom the stranger +came. The face was swarthy with sun and wrinkled with age that was given +the lie by the briskness of his movements and the alertness in the keen +black eyes. In the lobe of each ear was a tiny circlet of gold.</p> + +<p>"How do you do, sir," the man said, and it was patent that English was +not the tongue he had learned at his mother's knee. "How's Captain Tom? +They told me in the town that he was sick."</p> + +<p>"My brother is dead," Frederick answered.</p> + +<p>The stranger turned his head and gazed out over the park-like grounds +and up to the distant redwood peaks, and Frederick noted that he +swallowed with an effort.</p> + +<p>"By the turtles of Tasman, he was a man," he said, in a deep, changed +voice.</p> + +<p>"By the turtles of Tasman, he was a man," Frederick repeated; nor did he +stumble over the unaccustomed oath.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_ETERNITY_OF_FORMS" id="THE_ETERNITY_OF_FORMS">THE ETERNITY OF FORMS</a></h2> + + +<p>A strange life has come to an end in the death of Mr. Sedley Crayden, of +Crayden Hill.</p> + +<p>Mild, harmless, he was the victim of a strange delusion that kept him +pinned, night and day, in his chair for the last two years of his life. +The mysterious death, or, rather, disappearance, of his elder brother, +James Crayden, seems to have preyed upon his mind, for it was shortly +after that event that his delusion began to manifest itself.</p> + +<p>Mr. Crayden never vouchsafed any explanation of his strange conduct. +There was nothing the matter with him physically; and, mentally, the +alienists found him normal in every way save for his one remarkable +idiosyncrasy. His remaining in his chair was purely voluntary, an act of +his own will. And now he is dead, and the mystery remains unsolved.</p> + +<p>—<i>Extract from the Newton Courier-Times.</i></p> +<p> </p> + +<p>Briefly, I was Mr. Sedley Crayden's confidential servant and valet for +the last eight months of his life. During that time he wrote a great +deal in a manuscript that he kept always beside him, except when he +drowsed or slept, at which times he invariably locked it in a desk +drawer close to his hand.</p> + +<p>I was curious to read what the old gentleman wrote, but he was too +cautious and cunning. I never got a peep at the manuscript. If he were +engaged upon it when I attended on him, he covered the top sheet with a +large blotter. It was I who found him dead in his chair, and it was then +that I took the liberty of abstracting the manuscript. I was very +curious to read it, and I have no excuses to offer.</p> + +<p>After retaining it in my secret possession for several years, and after +ascertaining that Mr. Crayden left no surviving relatives, I have +decided to make the nature of the manuscript known. It is very long, and +I have omitted nearly all of it, giving only the more lucid fragments. +It bears all the earmarks of a disordered mind, and various experiences +are repeated over and over, while much is so vague and incoherent as to +defy comprehension. Nevertheless, from reading it myself, I venture to +predict that if an excavation is made in the main basement, somewhere in +the vicinity of the foundation of the great chimney, a collection of +bones will be found which should very closely resemble those which James +Crayden once clothed in mortal flesh.</p> + +<p>—<i>Statement of Rudolph Heckler.</i></p> +<p> </p> + +<p>Here follows the excerpts from the manuscript, made and arranged by +Rudolph Heckler:</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>I never killed my brother. Let this be my first word and my last. Why +should I kill him? We lived together in unbroken harmony for twenty +years. We were old men, and the fires and tempers of youth had long +since burned out. We never disagreed even over the most trivial things. +Never was there such amity as ours. We were scholars. We cared nothing +for the outside world. Our companionship and our books were +all-satisfying. Never were there such talks as we held. Many a night we +have sat up till two and three in the morning, conversing, weighing +opinions and judgments, referring to authorities—in short, we lived at +high and friendly intellectual altitudes.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He disappeared. I suffered a great shock. Why should he have +disappeared? Where could he have gone? It was very strange. I was +stunned. They say I was very sick for weeks. It was brain fever. This +was caused by his inexplicable disappearance. It was at the beginning of +the experience I hope here to relate, that he disappeared.</p> + +<p>How I have endeavoured to find him. I am not an excessively rich man, +yet have I offered continually increasing rewards. I have advertised in +all the papers, and sought the aid of all the detective bureaus. At the +present moment, the rewards I have out aggregate over fifty thousand +dollars.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>They say he was murdered. They also say murder will out. Then I say, why +does not his murder come out? Who did it? Where is he? Where is Jim? My +Jim?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>We were so happy together. He had a remarkable mind, a most remarkable +mind, so firmly founded, so widely informed, so rigidly logical, that it +was not at all strange that we agreed in all things. Dissension was +unknown between us. Jim was the most truthful man I have ever met. In +this, too, we were similar, as we were similar in our intellectual +honesty. We never sacrificed truth to make a point. We had no points to +make, we so thoroughly agreed. It is absurd to think that we could +disagree on anything under the sun.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I wish he would come back. Why did he go? Who can ever explain it? I am +lonely now, and depressed with grave forebodings—frightened by terrors +that are of the mind and that put at naught all that my mind has ever +conceived. Form is mutable. This is the last word of positive science. +The dead do not come back. This is incontrovertible. The dead are dead, +and that is the end of it, and of them. And yet I have had experiences +here—here, in this very room, at this very desk, that—But wait. Let me +put it down in black and white, in words simple and unmistakable. Let me +ask some questions. Who mislays my pen? That is what I desire to know. +Who uses up my ink so rapidly? Not I. And yet the ink goes.</p> + +<p>The answer to these questions would settle all the enigmas of the +universe. I know the answer. I am not a fool. And some day, if I am +plagued too desperately, I shall give the answer myself. I shall give +the name of him who mislays my pen and uses up my ink. It is so silly to +think that I could use such a quantity of ink. The servant lies. I know.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I have got me a fountain pen. I have always disliked the device, but my +old stub had to go. I burned it in the fireplace. The ink I keep under +lock and key. I shall see if I cannot put a stop to these lies that are +being written about me. And I have other plans. It is not true that I +have recanted. I still believe that I live in a mechanical universe. It +has not been proved otherwise to me, for all that I have peered over his +shoulder and read his malicious statement to the contrary. He gives me +credit for no less than average stupidity. He thinks I think he is real. +How silly. I know he is a brain-figment, nothing more.</p> + +<p>There are such things as hallucinations. Even as I looked over his +shoulder and read, I knew that this was such a thing. If I were only +well it would be interesting. All my life I have wanted to experience +such phenomena. And now it has come to me. I shall make the most of it. +What is imagination? It can make something where there is nothing. How +can anything be something where there is nothing? How can anything be +something and nothing at the same time? I leave it for the +metaphysicians to ponder. I know better. No scholastics for me. This is +a real world, and everything in it is real. What is not real, is not. +Therefore he is not. Yet he tries to fool me into believing that he +is ... when all the time I know he has no existence outside of my own +brain cells.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I saw him to-day, seated at the desk, writing. It gave me quite a shock, +because I had thought he was quite dispelled. Nevertheless, on looking +steadily, I found that he was not there—the old familiar trick of the +brain. I have dwelt too long on what has happened. I am becoming +morbid, and my old indigestion is hinting and muttering. I shall take +exercise. Each day I shall walk for two hours.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It is impossible. I cannot exercise. Each time I return from my walk, he +is sitting in my chair at the desk. It grows more difficult to drive him +away. It is my chair. Upon this I insist. It <i>was</i> his, but he is dead +and it is no longer his. How one can be befooled by the phantoms of his +own imagining! There is nothing real in this apparition. I know it. I am +firmly grounded with my fifty years of study. The dead are dead.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>And yet, explain one thing. To-day, before going for my walk, I +carefully put the fountain pen in my pocket before leaving the room. I +remember it distinctly. I looked at the clock at the time. It was twenty +minutes past ten. Yet on my return there was the pen lying on the desk. +Some one had been using it. There was very little ink left. I wish he +would not write so much. It is disconcerting.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>There was one thing upon which Jim and I were not quite agreed. He +believed in the eternity of the forms of things. Therefore, entered in +immediately the consequent belief in immortality, and all the other +notions of the metaphysical philosophers. I had little patience with him +in this. Painstakingly I have traced to him the evolution of his belief +in the eternity of forms, showing him how it has arisen out of his early +infatuation with logic and mathematics. Of course, from that warped, +squinting, abstract view-point, it is very easy to believe in the +eternity of forms.</p> + +<p>I laughed at the unseen world. Only the real was real, I contended, and +what one did not perceive, was not, could not be. I believed in a +mechanical universe. Chemistry and physics explained everything. "Can no +being be?" he demanded in reply. I said that his question was but the +major promise of a fallacious Christian Science syllogism. Oh, believe +me, I know my logic, too. But he was very stubborn. I never had any +patience with philosophic idealists.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Once, I made to him my confession of faith. It was simple, brief, +unanswerable. Even as I write it now I know that it is unanswerable. +Here it is. I told him: "I assert, with Hobbes, that it is impossible to +separate thought from matter that thinks. I assert, with Bacon, that all +human understanding arises from the world of sensations. I assert, with +Locke, that all human ideas are due to the functions of the senses. I +assert, with Kant, the mechanical origin of the universe, and that +creation is a natural and historical process. I assert, with Laplace, +that there is no need of the hypothesis of a creator. And, finally, I +assert, because of all the foregoing, that form is ephemeral. Form +passes. Therefore we pass."</p> + +<p>I repeat, it was unanswerable. Yet did he answer with Paley's notorious +fallacy of the watch. Also, he talked about radium, and all but asserted +that the very existence of matter had been exploded by these later-day +laboratory researches. It was childish. I had not dreamed he could be so +immature.</p> + +<p>How could one argue with such a man? I then asserted the reasonableness +of all that is. To this he agreed, reserving, however, one exception. He +looked at me, as he said it, in a way I could not mistake. The inference +was obvious. That he should be guilty of so cheap a quip in the midst of +a serious discussion, astounded me.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The eternity of forms. It is ridiculous. Yet is there a strange magic in +the words. If it be true, then has he not ceased to exist. Then does he +exist. This is impossible.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I have ceased exercising. As long as I remain in the room, the +hallucination does not bother me. But when I return to the room after an +absence, he is always there, sitting at the desk, writing. Yet I dare +not confide in a physician. I must fight this out by myself.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He grows more importunate. To-day, consulting a book on the shelf, I +turned and found him again in the chair. This is the first time he has +dared do this in my presence. Nevertheless, by looking at him steadily +and sternly for several minutes, I compelled him to vanish. This proves +my contention. He does not exist. If he were an eternal form I could not +make him vanish by a mere effort of my will.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>This is getting damnable. To-day I gazed at him for an entire hour +before I could make him leave. Yet it is so simple. What I see is a +memory picture. For twenty years I was accustomed to seeing him there at +the desk. The present phenomenon is merely a recrudescence of that +memory picture—a picture which was impressed countless times on my +consciousness.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I gave up to-day. He exhausted me, and still he would not go. I sat and +watched him hour after hour. He takes no notice of me, but continually +writes. I know what he writes, for I read it over his shoulder. It is +not true. He is taking an unfair advantage.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Query: He is a product of my consciousness; is it possible, then, that +entities may be created by consciousness?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>We did not quarrel. To this day I do not know how it happened. Let me +tell you. Then you will see. We sat up late that never-to-be-forgotten +last night of his existence. It was the old, old discussion—the +eternity of forms. How many hours and how many nights we had consumed +over it!</p> + +<p>On this night he had been particularly irritating, and all my nerves +were screaming. He had been maintaining that the human soul was itself a +form, an eternal form, and that the light within his brain would go on +forever and always. I took up the poker.</p> + +<p>"Suppose," I said, "I should strike you dead with this?"</p> + +<p>"I would go on," he answered.</p> + +<p>"As a conscious entity?" I demanded.</p> + +<p>"Yes, as a conscious entity," was his reply. "I should go on, from +plane to plane of higher existence, remembering my earth-life, you, this +very argument—ay, and continuing the argument with you."</p> + +<p>It was only argument<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>. I swear it was only argument. I never lifted a +hand. How could I? He was my brother, my elder brother, Jim.</p> + +<p>I cannot remember. I was very exasperated. He had always been so +obstinate in this metaphysical belief of his. The next I knew, he was +lying on the hearth. Blood was running. It was terrible. He did not +speak. He did not move. He must have fallen in a fit and struck his +head. I noticed there was blood on the poker. In falling he must have +struck upon it with his head. And yet I fail to see how this can be, for +I held it in my hand all the time. I was still holding it in my hand as +I looked at it.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It is an hallucination. That is a conclusion of common sense. I have +watched the growth of it. At first it was only in the dimmest light +that I could see him sitting in the chair. But as the time passed, and +the hallucination, by repetition, strengthened, he was able to appear in +the chair under the strongest lights. That is the explanation. It is +quite satisfactory.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I shall never forget the first time I saw it. I had dined alone +downstairs. I never drink wine, so that what happened was eminently +normal. It was in the summer twilight that I returned to the study. I +glanced at the desk. There he was, sitting. So natural was it, that +before I knew I cried out "Jim!" Then I remembered all that had +happened. Of course it was an hallucination. I knew that. I took the +poker and went over to it. He did not move nor vanish. The poker cleaved +through the non-existent substance of the thing and struck the back of +the chair. Fabric of fancy, that is all it was. The mark is there on the +chair now where the poker struck. I pause from my writing and turn and +look at it—press the tips of my fingers into the indentation.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He <i>did</i> continue the argument. I stole up to-day and looked over his +shoulder. He was writing the history of our discussion. It was the same +old nonsense about the eternity of forms. But as I continued to read, he +wrote down the practical test I had made with the poker. Now this is +unfair and untrue. I made no test. In falling he struck his head on the +poker.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Some day, somebody will find and read what he writes. This will be +terrible. I am suspicious of the servant, who is always peeping and +peering, trying to see what I write. I must do something. Every servant +I have had is curious about what I write.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Fabric of fancy. That is all it is. There is no Jim who sits in the +chair. I know that. Last night, when the house was asleep, I went down +into the cellar and looked carefully at the soil around the chimney. It +was untampered with. The dead do not rise up.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Yesterday morning, when I entered the study, there he was in the chair. +When I had dispelled him, I sat in the chair myself all day. I had my +meals brought to me. And thus I escaped the sight of him for many hours, +for he appears only in the chair. I was weary, but I sat late, until +eleven o'clock. Yet, when I stood up to go to bed, I looked around, and +there he was. He had slipped into the chair on the instant. Being only +fabric of fancy, all day he had resided in my brain. The moment it was +unoccupied, he took up his residence in the chair. Are these his boasted +higher planes of existence—his brother's brain and a chair? After all, +was he not right? Has his eternal form become so attenuated as to be an +hallucination? Are hallucinations real entities? Why not? There is food +for thought here. Some day I shall come to a conclusion upon it.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He was very much disturbed to-day. He could not write, for I had made +the servant carry the pen out of the room in his pocket But neither +could I write.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The servant never sees him. This is strange. Have I developed a keener +sight for the unseen? Or rather does it not prove the phantom to be what +it is—a product of my own morbid consciousness?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He has stolen my pen again. Hallucinations cannot steal pens. This is +unanswerable. And yet I cannot keep the pen always out of the room. I +want to write myself.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I have had three different servants since my trouble came upon me, and +not one has seen him. Is the verdict of their senses right? And is that +of mine wrong? Nevertheless, the ink goes too rapidly. I fill my pen +more often than is necessary. And furthermore, only to-day I found my +pen out of order. I did not break it.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I have spoken to him many times, but he never answers. I sat and watched +him all morning. Frequently he looked at me, and it was patent that he +knew me.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>By striking the side of my head violently with the heel of my hand, I +can shake the vision of him out of my eyes. Then I can get into the +chair; but I have learned that I must move very quickly in order to +accomplish this. Often he fools me and is back again before I can sit +down.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It is getting unbearable. He is a jack-in-the-box the way he pops into +the chair. He does not assume form slowly. He pops. That is the only way +to describe it. I cannot stand looking at him much more. That way lies +madness, for it compels me almost to believe in the reality of what I +know is not. Besides, hallucinations do not pop.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Thank God he only manifests himself in the chair. As long as I occupy +the chair I am quit of him.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>My device for dislodging him from the chair by striking my head, is +failing. I have to hit much more violently, and I do not succeed perhaps +more than once in a dozen trials. My head is quite sore where I have so +repeatedly struck it. I must use the other hand.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>My brother was right. There is an unseen world. Do I not see it? Am I +not cursed with the seeing of it all the time? Call it a thought, an +idea, anything you will, still it is there. It is unescapable. Thoughts +are entities. We create with every act of thinking. I have created this +phantom that sits in my chair and uses my ink. Because I have created +him is no reason that he is any the less real. He is an idea; he is an +entity: ergo, ideas are entities, and an entity is a reality.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Query: If a man, with the whole historical process behind him, can +create an entity, a real thing, then is not the hypothesis of a Creator +made substantial? If the stuff of life can create, then it is fair to +assume that there can be a He who created the stuff of life. It is +merely a difference of degree. I have not yet made a mountain nor a +solar system, but I have made a something that sits in my chair. This +being so, may I not some day be able to make a mountain or a solar +system?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>All his days, down to to-day, man has lived in a maze. He has never seen +the light. I am convinced that I am beginning to see the light—not as +my brother saw it, by stumbling upon it accidentally, but deliberately +and rationally. My brother is dead. He has ceased. There is no doubt +about it, for I have made another journey down into the cellar to see. +The ground was untouched. I broke it myself to make sure, and I saw what +made me sure. My brother has ceased, yet have I recreated him. This is +not my old brother, yet it is something as nearly resembling him as I +could fashion it. I am unlike other men. I am a god. I have created.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Whenever I leave the room to go to bed, I look back, and there is my +brother sitting in the chair. And then I cannot sleep because of +thinking of him sitting through all the long night-hours. And in the +morning, when I open the study door, there he is, and I know he has sat +there the night long.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I am becoming desperate from lack of sleep. I wish I could confide in a +physician.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Blessed sleep! I have won to it at last. Let me tell you. Last night I +was so worn that I found myself dozing in my chair. I rang for the +servant and ordered him to bring blankets. I slept. All night was he +banished from my thoughts as he was banished from my chair. I shall +remain in it all day. It is a wonderful relief.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It is uncomfortable to sleep in a chair. But it is more uncomfortable to +lie in bed, hour after hour, and not sleep, and to know that he is +sitting there in the cold darkness.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It is no use. I shall never be able to sleep in a bed again. I have +tried it now, numerous times, and every such night is a horror. If I +could but only persuade him to go to bed! But no. He sits there, and +sits there—I know he does—while I stare and stare up into the +blackness and think and think, continually think, of him sitting there. +I wish I had never heard of the eternity of forms.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The servants think I am crazy. That is but to be expected, and it is why +I have never called in a physician.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I am resolved. Henceforth this hallucination ceases. From now on I shall +remain in the chair. I shall never leave it. I shall remain in it night +and day and always.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I have succeeded. For two weeks I have not seen him. Nor shall I ever +see him again. I have at last attained the equanimity of mind necessary +for philosophic thought. I wrote a complete chapter to-day.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It is very wearisome, sitting in a chair. The weeks pass, the months +come and go, the seasons change, the servants replace each other, while +I remain. I only remain. It is a strange life I lead, but at least I am +at peace.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He comes no more. There is no eternity of forms. I have proved it. For +nearly two years now, I have remained in this chair, and I have not seen +him once. True, I was severely tried for a time. But it is clear that +what I thought I saw was merely hallucination. He never was. Yet I do +not leave the chair. I am afraid to leave the chair.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> (Forcible—ha! ha!—comment of Rudolph Heckler on margin.)</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="TOLD_IN_THE_DROOLING_WARD" id="TOLD_IN_THE_DROOLING_WARD">TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD</a></h2> + + +<p>Me? I'm not a drooler. I'm the assistant, I don't know what Miss Jones +or Miss Kelsey could do without me. There are fifty-five low-grade +droolers in this ward, and how could they ever all be fed if I wasn't +around? I like to feed droolers. They don't make trouble. They can't. +Something's wrong with most of their legs and arms, and they can't talk. +They're very low-grade. I can walk, and talk, and do things. You must be +careful with the droolers and not feed them too fast. Then they choke. +Miss Jones says I'm an expert. When a new nurse comes I show her how to +do it. It's funny watching a new nurse try to feed them. She goes at it +so slow and careful that supper time would be around before she finished +shoving down their breakfast. Then I show her, because I'm an expert. +Dr. Dalrymple says I am, and he ought to know. A drooler can eat twice +as fast if you know how to make him.</p> + +<p>My name's Tom. I'm twenty-eight years old. Everybody knows me in the +institution. This is an institution, you know. It belongs to the State +of California and is run by politics. I know. I've been here a long +time. Everybody trusts me. I run errands all over the place, when I'm +not busy with the droolers. I like droolers. It makes me think how lucky +I am that I ain't a drooler.</p> + +<p>I like it here in the Home. I don't like the outside. I know. I've been +around a bit, and run away, and adopted. Me for the Home, and for the +drooling ward best of all. I don't look like a drooler, do I? You can +tell the difference soon as you look at me. I'm an assistant, expert +assistant. That's going some for a feeb. Feeb? Oh, that's feeble-minded. +I thought you knew. We're all feebs in here.</p> + +<p>But I'm a high-grade feeb. Dr. Dalrymple says I'm too smart to be in the +Home, but I never let on. It's a pretty good place. And I don't throw +fits like lots of the feebs. You see that house up there through the +trees. The high-grade epilecs all live in it by themselves. They're +stuck up because they ain't just ordinary feebs. They call it the club +house, and they say they're just as good as anybody outside, only +they're sick. I don't like them much. They laugh at me, when they ain't +busy throwing fits. But I don't care. I never have to be scared about +falling down and busting my head. Sometimes they run around in circles +trying to find a place to sit down quick, only they don't. Low-grade +epilecs are disgusting, and high-grade epilecs put on airs. I'm glad I +ain't an epilec. There ain't anything to them. They just talk big, +that's all.</p> + +<p>Miss Kelsey says I talk too much. But I talk sense, and that's more than +the other feebs do. Dr. Dalrymple says I have the gift of language. I +know it. You ought to hear me talk when I'm by myself, or when I've got +a drooler to listen. Sometimes I think I'd like to be a politician, only +it's too much trouble. They're all great talkers; that's how they hold +their jobs.</p> + +<p>Nobody's crazy in this institution. They're just feeble in their minds. +Let me tell you something funny. There's about a dozen high-grade girls +that set the tables in the big dining room. Sometimes when they're done +ahead of time, they all sit down in chairs in a circle and talk. I sneak +up to the door and listen, and I nearly die to keep from laughing. Do +you want to know what they talk? It's like this. They don't say a word +for a long time. And then one says, "Thank God I'm not feeble-minded." +And all the rest nod their heads and look pleased. And then nobody says +anything for a time. After which the next girl in the circle says, +"Thank God I'm not feeble-minded," and they nod their heads all over +again. And it goes on around the circle, and they never say anything +else. Now they're real feebs, ain't they? I leave it to you. I'm not +that kind of a feeb, thank God.</p> + +<p>Sometimes I don't think I'm a feeb at all. I play in the band and read +music. We're all supposed to be feebs in the band except the leader. +He's crazy. We know it, but we never talk about it except amongst +ourselves. His job is politics, too, and we don't want him to lose it. I +play the drum. They can't get along without me in this institution. I +was sick once, so I know. It's a wonder the drooling ward didn't break +down while I was in hospital.</p> + +<p>I could get out of here if I wanted to. I'm not so feeble as some might +think. But I don't let on. I have too good a time. Besides, everything +would run down if I went away. I'm afraid some time they'll find out I'm +not a feeb and send me out into the world to earn my own living. I know +the world, and I don't like it. The Home is fine enough for me.</p> + +<p>You see how I grin sometimes. I can't help that. But I can put it on a +lot. I'm not bad, though. I look at myself in the glass. My mouth is +funny, I know that, and it lops down, and my teeth are bad. You can tell +a feeb anywhere by looking at his mouth and teeth. But that doesn't +prove I'm a feeb. It's just because I'm lucky that I look like one.</p> + +<p>I know a lot. If I told you all I know, you'd be surprised. But when I +don't want to know, or when they want me to do something I don't want +to do, I just let my mouth lop down and laugh and make foolish noises. I +watch the foolish noises made by the low-grades, and I can fool anybody. +And I know a lot of foolish noises. Miss Kelsey called me a fool the +other day. She was very angry, and that was where I fooled her.</p> + +<p>Miss Kelsey asked me once why I don't write a book about feebs. I was +telling her what was the matter with little Albert. He's a drooler, you +know, and I can always tell the way he twists his left eye what's the +matter with him. So I was explaining it to Miss Kelsey, and, because she +didn't know, it made her mad. But some day, mebbe, I'll write that book. +Only it's so much trouble. Besides, I'd sooner talk.</p> + +<p>Do you know what a micro is? It's the kind with the little heads no +bigger than your fist. They're usually droolers, and they live a long +time. The hydros don't drool. They have the big heads, and they're +smarter. But they never grow up. They always die. I never look at one +without thinking he's going to die. Sometimes, when I'm feeling lazy, or +the nurse is mad at me, I wish I was a drooler with nothing to do and +somebody to feed me. But I guess I'd sooner talk and be what I am.</p> + +<p>Only yesterday Doctor Dalrymple said to me, "Tom," he said, "I just +don't know what I'd do without you." And he ought to know, seeing as +he's had the bossing of a thousand feebs for going on two years. Dr. +Whatcomb was before him. They get appointed, you know. It's politics. +I've seen a whole lot of doctors here in my time. I was here before any +of them. I've been in this institution twenty-five years. No, I've got +no complaints. The institution couldn't be run better.</p> + +<p>It's a snap to be a high-grade feeb. Just look at Doctor Dalrymple. He +has troubles. He holds his job by politics. You bet we high-graders talk +politics. We know all about it, and it's bad. An institution like this +oughtn't to be run on politics. Look at Doctor Dalrymple. He's been here +two years and learned a lot. Then politics will come along and throw +him out and send a new doctor who don't know anything about feebs.</p> + +<p>I've been acquainted with just thousands of nurses in my time. Some of +them are nice. But they come and go. Most of the women get married. +Sometimes I think I'd like to get married. I spoke to Dr. Whatcomb about +it once, but he told me he was very sorry, because feebs ain't allowed +to get married. I've been in love. She was a nurse. I won't tell you her +name. She had blue eyes, and yellow hair, and a kind voice, and she +liked me. She told me so. And she always told me to be a good boy. And I +was, too, until afterward, and then I ran away. You see, she went off +and got married, and she didn't tell me about it.</p> + +<p>I guess being married ain't what it's cracked up to be. Dr. Anglin and +his wife used to fight. I've seen them. And once I heard her call him a +feeb. Now nobody has a right to call anybody a feeb that ain't. Dr. +Anglin got awful mad when she called him that. But he didn't last long. +Politics drove him out, and Doctor Mandeville came. He didn't have a +wife. I heard him talking one time with the engineer. The engineer and +his wife fought like cats and dogs, and that day Doctor Mandeville told +him he was damn glad he wasn't tied to no petticoats. A petticoat is a +skirt. I knew what he meant, if I was a feeb. But I never let on. You +hear lots when you don't let on.</p> + +<p>I've seen a lot in my time. Once I was adopted, and went away on the +railroad over forty miles to live with a man named Peter Bopp and his +wife. They had a ranch. Doctor Anglin said I was strong and bright, and +I said I was, too. That was because I wanted to be adopted. And Peter +Bopp said he'd give me a good home, and the lawyers fixed up the papers.</p> + +<p>But I soon made up my mind that a ranch was no place for me. Mrs. Bopp +was scared to death of me and wouldn't let me sleep in the house. They +fixed up the woodshed and made me sleep there. I had to get up at four +o'clock and feed the horses, and milk cows, and carry the milk to the +neighbours. They called it chores, but it kept me going all day. I +chopped wood, and cleaned chicken houses, and weeded vegetables, and +did most everything on the place. I never had any fun. I hadn't no time.</p> + +<p>Let me tell you one thing. I'd sooner feed mush and milk to feebs than +milk cows with the frost on the ground. Mrs. Bopp was scared to let me +play with her children. And I was scared, too. They used to make faces +at me when nobody was looking, and call me "Looney." Everybody called me +Looney Tom. And the other boys in the neighbourhood threw rocks at me. +You never see anything like that in the Home here. The feebs are better +behaved.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bopp used to pinch me and pull my hair when she thought I was too +slow, and I only made foolish noises and went slower. She said I'd be +the death of her some day. I left the boards off the old well in the +pasture, and the pretty new calf fell in and got drowned. Then Peter +Bopp said he was going to give me a licking. He did, too. He took a +strap halter and went at me. It was awful. I'd never had a licking in my +life. They don't do such things in the Home, which is why I say the +Home is the place for me.</p> + +<p>I know the law, and I knew he had no right to lick me with a strap +halter. That was being cruel, and the guardianship papers said he +mustn't be cruel. I didn't say anything. I just waited, which shows you +what kind of a feeb I am. I waited a long time, and got slower, and made +more foolish noises; but he wouldn't, send me back to the Home, which +was what I wanted. But one day, it was the first of the month, Mrs. +Brown gave me three dollars, which was for her milk bill with Peter +Bopp. That was in the morning. When I brought the milk in the evening I +was to bring back the receipt. But I didn't. I just walked down to the +station, bought a ticket like any one, and rode on the train back to the +Home. That's the kind of a feeb I am.</p> + +<p>Doctor Anglin was gone then, and Doctor Mandeville had his place. I +walked right into his office. He didn't know me. "Hello," he said, "this +ain't visiting day." "I ain't a visitor," I said. "I'm Tom. I belong +here." Then he whistled and showed he was surprised. I told him all +about it, and showed him the marks of the strap halter, and he got +madder and madder all the time and said he'd attend to Mr. Peter Bopp's +case.</p> + +<p>And mebbe you think some of them little droolers weren't glad to see me.</p> + +<p>I walked right into the ward. There was a new nurse feeding little +Albert. "Hold on," I said. "That ain't the way. Don't you see how he's +twisting that left eye? Let me show you." Mebbe she thought I was a new +doctor, for she just gave me the spoon, and I guess I filled little +Albert up with the most comfortable meal he'd had since I went away. +Droolers ain't bad when you understand them. I heard Miss Jones tell +Miss Kelsey once that I had an amazing gift in handling droolers.</p> + +<p>Some day, mebbe, I'm going to talk with Doctor Dalrymple and get him to +give me a declaration that I ain't a feeb. Then I'll get him to make me +a real assistant in the drooling ward, with forty dollars a month and my +board. And then I'll marry Miss Jones and live right on here. And if +she won't have me, I'll marry Miss Kelsey or some other nurse. There's +lots of them that want to get married. And I won't care if my wife gets +mad and calls me a feeb. What's the good? And I guess when one's learned +to put up with droolers a wife won't be much worse.</p> + +<p>I didn't tell you about when I ran away. I hadn't no idea of such a +thing, and it was Charley and Joe who put me up to it. They're +high-grade epilecs, you know. I'd been up to Doctor Wilson's office with +a message, and was going back to the drooling ward, when I saw Charley +and Joe hiding around the corner of the gymnasium and making motions to +me. I went over to them.</p> + +<p>"Hello," Joe said. "How's droolers?"</p> + +<p>"Fine," I said. "Had any fits lately?"</p> + +<p>That made them mad, and I was going on, when Joe said, "We're running +away. Come on."</p> + +<p>"What for?" I said.</p> + +<p>"We're going up over the top of the mountain," Joe said.</p> + +<p>"And find a gold mine," said Charley. "We don't have fits any more. +We're cured."</p> + +<p>"All right," I said. And we sneaked around back of the gymnasium and in +among the trees. Mebbe we walked along about ten minutes, when I +stopped.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" said Joe.</p> + +<p>"Wait," I said. "I got to go back."</p> + +<p>"What for?" said Joe.</p> + +<p>And I said, "To get little Albert."</p> + +<p>And they said I couldn't, and got mad. But I didn't care. I knew they'd +wait. You see, I've been here twenty-five years, and I know the back +trails that lead up the mountain, and Charley and Joe didn't know those +trails. That's why they wanted me to come.</p> + +<p>So I went back and got little Albert. He can't walk, or talk, or do +anything except drool, and I had to carry him in my arms. We went on +past the last hayfield, which was as far as I'd ever gone. Then the +woods and brush got so thick, and me not finding any more trail, we +followed the cow-path down to a big creek and crawled through the fence +which showed where the Home land stopped.</p> + +<p>We climbed up the big hill on the other side of the creek. It was all +big trees, and no brush, but it was so steep and slippery with dead +leaves we could hardly walk. By and by we came to a real bad place. It +was forty feet across, and if you slipped you'd fall a thousand feet, or +mebbe a hundred. Anyway, you wouldn't fall—just slide. I went across +first, carrying little Albert. Joe came next. But Charley got scared +right in the middle and sat down.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to have a fit," he said.</p> + +<p>"No, you're not," said Joe. "Because if you was you wouldn't 'a' sat +down. You take all your fits standing."</p> + +<p>"This is a different kind of a fit," said Charley, beginning to cry.</p> + +<p>He shook and shook, but just because he wanted to he couldn't scare up +the least kind of a fit.</p> + +<p>Joe got mad and used awful language. But that didn't help none. So I +talked soft and kind to Charley. That's the way to handle feebs. If you +get mad, they get worse. I know. I'm that way myself. That's why I was +almost the death of Mrs. Bopp. She got mad.</p> + +<p>It was getting along in the afternoon, and I knew we had to be on our +way, so I said to Joe:</p> + +<p>"Here, stop your cussing and hold Albert. I'll go back and get him."</p> + +<p>And I did, too; but he was so scared and dizzy he crawled along on hands +and knees while I helped him. When I got him across and took Albert back +in my arms, I heard somebody laugh and looked down. And there was a man +and woman on horseback looking up at us. He had a gun on his saddle, and +it was her who was laughing.</p> + +<p>"Who in hell's that?" said Joe, getting scared. "Somebody to catch us?"</p> + +<p>"Shut up your cussing," I said to him. "That is the man who owns this +ranch and writes books."</p> + +<p>"How do you do, Mr. Endicott," I said down to him.</p> + +<p>"Hello," he said. "What are you doing here?"</p> + +<p>"We're running away," I said.</p> + +<p>And he said, "Good luck. But be sure and get back before dark."</p> + +<p>"But this is a real running away," I said.</p> + +<p>And then both he and his wife laughed.</p> + +<p>"All right," he said. "Good luck just the same. But watch out the bears +and mountain lions don't get you when it gets dark."</p> + +<p>Then they rode away laughing, pleasant like; but I wished he hadn't said +that about the bears and mountain lions.</p> + +<p>After we got around the hill, I found a trail, and we went much faster. +Charley didn't have any more signs of fits, and began laughing and +talking about gold mines. The trouble was with little Albert. He was +almost as big as me. You see, all the time I'd been calling him little +Albert, he'd been growing up. He was so heavy I couldn't keep up with +Joe and Charley. I was all out of breath. So I told them they'd have to +take turns in carrying him, which they said they wouldn't. Then I said +I'd leave them and they'd get lost, and the mountain lions and bears +would eat them. Charley looked like he was going to have a fit right +there, and Joe said, "Give him to me." And after that we carried him in +turn.</p> + +<p>We kept right on up that mountain. I don't think there was any gold +mine, but we might 'a' got to the top and found it, if we hadn't lost +the trail, and if it hadn't got dark, and if little Albert hadn't tired +us all out carrying him. Lots of feebs are scared of the dark, and Joe +said he was going to have a fit right there. Only he didn't. I never saw +such an unlucky boy. He never could throw a fit when he wanted to. Some +of the feebs can throw fits as quick as a wink.</p> + +<p>By and by it got real black, and we were hungry, and we didn't have no +fire. You see, they don't let feebs carry matches, and all we could do +was just shiver. And we'd never thought about being hungry. You see, +feebs always have their food ready for them, and that's why it's better +to be a feeb than earning your living in the world.</p> + +<p>And worse than everything was the quiet. There was only one thing worse, +and it was the noises. There was all kinds of noises every once in a +while, with quiet spells in between. I reckon they were rabbits, but +they made noises in the brush like wild animals—you know, rustle +rustle, thump, bump, crackle crackle, just like that. First Charley got +a fit, a real one, and Joe threw a terrible one. I don't mind fits in +the Home with everybody around. But out in the woods on a dark night is +different. You listen to me, and never go hunting gold mines with +epilecs, even if they are high-grade.</p> + +<p>I never had such an awful night. When Joe and Charley weren't throwing +fits they were making believe, and in the darkness the shivers from the +cold which I couldn't see seemed like fits, too. And I shivered so hard +I thought I was getting fits myself. And little Albert, with nothing to +eat, just drooled and drooled. I never seen him as bad as that before. +Why, he twisted that left eye of his until it ought to have dropped out. +I couldn't see it, but I could tell from the movements he made. And Joe +just lay and cussed and cussed, and Charley cried and wished he was +back in the Home.</p> + +<p>We didn't die, and next morning we went right back the way we'd come. +And little Albert got awful heavy. Doctor Wilson was mad as could be, +and said I was the worst feeb in the institution, along with Joe and +Charley. But Miss Striker, who was a nurse in the drooling ward then, +just put her arms around me and cried, she was that happy I'd got back. +I thought right there that mebbe I'd marry her. But only a month +afterward she got married to the plumber that came up from the city to +fix the gutter-pipes of the new hospital. And little Albert never +twisted his eye for two days, it was that tired.</p> + +<p>Next time I run away I'm going right over that mountain. But I ain't +going to take epilecs along. They ain't never cured, and when they get +scared or excited they throw fits to beat the band. But I'll take little +Albert. Somehow I can't get along without him. And anyway, I ain't going +to run away. The drooling ward's a better snap than gold mines, and I +hear there's a new nurse coming. Besides, little Albert's bigger than I +am now, and I could never carry him over a mountain. And he's growing +bigger every day. It's astonishing.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_HOBO_AND_THE_FAIRY" id="THE_HOBO_AND_THE_FAIRY">THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY</a></h2> + + +<p>He lay on his back. So heavy was his sleep that the stamp of hoofs and +cries of the drivers from the bridge that crossed the creek did not +rouse him. Wagon after wagon, loaded high with grapes, passed the bridge +on the way up the valley to the winery, and the coming of each wagon was +like an explosion of sound and commotion in the lazy quiet of the +afternoon.</p> + +<p>But the man was undisturbed. His head had slipped from the folded +newspaper, and the straggling unkempt hair was matted with the foxtails +and burrs of the dry grass on which it lay. He was not a pretty sight. +His mouth was open, disclosing a gap in the upper row where several +teeth at some time had been knocked out. He breathed stertorously, at +times grunting and moaning with the pain of his sleep. Also, he was very +restless, tossing his arms about, making jerky, half-convulsive +movements, and at times rolling his head from side to side in the burrs. +This restlessness seemed occasioned partly by some internal discomfort, +and partly by the sun that streamed down on his face and by the flies +that buzzed and lighted and crawled upon the nose and cheeks and +eyelids. There was no other place for them to crawl, for the rest of the +face was covered with matted beard, slightly grizzled, but greatly +dirt-stained and weather-discoloured.</p> + +<p>The cheek-bones were blotched with the blood congested by the debauch +that was evidently being slept off. This, too, accounted for the +persistence with which the flies clustered around the mouth, lured by +the alcohol-laden exhalations. He was a powerfully built man, +thick-necked, broad-shouldered, with sinewy wrists and toil-distorted +hands. Yet the distortion was not due to recent toil, nor were the +callouses other than ancient that showed under the dirt of the one palm +upturned. From time to time this hand clenched tightly and spasmodically +into a fist, large, heavy-boned and wicked-looking.</p> + +<p>The man lay in the dry grass of a tiny glade that ran down to the +tree-fringed bank of the stream. On either side of the glade was a +fence, of the old stake-and-rider type, though little of it was to be +seen, so thickly was it overgrown by wild blackberry bushes, scrubby +oaks and young madrono trees. In the rear, a gate through a low paling +fence led to a snug, squat bungalow, built in the California Spanish +style and seeming to have been compounded directly from the landscape of +which it was so justly a part. Neat and trim and modestly sweet was the +bungalow, redolent of comfort and repose, telling with quiet certitude +of some one that knew, and that had sought and found.</p> + +<p>Through the gate and into the glade came as dainty a little maiden as +ever stepped out of an illustration made especially to show how dainty +little maidens may be. Eight years she might have been, and, possibly, a +trifle more, or less. Her little waist and little black-stockinged +calves showed how delicately fragile she was; but the fragility was of +mould only. There was no hint of anæmia in the clear, healthy complexion +nor in the quick, tripping step. She was a little, delicious blond, +with hair spun of gossamer gold and wide blue eyes that were but +slightly veiled by the long lashes. Her expression was of sweetness and +happiness; it belonged by right to any face that sheltered in the +bungalow.</p> + +<p>She carried a child's parasol, which she was careful not to tear against +the scrubby branches and bramble bushes as she sought for wild poppies +along the edge of the fence. They were late poppies, a third generation, +which had been unable to resist the call of the warm October sun.</p> + +<p>Having gathered along one fence, she turned to cross to the opposite +fence. Midway in the glade she came upon the tramp. Her startle was +merely a startle. There was no fear in it. She stood and looked long and +curiously at the forbidding spectacle, and was about to turn back when +the sleeper moved restlessly and rolled his hand among the burrs. She +noted the sun on his face, and the buzzing flies; her face grew +solicitous, and for a moment she debated with herself. Then she tiptoed +to his side, interposed the parasol between him and the sun, and +brushed away the flies. After a time, for greater ease, she sat down +beside him.</p> + +<p>An hour passed, during which she occasionally shifted the parasol from +one tired hand to the other. At first the sleeper had been restless, +but, shielded from the flies and the sun, his breathing became gentler +and his movements ceased. Several times, however, he really frightened +her. The first was the worst, coming abruptly and without warning. +"Christ! How deep! How deep!" the man murmured from some profound of +dream. The parasol was agitated; but the little girl controlled herself +and continued her self-appointed ministrations.</p> + +<p>Another time it was a gritting of teeth, as of some intolerable agony. +So terribly did the teeth crunch and grind together that it seemed they +must crash into fragments. A little later he suddenly stiffened out. The +hands clenched and the face set with the savage resolution of the dream. +The eyelids trembled from the shock of the fantasy, seemed about to +open, but did not. Instead, the lips muttered:</p> + +<p>"No; by God, no. And once more no. I won't peach." The lips paused, then +went on. "You might as well tie me up, warden, and cut me to pieces. +That's all you can get outa me—blood. That's all any of you-uns has +ever got outa me in this hole."</p> + +<p>After this outburst the man slept gently on, while the little girl still +held the parasol aloft and looked down with a great wonder at the +frowsy, unkempt creature, trying to reconcile it with the little part of +life that she knew. To her ears came the cries of men, the stamp of +hoofs on the bridge, and the creak and groan of wagons heavy-laden. It +was a breathless California Indian summer day. Light fleeces of cloud +drifted in the azure sky, but to the west heavy cloud banks threatened +with rain. A bee droned lazily by. From farther thickets came the calls +of quail, and from the fields the songs of meadow larks. And oblivious +to it all slept Ross Shanklin—Ross Shanklin, the tramp and outcast, +ex-convict 4379, the bitter and unbreakable one who had defied all +keepers and survived all brutalities.</p> + +<p>Texas-born, of the old pioneer stock that was always tough and stubborn, +he had been unfortunate. At seventeen years of age he had been +apprehended for horse-stealing. Also, he had been convicted of stealing +seven horses which he had not stolen, and he had been sentenced to +fourteen years' imprisonment. This was severe under any circumstances, +but with him it had been especially severe, because there had been no +prior convictions against him. The sentiment of the people who believed +him guilty had been that two years was adequate punishment for the +youth, but the county attorney, paid according to the convictions he +secured, had made seven charges against him and earned seven fees. Which +goes to show that the county attorney valued twelve years of Ross +Shanklin's life at less than a few dollars.</p> + +<p>Young Ross Shanklin had toiled in hell; he had escaped, more than once; +and he had been caught and sent back to toil in other and various hells. +He had been triced up and lashed till he fainted, had been revived and +lashed again. He had been in the dungeon ninety days at a time. He had +experienced the torment of the straightjacket. He knew what the humming +bird was. He had been farmed out as a chattel by the state to the +contractors. He had been trailed through swamps by blood hounds. Twice +he had been shot. For six years on end he had cut a cord and a half of +wood each day in a convict lumber camp. Sick or well, he had cut that +cord and a half or paid for it under a whip-lash knotted and pickled.</p> + +<p>And Ross Shanklin had not sweetened under the treatment. He had sneered, +and cursed, and defied. He had seen convicts, after the guards had +manhandled them, crippled in body for life, or left to maunder in mind +to the end of their days. He had seen convicts, even his own cell-mate, +goaded to murder by their keepers, go to the gallows cursing God. He had +been in a break in which eleven of his kind were shot down. He had been +through a mutiny, where, in the prison yard, with gatling guns trained +upon them, three hundred convicts had been disciplined with +pick-handles wielded by brawny guards.</p> + +<p>He had known every infamy of human cruelty, and through it all he had +never been broken. He had resented and fought to the last, until, +embittered and bestial, the day came when he was discharged. Five +dollars were given him in payment for the years of his labour and the +flower of his manhood. And he had worked little in the years that +followed. Work he hated and despised. He tramped, begged and stole, lied +or threatened as the case might warrant, and drank to besottedness +whenever he got the chance.</p> + +<p>The little girl was looking at him when he awoke. Like a wild animal, +all of him was awake the instant he opened his eyes. The first he saw +was the parasol, strangely obtruded between him and the sky. He did not +start nor move, though his whole body seemed slightly to tense. His eyes +followed down the parasol handle to the tight-clutched little fingers, +and along the arm to the child's face. Straight and unblinking, he +looked into her eyes, and she, returning the look, was chilled and +frightened by his glittering eyes, cold and harsh, withal bloodshot, and +with no hint in them of the warm humanness she had been accustomed to +see and feel in human eyes. They were the true prison eyes—the eyes of +a man who had learned to talk little, who had forgotten almost how to +talk.</p> + +<p>"Hello," he said finally, making no effort to change his position. "What +game are you up to?"</p> + +<p>His voice was gruff and husky, and at first it had been harsh; but it +had softened queerly in a feeble attempt at forgotten kindliness.</p> + +<p>"How do you do?" she said. "I'm not playing. The sun was on your face, +and mamma says one oughtn't to sleep in the sun."</p> + +<p>The sweet clearness of her child's voice was pleasant to him, and he +wondered why he had never noticed it in children's voices before. He sat +up slowly and stared at her. He felt that he ought to say something, but +speech with him was a reluctant thing.</p> + +<p>"I hope you slept well," she said gravely.</p> + +<p>"I sure did," he answered, never taking his eyes from her, amazed at the +fairness and delicacy of her. "How long was you holdin' that contraption +up over me?"</p> + +<p>"O-oh," she debated with herself, "a long, long time. I thought you +would never wake up."</p> + +<p>"And I thought you was a fairy when I first seen you."</p> + +<p>He felt elated at his contribution to the conversation.</p> + +<p>"No, not a fairy," she smiled.</p> + +<p>He thrilled in a strange, numb way at the immaculate whiteness of her +small even teeth.</p> + +<p>"I was just the good Samaritan," she added.</p> + +<p>"I reckon I never heard of that party."</p> + +<p>He was cudgelling his brains to keep the conversation going. Never +having been at close quarters with a child since he was man-grown, he +found it difficult.</p> + +<p>"What a funny man not to know about the good Samaritan. Don't you +remember? A certain man went down to Jericho—"</p> + +<p>"I reckon I've been there," he interrupted.</p> + +<p>"I knew you were a traveller!" she cried, clapping her hands. "Maybe you +saw the exact spot."</p> + +<p>"What spot?"</p> + +<p>"Why, where he fell among thieves and was left half dead. And then the +good Samaritan went to him, and bound up his wounds, and poured in oil +and wine—was that olive oil, do you think?"</p> + +<p>He shook his head slowly.</p> + +<p>"I reckon you got me there. Olive oil is something the dagoes cooks +with. I never heard of it for busted heads."</p> + +<p>She considered his statement for a moment.</p> + +<p>"Well," she announced, "we use olive oil in our cooking, so we must be +dagoes. I never knew what they were before. I thought it was slang."</p> + +<p>"And the Samaritan dumped oil on his head," the tramp muttered +reminiscently. "Seems to me I recollect a sky pilot sayin' something +about that old gent. D'ye know, I've been looking for him off'n' on all +my life, and never scared up hide or hair of him. They ain't no more +Samaritans."</p> + +<p>"Wasn't I one?" she asked quickly.</p> + +<p>He looked at her steadily, with a great curiosity and wonder. Her ear, +by a movement exposed to the sun, was transparent. It seemed he could +almost see through it. He was amazed at the delicacy of her colouring, +at the blue of her eyes, at the dazzle of the sun-touched golden hair. +And he was astounded by her fragility. It came to him that she was +easily broken. His eye went quickly from his huge, gnarled paw to her +tiny hand in which it seemed to him he could almost see the blood +circulate. He knew the power in his muscles, and he knew the tricks and +turns by which men use their bodies to ill-treat men. In fact, he knew +little else, and his mind for the time ran in its customary channel. It +was his way of measuring the beautiful strangeness of her. He calculated +a grip, and not a strong one, that could grind her little fingers to +pulp. He thought of fist-blows he had given to men's heads, and +received on his own head, and felt that the least of them could shatter +hers like an eggshell. He scanned her little shoulders and slim waist, +and knew in all certitude that with his two hands he could rend her to +pieces.</p> + +<p>"Wasn't I one?" she insisted again.</p> + +<p>He came back to himself with a shock—or away from himself, as the case +happened. He was loth that the conversation should cease.</p> + +<p>"What?" he answered. "Oh, yes; you bet you was a Samaritan, even if you +didn't have no olive oil." He remembered what his mind had been dwelling +on, and asked, "But ain't you afraid?"</p> + +<p>She looked at him uncomprehendingly.</p> + +<p>"Of ... of me?" he added lamely.</p> + +<p>She laughed merrily.</p> + +<p>"Mamma says never to be afraid of anything. She says that if you're +good, and you think good of other people, they'll be good, too."</p> + +<p>"And you was thinkin' good of me when you kept the sun off," he +marvelled.</p> + +<p>"But it's hard to think good of bees and nasty crawly things," she +confessed.</p> + +<p>"But there's men that is nasty and crawly things," he argued.</p> + +<p>"Mamma says no. She says there's good in every one."</p> + +<p>"I bet you she locks the house up tight at night just the same," he +proclaimed triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"But she doesn't. Mamma isn't afraid of anything. That's why she lets me +play out here alone when I want. Why, we had a robber once. Mamma got +right up and found him. And what do you think! He was only a poor hungry +man. And she got him plenty to eat from the pantry, and afterward she +got him work to do."</p> + +<p>Ross Shanklin was stunned. The vista shown him of human nature was +unthinkable. It had been his lot to live in a world of suspicion and +hatred, of evil-believing and evil-doing. It had been his experience, +slouching along village streets at nightfall, to see little children, +screaming with fear, run from him to their mothers. He had even seen +grown women shrink aside from him as he passed along the sidewalk.</p> + +<p>He was aroused by the girl clapping her hands as she cried out.</p> + +<p>"I know what you are! You're an open air crank. That's why you were +sleeping here in the grass."</p> + +<p>He felt a grim desire to laugh, but repressed it.</p> + +<p>"And that's what tramps are—open air cranks," she continued. "I often +wondered. Mamma believes in the open air. I sleep on the porch at night. +So does she. This is our land. You must have climbed the fence. Mamma +lets me when I put on my climbers—they're bloomers, you know. But you +ought to be told something. A person doesn't know when they snore +because they're asleep. But you do worse than that. You grit your teeth. +That's bad. Whenever you are going to sleep you must think to yourself, +'I won't grit my teeth, I won't grit my teeth,' over and over, just like +that, and by and by you'll get out of the habit.</p> + +<p>"All bad things are habits. And so are all good things. And it depends +on us what kind our habits are going to be. I used to pucker my +eyebrows—wrinkle them all up, but mamma said I must overcome that +habit. She said that when my eyebrows were wrinkled it was an +advertisement that my brain was wrinkled inside, and that it wasn't good +to have wrinkles in the brain. And then she smoothed my eyebrows with +her hand and said I must always think <i>smooth</i>—<i>smooth</i> inside, and +<i>smooth</i> outside. And do you know, it was easy. I haven't wrinkled my +brows for ever so long. I've heard about filling teeth by thinking. But +I don't believe that. Neither does mamma."</p> + +<p>She paused, rather out of breath. Nor did he speak. Her flow of talk had +been too much for him. Also, sleeping drunkenly, with open mouth, had +made him very thirsty. But, rather than lose one precious moment, he +endured the torment of his scorching throat and mouth. He licked his dry +lips and struggled for speech.</p> + +<p>"What is your name?" he managed at last.</p> + +<p>"Joan."</p> + +<p>She looked her own question at him, and it was not necessary to voice +it.</p> + +<p>"Mine is Ross Shanklin," he volunteered, for the first time in forgotten +years giving his real name.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you've travelled a lot."</p> + +<p>"I sure have, but not as much as I might have wanted to."</p> + +<p>"Papa always wanted to travel, but he was too busy at the office. He +never could get much time. He went to Europe once with mamma. That was +before I was born. It takes money to travel."</p> + +<p>Ross Shanklin did not know whether to agree with this statement or not.</p> + +<p>"But it doesn't cost tramps much for expenses," she took the thought +away from him. "Is that why you tramp?"</p> + +<p>He nodded and licked his lips.</p> + +<p>"Mamma says it's too bad that men must tramp to look for work. But +there's lots of work now in the country. All the farmers in the valley +are trying to get men. Have you been working?"</p> + +<p>He shook his head, angry with himself that he should feel shame at the +confession when his savage reasoning told him he was right in despising +work. But this was followed by another thought. This beautiful little +creature was some man's child. She was one of the rewards of work.</p> + +<p>"I wish I had a little girl like you," he blurted out, stirred by a +sudden consciousness of passion for paternity. "I'd work my hands off. +I ... I'd do anything."</p> + +<p>She considered his case with fitting gravity.</p> + +<p>"Then you aren't married?"</p> + +<p>"Nobody would have me."</p> + +<p>"Yes they would, if...."</p> + +<p>She did not turn up her nose, but she favoured his dirt and rags with a +look of disapprobation he could not mistake.</p> + +<p>"Go on," he half-shouted. "Shoot it into me. If I was washed—if I wore +good clothes—if I was respectable—if I had a job and worked +regular—if I wasn't what I am."</p> + +<p>To each statement she nodded.</p> + +<p>"Well, I ain't that kind," he rushed on.</p> + +<p>"I'm no good. I'm a tramp. I don't want to work, that's what. And I like +dirt."</p> + +<p>Her face was eloquent with reproach as she said, "Then you were only +making believe when you wished you had a little girl like me?"</p> + +<p>This left him speechless, for he knew, in all the deeps of his new-found +passion, that that was just what he did want.</p> + +<p>With ready tact, noting his discomfort, she sought to change the +subject.</p> + +<p>"What do you think of God?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"I ain't never met him. What do you think about him?"</p> + +<p>His reply was evidently angry, and she was frank in her disapproval.</p> + +<p>"You are very strange," she said. "You get angry so easily. I never saw +anybody before that got angry about God, or work, or being clean."</p> + +<p>"He never done anything for me," he muttered resentfully. He cast back +in quick review of the long years of toil in the convict camps and +mines. "And work never done anything for me neither."</p> + +<p>An embarrassing silence fell.</p> + +<p>He looked at her, numb and hungry with the stir of the father-love, +sorry for his ill temper, puzzling his brain for something to say. She +was looking off and away at the clouds, and he devoured her with his +eyes. He reached out stealthily and rested one grimy hand on the very +edge of her little dress. It seemed to him that she was the most +wonderful thing in the world. The quail still called from the coverts, +and the harvest sounds seemed abruptly to become very loud. A great +loneliness oppressed him.</p> + +<p>"I'm ... I'm no good," he murmured huskily and repentantly.</p> + +<p>But, beyond a glance from her blue eyes, she took no notice. The silence +was more embarrassing than ever. He felt that he could give the world +just to touch with his lips that hem of her dress where his hand rested. +But he was afraid of frightening her. He fought to find something to +say, licking his parched lips and vainly attempting to articulate +something, anything.</p> + +<p>"This ain't Sonoma Valley," he declared finally. "This is fairy land, +and you're a fairy. Mebbe I'm asleep and dreaming. I don't know. You and +me don't know how to talk together, because, you see, you're a fairy and +don't know nothing but good things, and I'm a man from the bad, wicked +world."</p> + +<p>Having achieved this much, he was left gasping for ideas like a stranded +fish.</p> + +<p>"And you're going to tell me about the bad, wicked world," she cried, +clapping her hands. "I'm just dying to know."</p> + +<p>He looked at her, startled, remembering the wreckage of womanhood he had +encountered on the sunken ways of life. She was no fairy. She was flesh +and blood, and the possibilities of wreckage were in her as they had +been in him even when he lay at his mother's breast. And there was in +her eagerness to know.</p> + +<p>"Nope," he said lightly, "this man from the bad, wicked world ain't +going to tell you nothing of the kind. He's going to tell you of the +good things in that world. He's going to tell you how he loved hosses +when he was a shaver, and about the first hoss he straddled, and the +first hoss he owned. Hosses ain't like men. They're better. They're +clean—clean all the way through and back again. And, little fairy, I +want to tell you one thing—there sure ain't nothing in the world like +when you're settin' a tired hoss at the end of a long day, and when you +just speak, and that tired animal lifts under you willing and hustles +along. Hosses! They're my long suit. I sure dote on hosses. Yep. I used +to be a cowboy once."</p> + +<p>She clapped her hands in the way that tore so delightfully to his heart, +and her eyes were dancing, as she exclaimed:</p> + +<p>"A Texas cowboy! I always wanted to see one! I heard papa say once that +cowboys are bow-legged. Are you?"</p> + +<p>"I sure was a Texas cowboy," he answered. "But it was a long time ago. +And I'm sure bow-legged. You see, you can't ride much when you're young +and soft without getting the legs bent some. Why, I was only a +three-year-old when I begun. He was a three-year-old, too, fresh-broken. +I led him up alongside the fence, clumb to the top rail, and dropped +on. He was a pinto, and a real devil at bucking, but I could do +anything with him. I reckon he knowed I was only a little shaver. Some +hosses knows lots more 'n' you think."</p> + +<p>For half an hour Ross Shanklin rambled on with his horse reminiscences, +never unconscious for a moment of the supreme joy that was his through +the touch of his hand on the hem of her dress. The sun dropped slowly +into the cloud bank, the quail called more insistently, and empty wagon +after empty wagon rumbled back across the bridge. Then came a woman's +voice.</p> + +<p>"Joan! Joan!" it called. "Where are you, dear?"</p> + +<p>The little girl answered, and Ross Shanklin saw a woman, clad in a soft, +clinging gown, come through the gate from the bungalow. She was a +slender, graceful woman, and to his charmed eyes she seemed rather to +float along than walk like ordinary flesh and blood.</p> + +<p>"What have you been doing all afternoon?" the woman asked, as she came +up.</p> + +<p>"Talking, mamma," the little girl replied "I've had a very interesting +time."</p> + +<p>Ross Shanklin scrambled to his feet and stood watchfully and awkwardly. +The little girl took the mother's hand, and she, in turn, looked at him +frankly and pleasantly, with a recognition of his humanness that was a +new thing to him. In his mind ran the thought: <i>the woman who ain't +afraid</i>. Not a hint was there of the timidity he was accustomed to +seeing in women's eyes. And he was quite aware, and never more so, of +his bleary-eyed, forbidding appearance.</p> + +<p>"How do you do?" she greeted him sweetly and naturally.</p> + +<p>"How do you do, ma'am," he responded, unpleasantly conscious of the +huskiness and rawness of his voice.</p> + +<p>"And did you have an interesting time, too?" she smiled.</p> + +<p>"Yes, ma'am. I sure did. I was just telling your little girl about +hosses."</p> + +<p>"He was a cowboy, once, mamma," she cried.</p> + +<p>The mother smiled her acknowledgment to him, and looked fondly down at +the little girl. The thought that came into Ross Shanklin's mind was the +awfulness of the crime if any one should harm either of the wonderful +pair. This was followed by the wish that some terrible danger should +threaten, so that he could fight, as he well knew how, with all his +strength and life, to defend them.</p> + +<p>"You'll have to come along, dear," the mother said. "It's growing late." +She looked at Ross Shanklin hesitantly. "Would you care to have +something to eat?"</p> + +<p>"No, ma'am, thanking you kindly just the same. I ... I ain't hungry."</p> + +<p>"Then say good-bye, Joan," she counselled.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye." The little girl held out her hand, and her eyes lighted +roguishly. "Good-bye, Mr. Man from the bad, wicked world."</p> + +<p>To him, the touch of her hand as he pressed it in his was the capstone +of the whole adventure.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, little fairy," he mumbled. "I reckon I got to be pullin' +along."</p> + +<p>But he did not pull along. He stood staring after his vision until it +vanished through the gate. The day seemed suddenly empty. He looked +about him irresolutely, then climbed the fence, crossed the bridge, and +slouched along the road. He was in a dream. He did not note his feet nor +the way they led him. At times he stumbled in the dust-filled ruts.</p> + +<p>A mile farther on, he aroused at the crossroads. Before him stood the +saloon. He came to a stop and stared at it, licking his lips. He sank +his hand into his pants pocket and fumbled a solitary dime. "God!" he +muttered. "God!" Then, with dragging, reluctant feet, went on along the +road.</p> + +<p>He came to a big farm. He knew it must be big, because of the bigness of +the house and the size and number of the barns and outbuildings. On the +porch, in shirt sleeves, smoking a cigar, keen-eyed and middle-aged, was +the farmer.</p> + +<p>"What's the chance for a job?" Ross Shanklin asked.</p> + +<p>The keen eyes scarcely glanced at him.</p> + +<p>"A dollar a day and grub," was the answer.</p> + +<p>Ross Shanklin swallowed and braced himself.</p> + +<p>"I'll pick grapes all right, or anything. But what's the chance for a +steady job? You've got a big ranch here. I know hosses. I was born on +one. I can drive team, ride, plough, break, do anything that anybody +ever done with hosses."</p> + +<p>The other looked him over with an appraising, incredulous eye.</p> + +<p>"You don't look it," was the judgment.</p> + +<p>"I know I don't. Give me a chance. That's all. I'll prove it."</p> + +<p>The farmer considered, casting an anxious glance at the cloud bank into +which the sun had sunk.</p> + +<p>"I'm short a teamster, and I'll give you the chance to make good. Go and +get supper with the hands."</p> + +<p>Ross Shanklin's voice was very husky, and be spoke with an effort.</p> + +<p>"All right. I'll make good. Where can I get a drink of water and wash +up?"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_PRODIGAL_FATHER" id="THE_PRODIGAL_FATHER">THE PRODIGAL FATHER</a></h2> + +<h4>I</h4> + + +<p>Josiah Childs was ordinarily an ordinary-appearing, prosperous business +man. He wore a sixty-dollar, business-man's suit, his shoes were +comfortable and seemly and made from the current last, his tie, collars +and cuffs were just what all prosperous business men wore, and an +up-to-date, business-man's derby was his wildest adventure in head-gear. +Oakland, California, is no sleepy country town, and Josiah Childs, as +the leading grocer of a rushing Western metropolis of three hundred +thousand, appropriately lived, acted, and dressed the part.</p> + +<p>But on this morning, before the rush of custom began, his appearance at +the store, while it did not cause a riot, was sufficiently startling to +impair for half an hour the staff's working efficiency. He nodded +pleasantly to the two delivery drivers loading their wagons for the +first trip of the morning, and cast upward the inevitable, complacent +glance at the sign that ran across the front of the building—CHILDS' +CASH STORE. The lettering, not too large, was of dignified black and +gold, suggestive of noble spices, aristocratic condiments, and +everything of the best (which was no more than to be expected of a scale +of prices ten per cent. higher than any other grocery in town). But what +Josiah Childs did not see as he turned his back on the drivers and +entered, was the helpless and mutual fall of surprise those two worthies +perpetrated on each other's necks. They clung together for support.</p> + +<p>"Did you catch the kicks, Bill?" one moaned.</p> + +<p>"Did you pipe the head-piece?" Bill moaned back.</p> + +<p>"Now if he was goin' to a masquerade ball...."</p> + +<p>"Or attendin' a reunion of the Rough Riders...."</p> + +<p>"Or goin' huntin' bear...."</p> + +<p>"Or swearin' off his taxes...."</p> + +<p>"Instead of goin' all the way to the effete East—Monkton says he's +going clear to Boston...."</p> + +<p>The two drivers held each other apart at arm's length, and fell limply +together again.</p> + +<p>For Josiah Childs' outfit was all their actions connotated. His hat was +a light fawn, stiff-rimmed John B. Stetson, circled by a band of Mexican +stamped leather. Over a blue flannel shirt, set off by a drooping +Windsor tie, was a rough-and-ready coat of large-ribbed corduroy. Pants +of the same material were thrust into high-laced shoes of the sort worn +by surveyors, explorers, and linemen.</p> + +<p>A clerk at a near counter almost petrified at sight of his employer's +bizarre rig. Monkton, recently elevated to the managership, gasped, +swallowed, and maintained his imperturbable attentiveness. The lady +bookkeeper, glancing down from her glass eyrie on the inside balcony, +took one look and buried her giggles in the day book. Josiah Childs saw +most of all this, but he did not mind. He was starting on his vacation, +and his head and heart were buzzing with plans and anticipations of the +most adventurous vacation he had taken in ten years. Under his eyelids +burned visions of East Falls, Connecticut, and of all the home scenes he +had been born to and brought up in. Oakland, he was thoroughly aware, +was more modern than East Falls, and the excitement caused by his garb +was only to be expected. Undisturbed by the sensation he knew he was +creating among his employés, he moved about, accompanied by his manager, +making last suggestions, giving final instructions, and radiating fond, +farewell glances at all the loved details of the business he had built +out of nothing.</p> + +<p>He had a right to be proud of Childs' Cash Store. Twelve years before he +had landed in Oakland with fourteen dollars and forty-three cents. Cents +did not circulate so far West, and after the fourteen dollars were gone, +he continued to carry the three pennies in his pocket for a weary while. +Later, when he had got a job clerking in a small grocery for eleven +dollars a week, and had begun sending a small monthly postal order to +one, Agatha Childs, East Falls, Connecticut, he invested the three +coppers in postage stamps. Uncle Sam could not reject his own lawful +coin of the realm.</p> + +<p>Having spent all his life in cramped New England, where sharpness and +shrewdness had been whetted to razor-edge on the harsh stone of meagre +circumstance, he had found himself abruptly in the loose and +free-and-easy West, where men thought in thousand-dollar bills and +newsboys dropped dead at sight of copper cents. Josiah Childs bit like +fresh acid into the new industrial and business conditions. He had +vision. He saw so many ways of making money all at once, that at first +his brain was in a whirl.</p> + +<p>At the same time, being sane and conservative, he had resolutely avoided +speculation. The solid and substantial called to him. Clerking at eleven +dollars a week, he took note of the lost opportunities, of the openings +for safe enterprise, of the countless leaks in the business. If, despite +all this, the boss could make a good living, what couldn't he, Josiah +Childs, do with his Connecticut training? It was like a bottle of wine +to a thirsty hermit, this coming to the active, generous-spending West +after thirty-five years in East Falls, the last fifteen of which had +been spent in humdrum clerking in the humdrum East Falls general store. +Josiah Childs' head buzzed with the easy possibilities he saw. But he +did not lose his head. No detail was overlooked. He spent his spare +hours in studying Oakland, its people, how they made their money, and +why they spent it and where. He walked the central streets, watching the +drift of the buying crowds, even counting them and compiling the +statistics in various notebooks. He studied the general credit system of +the trade, and the particular credit systems of the different districts. +He could tell to a dot the average wage or salary earned by the +householders of any locality, and he made it a point of thoroughness to +know every locality from the waterfront slums to the aristocratic Lake +Merritt and Piedmont sections, from West Oakland, where dwelt the +railroad employés, to the semi-farmers of Fruitvale at the opposite end +of the city.</p> + +<p>Broadway, on the main street and in the very heart of the shopping +district, where no grocer had ever been insane enough to dream of +establishing a business, was his ultimate selection. But that required +money, while he had to start from the smallest of beginnings. His first +store was on lower Filbert, where lived the nail-workers. In half a +year, three other little corner groceries went out of business while he +was compelled to enlarge his premises. He understood the principle of +large sales at small profits, of stable qualities of goods, and of a +square deal. He had glimpsed, also, the secret of advertising. Each week +he set forth one article that sold at a loss to him. This was not an +advertised loss, but an absolute loss. His one clerk prophesied +impending bankruptcy when butter, that cost Childs thirty cents, was +sold for twenty-five cents, when twenty-two-cent coffee was passed +across the counter at eighteen cents. The neighbourhood housewives came +for these bargains and remained to buy other articles that sold at a +profit. Moreover, the whole neighbourhood came quickly to know Josiah +Childs, and the busy crowd of buyers in his store was an attraction in +itself.</p> + +<p>But Josiah Childs made no mistake. He knew the ultimate foundation on +which his prosperity rested. He studied the nail works until he came to +know as much about them as the managing directors. Before the first +whisper had stirred abroad, he sold his store, and with a modest sum of +ready cash went in search of a new location. Six months later the nail +works closed down, and closed down forever.</p> + +<p>His next store was established on Adeline Street, where lived a +comfortable, salaried class. Here, his shelves carried a higher-grade +and a more diversified stock. By the same old method, he drew his crowd. +He established a delicatessen counter. He dealt directly with the +farmers, so that his butter and eggs were not only always dependable but +were a shade better than those sold by the finest groceries in the city. +One of his specialties was Boston baked beans, and so popular did it +become that the Twin Cabin Bakery paid him better than handsomely for +the privilege of taking it over. He made time to study the farmers, the +very apples they grew, and certain farmers he taught how properly to +make cider. As a side-line, his New England apple cider proved his +greatest success, and before long, after he had invaded San Francisco, +Berkeley, and Alameda, he ran it as an independent business.</p> + +<p>But always his eyes were fixed on Broadway. Only one other intermediate +move did he make, which was to as near as he could get to the Ashland +Park Tract, where every purchaser of land was legally pledged to put up +no home that should cost less than four thousand dollars. After that +came Broadway. A strange swirl had come in the tide of the crowd. The +drift was to Washington Street, where real estate promptly soared while +on Broadway it was as if the bottom had fallen out. One big store after +another, as the leases expired, moved to Washington.</p> + +<p>The crowd will come back, Josiah Childs said, but he said it to himself. +He knew the crowd. Oakland was growing, and he knew why it was growing. +Washington Street was too narrow to carry the increasing traffic. Along +Broadway, in the physical nature of things, the electric cars, ever in +greater numbers, would have to run. The realty dealers said that the +crowd would never come back, while the leading merchants followed the +crowd. And then it was, at a ridiculously low figure, that Josiah Childs +got a long lease on a modern, Class A building on Broadway, with a +buying option at a fixed price. It was the beginning of the end for +Broadway, said the realty dealers, when a grocery was established in its +erstwhile sacred midst. Later, when the crowd did come back, they said +Josiah Childs was lucky. Also, they whispered among themselves that he +had cleared at least fifty thousand on the transaction.</p> + +<p>It was an entirely different store from his previous ones. There were no +more bargains. Everything was of the superlative best, and superlative +best prices were charged. He catered to the most expensive trade in +town. Only those who could carelessly afford to pay ten per cent. more +than anywhere else, patronised him, and so excellent was his service +that they could not afford to go elsewhere. His horses and delivery +wagons were more expensive and finer than any one else's in town. He +paid his drivers, and clerks, and bookkeepers higher wages than any +other store could dream of paying. As a result, he got more efficient +men, and they rendered him and his patrons a more satisfying service. In +short, to deal at Childs' Cash Store became almost the infallible index +of social status.</p> + +<p>To cap everything, came the great San Francisco earthquake and fire, +which caused one hundred thousand people abruptly to come across the Bay +and live in Oakland. Not least to profit from so extraordinary a boom, +was Josiah Childs. And now, after twelve years' absence, he was +departing on a visit to East Falls, Connecticut. In the twelve years he +had not received a letter from Agatha, nor had he seen even a photograph +of his and Agatha's boy.</p> + +<p>Agatha and he had never got along together. Agatha was masterful. Agatha +had a tongue. She was strong on old-fashioned morality. She was +unlovely in her rectitude. Josiah never could quite make out how he had +happened to marry her. She was two years his senior, and had long ranked +as an old maid She had taught school, and was known by the young +generation as the sternest disciplinarian in its experience. She had +become set in her ways, and when she married it was merely an exchange +of a number of pupils for one. Josiah had to stand the hectoring and +nagging that thitherto had been distributed among many. As to how the +marriage came about, his Uncle Isaac nearly hit it off one day when he +said in confidence: "Josiah, when Agatha married you it was a case of +marrying a struggling young man. I reckon you was overpowered. Or maybe +you broke your leg and couldn't get away."</p> + +<p>"Uncle Isaac," Josiah answered, "I didn't break my leg. I ran my +dangdest, but she just plum run me down and out of breath."</p> + +<p>"Strong in the wind, eh?" Uncle Isaac chuckled.</p> + +<p>"We've ben married five years now," Josiah agreed, "and I've never known +her to lose it."</p> + +<p>"And never will," Uncle Isaac added.</p> + +<p>This conversation had taken place in the last days, and so dismal an +outlook proved too much for Josiah Childs. Meek he was, under Agatha's +firm tuition, but he was very healthy, and his promise of life was too +long for his patience. He was only thirty-three, and he came of a +long-lived stock. Thirty-three more years with Agatha and Agatha's +nagging was too hideous to contemplate. So, between a sunset and a +rising, Josiah Childs disappeared from East Falls. And from that day, +for twelve years, he had received no letter from her. Not that it was +her fault. He had carefully avoided letting her have his address. His +first postal money orders were sent to her from Oakland, but in the +years that followed he had arranged his remittances so that they bore +the scattered postmarks of most of the states west of the Rockies.</p> + +<p>But twelve years, and the confidence born of deserved success, had +softened his memories. After all, she was the mother of his boy, and it +was incontestable that she had always meant well. Besides, he was not +working so hard now, and he had more time to think of things besides his +business. He wanted to see the boy, whom he had never seen and who had +turned three before his father ever learned he was a father. Then, too, +homesickness had begun to crawl in him. In a dozen years he had not seen +snow, and he was always wondering if New England fruits and berries had +not a finer tang than those of California. Through hazy vistas he saw +the old New England life, and he wanted to see it again in the flesh +before he died.</p> + +<p>And, finally, there was duty. Agatha was his wife. He would bring her +back with him to the West. He felt that he could stand it. He was a man, +now, in the world of men. He ran things, instead of being run, and +Agatha would quickly find it out. Nevertheless, he wanted Agatha to come +to him for his own sake. So it was that he had put on his frontier rig. +He would be the prodigal father, returning as penniless as when he +left, and it would be up to her whether or not she killed the fatted +calf. Empty of hand, and looking it, he would come back wondering if he +could get his old job in the general store. Whatever followed would be +Agatha's affair.</p> + +<p>By the time he said good-bye to his staff and emerged on the sidewalk, +five more of his delivery wagons were backed up and loading.</p> + +<p>He ran his eye proudly over them, took a last fond glance at the +black-and-gold letters, and signalled the electric car at the corner.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>He ran up to East Falls from New York. In the Pullman smoker he became +acquainted with several business men. The conversation, turning on the +West, was quickly led by him. As president of the Oakland Chamber of +Commerce, he was an authority. His words carried weight, and he knew +what he was talking about, whether it was Asiatic trade, the Panama +Canal, or the Japanese coolie question. It was very exhilarating, this +stimulus of respectful attention accorded him by these prosperous +Eastern men, and before he knew it he was at East Falls.</p> + +<p>He was the only person who alighted, and the station was deserted. +Nobody was there expecting anybody. The long twilight of a January +evening was beginning, and the bite of the keen air made him suddenly +conscious that his clothing was saturated with tobacco smoke. He +shuddered involuntarily. Agatha did not tolerate tobacco. He half-moved +to toss the fresh-lighted cigar away, then it was borne in upon him that +this was the old East Falls atmosphere overpowering him, and he resolved +to combat it, thrusting the cigar between his teeth and gripping it with +the firmness of a dozen years of Western resolution.</p> + +<p>A few steps brought him into the little main street. The chilly, stilted +aspect of it shocked him. Everything seemed frosty and pinched, just as +the cutting air did after the warm balminess of California. Only several +persons, strangers to his recollection, were abroad, and they favoured +him with incurious glances. They were wrapped in an uncongenial and +frosty imperviousness. His first impression was surprise at his +surprise. Through the wide perspective of twelve years of Western life, +he had consistently and steadily discounted the size and importance of +East Falls; but this was worse than all discounting. Things were more +meagre than he had dreamed. The general store took his breath away. +Countless myriads of times he had contrasted it with his own spacious +emporium, but now he saw that in justice he had overdone it. He felt +certain that it could not accommodate two of his delicatessen counters, +and he knew that he could lose all of it in one of his storerooms.</p> + +<p>He took the familiar turning to the right at the head of the street, and +as he plodded along the slippery walk he decided that one of the first +things he must do was to buy sealskin cap and gloves. The thought of +sleighing cheered him for a moment, until, now on the outskirts of the +village, he was sanitarily perturbed by the adjacency of dwelling houses +and barns. Some were even connected. Cruel memories of bitter morning +chores oppressed him. The thought of chapped hands and chilblains was +almost terrifying, and his heart sank at sight of the double +storm-windows, which he knew were solidly fastened and unraisable, while +the small ventilating panes, the size of ladies' handkerchiefs, smote +him with sensations of suffocation. Agatha'll like California, he +thought, calling to his mind visions of roses in dazzling sunshine and +the wealth of flowers that bloomed the twelve months round.</p> + +<p>And then, quite illogically, the years were bridged and the whole leaden +weight of East Falls descended upon him like a damp sea fog. He fought +it from him, thrusting it off and aside by sentimental thoughts on the +"honest snow," the "fine elms," the "sturdy New England spirit," and the +"great homecoming." But at sight of Agatha's house he wilted. Before he +knew it, with a recrudescent guilty pang, he had tossed the half-smoked +cigar away and slackened his pace until his feet dragged in the old +lifeless, East Falls manner. He tried to remember that he was the owner +of Childs' Cash Store, accustomed to command, whose words were listened +to with respect in the Employers' Association, and who wielded the gavel +at the meetings of the Chamber of Commerce. He strove to conjure visions +of the letters in black and gold, and of the string of delivery wagons +backed up to the sidewalk. But Agatha's New England spirit was as sharp +as the frost, and it travelled to him through solid house-walls and +across the intervening hundred yards.</p> + +<p>Then he became aware that despite his will he had thrown the cigar away. +This brought him an awful vision. He saw himself going out in the frost +to the woodshed to smoke. His memory of Agatha he found less softened by +the lapse of years than it had been when three thousand miles +intervened. It was unthinkable. No; he couldn't do it. He was too old, +too used to smoking all over the house, to do the woodshed stunt now. +And everything depended on how he began. He would put his foot down. He +would smoke in the house that very night ... in the kitchen, he feebly +amended. No, by George, he would smoke now. He would arrive smoking. +Mentally imprecating the cold, he exposed his bare hands and lighted +another cigar. His manhood seemed to flare up with the match. He would +show her who was boss. Right from the drop of the hat he would show her.</p> + +<p>Josiah Childs had been born in this house. And it was long before he +was born that his father had built it. Across the low stone fence, +Josiah could see the kitchen porch and door, the connected woodshed, and +the several outbuildings. Fresh from the West, where everything was new +and in constant flux, he was astonished at the lack of change. +Everything was as it had always been. He could almost see himself, a +boy, doing the chores. There, in the woodshed, how many cords of wood +had he bucksawed and split! Well, thank the Lord, that was past.</p> + +<p>The walk to the kitchen showed signs of recent snow-shovelling. That had +been one of his tasks. He wondered who did it now, and suddenly +remembered that his own son must be twelve. In another moment he would +have knocked at the kitchen door, but the <i>skreek</i> of a bucksaw from the +woodshed led him aside. He looked in and saw a boy hard at work. +Evidently, this was his son. Impelled by the wave of warm emotion that +swept over him, he all but rushed in upon the lad. He controlled himself +with an effort.</p> + +<p>"Father here?" he asked curtly, though from under the stiff brim of his +John B. Stetson he studied the boy closely.</p> + +<p>Sizable for his age, he thought. A mite spare in the ribs maybe, and +that possibly due to rapid growth. But the face strong and pleasing and +the eyes like Uncle Isaac's. When all was said, a darn good sample.</p> + +<p>"No, sir," the boy answered, resting on the saw-buck.</p> + +<p>"Where is he?"</p> + +<p>"At sea," was the answer.</p> + +<p>Josiah Childs felt a something very akin to relief and joy tingle +through him. Agatha had married again—evidently a seafaring man. Next, +came an ominous, creepy sensation. Agatha had committed bigamy. He +remembered Enoch Arden, read aloud to the class by the teacher in the +old schoolhouse, and began to think of himself as a hero. He would do +the heroic. By George, he would. He would sneak away and get the first +train for California. She would never know.</p> + +<p>But there was Agatha's New England morality, and her New England +conscience. She received a regular remittance. She knew he was alive. It +was impossible that she could have done this thing. He groped wildly for +a solution. Perhaps she had sold the old home, and this boy was somebody +else's boy.</p> + +<p>"What is your name?" Josiah asked.</p> + +<p>"Johnnie," came the reply.</p> + +<p>"Last name I mean?"</p> + +<p>"Childs, Johnnie Childs."</p> + +<p>"And your father's name?—first name?"</p> + +<p>"Josiah Childs."</p> + +<p>"And he's away at sea, you say?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>This set Josiah wondering again.</p> + +<p>"What kind of a man is he?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, he's all right—a good provider, Mom says. And he is. He always +sends his money home, and he works hard for it, too, Mom says. She says +he always was a good worker, and he's better'n other men she ever saw. +He don't smoke, or drink, or swear, or do anything he oughtn't. And he +never did. He was always that way, Mom says, and she knew him all her +life before ever they got married. He's a very kind man, and never hurts +anybody's feelings. Mom says he's the most considerate man she ever +knew."</p> + +<p>Josiah's heart went weak. Agatha had done it after all—had taken a +second husband when she knew her first was still alive. Well, he had +learned charity in the West, and he could be charitable. He would go +quietly away. Nobody would ever know. Though it was rather mean of her, +the thought flashed through him, that she should go on cashing his +remittances when she was married to so model and steady-working a +seafaring husband who brought his wages home. He cudgelled his brains in +an effort to remember such a man out of all the East Falls men he had +known.</p> + +<p>"What's he look like?"</p> + +<p>"Don't know. Never saw him. He's at sea all the time. But I know how +tall he is. Mom says I'm goin' to be bigger'n him, and he was five feet +eleven. There's a picture of him in the album. His face is thin, and he +has whiskers."</p> + +<p>A great illumination came to Josiah. He was himself five feet eleven. He +had worn whiskers, and his face had been thin in those days. And Johnnie +had said his father's name was Josiah Childs. He, Josiah, was this model +husband who neither smoked, swore, nor drank. He was this seafaring man +whose memory had been so carefully shielded by Agatha's forgiving +fiction. He warmed toward her. She must have changed mightily since he +left. He glowed with penitence. Then his heart sank as he thought of +trying to live up to this reputation Agatha had made for him. This boy +with the trusting blue eyes would expect it of him. Well, he'd have to +do it. Agatha had been almighty square with him. He hadn't thought she +had it in her.</p> + +<p>The resolve he might there and then have taken was doomed never to be, +for he heard the kitchen door open to give vent to a woman's nagging, +irritable voice.</p> + +<p>"Johnnie!—you!" it cried.</p> + +<p>How often had he heard it in the old days: "Josiah!—you!" A shiver went +through him. Involuntarily, automatically, with a guilty start, he +turned his hand back upward so that the cigar was hidden. He felt +himself shrinking and shrivelling as she stepped out on the stoop. It +was his unchanged wife, the same shrew wrinkles, with the same +sour-drooping corners to the thin-lipped mouth. But there was more +sourness, an added droop, the lips were thinner, and the shrew wrinkles +were deeper. She swept Josiah with a hostile, withering stare.</p> + +<p>"Do you think your father would stop work to talk to tramps?" she +demanded of the boy, who visibly quailed, even as Josiah.</p> + +<p>"I was only answering his questions," Johnnie pleaded doggedly but +hopelessly. "He wanted to know—"</p> + +<p>"And I suppose you told him," she snapped. "What business is it of his +prying around? No, and he gets nothing to eat. As for you, get to work +at once. I'll teach you, idling at your chores. Your father wa'n't like +that. Can't I ever make you like him?"</p> + +<p>Johnnie bent his back, and the bucksaw resumed its protesting skreek. +Agatha surveyed Josiah sourly. It was patent she did not recognise him.</p> + +<p>"You be off," she commanded harshly. "None of your snooping around +here."</p> + +<p>Josiah felt the numbness of paralysis creeping over him. He moistened +his lips and tried to say something, but found himself bereft of speech.</p> + +<p>"You be off, I say," she rasped in her high-keyed voice, "or I'll put +the constable after you."</p> + +<p>Josiah turned obediently. He heard the door slam as he went down the +walk. As in a nightmare he opened the gate he had opened ten thousand +times and stepped out on the sidewalk. He felt dazed. Surely it was a +dream. Very soon he would wake up with a sigh of relief. He rubbed his +forehead and paused indecisively. The monotonous complaint of the +bucksaw came to his ears. If that boy had any of the old Childs spirit +in him, sooner or later he'd run away. Agatha was beyond the endurance +of human flesh. She had not changed, unless for the worse, if such a +thing were possible. That boy would surely run for it, maybe soon. Maybe +now.</p> + +<p>Josiah Childs straightened up and threw his shoulders back. The +great-spirited West, with its daring and its carelessness of +consequences when mere obstacles stand in the way of its desire, flamed +up in him. He looked at his watch, remembered the time table, and spoke +to himself, solemnly, aloud. It was an affirmation of faith:</p> + +<p>"I don't care a hang about the law. That boy can't be crucified. I'll +give her a double allowance, four times, anything, but he goes with me. +She can follow on to California if she wants, but I'll draw up an +agreement, in which what's what, and she'll sign it, and live up to it, +by George, if she wants to stay. And she will," he added grimly. "She's +got to have somebody to nag."</p> + +<p>He opened the gate and strode back to the woodshed door. Johnnie looked +up, but kept on sawing.</p> + +<p>"What'd you like to do most of anything in the world?" Josiah demanded +in a tense, low voice.</p> + +<p>Johnnie hesitated, and almost stopped sawing. Josiah made signs for him +to keep it up.</p> + +<p>"Go to sea," Johnnie answered. "Along with my father."</p> + +<p>Josiah felt himself trembling.</p> + +<p>"Would you?" he asked eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Would I!"</p> + +<p>The look of joy on Johnnie's face decided everything.</p> + +<p>"Come here, then. Listen. I'm your father. I'm Josiah Childs. Did you +ever want to run away?"</p> + +<p>Johnnie nodded emphatically.</p> + +<p>"That's what I did," Josiah went on. "I ran away." He fumbled for his +watch hurriedly. "We've just time to catch the train for California. I +live there now. Maybe Agatha, your mother, will come along afterward. +I'll tell you all about it on the train. Come on."</p> + +<p>He gathered the half-frightened, half-trusting boy into his arms for a +moment, then, hand in hand, they fled across the yard, out of the gate, +and down the street. They heard the kitchen door open, and the last they +heard was:</p> + +<p>"Johnnie!—you! Why ain't you sawing? I'll attend to your case +directly!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_FIRST_POET" id="THE_FIRST_POET">THE FIRST POET</a></h2> + + +<p>SCENE: <i>A summer plain, the eastern side of which is bounded by grassy +hills of limestone, the other sides by a forest. The hill nearest to the +plain terminates in a cliff, in the face of which, nearly at the level +of the ground, are four caves, with low, narrow entrances. Before the +caves, and distant from them less than one hundred feet, is a broad, +flat rock, on which are laid several sharp slivers of flint, which, like +the rock, are blood-stained. Between the rock and the cave-entrances, on +a low pile of stones, is squatted a man, stout and hairy. Across his +knees is a thick club, and behind him crouches a woman. At his right and +left are two men somewhat resembling him, and like him, bearing wooden +clubs. These four face the west, and between them and the bloody rock +squat some threescore of cave-folk, talking loudly among themselves. It +is late afternoon. The name of him on the pile of stones is Uk, the +name of his mate, Ala; and of those at his right and left, Ok and Un.</i></p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Be still!</p> + +<p>(<i>Turning to the woman behind him</i>)</p> + +<p>Thou seest that they become still. None save me can make his kind be +still, except perhaps the chief of the apes, when in the night he deems +he hears a serpent.... At whom dost thou stare so long? At Oan? Oan, +come to me!</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I am thy cub.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Oan, thou art a fool!</p> + +<p><i>Ok and Un:</i></p> + +<p>Ho! ho! Oan is a fool!</p> + +<p><i>All the Tribe:</i></p> + +<p>Ho! ho! Oan is a fool!</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>Why am I a fool?</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Dost thou not chant strange words? Last night I heard thee chant strange +words at the mouth of thy cave.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>Ay! they are marvellous words; they were born within me in the dark.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Art thou a woman, that thou shouldst bring forth? Why dost thou not +sleep when it is dark?</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I did half sleep; perhaps I dreamed.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>And why shouldst thou dream, not having had more than thy portion of +flesh? Hast thou slain a deer in the forest and brought it not to the +Stone?</p> + +<p><i>All the Tribe:</i></p> + +<p>Wa! Wa! He hath slain in the forest, and brought not the meat to the +Stone!</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Be still, ye!</p> + +<p>(<i>To Ala</i>)</p> + +<p>Thou seest that they become still.... Oan, hast thou slain and kept to +thyself?</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>Nay, thou knowest that I am not apt at the chase. Also it irks me to +squat on a branch all day above a path, bearing a rock upon my thighs. +Those words did but awaken within me when I was peaceless in the night.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>And why wast thou peaccless in the night?</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>Thy mate wept, for that thou didst heat her.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Ay! she lamented loudly. But thou shalt make thy half-sleep henceforth +at the mouth of the cave, so that when Gurr the tiger cometh, thou +shalt hear him sniff between the boulders, and shalt strike the flints, +whose stare he hatest. Gurr cometh nightly to the caves.</p> + +<p><i>One of the Tribe:</i></p> + +<p>Ay! Gurr smelleth the Stone!</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Be still!</p> + +<p>(<i>To Ala</i>)</p> + +<p>Had he not become still, Ok and Un would have beaten him with their +clubs.... But, Oan, tell us those words that were born to thee when Ala +did weep.</p> + +<p><i>Oan (arising):</i></p> + +<p>They are wonderful words. They are such:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span>The bright day is gone—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Now I see thou art liar as well as fool: behold, the day is not gone!</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>But the day was gone in that hour when my song was born to me.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Then shouldst thou have sung it only at that time, and not when it is +yet day. But beware lest thou awaken me in the night. Make thou many +stars, that they fly in the whiskers of Gurr.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>My song is even of stars.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>It was Ul, thy father's wont, ere I slew him with four great stones, to +climb to the tops of the tallest trees and reach forth his hand, to see +if he might not pluck a star. But I said: "Perhaps they be as +chestnut-burs." And all the tribe did laugh. Ul was also a fool. But +what dost thou sing of stars?</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I will begin again:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span>The bright day is gone.<br /></span> +<span>The night maketh me sad, sad, sad—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Nay, the night maketh thee sad; not sad, sad, sad. For when I say to +Ala, "Gather thou dried leaves," I say not, "Gather thou dried leaves, +leaves, leaves." Thou art a fool!</p> + +<p><i>Ok and Un:</i></p> + +<p>Thou art a fool!</p> + +<p><i>All the Tribe:</i></p> + +<p>Thou art a fool!</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Yea, he is a fool. But say on, Oan, and tell us of thy chestnut-burs.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I will begin again:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span>The bright day is gone—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Thou dost not say, "gone, gone, gone!"</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I am thy cub. Suffer that I speak: so shall the tribe admire greatly.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Speak on!</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I will begin once more:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span>The bright day is gone.<br /></span> +<span>The night maketh me sad, sad—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Said I not that "sad" should be spoken but once? Shall I set Ok and Un +upon thee with their branches?</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>But it was so born within me—even "sad, sad—"</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>If again thou twice or thrice say "sad," thou shalt be dragged to the +Stone.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>Owl Ow! I am thy cub! Yet listen:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span>The bright day is gone.<br /></span> +<span>The night maketh me sad—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Ow! Ow! thou makest me more sad than the night doth! The song—</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Ok! Un! Be prepared!</p> + +<p><i>Oan (hastily):</i></p> + +<p>Nay! have mercy! I will begin afresh:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span>The bright day is gone.<br /></span> +<span>The night maketh me sad.<br /></span> +<span>The—the—the—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Thou hast forgotten, and art a fool! See, Ala, he is a fool!</p> + +<p><i>Ok and Un:</i></p> + +<p>He is a fool!</p> + +<p><i>All the Tribe:</i></p> + +<p>He is a fool!</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I am not a fool! This is a new thing. In the past, when ye did chant, O +men, ye did leap about the Stone, beating your breasts and crying, "Hai, +hai, hai!" Or, if the moon was great, "Hai, hai! hai, hai, hai!" But +this song is made even with such words as ye do speak, and is a great +wonder. One may sit at the cave's mouth, and moan it many times as the +light goeth out of the sky.</p> + +<p><i>One of the Tribe:</i></p> + +<p>Ay! even thus doth he sit at the mouth of our cave, making us marvel, +and more especially the women.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Be still!... When I would make women marvel, I do show them a wolf's +brains upon my club, or the great stone that I cast, or perhaps do whirl +my arms mightily, or bring home much meat. How should a man do +otherwise? I will have no songs in this place.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>Yet suffer that I sing my song unto the tribe. Such things have not been +before. It may be that they shall praise thee, seeing that I who do make +this song am thy cub.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Well, let us have the song.</p> + +<p><i>Oan (facing the tribe):</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span>The bright day is gone.<br /></span> +<span>The night maketh me sa—sad.<br /></span> +<span>But the stars are very white.<br /></span> +<span>They whisper that the day shall return.<br /></span> +<span>O stars; little pieces of the day!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>This is indeed madness. Hast thou heard a star whisper? Did Ul, thy +father, tell thee that he heard the stars whisper when he was in the +tree-top? And of what moment is it that a star be a piece of the day, +seeing that its light is of no value? Thou art a fool!</p> + +<p><i>Ok and Un:</i></p> + +<p>Thou art a fool!</p> + +<p><i>All the Tribe:</i></p> + +<p>Thou art a fool!</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>But it was so born unto me. And at that birth it was as though I would +weep, yet had not been stricken; I was moreover glad, yet none had given +me a gift of meat.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>It is a madness. How shall the stars profit us? Will they lead us to a +bear's den, or where the deer foregather, or break for us great bones +that we come at their marrow? Will they tell us anything at all? Wait +thou until the night, and we shall peer forth from between the boulders, +and all men shall take note that the stars cannot whisper.... Yet it may +be that they are pieces of the day. This is a deep matter.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>Ay! they are pieces of the moon!</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>What further madness is this? How shall they be pieces of two things +that are not the same? Also it was not thus in the song.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I will make me a new song. We do change the shape of wood and stone, but +a song is made out of nothing. Ho! ho! I can fashion things from +nothing! Also I say that the stars come down at morning and become the +dew.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Let us have no more of these stars. It may be that a song is a good +thing, if it be of what a man knoweth. Thus, if thou singest of my club, +or of the bear that I slew, of the stain on the Stone, or the cave and +the warm leaves in the cave, it might be well.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I will make thee a song of Ala!</p> + +<p><i>Uk (furiously):</i></p> + +<p>Thou shalt make me no such song! Thou shalt make me a song of the +deer-liver that thou hast eaten! Did I not give to thee of the liver of +the she-deer, because thou didst bring me crawfish?</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>Truly I did eat of the liver of the she-deer; but to sing thereof is +another matter.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>It was no labour for thee to sing of the stars. See now our clubs and +casting-stones, with which we slay flesh to eat; also the caves in which +we dwell, and the Stone whereon we make sacrifice; wilt thou sing no +song of those?</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>It may be that I shall sing thee songs of them. But now, as I strive +here to sing of the doe's liver, no words are born unto me: I can but +sing, "O liver! O red liver!"</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>That is a good song: thou seest that the liver is red. It is red as +blood.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>But I love not the liver, save to eat of it.</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Yet the song of it is good. When the moon is full we shall sing it about +the Stone. We shall beat upon our breasts and sing, "O liver! O red +liver!" And all the women in the caves shall be affrightened.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I will not have that song of the liver! It shall be Ok's song; the tribe +must say, "Ok hath made the song!"</p> + +<p><i>Ok:</i></p> + +<p>Ay! I shall be a great singer; I shall sing of a wolf's heart, and say, +"Behold, it is red!"</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Thou art a fool, and shalt sing only, "Hai, hai!" as thy father before +thee. But Oan shall make me a song of my club, for the women listen to +his songs.</p> + +<p><i>Oan:</i></p> + +<p>I will make thee no songs, neither of thy club, nor thy cave, nor thy +doe's-liver. Yea! though thou give me no more flesh, yet will I live +alone in the forest, and eat the seed of grasses, and likewise rabbits, +that are easily snared. And I will sleep in a tree-top, and I will sing +nightly:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span>The bright day is gone.<br /></span> +<span>The night maketh me sad, sad, sad,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">sad, sad, sad—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Ok and Un, arise and slay!</p> + +<p>(<i>Ok and Un rush upon Oan, who stoops and picks up two casting-stones, +with one of which he strikes Ok between the eyes, and with the other +mashes the hand of Un, so that he drops his club. Uk arises.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>Behold! Gurr cometh! he cometh swiftly from the wood!</p> + +<p>(<i>The Tribe, including Oan and Ala, rush for the cave-mouths. As Oan +passes Uk, the latter runs behind Oan and crushes his skull with a blow +of his club.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Uk:</i></p> + +<p>O men! O men with the heart of hyenas! Behold, Gurr cometh not! I did +but strive to deceive you, that I might the more easily slay this +singer, who is very swift of foot.... Gather ye before me, for I would +speak wisdom.... It is not well that there be any song among us other +than what our fathers sang in the past, or, if there be songs, let them +be of such matters as are of common understanding. If a man sing of a +deer, so shall he be drawn, it may be, to go forth and slay a deer, or +even a moose. And if he sing of his casting-stones, it may be that he +become more apt in the use thereof. And if he sing of his cave, it may +be that he shall defend it more stoutly when Gurr teareth at the +boulders. But it is a vain thing to make songs of the stars, that seem +scornful even of me; or of the moon, which is never two nights the same; +or of the day, which goeth about its business and will not linger though +one pierce a she-babe with a flint. But as for me, I would have none of +these songs. For if I sing of such in the council, how shall I keep my +wits? And if I think thereof, when at the chase, it may be that I babble +it forth, and the meat hear and escape. And ere it be time to eat, I do +give my mind solely to the care of my hunting-gear. And if one sing when +eating, he may fall short of his just portion. And when, one hath eaten, +doth not he go straightway to sleep? So where shall men find a space for +singing? But do ye as ye will: as for me, I will have none of these +songs and stars.</p> + +<p>Be it also known to all the women that if, remembering these wild words +of Oan, they do sing them to themselves, or teach them to the young +ones, they shall be beaten with brambles. Cause swiftly that the wife of +Ok cease from her wailing, and bring hither the horses that were slain +yesterday, that I may apportion them. Had Oan wisdom, he might have +eaten thereof; and had a mammoth fallen into our pit, he might have +feasted many days. But Oan was a fool!</p> + +<p><i>Un:</i></p> + +<p>Oan was a fool!</p> + +<p><i>All the Tribe:</i></p> + +<p>Oan was a fool!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="FINIS" id="FINIS">FINIS</a></h2> + + +<p>It was the last of Morganson's bacon. In all his life he had never +pampered his stomach. In fact, his stomach had been a sort of negligible +quantity that bothered him little, and about which he thought less. But +now, in the long absence of wonted delights, the keen yearning of his +stomach was tickled hugely by the sharp, salty bacon.</p> + +<p>His face had a wistful, hungry expression. The cheeks were hollow, and +the skin seemed stretched a trifle tightly across the cheek-bones. His +pale blue eyes were troubled. There was that in them that showed the +haunting imminence of something terrible. Doubt was in them, and anxiety +and foreboding. The thin lips were thinner than they were made to be, +and they seemed to hunger towards the polished frying-pan.</p> + +<p>He sat back and drew forth a pipe. He looked into it with sharp +scrutiny, and tapped it emptily on his open palm. He turned the +hair-seal tobacco pouch inside out and dusted the lining, treasuring +carefully each flake and mite of tobacco that his efforts gleaned. The +result was scarce a thimbleful. He searched in his pockets, and brought +forward, between thumb and forefinger, tiny pinches of rubbish. Here and +there in this rubbish were crumbs of tobacco. These he segregated with +microscopic care, though he occasionally permitted small particles of +foreign substance to accompany the crumbs to the hoard in his palm. He +even deliberately added small, semi-hard woolly fluffs, that had come +originally from the coat lining, and that had lain for long months in +the bottoms of the pockets.</p> + +<p>At the end of fifteen minutes he had the pipe part filled. He lighted it +from the camp fire, and sat forward on the blankets, toasting his +moccasined feet and smoking parsimoniously. When the pipe was finished +he sat on, brooding into the dying flame of the fire. Slowly the worry +went out of his eyes and resolve came in. Out of the chaos of his +fortunes he had finally achieved a way. But it was not a pretty way. +His face had become stern and wolfish, and the thin lips were drawn very +tightly.</p> + +<p>With resolve came action. He pulled himself stiffly to his feet and +proceeded to break camp. He packed the rolled blankets, the frying-pan, +rifle, and axe on the sled, and passed a lashing around the load. Then +he warmed his hands at the fire and pulled on his mittens. He was +foot-sore, and limped noticeably as he took his place at the head of the +sled. When he put the looped haul-rope over his shoulder, and leant his +weight against it to start the sled, he winced. His flesh was galled by +many days of contact with the haul-rope.</p> + +<p>The trail led along the frozen breast of the Yukon. At the end of four +hours he came around a bend and entered the town of Minto. It was +perched on top of a high earth bank in the midst of a clearing, and +consisted of a road house, a saloon, and several cabins. He left his +sled at the door and entered the saloon.</p> + +<p>"Enough for a drink?" he asked, laying an apparently empty gold sack +upon the bar.</p> + +<p>The barkeeper looked sharply at it and him, then set out a bottle and a +glass.</p> + +<p>"Never mind the dust," he said.</p> + +<p>"Go on and take it," Morganson insisted.</p> + +<p>The barkeeper held the sack mouth downward over the scales and shook it, +and a few flakes of gold dust fell out. Morganson took the sack from +him, turned it inside out, and dusted it carefully.</p> + +<p>"I thought there was half-a-dollar in it," he said.</p> + +<p>"Not quite," answered the other, "but near enough. I'll get it back with +the down weight on the next comer."</p> + +<p>Morganson shyly poured the whisky into the glass, partly filling it.</p> + +<p>"Go on, make it a man's drink," the barkeeper encouraged.</p> + +<p>Morganson tilted the bottle and filled the glass to the brim. He drank +the liquor slowly, pleasuring in the fire of it that bit his tongue, +sank hotly down his throat, and with warm, gentle caresses permeated his +stomach.</p> + +<p>"Scurvy, eh?" the barkeeper asked.</p> + +<p>"A touch of it," he answered. "But I haven't begun to swell yet. Maybe I +can get to Dyea and fresh vegetables, and beat it out."</p> + +<p>"Kind of all in, I'd say," the other laughed sympathetically. "No dogs, +no money, and the scurvy. I'd try spruce tea if I was you."</p> + +<p>At the end of half-an-hour, Morganson said good-bye and left the saloon. +He put his galled shoulder to the haul-rope and took the river-trail +south. An hour later he halted. An inviting swale left the river and led +off to the right at an acute angle. He left his sled and limped up the +swale for half a mile. Between him and the river was three hundred yards +of flat ground covered with cottonwoods. He crossed the cottonwoods to +the bank of the Yukon. The trail went by just beneath, but he did not +descend to it. South toward Selkirk he could see the trail widen its +sunken length through the snow for over a mile. But to the north, in the +direction of Minto, a tree-covered out-jut in the bank a quarter of a +mile away screened the trail from him.</p> + +<p>He seemed satisfied with the view and returned to the sled the way he +had come. He put the haul-rope over his shoulder and dragged the sled up +the swale. The snow was unpacked and soft, and it was hard work. The +runners clogged and stuck, and he was panting severely ere he had +covered the half-mile. Night had come on by the time he had pitched his +small tent, set up the sheet-iron stove, and chopped a supply of +firewood. He had no candles, and contented himself with a pot of tea +before crawling into his blankets.</p> + +<p>In the morning, as soon as he got up, he drew on his mittens, pulled the +flaps of his cap down over his ears, and crossed through the cottonwoods +to the Yukon. He took his rifle with him. As before, he did not descend +the bank. He watched the empty trail for an hour, beating his hands and +stamping his feet to keep up the circulation, then returned to the tent +for breakfast. There was little tea left in the canister—half a dozen +drawings at most; but so meagre a pinch did he put in the teapot that he +bade fair to extend the lifetime of the tea indefinitely. His entire +food supply consisted of half-a-sack of flour and a part-full can of +baking powder. He made biscuits, and ate them slowly, chewing each +mouthful with infinite relish. When he had had three he called a halt. +He debated a while, reached for another biscuit, then hesitated. He +turned to the part sack of flour, lifted it, and judged its weight.</p> + +<p>"I'm good for a couple of weeks," he spoke aloud.</p> + +<p>"Maybe three," he added, as he put the biscuits away.</p> + +<p>Again he drew on his mittens, pulled down his ear-flaps, took the rifle, +and went out to his station on the river bank. He crouched in the snow, +himself unseen, and watched. After a few minutes of inaction, the frost +began to bite in, and he rested the rifle across his knees and beat his +hands back and forth. Then the sting in his feet became intolerable, and +he stepped back from the bank and tramped heavily up and down among the +trees. But he did not tramp long at a time. Every several minutes he +came to the edge of the bank and peered up and down the trail, as though +by sheer will he could materialise the form of a man upon it. The short +morning passed, though it had seemed century-long to him, and the trail +remained empty.</p> + +<p>It was easier in the afternoon, watching by the bank. The temperature +rose, and soon the snow began to fall—dry and fine and crystalline. +There was no wind, and it fell straight down, in quiet monotony. He +crouched with eyes closed, his head upon his knees, keeping his watch +upon the trail with his ears. But no whining of dogs, churning of sleds, +nor cries of drivers broke the silence. With twilight he returned to the +tent, cut a supply of firewood, ate two biscuits, and crawled into his +blankets. He slept restlessly, tossing about and groaning; and at +midnight he got up and ate another biscuit.</p> + +<p>Each day grew colder. Four biscuits could not keep up the heat of his +body, despite the quantities of hot spruce tea he drank, and he +increased his allowance, morning and evening, to three biscuits. In the +middle of the day he ate nothing, contenting himself with several cups +of excessively weak real tea. This programme became routine. In the +morning three biscuits, at noon real tea, and at night three biscuits. +In between he drank spruce tea for his scurvy. He caught himself making +larger biscuits, and after a severe struggle with himself went back to +the old size.</p> + +<p>On the fifth day the trail returned to life. To the south a dark object +appeared, and grew larger. Morganson became alert. He worked his rifle, +ejecting a loaded cartridge from the chamber, by the same action +replacing it with another, and returning the ejected cartridge into the +magazine. He lowered the trigger to half-cock, and drew on his mitten to +keep the trigger-hand warm. As the dark object came nearer he made it +out to be a man, without dogs or sled, travelling light. He grew +nervous, cocked the trigger, then put it back to half-cock again. The +man developed into an Indian, and Morganson, with a sigh of +disappointment, dropped the rifle across his knees. The Indian went on +past and disappeared towards Minto behind the out-jutting clump of +trees.</p> + +<p>But Morganson conceived an idea. He changed his crouching spot to a +place where cottonwood limbs projected on either side of him. Into these +with his axe he chopped two broad notches. Then in one of the notches he +rested the barrel of his rifle and glanced along the sights. He covered +the trail thoroughly in that direction. He turned about, rested the +rifle in the other notch, and, looking along the sights, swept the trail +to the clump of trees behind which it disappeared.</p> + +<p>He never descended to the trail. A man travelling the trail could have +no knowledge of his lurking presence on the bank above. The snow surface +was unbroken. There was no place where his tracks left the main trail.</p> + +<p>As the nights grew longer, his periods of daylight watching of the trail +grew shorter. Once a sled went by with jingling bells in the darkness, +and with sullen resentment he chewed his biscuits and listened to the +sounds. Chance conspired against him. Faithfully he had watched the +trail for ten days, suffering from the cold all the prolonged torment of +the damned, and nothing had happened. Only an Indian, travelling light, +had passed in. Now, in the night, when it was impossible for him to +watch, men and dogs and a sled loaded with life, passed out, bound south +to the sea and the sun and civilisation.</p> + +<p>So it was that he conceived of the sled for which he waited. It was +loaded with life, his life. His life was fading, fainting, gasping away +in the tent in the snow. He was weak from lack of food, and could not +travel of himself. But on the sled for which he waited were dogs that +would drag him, food that would fan up the flame of his life, money that +would furnish sea and sun and civilisation. Sea and sun and civilisation +became terms interchangeable with life, his life, and they were loaded +there on the sled for which he waited. The idea became an obsession, and +he grew to think of himself as the rightful and deprived owner of the +sled-load of life.</p> + +<p>His flour was running short, and he went back to two biscuits in the +morning and two biscuits at night. Because, of this his weakness +increased and the cold bit in more savagely, and day by day he watched +by the dead trail that would not live for him. At last the scurvy +entered upon its next stage. The skin was unable longer to cast off the +impurity of the blood, and the result was that the body began to swell. +His ankles grew puffy, and the ache in them kept him awake long hours at +night. Next, the swelling jumped to his knees, and the sum of his pain +was more than doubled.</p> + +<p>Then there came a cold snap. The temperature went down and down—forty, +fifty, sixty degrees below zero. He had no thermometer, but this he knew +by the signs and natural phenomena understood by all men in that +country—the crackling of water thrown on the snow, the swift sharpness +of the bite of the frost, and the rapidity with which his breath froze +and coated the canvas walls and roof of the tent. Vainly he fought the +cold and strove to maintain his watch on the bank. In his weak condition +he was an easy prey, and the frost sank its teeth deep into him before +he fled away to the tent and crouched by the fire. His nose and cheeks +were frozen and turned black, and his left thumb had frozen inside the +mitten. He concluded that he would escape with the loss of the first +joint.</p> + +<p>Then it was, beaten into the tent by the frost, that the trail, with +monstrous irony, suddenly teemed with life. Three sleds went by the +first day, and two the second. Once, during each day, he fought his way +out to the bank only to succumb and retreat, and each of the two times, +within half-an-hour after he retreated, a sled went by.</p> + +<p>The cold snap broke, and he was able to remain by the bank once more, +and the trail died again. For a week he crouched and watched, and never +life stirred along it, not a soul passed in or out. He had cut down to +one biscuit night and morning, and somehow he did not seem to notice it. +Sometimes he marvelled at the way life remained in him. He never would +have thought it possible to endure so much.</p> + +<p>When the trail fluttered anew with life it was life with which he could +not cope. A detachment of the North-West police went by, a score of +them, with many sleds and dogs; and he cowered down on the bank above, +and they were unaware of the menace of death that lurked in the form of +a dying man beside the trail.</p> + +<p>His frozen thumb gave him a great deal of trouble. While watching by the +bank he got into the habit of taking his mitten off and thrusting the +hand inside his shirt so as to rest the thumb in the warmth of his +arm-pit. A mail carrier came over the trail, and Morganson let him pass. +A mail carrier was an important person, and was sure to be missed +immediately.</p> + +<p>On the first day after his last flour had gone it snowed. It was always +warm when the snow fell, and he sat out the whole eight hours of +daylight on the bank, without movement, terribly hungry and terribly +patient, for all the world like a monstrous spider waiting for its prey. +But the prey did not come, and he hobbled back to the tent through the +darkness, drank quarts of spruce tea and hot water, and went to bed.</p> + +<p>The next morning circumstance eased its grip on him. As he started to +come out of the tent he saw a huge bull-moose crossing the swale some +four hundred yards away. Morganson felt a surge and bound of the blood +in him, and then went unaccountably weak. A nausea overpowered him, and +he was compelled to sit down a moment to recover. Then he reached for +his rifle and took careful aim. The first shot was a hit: he knew it; +but the moose turned and broke for the wooded hillside that came down to +the swale. Morganson pumped bullets wildly among the trees and brush at +the fleeing animal, until it dawned upon him that he was exhausting the +ammunition he needed for the sled-load of life for which he waited.</p> + +<p>He stopped shooting, and watched. He noted the direction of the animal's +flight, and, high up on the hillside in an opening among the trees, saw +the trunk of a fallen pine. Continuing the moose's flight in his mind he +saw that it must pass the trunk. He resolved on one more shot, and in +the empty air above the trunk he aimed and steadied his wavering rifle. +The animal sprang into his field of vision, with lifted fore-legs as it +took the leap. He pulled the trigger. With the explosion the moose +seemed to somersault in the air. It crashed down to earth in the snow +beyond and flurried the snow into dust.</p> + +<p>Morganson dashed up the hillside—at least he started to dash up. The +next he knew he was coming out of a faint and dragging himself to his +feet. He went up more slowly, pausing from time to time to breathe and +to steady his reeling senses. At last he crawled over the trunk. The +moose lay before him. He sat down heavily upon the carcase and laughed. +He buried his face in his mittened hands and laughed some more.</p> + +<p>He shook the hysteria from him. He drew his hunting knife and worked as +rapidly as his injured thumb and weakness would permit him. He did not +stop to skin the moose, but quartered it with its hide on. It was a +Klondike of meat.</p> + +<p>When he had finished he selected a piece of meat weighing a hundred +pounds, and started to drag it down to the tent. But the snow was soft, +and it was too much for him. He exchanged it for a twenty-pound piece, +and, with many pauses to rest, succeeded in getting it to the tent. He +fried some of the meat, but ate sparingly. Then, and automatically, he +went out to his crouching place on the bank. There were sled-tracks in +the fresh snow on the trail. The sled-load of life had passed by while +he had been cutting up the moose.</p> + +<p>But he did not mind. He was glad that the sled had not passed before the +coming of the moose. The moose had changed his plans. Its meat was worth +fifty cents a pound, and he was but little more than three miles from +Minto. He need no longer wait for the sled-load of life. The moose was +the sled-load of life. He would sell it. He would buy a couple of dogs +at Minto, some food and some tobacco, and the dogs would haul him south +along the trail to the sea, the sun, and civilisation.</p> + +<p>He felt hungry. The dull, monotonous ache of hunger had now become a +sharp and insistent pang. He hobbled back to the tent and fried a slice +of meat. After that he smoked two whole pipefuls of dried tea leaves. +Then he fried another slice of moose. He was aware of an unwonted glow +of strength, and went out and chopped some firewood. He followed that up +with a slice of meat. Teased on by the food, his hunger grew into an +inflammation. It became imperative every little while to fry a slice of +meat. He tried smaller slices and found himself frying oftener.</p> + +<p>In the middle of the day he thought of the wild animals that might eat +his meat, and he climbed the hill, carrying along his axe, the haul +rope, and a sled lashing. In his weak state the making of the cache and +storing of the meat was an all-afternoon task. He cut young saplings, +trimmed them, and tied them together into a tall scaffold. It was not so +strong a cache as he would have desired to make, but he had done his +best. To hoist the meat to the top was heart-breaking. The larger pieces +defied him until he passed the rope over a limb above, and, with one end +fast to a piece of meat, put all his weight on the other end.</p> + +<p>Once in the tent, he proceeded to indulge in a prolonged and solitary +orgy. He did not need friends. His stomach and he were company. Slice +after slice and many slices of meat he fried and ate. He ate pounds of +the meat. He brewed real tea, and brewed it strong. He brewed the last +he had. It did not matter. On the morrow he would be buying tea in +Minto. When it seemed he could eat no more, he smoked. He smoked all his +stock of dried tea leaves. What of it? On the morrow he would be smoking +tobacco. He knocked out his pipe, fried a final slice, and went to bed. +He had eaten so much he seemed bursting, yet he got out of his blankets +and had just one more mouthful of meat.</p> + +<p>In the morning he awoke as from the sleep of death. In his ears were +strange sounds. He did not know where he was, and looked about him +stupidly until he caught sight of the frying-pan with the last piece of +meat in it, partly eaten. Then he remembered all, and with a quick start +turned his attention to the strange sounds. He sprang from the blankets +with an oath. His scurvy-ravaged legs gave under him and he winced with +the pain. He proceeded more slowly to put on his moccasins and leave +the tent.</p> + +<p>From the cache up the hillside arose a confused noise of snapping and +snarling, punctuated by occasional short, sharp yelps. He increased his +speed at much expense of pain, and cried loudly and threateningly. He +saw the wolves hurrying away through the snow and underbrush, many of +them, and he saw the scaffold down on the ground. The animals were heavy +with the meat they had eaten, and they were content to slink away and +leave the wreckage.</p> + +<p>The way of the disaster was clear to him. The wolves had scented his +cache. One of them had leapt from the trunk of the fallen tree to the +top of the cache. He could see marks of the brute's paws in the snow +that covered the trunk. He had not dreamt a wolf could leap so far. A +second had followed the first, and a third and fourth, until the flimsy +scaffold had gone down under their weight and movement.</p> + +<p>His eyes were hard and savage for a moment as he contemplated the extent +of the calamity; then the old look of patience returned into them, and +he began to gather together the bones well picked and gnawed. There was +marrow in them, he knew; and also, here and there, as he sifted the +snow, he found scraps of meat that had escaped the maws of the brutes +made careless by plenty.</p> + +<p>He spent the rest of the morning dragging the wreckage of the moose down +the hillside. In addition, he had at least ten pounds left of the chunk +of meat he had dragged down the previous day.</p> + +<p>"I'm good for weeks yet," was his comment as he surveyed the heap.</p> + +<p>He had learnt how to starve and live. He cleaned his rifle and counted +the cartridges that remained to him. There were seven. He loaded the +weapon and hobbled out to his crouching-place on the bank. All day he +watched the dead trail. He watched all the week, but no life passed over +it.</p> + +<p>Thanks to the meat he felt stronger, though his scurvy was worse and +more painful. He now lived upon soup, drinking endless gallons of the +thin product of the boiling of the moose bones. The soup grew thinner +and thinner as he cracked the bones and boiled them over and over; but +the hot water with the essence of the meat in it was good for him, and +he was more vigorous than he had been previous to the shooting of the +moose.</p> + +<p>It was in the next week that a new factor entered into Morganson's life. +He wanted to know the date. It became an obsession. He pondered and +calculated, but his conclusions were rarely twice the same. The first +thing in the morning and the last thing at night, and all day as well, +watching by the trail, he worried about it. He awoke at night and lay +awake for hours over the problem. To have known the date would have been +of no value to him; but his curiosity grew until it equalled his hunger +and his desire to live. Finally it mastered him, and he resolved to go +to Minto and find out.</p> + +<p>It was dark when he arrived at Minto, but this served him. No one saw +him arrive. Besides, he knew he would have moonlight by which to return. +He climbed the bank and pushed open the saloon door. The light dazzled +him. The source of it was several candles, but he had been living for +long in an unlighted tent. As his eyes adjusted themselves, he saw three +men sitting around the stove. They were trail-travellers—he knew it at +once; and since they had not passed in, they were evidently bound out. +They would go by his tent next morning.</p> + +<p>The barkeeper emitted a long and marvelling whistle.</p> + +<p>"I thought you was dead," he said.</p> + +<p>"Why?" Morganson asked in a faltering voice.</p> + +<p>He had become unused to talking, and he was not acquainted with the +sound of his own voice. It seemed hoarse and strange.</p> + +<p>"You've been dead for more'n two months, now," the barkeeper explained. +"You left here going south, and you never arrived at Selkirk. Where have +you been?"</p> + +<p>"Chopping wood for the steamboat company," Morganson lied unsteadily.</p> + +<p>He was still trying to become acquainted with his own voice. He hobbled +across the floor and leant against the bar. He knew he must lie +consistently; and while he maintained an appearance of careless +indifference, his heart was beating and pounding furiously and +irregularly, and he could not help looking hungrily at the three men by +the stove. They were the possessors of life—his life.</p> + +<p>"But where in hell you been keeping yourself all this time?" the +barkeeper demanded.</p> + +<p>"I located across the river," he answered. "I've got a mighty big stack +of wood chopped."</p> + +<p>The barkeeper nodded. His face beamed with understanding.</p> + +<p>"I heard sounds of chopping several times," he said. "So that was you, +eh? Have a drink?"</p> + +<p>Morganson clutched the bar tightly. A drink! He could have thrown his +arms around the man's legs and kissed his feet. He tried vainly to utter +his acceptance; but the barkeeper had not waited and was already passing +out the bottle.</p> + +<p>"But what did you do for grub?" the latter asked. "You don't look as if +you could chop wood to keep yourself warm. You look terribly bad, +friend."</p> + +<p>Morganson yearned towards the delayed bottle and gulped dryly.</p> + +<p>"I did the chopping before the scurvy got bad," he said. "Then I got a +moose right at the start. I've been living high all right. It's the +scurvy that's run me down."</p> + +<p>He filled the glass, and added, "But the spruce tea's knocking it, I +think."</p> + +<p>"Have another," the barkeeper said.</p> + +<p>The action of the two glasses of whisky on Morganson's empty stomach and +weak condition was rapid. The next he knew he was sitting by the stove +on a box, and it seemed as though ages had passed. A tall, +broad-shouldered, black-whiskered man was paying for drinks. Morganson's +swimming eyes saw him drawing a greenback from a fat roll, and +Morganson's swimming eyes cleared on the instant. They were +hundred-dollar bills. It was life! His life! He felt an almost +irresistible impulse to snatch the money and dash madly out into the +night.</p> + +<p>The black-whiskered man and one of his companions arose.</p> + +<p>"Come on, Oleson," the former said to the third one of the party, a +fair-haired, ruddy-faced giant.</p> + +<p>Oleson came to his feet, yawning and stretching.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to bed so soon for?" the barkeeper asked +plaintively. "It's early yet."</p> + +<p>"Got to make Selkirk to-morrow," said he of the black whiskers.</p> + +<p>"On Christmas Day!" the barkeeper cried.</p> + +<p>"The better the day the better the deed," the other laughed.</p> + +<p>As the three men passed out of the door it came dimly to Morganson that +it was Christmas Eve. That was the date. That was what he had come to +Minto for. But it was overshadowed now by the three men themselves, and +the fat roll of hundred-dollar bills.</p> + +<p>The door slammed.</p> + +<p>"That's Jack Thompson," the barkeeper said. "Made two millions on +Bonanza and Sulphur, and got more coming. I'm going to bed. Have +another drink first."</p> + +<p>Morganson hesitated.</p> + +<p>"A Christmas drink," the other urged. "It's all right. I'll get it back +when you sell your wood."</p> + +<p>Morganson mastered his drunkenness long enough to swallow the whisky, +say good night, and get out on the trail. It was moonlight, and he +hobbled along through the bright, silvery quiet, with a vision of life +before him that took the form of a roll of hundred-dollar bills.</p> + +<p>He awoke. It was dark, and he was in his blankets. He had gone to bed in +his moccasins and mittens, with the flaps of his cap pulled down over +his ears. He got up as quickly as his crippled condition would permit, +and built the fire and boiled some water. As he put the spruce-twigs +into the teapot he noted the first glimmer of the pale morning light. He +caught up his rifle and hobbled in a panic out to the bank. As he +crouched and waited, it came to him that he had forgotten to drink his +spruce tea. The only other thought in his mind was the possibility of +John Thompson changing his mind and not travelling Christmas Day.</p> + +<p>Dawn broke and merged into day. It was cold and clear. Sixty below zero +was Morganson's estimate of the frost. Not a breath stirred the chill +Arctic quiet. He sat up suddenly, his muscular tensity increasing the +hurt of the scurvy. He had heard the far sound of a man's voice and the +faint whining of dogs. He began beating his hands back and forth against +his sides. It was a serious matter to bare the trigger hand to sixty +degrees below zero, and against that time he needed to develop all the +warmth of which his flesh was capable.</p> + +<p>They came into view around the outjutting clump of trees. To the fore +was the third man whose name he had not learnt. Then came eight dogs +drawing the sled. At the front of the sled, guiding it by the gee-pole, +walked John Thompson. The rear was brought up by Oleson, the Swede. He +was certainly a fine man, Morganson thought, as he looked at the bulk of +him in his squirrel-skin <i>parka</i>. The men and dogs were silhouetted +sharply against the white of the landscape. They had the seeming of two +dimension, cardboard figures that worked mechanically.</p> + +<p>Morganson rested his cocked rifle in the notch in the tree. He became +abruptly aware that his fingers were cold, and discovered that his right +hand was bare. He did not know that he had taken off the mitten. He +slipped it on again hastily. The men and dogs drew closer, and he could +see their breaths spouting into visibility in the cold air. When the +first man was fifty yards away, Morganson slipped the mitten from his +right hand. He placed the first finger on the trigger and aimed low. +When he fired the first man whirled half around and went down on the +trail.</p> + +<p>In the instant of surprise, Morganson pulled the trigger on John +Thompson—too low, for the latter staggered and sat down suddenly on the +sled. Morganson raised his aim and fired again. John Thompson sank down +backward along the top of the loaded sled.</p> + +<p>Morganson turned his attention to Oleson. At the same time that he noted +the latter running away towards Minto he noted that the dogs, coming to +where the first man's body blocked the trail, had halted. Morganson +fired at the fleeing man and missed, and Oleson swerved. He continued to +swerve back and forth, while Morganson fired twice in rapid succession +and missed both shots. Morganson stopped himself just as he was pulling +the trigger again. He had fired six shots. Only one more cartridge +remained, and it was in the chamber. It was imperative that he should +not miss his last shot.</p> + +<p>He held his fire and desperately studied Oleson's flight. The giant was +grotesquely curving and twisting and running at top speed along the +trail, the tail of his <i>parka</i> flapping smartly behind. Morganson +trained his rifle on the man and with a swaying action followed his +erratic flight. Morganson's finger was getting numb. He could scarcely +feel the trigger. "God help me," he breathed a prayer aloud, and pulled +the trigger. The running man pitched forward on his face, rebounded from +the hard trail, and slid along, rolling over and over. He threshed for +a moment with his arms and then lay quiet.</p> + +<p>Morganson dropped his rifle (worthless now that the last cartridge was +gone) and slid down the bank through the soft snow. Now that he had +sprung the trap, concealment of his lurking-place was no longer +necessary. He hobbled along the trail to the sled, his fingers making +involuntary gripping and clutching movements inside the mittens.</p> + +<p>The snarling of the dogs halted him. The leader, a heavy dog, half +Newfoundland and half Hudson Bay, stood over the body of the man that +lay on the trail, and menaced Morganson with bristling hair and bared +fangs. The other seven dogs of the team were likewise bristling and +snarling. Morganson approached tentatively, and the team surged towards +him. He stopped again and talked to the animals, threatening and +cajoling by turns. He noticed the face of the man under the leader's +feet, and was surprised at how quickly it had turned white with the ebb +of life and the entrance of the frost. John Thompson lay back along the +top of the loaded sled, his head sunk in a space between two sacks and +his chin tilted upwards, so that all Morganson could see was the black +beard pointing skyward.</p> + +<p>Finding it impossible to face the dogs Morganson stepped off the trail +into the deep snow and floundered in a wide circle to the rear of the +sled. Under the initiative of the leader, the team swung around in its +tangled harness. Because of his crippled condition, Morganson could move +only slowly. He saw the animals circling around on him and tried to +retreat. He almost made it, but the big leader, with a savage lunge, +sank its teeth into the calf of his leg. The flesh was slashed and torn, +but Morganson managed to drag himself clear.</p> + +<p>He cursed the brutes fiercely, but could not cow them. They replied with +neck-bristling and snarling, and with quick lunges against their +breastbands. He remembered Oleson, and turned his back upon them and +went along the trail. He scarcely took notice of his lacerated leg. It +was bleeding freely; the main artery had been torn, but he did not know +it.</p> + +<p>Especially remarkable to Morganson was the extreme pallor of the Swede, +who the preceding night had been so ruddy-faced. Now his face was like +white marble. What with his fair hair and lashes he looked like a carved +statue rather than something that had been a man a few minutes before. +Morganson pulled off his mittens and searched the body. There was no +money-belt around the waist next to the skin, nor did he find a +gold-sack. In a breast pocket he lit on a small wallet. With fingers +that swiftly went numb with the frost, he hurried through the contents +of the wallet. There were letters with foreign stamps and postmarks on +them, and several receipts and memorandum accounts, and a letter of +credit for eight hundred dollars. That was all. There was no money.</p> + +<p>He made a movement to start back toward the sled, but found his foot +rooted to the trail. He glanced down and saw that he stood in a fresh +deposit of frozen red. There was red ice on his torn pants leg and on +the moccasin beneath. With a quick effort he broke the frozen clutch of +his blood and hobbled along the trail to the sled. The big leader that +had bitten him began snarling and lunging, and was followed in this +conduct by the whole team.</p> + +<p>Morganson wept weakly for a space, and weakly swayed from one side to +the other. Then he brushed away the frozen tears that gemmed his lashes. +It was a joke. Malicious chance was having its laugh at him. Even John +Thompson, with his heaven-aspiring whiskers, was laughing at him.</p> + +<p>He prowled around the sled demented, at times weeping and pleading with +the brutes for his life there on the sled, at other times raging +impotently against them. Then calmness came upon him. He had been making +a fool of himself. All he had to do was to go to the tent, get the axe, +and return and brain the dogs. He'd show them.</p> + +<p>In order to get to the tent he had to go wide of the sled and the savage +animals. He stepped off the trail into the soft snow. Then he felt +suddenly giddy and stood still. He was afraid to go on for fear he would +fall down. He stood still for a long time, balancing himself on his +crippled legs that were trembling violently from weakness. He looked +down and saw the snow reddening at his feet. The blood flowed freely as +ever. He had not thought the bite was so severe. He controlled his +giddiness and stooped to examine the wound. The snow seemed rushing up +to meet him, and he recoiled from it as from a blow. He had a panic fear +that he might fall down, and after a struggle he managed to stand +upright again. He was afraid of that snow that had rushed up to him.</p> + +<p>Then the white glimmer turned black, and the next he knew he was +awakening in the snow where he had fallen. He was no longer giddy. The +cobwebs were gone. But he could not get up. There was no strength in his +limbs. His body seemed lifeless. By a desperate effort he managed to +roll over on his side. In this position he caught a glimpse of the sled +and of John Thompson's black beard pointing skyward. Also he saw the +lead dog licking the face of the man who lay on the trail. Morganson +watched curiously. The dog was nervous and eager. Sometimes it uttered +short, sharp yelps, as though to arouse the man, and surveyed him with +ears cocked forward and wagging tail. At last it sat down, pointed its +nose upward, and began to howl. Soon all the team was howling.</p> + +<p>Now that he was down, Morganson was no longer afraid. He had a vision of +himself being found dead in the snow, and for a while he wept in +self-pity. But he was not afraid. The struggle had gone out of him. When +he tried to open his eyes he found that the wet tears had frozen them +shut. He did not try to brush the ice away. It did not matter. He had +not dreamed death was so easy. He was even angry that he had struggled +and suffered through so many weary weeks. He had been bullied and +cheated by the fear of death. Death did not hurt. Every torment he had +endured had been a torment of life. Life had defamed death. It was a +cruel thing.</p> + +<p>But his anger passed. The lies and frauds of life were of no consequence +now that he was coming to his own. He became aware of drowsiness, and +felt a sweet sleep stealing upon him, balmy with promises of easement +and rest. He heard faintly the howling of the dogs, and had a fleeting +thought that in the mastering of his flesh the frost no longer bit. Then +the light and the thought ceased to pulse beneath the tear-gemmed +eyelids, and with a tired sigh of comfort he sank into sleep.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_END_OF_THE_STORY" id="THE_END_OF_THE_STORY">THE END OF THE STORY</a></h2> + +<h4>I</h4> + + +<p>The table was of hand-hewn spruce boards, and the men who played whist +had frequent difficulties in drawing home their tricks across the uneven +surface. Though they sat in their undershirts, the sweat noduled and +oozed on their faces; yet their feet, heavily moccasined and +woollen-socked, tingled with the bite of the frost. Such was the +difference of temperature in the small cabin between the floor level and +a yard or more above it. The sheet-iron Yukon Stove roared red-hot, yet, +eight feet away, on the meat-shelf, placed low and beside the door, lay +chunks of solidly frozen moose and bacon. The door, a third of the way +up from the bottom, was a thick rime. In the chinking between the logs +at the back of the bunks the frost showed white and glistening. A window +of oiled paper furnished light. The lower portion of the paper, on the +inside, was coated an inch deep with the frozen moisture of the men's +breath.</p> + +<p>They played a momentous rubber of whist, for the pair that lost was to +dig a fishing hole through the seven feet of ice and snow that covered +the Yukon.</p> + +<p>"It's mighty unusual, a cold snap like this in March," remarked the man +who shuffled. "What would you call it, Bob?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, fifty-five or sixty below—all of that. What do you make it, Doc?"</p> + +<p>Doc turned his head and glanced at the lower part of the door with a +measuring eye.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit worse than fifty. If anything, slightly under—say +forty-nine. See the ice on the door. It's just about the fifty mark, but +you'll notice the upper edge is ragged. The time she went seventy the +ice climbed a full four inches higher." He picked up his hand, and +without ceasing from sorting called "Come in," to a knock on the door.</p> + +<p>The man who entered was a big, broad-shouldered Swede, though his +nationality was not discernible until he had removed his ear-flapped cap +and thawed away the ice which had formed on beard and moustache and +which served to mask his face. While engaged in this, the men at the +table played out the hand.</p> + +<p>"I hear one doctor faller stop this camp," the Swede said inquiringly, +looking anxiously from face to face, his own face haggard and drawn from +severe and long endured pain. "I come long way. North fork of the Whyo."</p> + +<p>"I'm the doctor. What's the matter?"</p> + +<p>In response, the man held up his left hand, the second finger of which +was monstrously swollen. At the same time he began a rambling, +disjointed history of the coming and growth of his affliction.</p> + +<p>"Let me look at it," the doctor broke in impatiently. "Lay it on the +table. There, like that."</p> + +<p>Tenderly, as if it were a great boil, the man obeyed.</p> + +<p>"Humph," the doctor grumbled. "A weeping sinew. And travelled a hundred +miles to have it fixed. I'll fix it in a jiffy. You watch me, and next +time you can do it yourself."</p> + +<p>Without warning, squarely and at right angles, and savagely, the doctor +brought the edge of his hand down on the swollen crooked finger. The man +yelled with consternation and agony. It was more like the cry of a wild +beast, and his face was a wild beast's as he was about to spring on the +man who had perpetrated the joke.</p> + +<p>"That's all right," the doctor placated sharply and authoritatively. +"How do you feel? Better, eh? Of course. Next time you can do it +yourself—Go on and deal, Strothers. I think we've got you."</p> + +<p>Slow and ox-like, on the face of the Swede dawned relief and +comprehension. The pang over, the finger felt better. The pain was gone. +He examined the finger curiously, with wondering eyes, slowly crooking +it back and forth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a +gold-sack.</p> + +<p>"How much?"</p> + +<p>The doctor shook his head impatiently. "Nothing. I'm not +practising—Your play, Bob."</p> + +<p>The Swede moved heavily on his feet, re-examined the finger, then turned +an admiring gaze on the doctor.</p> + +<p>"You are good man. What your name?"</p> + +<p>"Linday, Doctor Linday," Strothers answered, as if solicitous to save +his opponent from further irritation.</p> + +<p>"The day's half done," Linday said to the Swede, at the end of the hand, +while he shuffled. "Better rest over to-night. It's too cold for +travelling. There's a spare bunk."</p> + +<p>He was a slender brunette of a man, lean-cheeked, thin-lipped, and +strong. The smooth-shaven face was a healthy sallow. All his movements +were quick and precise. He did not fumble his cards. The eyes were +black, direct, and piercing, with the trick of seeming to look beneath +the surfaces of things. His hands, slender, fine and nervous, appeared +made for delicate work, and to the most casual eye they conveyed an +impression of strength.</p> + +<p>"Our game," he announced, drawing in the last trick. "Now for the rub +and who digs the fishing hole."</p> + +<p>A knock at the door brought a quick exclamation from him.</p> + +<p>"Seems we just can't finish this rubber," he complained, as the door +opened. "What's the matter with <i>you</i>?"—this last to the stranger who +entered.</p> + +<p>The newcomer vainly strove to move his icebound jaws and jowls. That he +had been on trail for long hours and days was patent. The skin across +the cheekbones was black with repeated frost-bite. From nose to chin was +a mass of solid ice perforated by the hole through which he breathed. +Through this he had also spat tobacco juice, which had frozen, as it +trickled, into an amber-coloured icicle, pointed like a Van Dyke beard.</p> + +<p>He shook his head dumbly, grinned with his eyes, and drew near to the +stove to thaw his mouth to speech. He assisted the process with his +fingers, clawing off fragments of melting ice which rattled and sizzled +on the stove.</p> + +<p>"Nothing the matter with me," he finally announced. "But if they's a +doctor in the outfit he's sure needed. They's a man up the Little Peco +that's had a ruction with a panther, an' the way he's clawed is +something scand'lous."</p> + +<p>"How far up?" Doctor Linday demanded.</p> + +<p>"A matter of a hundred miles."</p> + +<p>"How long since?"</p> + +<p>"I've ben three days comin' down."</p> + +<p>"Bad?"</p> + +<p>"Shoulder dislocated. Some ribs broke for sure. Right arm broke. An' +clawed clean to the bone most all over but the face. We sewed up two or +three bad places temporary, and tied arteries with twine."</p> + +<p>"That settles it," Linday sneered. "Where were they?"</p> + +<p>"Stomach."</p> + +<p>"He's a sight by now."</p> + +<p>"Not on your life. Washed clean with bug-killin' dope before we +stitched. Only temporary anyway. Had nothin' but linen thread, but +washed that, too."</p> + +<p>"He's as good as dead," was Linday's judgment, as he angrily fingered +the cards.</p> + +<p>"Nope. That man ain't goin' to die. He knows I've come for a doctor, an' +he'll make out to live until you get there. He won't let himself die. I +know him."</p> + +<p>"Christian Science and gangrene, eh?" came the sneer. "Well, I'm not +practising. Nor can I see myself travelling a hundred miles at fifty +below for a dead man."</p> + +<p>"I can see you, an' for a man a long ways from dead."</p> + +<p>Linday shook his head. "Sorry you had your trip for nothing. Better stop +over for the night."</p> + +<p>"Nope. We'll be pullin' out in ten minutes."</p> + +<p>"What makes you so cocksure?" Linday demanded testily.</p> + +<p>Then it was that Tom Daw made the speech of his life.</p> + +<p>"Because he's just goin' on livin' till you get there, if it takes you a +week to make up your mind. Besides, his wife's with him, not sheddin' a +tear, or nothin', an' she's helpin' him live till you come. They think a +almighty heap of each other, an' she's got a will like hisn. If he +weakened, she'd just put her immortal soul into hisn an' make him live. +Though he ain't weakenin' none, you can stack on that. I'll stack on it. +I'll lay you three to one, in ounces, he's alive when you get there. I +got a team of dawgs down the bank. You ought to allow to start in ten +minutes, an' we ought to make it back in less'n three days because the +trail's broke. I'm goin' down to the dawgs now, an' I'll look for you in +ten minutes."</p> + +<p>Tom Daw pulled down his earflaps, drew on his mittens, and passed out.</p> + +<p>"Damn him!" Linday cried, glaring vindictively at the closed door.</p> + + +<h4>II</h4> + +<p>That night, long after dark, with twenty-five miles behind them, Linday +and Tom Daw went into camp. It was a simple but adequate affair: a fire +built in the snow; alongside, their sleeping-furs spread in a single bed +on a mat of spruce boughs; behind the bed an oblong of canvas stretched +to refract the heat. Daw fed the dogs and chopped ice and firewood. +Linday's cheeks burned with frost-bite as he squatted over the cooking. +They ate heavily, smoked a pipe and talked while they dried their +moccasins before the fire, and turned in to sleep the dead sleep of +fatigue and health.</p> + +<p>Morning found the unprecedented cold snap broken. Linday estimated the +temperature at fifteen below and rising. Daw was worried. That day would +see them in the canyon, he explained, and if the spring thaw set in the +canyon would run open water. The walls of the canyon were hundreds to +thousands of feet high. They could be climbed, but the going would be +slow.</p> + +<p>Camped well in the dark and forbidding gorge, over their pipe that +evening they complained of the heat, and both agreed that the +thermometer must be above zero—the first time in six months.</p> + +<p>"Nobody ever heard tell of a panther this far north," Daw was saying. +"Rocky called it a cougar. But I shot a-many of 'em down in Curry +County, Oregon, where I come from, an' we called 'em panther. Anyway, it +was a bigger cat than ever I seen. It was sure a monster cat. Now how'd +it ever stray to such out of the way huntin' range?—that's the +question."</p> + +<p>Linday made no comment. He was nodding. Propped on sticks, his moccasins +steamed unheeded and unturned. The dogs, curled in furry balls, slept in +the snow. The crackle of an ember accentuated the profound of silence +that reigned. He awoke with a start and gazed at Daw, who nodded and +returned the gaze. Both listened. From far off came a vague disturbance +that increased to a vast and sombre roaring. As it neared, +ever-increasing, riding the mountain tops as well as the canyon depths, +bowing the forest before it, bending the meagre, crevice-rooted pines on +the walls of the gorge, they knew it for what it was. A wind, strong and +warm, a balmy gale, drove past them, flinging a rocket-shower of sparks +from the fire. The dogs, aroused, sat on their haunches, bleak noses +pointed upward, and raised the long wolf howl.</p> + +<p>"It's the Chinook," Daw said.</p> + +<p>"It means the river trail, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"Sure thing. And ten miles of it is easier than one over the tops." Daw +surveyed Linday for a long, considering minute. "We've just had fifteen +hours of trail," he shouted above the wind, tentatively, and again +waited. "Doc," he said finally, "are you game?"</p> + +<p>For answer, Linday knocked out his pipe and began to pull on his damp +moccasins. Between them, and in few minutes, bending to the force of the +wind, the dogs were harnessed, camp broken, and the cooking outfit and +unused sleeping furs lashed on the sled. Then, through the darkness, for +a night of travel, they churned out on the trail Daw had broken nearly a +week before. And all through the night the Chinook roared and they urged +the weary dogs and spurred their own jaded muscles. Twelve hours of it +they made, and stopped for breakfast after twenty-seven hours on trail.</p> + +<p>"An hour's sleep," said Daw, when they had wolfed pounds of straight +moose-meat fried with bacon.</p> + +<p>Two hours he let his companion sleep, afraid himself to close his eyes. +He occupied himself with making marks upon the soft-surfaced, shrinking +snow. Visibly it shrank. In two hours the snow level sank three inches. +From every side, faintly heard and near, under the voice of the spring +wind, came the trickling of hidden waters. The Little Peco, strengthened +by the multitudinous streamlets, rose against the manacles of winter, +riving the ice with crashings and snappings.</p> + +<p>Daw touched Linday on the shoulder; touched him again; shook, and shook +violently.</p> + +<p>"Doc," he murmured admiringly. "You can sure go some."</p> + +<p>The weary black eyes, under heavy lids, acknowledged the compliment.</p> + +<p>"But that ain't the question. Rocky is clawed something scand'lous. As I +said before, I helped sew up his in'ards. Doc...." He shook the man, +whose eyes had again closed. "I say, Doc! The question is: can you go +some more?—hear me? I say, can you go some more?"</p> + +<p>The weary dogs snapped and whimpered when kicked from their sleep. The +going was slow, not more than two miles an hour, and the animals took +every opportunity to lie down in the wet snow.</p> + +<p>"Twenty miles of it, and we'll be through the gorge," Daw encouraged. +"After that the ice can go to blazes, for we can take to the bank, and +it's only ten more miles to camp. Why, Doc, we're almost there. And when +you get Rocky fixed up, you can come down in a canoe in one day."</p> + +<p>But the ice grew more uneasy under them, breaking loose from the +shore-line and rising steadily inch by inch. In places where it still +held to the shore, the water overran and they waded and slushed across. +The Little Peco growled and muttered. Cracks and fissures were forming +everywhere as they battled on for the miles that each one of which meant +ten along the tops.</p> + +<p>"Get on the sled, Doc, an' take a snooze," Daw invited.</p> + +<p>The glare from the black eyes prevented him from repeating the +suggestion.</p> + +<p>As early as midday they received definite warning of the beginning of +the end. Cakes of ice, borne downward in the rapid current, began to +thunder beneath the ice on which they stood. The dogs whimpered +anxiously and yearned for the bank.</p> + +<p>"That means open water above," Daw explained. "Pretty soon she'll jam +somewheres, an' the river'll raise a hundred feet in a hundred minutes. +It's us for the tops if we can find a way to climb out. Come on! Hit her +up I! An' just to think, the Yukon'll stick solid for weeks."</p> + +<p>Unusually narrow at this point, the great walls of the canyon were too +precipitous to scale. Daw and Linday had to keep on; and they kept on +till the disaster happened. With a loud explosion, the ice broke asunder +midway under the team. The two animals in the middle of the string went +into the fissure, and the grip of the current on their bodies dragged +the lead-dog backward and in. Swept downstream under the ice, these +three bodies began to drag to the edge the two whining dogs that +remained. The men held back frantically on the sled, but were slowly +drawn along with it. It was all over in the space of seconds. Daw +slashed the wheel-dog's traces with his sheath-knife, and the animal +whipped over the ice-edge and was gone. The ice on which they stood, +broke into a large and pivoting cake that ground and splintered against +the shore ice and rocks. Between them they got the sled ashore and up +into a crevice in time to see the ice-cake up-edge, sink, and +down-shelve from view.</p> + +<p>Meat and sleeping furs were made into packs, and the sled was abandoned. +Linday resented Daw's taking the heavier pack, but Daw had his will.</p> + +<p>"You got to work as soon as you get there. Come on."</p> + +<p>It was one in the afternoon when they started to climb. At eight that +evening they cleared the rim and for half an hour lay where they had +fallen. Then came the fire, a pot of coffee, and an enormous feed of +moosemeat. But first Linday hefted the two packs, and found his own +lighter by half.</p> + +<p>"You're an iron man, Daw," he admired.</p> + +<p>"Who? Me? Oh, pshaw! You ought to see Rocky. He's made out of platinum, +an' armour plate, an' pure gold, an' all strong things. I'm mountaineer, +but he plumb beats me out. Down in Curry County I used to 'most kill the +boys when we run bear. So when I hooks up with Rocky on our first hunt I +had a mean idea to show 'm a few. I let out the links good an' generous, +'most nigh keepin' up with the dawgs, an' along comes Rocky a-treadin' +on my heels. I knowed he couldn't last that way, and I just laid down +an' did my dangdest. An' there he was, at the end of another hour, +a-treadin' steady an' regular on my heels. I was some huffed. 'Mebbe +you'd like to come to the front an' show me how to travel,' I says. +'Sure,' says he. An' he done it! I stayed with 'm, but let me tell you I +was plumb tuckered by the time the bear tree'd.</p> + +<p>"They ain't no stoppin' that man. He ain't afraid of nothin'. Last fall, +before the freeze-up, him an' me was headin' for camp about twilight. I +was clean shot out—ptarmigan—an' he had one cartridge left. An' the +dawgs tree'd a she grizzly. Small one. Only weighed about three hundred, +but you know what grizzlies is. 'Don't do it,' says I, when he ups with +his rifle. 'You only got that one shot, an' it's too dark to see the +sights.'</p> + +<p>"'Climb a tree,' says he. I didn't climb no tree, but when that bear +come down a-cussin' among the dawgs, an' only creased, I want to tell +you I was sure hankerin' for a tree. It was some ruction. Then things +come on real bad. The bear slid down a hollow against a big log. +Downside, that log was four feet up an' down. Dawgs couldn't get at bear +that way. Upside was steep gravel, an' the dawgs'd just naturally slide +down into the bear. They was no jumpin' back, an' the bear was +a-manglin' 'em fast as they come. All underbrush, gettin' pretty dark, +no cartridges, nothin'.</p> + +<p>"What's Rocky up an' do? He goes downside of log, reaches over with his +knife, an' begins slashin'. But he can only reach bear's rump, an' dawgs +bein' ruined fast, one-two-three time. Rocky gets desperate. He don't +like to lose his dawgs. He jumps on top log, grabs bear by the slack of +the rump, an' heaves over back'ard right over top of that log. Down they +go, kit an' kaboodle, twenty feet, bear, dawgs, an' Rocky, slidin', +cussin', an' scratchin', ker-plump into ten feet of water in the bed of +stream. They all swum out different ways. Nope, he didn't get the bear, +but he saved the dawgs. That's Rocky. They's no stoppin' him when his +mind's set."</p> + +<p>It was at the next camp that Linday heard how Rocky had come to be +injured.</p> + +<p>"I'd ben up the draw, about a mile from the cabin, lookin' for a piece +of birch likely enough for an axe-handle. Comin' back I heard the +darndest goings-on where we had a bear trap set. Some trapper had left +the trap in an old cache an' Rocky'd fixed it up. But the goings-on. It +was Rocky an' his brother Harry. First I'd hear one yell and laugh, an' +then the other, like it was some game. An' what do you think the fool +game was? I've saw some pretty nervy cusses down in Curry County, but +they beat all. They'd got a whoppin' big panther in the trap an' was +takin' turns rappin' it on the nose with a light stick. But that wa'n't +the point. I just come out of the brush in time to see Harry rap it. +Then he chops six inches off the stick an' passes it to Rocky. You see, +that stick was growin' shorter all the time. It ain't as easy as you +think. The panther'd slack back an' hunch down an' spit, an' it was +mighty lively in duckin' the stick. An' you never knowed when it'd jump. +It was caught by the hind leg, which was curious, too, an' it had some +slack I'm tellin' you.</p> + +<p>"It was just a game of dare they was playin', an' the stick gettin' +shorter an' shorter an' the panther madder 'n madder. Bimeby they wa'n't +no stick left—only a nubbin, about four inches long, an' it was Rocky's +turn. 'Better quit now,' says Harry. 'What for?' says Rocky. 'Because if +you rap him again they won't be no stick left for me,' Harry answers. +'Then you'll quit an' I win,' says Rocky with a laugh, an' goes to it.</p> + +<p>"An' I don't want to see anything like it again. That cat'd bunched back +an' down till it had all of six feet slack in its body. An' Rocky's +stick four inches long. The cat got him. You couldn't see one from +t'other. No chance to shoot. It was Harry, in the end, that got his +knife into the panther's jugular."</p> + +<p>"If I'd known how he got it I'd never have come," was Linday's comment.</p> + +<p>Daw nodded concurrence.</p> + +<p>"That's what she said. She told me sure not to whisper how it +happened."</p> + +<p>"Is he crazy?" Linday demanded in his wrath.</p> + +<p>"They're all crazy. Him an' his brother are all the time devilin' each +other to tom-fool things. I seen them swim the riffle last fall, bad +water an' mush-ice runnin'—on a dare. They ain't nothin' they won't +tackle. An' she's 'most as bad. Not afraid some herself. She'll do +anything Rocky'll let her. But he's almighty careful with her. Treats +her like a queen. No camp-work or such for her. That's why another man +an' me are hired on good wages. They've got slathers of money an' +they're sure dippy on each other. 'Looks like good huntin',' says Rocky, +when they struck that section last fall. 'Let's make a camp then,' says +Harry. An' me all the time thinkin' they was lookin' for gold. Ain't ben +a prospect pan washed the whole winter."</p> + +<p>Linday's anger mounted. "I haven't any patience with fools. For two +cents I'd turn back."</p> + +<p>"No you wouldn't," Daw assured him confidently. "They ain't enough grub +to turn back, an' we'll be there to-morrow. Just got to cross that last +divide an' drop down to the cabin. An' they's a better reason. You're +too far from home, an' I just naturally wouldn't let you turn back."</p> + +<p>Exhausted as Linday was, the flash in his black eyes warned Daw that he +had overreached himself. His hand went out.</p> + +<p>"My mistake, Doc. Forget it. I reckon I'm gettin' some cranky what of +losin' them dawgs."</p> + + +<h4>III</h4> + +<p>Not one day, but three days later, the two men, after being snowed in on +the summit by a spring blizzard, staggered up to a cabin that stood in a +fat bottom beside the roaring Little Peco. Coming in from the bright +sunshine to the dark cabin, Linday observed little of its occupants. He +was no more than aware of two men and a woman. But he was not interested +in them. He went directly to the bunk where lay the injured man. The +latter was lying on his back, with eyes closed, and Linday noted the +slender stencilling of the brows and the kinky silkiness of the brown +hair. Thin and wan, the face seemed too small for the muscular neck, yet +the delicate features, despite their waste, were firmly moulded.</p> + +<p>"What dressings have you been using?" Linday asked of the woman.</p> + +<p>"Corrosive, sublimate, regular solution," came the answer.</p> + +<p>He glanced quickly at her, shot an even quicker glance at the face of +the injured man, and stood erect. She breathed sharply, abruptly biting +off the respiration with an effort of will. Linday turned to the men.</p> + +<p>"You clear out—chop wood or something. Clear out."</p> + +<p>One of them demurred.</p> + +<p>"This is a serious case," Linday went on. "I want to talk to his wife."</p> + +<p>"I'm his brother," said the other.</p> + +<p>To him the woman looked, praying him with her eyes. He nodded +reluctantly and turned toward the door.</p> + +<p>"Me, too?" Daw queried from the bench where he had flung himself down.</p> + +<p>"You, too."</p> + +<p>Linday busied himself with a superficial examination of the patient +while the cabin was emptying.</p> + +<p>"So?" he said. "So that's your Rex Strang."</p> + +<p>She dropped her eyes to the man in the bunk as if to reassure herself of +his identity, and then in silence returned Linday's gaze.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you speak?"</p> + +<p>She shrugged her shoulders. "What is the use? You know it is Rex +Strang."</p> + +<p>"Thank you. Though I might remind you that it is the first time I have +ever seen him. Sit down." He waved her to a stool, himself taking the +bench. "I'm really about all in, you know. There's no turnpike from the +Yukon here."</p> + +<p>He drew a penknife and began extracting a thorn from his thumb.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do?" she asked, after a minute's wait.</p> + +<p>"Eat and rest up before I start back."</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do about...." She inclined her head toward the +unconscious man.</p> + +<p>"Nothing."</p> + +<p>She went over to the bunk and rested her fingers lightly on the +tight-curled hair.</p> + +<p>"You mean you will kill him," she said slowly. "Kill him by doing +nothing, for you can save him if you will."</p> + +<p>"Take it that way." He considered a moment, and stated his thought with +a harsh little laugh. "From time immemorial in this weary old world it +has been a not uncommon custom so to dispose of wife-stealers."</p> + +<p>"You are unfair, Grant," she answered gently. "You forget that I was +willing and that I desired. I was a free agent. Rex never stole me. It +was you who lost me. I went with him, willing and eager, with song on my +lips. As well accuse me of stealing him. We went together."</p> + +<p>"A good way of looking at it," Linday conceded. "I see you are as keen a +thinker as ever, Madge. That must have bothered him."</p> + +<p>"A keen thinker can be a good lover—"</p> + +<p>"And not so foolish," he broke in.</p> + +<p>"Then you admit the wisdom of my course?"</p> + +<p>He threw up his hands. "That's the devil of it, talking with clever +women. A man always forgets and traps himself. I wouldn't wonder if you +won him with a syllogism."</p> + +<p>Her reply was the hint of a smile in her straight-looking blue eyes and +a seeming emanation of sex pride from all the physical being of her.</p> + +<p>"No, I take that back, Madge. If you'd been a numbskull you'd have won +him, or any one else, on your looks, and form, and carriage. I ought to +know. I've been through that particular mill, and, the devil take me, +I'm not through it yet."</p> + +<p>His speech was quick and nervous and irritable, as it always was, and, +as she knew, it was always candid. She took her cue from his last +remark.</p> + +<p>"Do you remember Lake Geneva?"</p> + +<p>"I ought to. I was rather absurdly happy."</p> + +<p>She nodded, and her eyes were luminous. "There is such a thing as old +sake. Won't you, Grant, please, just remember back ... a little ... oh, +so little ... of what we were to each other ... then?"</p> + +<p>"Now you're taking advantage," he smiled, and returned to the attack on +his thumb. He drew the thorn out, inspected it critically, then +concluded. "No, thank you. I'm not playing the Good Samaritan."</p> + +<p>"Yet you made this hard journey for an unknown man," she urged.</p> + +<p>His impatience was sharply manifest. "Do you fancy I'd have moved a step +had I known he was my wife's lover?"</p> + +<p>"But you are here ... now. And there he lies. What are you going to do?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing. Why should I? I am not at the man's service. He pilfered me."</p> + +<p>She was about to speak, when a knock came on the door.</p> + +<p>"Get out!" he shouted.</p> + +<p>"If you want any assistance—"</p> + +<p>"Get out! Get a bucket of water! Set it down outside!"</p> + +<p>"You are going to....?" she began tremulously.</p> + +<p>"Wash up."</p> + +<p>She recoiled from the brutality, and her lips tightened.</p> + +<p>"Listen, Grant," she said steadily. "I shall tell his brother. I know +the Strang breed. If you can forget old sake, so can I. If you don't do +something, he'll kill you. Why, even Tom Daw would if I asked."</p> + +<p>"You should know me better than to threaten," he reproved gravely, then +added, with a sneer: "Besides, I don't see how killing me will help your +Rex Strang."</p> + +<p>She gave a low gasp, closed her lips tightly, and watched his quick eyes +take note of the trembling that had beset her.</p> + +<p>"It's not hysteria, Grant," she cried hastily and anxiously, with +clicking teeth. "You never saw me with hysteria. I've never had it. I +don't know what it is, but I'll control it. I am merely beside myself. +It's partly anger—with you. And it's apprehension and fear. I don't +want to lose him. I do love him, Grant. He is my king, my lover. And I +have sat here beside him so many dreadful days now. Oh, Grant, please, +please."</p> + +<p>"Just nerves," he commented drily. "Stay with it. You can best it. If +you were a man I'd say take a smoke."</p> + +<p>She went unsteadily back to the stool, where she watched him and fought +for control. From the rough fireplace came the singing of a cricket. +Outside two wolf-dogs bickered. The injured man's chest rose and fell +perceptibly under the fur robes. She saw a smile, not altogether +pleasant, form on Linday's lips.</p> + +<p>"How much do you love him?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Her breast filled and rose, and her eyes shone with a light unashamed +and proud. He nodded in token that he was answered.</p> + +<p>"Do you mind if I take a little time?" He stopped, casting about for the +way to begin. "I remember reading a story—Herbert Shaw wrote it, I +think. I want to tell you about it. There was a woman, young and +beautiful; a man magnificent, a lover of beauty and a wanderer. I don't +know how much like your Rex Strang he was, but I fancy a sort of +resemblance. Well, this man was a painter, a bohemian, a vagabond. He +kissed—oh, several times and for several weeks—and rode away. She +possessed for him what I thought you possessed for me ... at Lake +Geneva. In ten years she wept the beauty out of her face. Some women +turn yellow, you know, when grief upsets their natural juices.</p> + +<p>"Now it happened that the man went blind, and ten years afterward, led +as a child by the hand, he stumbled back to her. There was nothing left. +He could no longer paint. And she was very happy, and glad he could not +see her face. Remember, he worshipped beauty. And he continued to hold +her in his arms and believe in her beauty. The memory of it was vivid in +him. He never ceased to talk about it, and to lament that he could not +behold it.</p> + +<p>"One day he told her of five great pictures he wished to paint. If only +his sight could be restored to paint them, he could write <i>finis</i> and be +content. And then, no matter how, there came into her hands an elixir. +Anointed on his eyes, the sight would surely and fully return."</p> + +<p>Linday shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"You see her struggle. With sight, he could paint his five pictures. +Also, he would leave her. Beauty was his religion. It was impossible +that he could abide her ruined face. Five days she struggled. Then she +anointed his eyes."</p> + +<p>Linday broke off and searched her with his eyes, the high lights focused +sharply in the brilliant black.</p> + +<p>"The question is, do you love Rex Strang as much as that?"</p> + +<p>"And if I do?" she countered.</p> + +<p>"Do you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You can sacrifice? You can give him up?"</p> + +<p>Slow and reluctant was her "Yes."</p> + +<p>"And you will come with me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes." This time her voice was a whisper. "When he is well—yes."</p> + +<p>"You understand. It must be Lake Geneva over again. You will be my +wife."</p> + +<p>She seemed to shrink and droop, but her head nodded.</p> + +<p>"Very well." He stood up briskly, went to his pack, and began +unstrapping. "I shall need help. Bring his brother in. Bring them all +in. Boiling water—let there be lots of it. I've brought bandages, but +let me see what you have in that line.—Here, Daw, build up that fire +and start boiling all the water you can.—Here you," to the other man, +"get that table out and under the window there. Clean it; scrub it; +scald it. Clean, man, clean, as you never cleaned a thing before. You, +Mrs. Strang, will be my helper. No sheets, I suppose. Well, we'll manage +somehow.—You're his brother, sir. I'll give the anæsthetic, but you +must keep it going afterward. Now listen, while I instruct you. In the +first place—but before that, can you take a pulse?..."</p> + + +<h4>IV</h4> + +<p>Noted for his daring and success as a surgeon, through the days and +weeks that followed Linday exceeded himself in daring and success. +Never, because of the frightful mangling and breakage, and because of +the long delay, had he encountered so terrible a case. But he had never +had a healthier specimen of human wreck to work upon. Even then he would +have failed, had it not been for the patient's catlike vitality and +almost uncanny physical and mental grip on life.</p> + +<p>There were days of high temperature and delirium; days of heart-sinking +when Strang's pulse was barely perceptible; days when he lay conscious, +eyes weary and drawn, the sweat of pain on his face. Linday was +indefatigable, cruelly efficient, audacious and fortunate, daring hazard +after hazard and winning. He was not content to make the man live. He +devoted himself to the intricate and perilous problem of making him +whole and strong again.</p> + +<p>"He will be a cripple?" Madge queried.</p> + +<p>"He will not merely walk and talk and be a limping caricature of his +former self," Linday told her. "He shall run and leap, swim riffles, +ride bears, fight panthers, and do all things to the top of his fool +desire. And, I warn you, he will fascinate women just as of old. Will +you like that? Are you content? Remember, you will not be with him."</p> + +<p>"Go on, go on," she breathed. "Make him whole. Make him what he was."</p> + +<p>More than once, whenever Strang's recuperation permitted, Linday put him +under the anæsthetic and did terrible things, cutting and sewing, +rewiring and connecting up the disrupted organism. Later, developed a +hitch in the left arm. Strang could lift it so far, and no farther. +Linday applied himself to the problem. It was a case of more wires, +shrunken, twisted, disconnected. Again it was cut and switch and ease +and disentangle. And all that saved Strang was his tremendous vitality +and the health of his flesh.</p> + +<p>"You will kill him," his brother complained. "Let him be. For God's sake +let him be. A live and crippled man is better than a whole and dead +one."</p> + +<p>Linday flamed in wrath. "You get out! Out of this cabin with you till +you can come back and say that I make him live. Pull—by God, man, +you've got to pull with me with all your soul. Your brother's travelling +a hairline razor-edge. Do you understand? A thought can topple him off. +Now get out, and come back sweet and wholesome, convinced beyond all +absoluteness that he will live and be what he was before you and he +played the fool together. Get out, I say."</p> + +<p>The brother, with clenched hands and threatening eyes, looked to Madge +for counsel.</p> + +<p>"Go, go, please," she begged. "He is right. I know he is right."</p> + +<p>Another time, when Strang's condition seemed more promising, the brother +said:</p> + +<p>"Doc, you're a wonder, and all this time I've forgotten to ask your +name."</p> + +<p>"None of your damn business. Don't bother me. Get out."</p> + +<p>The mangled right arm ceased from its healing, burst open again in a +frightful wound.</p> + +<p>"Necrosis," said Linday.</p> + +<p>"That does settle it," groaned the brother.</p> + +<p>"Shut up!" Linday snarled. "Get out! Take Daw with you. Take Bill, too. +Get rabbits—alive—healthy ones. Trap them. Trap everywhere."</p> + +<p>"How many?" the brother asked.</p> + +<p>"Forty of them—four thousand—forty thousand—all you can get. You'll +help me, Mrs. Strang. I'm going to dig into that arm and size up the +damage. Get out, you fellows. You for the rabbits."</p> + +<p>And he dug in, swiftly, unerringly, scraping away disintegrating bone, +ascertaining the extent of the active decay.</p> + +<p>"It never would have happened," he told Madge, "if he hadn't had so many +other things needing vitality first. Even he didn't have vitality +enough to go around. I was watching it, but I had to wait and chance it. +That piece must go. He could manage without it, but rabbit-bone will +make it what it was."</p> + +<p>From the hundreds of rabbits brought in, he weeded out, rejected, +selected, tested, selected and tested again, until he made his final +choice. He used the last of his chloroform and achieved the +bone-graft—living bone to living bone, living man and living rabbit +immovable and indissolubly bandaged and bound together, their mutual +processes uniting and reconstructing a perfect arm.</p> + +<p>And through the whole trying period, especially as Strang mended, +occurred passages of talk between Linday and Madge. Nor was he kind, nor +she rebellious.</p> + +<p>"It's a nuisance," he told her. "But the law is the law, and you'll need +a divorce before we can marry again. What do you say? Shall we go to +Lake Geneva?"</p> + +<p>"As you will," she said.</p> + +<p>And he, another time: "What the deuce did you see in him anyway? I know +he had money. But you and I were managing to get along with some sort +of comfort. My practice was averaging around forty thousand a year +then—I went over the books afterward. Palaces and steam yachts were +about all that was denied you."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you've explained it," she answered. "Perhaps you were too +interested in your practice. Maybe you forgot me."</p> + +<p>"Humph," he sneered. "And may not your Rex be too interested in panthers +and short sticks?"</p> + +<p>He continually girded her to explain what he chose to call her +infatuation for the other man.</p> + +<p>"There is no explanation," she replied. And, finally, she retorted, "No +one can explain love, I least of all. I only knew love, the divine and +irrefragable fact, that is all. There was once, at Fort Vancouver, a +baron of the Hudson Bay Company who chided the resident Church of +England parson. The dominie had written home to England complaining that +the Company folk, from the head factor down, were addicted to Indian +wives. 'Why didn't you explain the extenuating circumstances?' demanded +the baron. Replied the dominie: 'A cow's tail grows downward. I do not +attempt to explain why the cow's tail grows downward. I merely cite the +fact.'"</p> + +<p>"Damn clever women!" cried Linday, his eyes flashing his irritation.</p> + +<p>"What brought you, of all places, into the Klondike?" she asked once.</p> + +<p>"Too much money. No wife to spend it. Wanted a rest. Possibly overwork. +I tried Colorado, but their telegrams followed me, and some of them did +themselves. I went on to Seattle. Same thing. Ransom ran his wife out to +me in a special train. There was no escaping it. Operation successful. +Local newspapers got wind of it. You can imagine the rest. I had to +hide, so I ran away to Klondike. And—well, Tom Daw found me playing +whist in a cabin down on the Yukon."</p> + +<p>Came the day when Strang's bed was carried out of doors and into the +sunshine.</p> + +<p>"Let me tell him now," she said to Linday.</p> + +<p>"No; wait," he answered.</p> + +<p>Later, Strang was able to sit up on the edge of the bed, able to walk +his first giddy steps, supported on either side.</p> + +<p>"Let me tell him now," she said.</p> + +<p>"No. I'm making a complete job of this. I want no set-backs. There's a +slight hitch still in that left arm. It's a little thing, but I am going +to remake him as God made him. Tomorrow I've planned to get into that +arm and take out the kink. It will mean a couple of days on his back. +I'm sorry there's no more chloroform. He'll just have to bite his teeth +on a spike and hang on. He can do it. He's got grit for a dozen men."</p> + +<p>Summer came on. The snow disappeared, save on the far peaks of the +Rockies to the east. The days lengthened till there was no darkness, the +sun dipping at midnight, due north, for a few minutes beneath the +horizon. Linday never let up on Strang. He studied his walk, his body +movements, stripped him again and again and for the thousandth time made +him flex all his muscles. Massage was given him without end, until +Linday declared that Tom Daw, Bill, and the brother were properly +qualified for Turkish bath and osteopathic hospital attendants. But +Linday was not yet satisfied. He put Strang through his whole repertoire +of physical feats, searching him the while for hidden weaknesses. He put +him on his back again for a week, opened up his leg, played a deft trick +or two with the smaller veins, scraped a spot of bone no larger than a +coffee grain till naught but a surface of healthy pink remained to be +sewed over with the living flesh.</p> + +<p>"Let me tell him," Madge begged.</p> + +<p>"Not yet," was the answer. "You will tell him only when I am ready."</p> + +<p>July passed, and August neared its end, when he ordered Strang out on +trail to get a moose. Linday kept at his heels, watching him, studying +him. He was slender, a cat in the strength of his muscles, and he walked +as Linday had seen no man walk, effortlessly, with all his body, seeming +to lift the legs with supple muscles clear to the shoulders. But it was +without heaviness, so easy that it invested him with a peculiar grace, +so easy that to the eye the speed was deceptive. It was the killing +pace of which Tom Daw had complained. Linday toiled behind, sweating and +panting; from time to time, when the ground favoured, making short runs +to keep up. At the end of ten miles he called a halt and threw himself +down on the moss.</p> + +<p>"Enough!" he cried. "I can't keep up with you."</p> + +<p>He mopped his heated face, and Strang sat down on a spruce log, smiling +at the doctor, and, with the camaraderie of a pantheist, at all the +landscape.</p> + +<p>"Any twinges, or hurts, or aches, or hints of aches?" Linday demanded.</p> + +<p>Strang shook his curly head and stretched his lithe body, living and +joying in every fibre of it.</p> + +<p>"You'll do, Strang. For a winter or two you may expect to feel the cold +and damp in the old wounds. But that will pass, and perhaps you may +escape it altogether."</p> + +<p>"God, Doctor, you have performed miracles with me. I don't know how to +thank you. I don't even know your name."</p> + +<p>"Which doesn't matter. I've pulled you through, and that's the main +thing."</p> + +<p>"But it's a name men must know out in the world," Strang persisted. +"I'll wager I'd recognise it if I heard it."</p> + +<p>"I think you would," was Linday's answer. "But it's beside the matter. I +want one final test, and then I'm done with you. Over the divide at the +head of this creek is a tributary of the Big Windy. Daw tells me that +last year you went over, down to the middle fork, and back again, in +three days. He said you nearly killed him, too. You are to wait here and +camp to-night. I'll send Daw along with the camp outfit. Then it's up to +you to go to the middle fork and back in the same time as last year."</p> + + +<h4>V</h4> + +<p>"Now," Linday said to Madge. "You have an hour in which to pack. I'll go +and get the canoe ready. Bill's bringing in the moose and won't get back +till dark. We'll make my cabin to-day, and in a week we'll be in +Dawson."</p> + +<p>"I was in hope...." She broke off proudly.</p> + +<p>"That I'd forego the fee?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, a compact is a compact, but you needn't have been so hateful in the +collecting. You have not been fair. You have sent him away for three +days, and robbed me of my last words to him."</p> + +<p>"Leave a letter."</p> + +<p>"I shall tell him all."</p> + +<p>"Anything less than all would be unfair to the three of us," was +Linday's answer.</p> + +<p>When he returned from the canoe, her outfit was packed, the letter +written.</p> + +<p>"Let me read it," he said, "if you don't mind."</p> + +<p>Her hesitation was momentary, then she passed it over.</p> + +<p>"Pretty straight," he said, when he had finished it. "Now, are you +ready?"</p> + +<p>He carried her pack down to the bank, and, kneeling, steadied the canoe +with one hand while he extended the other to help her in. He watched her +closely, but without a tremor she held out her hand to his and prepared +to step on board.</p> + +<p>"Wait," he said. "One moment. You remember the story I told you of the +elixir. I failed to tell you the end. And when she had anointed his eyes +and was about to depart, it chanced she saw in the mirror that her +beauty had been restored to her. And he opened his eyes, and cried out +with joy at the sight of her beauty, and folded her in his arms."</p> + +<p>She waited, tense but controlled, for him to continue, a dawn of wonder +faintly beginning to show in her face and eyes.</p> + +<p>"You are very beautiful, Madge." He paused, then added drily, "The rest +is obvious. I fancy Rex Strang's arms won't remain long empty. +Good-bye."</p> + +<p>"Grant...." she said, almost whispered, and in her voice was all the +speech that needs not words for understanding.</p> + +<p>He gave a nasty little laugh. "I just wanted to show you I wasn't such a +bad sort. Coals of fire, you know."</p> + +<p>"Grant...."</p> + +<p>He stepped into the canoe and put out a slender, nervous hand.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," he said.</p> + +<p>She folded both her own hands about his.</p> + +<p>"Dear, strong hand," she murmured, and bent and kissed it.</p> + +<p>He jerked it away, thrust the canoe out from the bank, dipped the paddle +in the swift rush of the current, and entered the head of the riffle +where the water poured glassily ere it burst into a white madness of +foam.</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4>PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>ZANE GREY'S NOVELS</h2> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS</p> + +<p>A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of +frontier warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is +captured by bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a +delightful close.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE RAINBOW TRAIL</p> + +<p>The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great +western uplands—until at last love and faith awake.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>DESERT GOLD</p> + +<p>The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with +the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who +is the story's heroine.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE</p> + +<p>A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon +authority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the +story.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN</p> + +<p>This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, +known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert +and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant +pines."</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT</p> + +<p>A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young +New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall +become the second wife of one of the Mormons—Well, that's the problem +of this great story.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE SHORT STOP</p> + +<p>The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and +fortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are +followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty +ought to win.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>BETTY ZANE</p> + +<p>This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful +young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE LONE STAR RANGER</p> + +<p>After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along +the Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a +young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down +upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one +side by honest men, on the other by outlaws.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE BORDER LEGION</p> + +<p>Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless +Western mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved +him—she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, +and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader—and nurses him to +health again. Here enters another romance—when Joan, disguised as an +outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, a +thrilling robbery—gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS, by Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey</p> + +<p>The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," as told by +his sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his +first encounter with an Indian. We see "Bill" as a pony express rider, +then near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the +most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting +account of the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character in public +life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than "Buffalo +Bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER</h2> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>MICHAEL O'HALLORAN, Illustrated by Frances Rogers.</p> + +<p>Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern +Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes +the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and +onward.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.</p> + +<p>This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story +is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it +is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs +of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and +the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood +and about whose family there hangs a mystery.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W.L. Jacobs.</p> + +<p>"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had +nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. +But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romance +of the rarest idyllic quality.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>FRECKLES. Illustrated.</p> + +<p>Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he +takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great +Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to +the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The +Angel" are full of real sentiment.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated.</p> + +<p>The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of +the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness +towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of +her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and +unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors.</p> + +<p>The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The +story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing one. The +novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its +pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated.</p> + +<p>A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and +humor.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS</h2> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.</h5> + + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.</p> + +<p>A charming story of a quaint corner of New England, where bygone romance +finds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love to +the young people on the staff of a newspaper—and it is one of the +prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old-fashioned Love stories.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>MASTER OF THE VINEYARD.</p> + +<p>A pathetic love story of a young girl, Rosemary. The teacher of the +country school, who is also master of the vineyard, comes to know her +through her desire for books. She is happy in his love till another +woman comes into his life. But happiness and emancipation from her many +trials come to Rosemary at last. The book has a touch of humor and +pathos that will appeal to every reader.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>OLD ROSE AND SILVER.</p> + +<p>A love story,—sentimental and humorous,—with the plot subordinate to +the character delineation of its quaint people and to the exquisite +descriptions of picturesque spots and of lovely, old, rare treasures.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>A WEAVER OF DREAMS.</p> + +<p>This story tells of the love-affairs of three young people, with an +old-fashioned romance in the background. A tiny dog plays an important +role in serving as a foil for the heroine's talking ingeniousness. There +is poetry, as well as tenderness and charm, in this tale of a weaver of +dreams.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>A SPINNER IN THE SUN.</p> + +<p>An old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in solitude and +whose features her neighbors have never seen. There is a mystery at the +heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of romance.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE MASTER'S VIOLIN.</p> + +<p>A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuoso +consents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an +aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth cannot +express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life as can the +master. But a girl comes into his life, and through his passionate love +for her, he learns the lessons that life has to give—and his soul +awakes.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES</h2> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>MOTHER. Illustrated by F.C. Yohn.</p> + +<p>This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy reality +of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother's +experiences.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>SATURDAY'S CHILD.</p> + +<p>Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.</p> + +<p>Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a +quest for happiness. She passes through three stages—poverty, wealth +and service—and works out a creditable salvation.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE.</p> + +<p>Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock.</p> + +<p>The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be +swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied +interests, and has her own romance.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE.</p> + +<p>Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert.</p> + +<p>How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted +herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE HEART OF RACHAEL.</p> + +<p>Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.</p> + +<p>Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and is working out these, +there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's most +appealing characters.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5><i>Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i></h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART</h2> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask far Grosset & Dunlap's list.</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"K." Illustrated.</p> + +<p>K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him, +and goes to live in a little town where beautiful Sidney Page lives. She +is in training to become a nurse. The joys and troubles of their young +love are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has made +the author famous.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE MAN IN LOWER TEN.</p> + +<p>Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.</p> + +<p>An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the +"Man in Lower Ten." The strongest elements of Mrs. Rinehart's success +are found in this book.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>WHEN A MAN MARRIES.</p> + +<p>Illustrated by Harrison fisher and Mayo Bunker.</p> + +<p>A young artist, whosfe wife had recently divorced him; finds that his +aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family +income and who has never seen the wife, knows nothing of the domestic +upheaval. How the young man met the situation is humorously and most +entertainingly told.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Illus. by Lester Ralph</p> + +<p>The summer occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of Arnold +Armstrong, the son of the owner, on the circular staircase. Following +the murder a bank failure is announced. Around these two events is woven +a plot of absorbing interest.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS.</p> + +<p>Illustrated (Photo Play Edition.)</p> + +<p>Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly +realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious +doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with +world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and +slender means.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>SEWELL FORD'S STORIES</h2> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.</p> + +<p>A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, +sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY.</p> + +<p>Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.</p> + +<p>Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human +nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for +"side-stepping with Shorty."</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB.</p> + +<p>Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.</p> + +<p>Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to +the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund," +and gives joy to all concerned.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS</p> + +<p>Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.</p> + +<p>These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for +physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at +swell yachting parties.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>TORCHY. Illus. by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg.</p> + +<p>A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the +youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his +experiences.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.</p> + +<p>Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the +previous book.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.</p> + +<p>Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but +that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, +which brings about many hilariously funny situations.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.</p> + +<p>Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for +the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious +American slang.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. by F. Snapp and A.W. Brown.</p> + +<p>Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast, +in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his +friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to place +an engagement ring on Vee's finger.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>THE NOVELS OF CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM</h2> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>JEWEL: A Chapter in Her Life.</p> + +<p>Illustrated by Maude and Genevieve Cowles.</p> + +<p>A story breathing the doctrine of love and patience as exemplified in +the life of a child. Jewel will never grow old because of the +immortality of her love.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>JEWEL'S STORY BOOK. Illustrated by Albert Schmitt.</p> + +<p>A sequel to "Jewel," in which the same characteristics of love and +cheerfulness touch and uplift the reader.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE INNER FLAME. Frontispiece in color.</p> + +<p>A young mining engineer, whose chief ambition is to become an artist, +but who has no friends with whom to realize his hopes, has a way opened +to him to try his powers, and, of course, he is successful.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE RIGHT PRINCESS.</p> + +<p>At a fashionable Long Island resort, a stately English woman employs a +forcible New England housekeeper to serve in her interesting home. Many +humorous situations result. A delightful love affair runs through it +all.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE OPENED SHUTTERS.</p> + +<p>Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo Play.</p> + +<p>A beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by her +new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessed +sunlight of joy by casting aside self love.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE RIGHT TRACK.</p> + +<p>Frontispiece in color by Greene Blumenschien.</p> + +<p>A story of a young girl who marries for money so that she can enjoy +things intellectual. Neglect of her husband and of her two step children +makes an unhappy home till a friend brings a new philosophy of happiness +into the household.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>CLEVER BETSY. Illustrated by Rose O'Neill.</p> + +<p>The "Clever Betsy" was a boat—named for the unyielding spinster whom +the captain hoped to marry. Through the two Betsy's a delightful group +of people are introduced.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5><i>Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i></h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>B.M. BOWER'S NOVELS</h2> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>CHIP OF THE FLYING U.</p> + +<p>Wherein the love affairs of Chip and Delia Whitman are charmingly and +humorously told.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE HAPPY FAMILY.</p> + +<p>A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen +jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT.</p> + +<p>Describing a gay party of Easterners who exchange a cottage at Newport +for a Montana ranch-house.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE RANGE DWELLERS.</p> + +<p>Spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and +Juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly story.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS.</p> + +<p>A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author among the +cowboys.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE LONESOME TRAIL.</p> + +<p>A little branch of sage brush and the recollection of a pair of large +brown eyes upset "Weary" Davidson's plans.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE LONG SHADOW.</p> + +<p>A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free outdoor life of a +mountain ranch. It is a fine love story.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>GOOD INDIAN.</p> + +<p>A stirring romance of life on an Idaho ranch.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>FLYING U RANCH.</p> + +<p>Another delightful story about Chip and his pals.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE FLYING U'S LAST STAND.</p> + +<p>An amusing account of Chip and the other boys opposing a party of school +teachers.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE UPHILL CLIMB.</p> + +<p>A story of a mountain ranch and of a man's hard fight on the uphill road +to manliness.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE PHANTOM HERD.</p> + +<p>The title of a moving-picture staged it New Mexico by the "Flying U" +boys.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX.</p> + +<p>The "Flying U" boys stage a fake bank robbery for film purposes which +precedes a real one for lust of gold.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE GRINGOS.</p> + +<p>A story of love and adventure on a ranch in California.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>STARR OF THE DESERT.</p> + +<p>A New Mexico ranch story of mystery and adventure.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE LOOKOUT MAN.</p> + +<p>A Northern California story full of action, excitement and love.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>THE NOVELS OF WINSTON CHURCHILL</h2> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>THE INSIDE OF THE CUP. Illustrated by Howard Giles.</p> + +<p>The Reverend John Hodder is called to a fashionable church in a +middle-western city. He knows little of modern problems and in his +theology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church could +desire. But the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakening +follows and in the end he works out a solution.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>A FAR COUNTRY. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.</p> + +<p>This novel is concerned with big problems of the day. As <i>The Inside of +the Cup</i> gets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, so +<i>A Far Country</i> deals in a story that is intense and dramatic, with +other vital issues confronting the twentieth century.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>A MODERN CHRONICLE. Illustrated by J.H. Gardner Soper.</p> + +<p>This, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, +is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. It +is frankly a modern love story.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>MR. CREWE'S CAREER. Illus. by A.I. Keller and Kinneys.</p> + +<p>A new England state is under the political domination of a railway and +Mr. Crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the people +is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own +interest in a political way. The daughter of the railway president plays +no small part in the situation.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE CROSSING. Illustrated by S. Adamson and L. Baylis.</p> + +<p>Describing the battle of Fort Moultrie, the blazing of the Kentucky +wilderness, the expedition of Clark and his handful of followers in +Illinois, the beginning of civilization along the Ohio and Mississippi, +and the treasonable schemes against Washington.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>CONISTON. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn.</p> + +<p>A deft blending of love and politics. A New Englander is the hero, a +crude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then +surrendered all for the love of a woman.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE CELEBRITY. An episode.</p> + +<p>An inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities +between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. It is the purest, +keenest fun—and is American to the core.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p>THE CRISIS. Illustrated with scenes from the Photo-Play.</p> + +<p>A book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid +power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are +inspiring.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>RICHARD CARVEL. Illustrated by Malcolm Frazer.</p> + +<p>An historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of Colonial +times, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases and +interesting throughout.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>JOHN FOX, JR'S. STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS</h2> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="figleft"> + <img src="images/01.jpg" + alt="Trail of the Lonesome Pine." + title="Trail of the Lonesome Pine." /> +</div> + +<p>THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.</p> + +<p>Illustrated by F.C. Yohn.</p> + +<p>The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree +that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine +lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he +finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the +<i>foot-prints of a girl</i>. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and +the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder +chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine."</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME</p> + +<p>Illustrated by F.C. Yohn.</p> + +<p>This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come." It +is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often +springs the flower of civilization.</p> + +<p>"Chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he +came—he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, +seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and +mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery—a charming waif, +by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the +mountains.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND.</p> + +<p>Illustrated by F.C. Yohn.</p> + +<p>The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of +moonshiner and of feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the +heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight." Two +impetuous young Southerners' fall under the spell of "The Blight's" +charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the +love making of the mountaineers.</p> + +<p>Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some of +Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5><i>Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i></h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS</h2> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.</p> + +<p>No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young +people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the +time when the reader was Seventeen.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.</p> + +<p>This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, +tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a +finished, exquisite work.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.</p> + +<p>Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases +of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness +that have ever been written.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C.E. Chambers.</p> + +<p>Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his +father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a +fine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece.</p> + +<p>A story of love and politics,—more especially a picture of a country +editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love +interest.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.</p> + +<p>The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, +drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another +to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising +suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5><i>Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i></h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<h2>NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE</h2> + +<h3>HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED.</h3> + +<h5>May be had wherever books are sold Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>MAVERICKS.</p> + +<p>A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations +are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. One +of the sweetest love stories ever told.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>A TEXAS RANGER.</p> + +<p>How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into +the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of +thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed +through deadly peril to ultimate happiness.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>WYOMING.</p> + +<p>In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured the +breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the +frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>RIDGWAY OF MONTANA.</p> + +<p>The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and +mining industries are the religion of the country. The political +contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story +great strength and charm..</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>BUCKY O'CONNOR.</p> + +<p>Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with +the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing +fascination of style and plot.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT.</p> + +<p>A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter +feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusual +woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly +characteristic of the great free West.</p> +<p> </p> + +<p>BRAND BLOTTERS.</p> + +<p>A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life of +the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love +interest running through its 320 pages.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h5>GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h5> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Turtles of Tasman, by Jack London + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TURTLES OF TASMAN *** + +***** This file should be named 16257-h.htm or 16257-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/2/5/16257/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Taavi Kalju and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Turtles of Tasman + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: July 10, 2005 [EBook #16257] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TURTLES OF TASMAN *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Taavi Kalju and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + +THE TURTLES OF TASMAN + +BY + +JACK LONDON + +AUTHOR OF THE CALL OF THE WILD, TERRY, ADVENTURE, ETC. + +NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS + +Published by Arrangement with The Macmillan Company + +Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1916. Reprinted October, +November, 1916; February, 1917, December, 1919. + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + +BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN + +THE ETERNITY OF FORMS + +TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD + +THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY + +THE PRODIGAL FATHER + +THE FIRST POET + +FINIS + +THE END OF THE STORY + + + + +THE TURTLES OF TASMAN + + + + +BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN + + +I + +Law, order, and restraint had carved Frederick Travers' face. It was the +strong, firm face of one used to power and who had used power with +wisdom and discretion. Clean living had made the healthy skin, and the +lines graved in it were honest lines. Hard and devoted work had left its +wholesome handiwork, that was all. Every feature of the man told the +same story, from the clear blue of the eyes to the full head of hair, +light brown, touched with grey, and smoothly parted and drawn straight +across above the strong-domed forehead. He was a seriously groomed man, +and the light summer business suit no more than befitted his alert +years, while it did not shout aloud that its possessor was likewise the +possessor of numerous millions of dollars and property. + +For Frederick Travers hated ostentation. The machine that waited outside +for him under the porte-cochere was sober black. It was the most +expensive machine in the county, yet he did not care to flaunt its price +or horse-power in a red flare across the landscape, which also was +mostly his, from the sand dunes and the everlasting beat of the Pacific +breakers, across the fat bottomlands and upland pastures, to the far +summits clad with redwood forest and wreathed in fog and cloud. + +A rustle of skirts caused him to look over his shoulder. Just the +faintest hint of irritation showed in his manner. Not that his daughter +was the object, however. Whatever it was, it seemed to lie on the desk +before him. + +"What is that outlandish name again?" she asked. "I know I shall never +remember it. See, I've brought a pad to write it down." + +Her voice was low and cool, and she was a tall, well-formed, +clear-skinned young woman. In her voice and complacence she, too, +showed the drill-marks of order and restraint. + +Frederick Travers scanned the signature of one of two letters on the +desk. "Bronislawa Plaskoweitzkaia Travers," he read; then spelled the +difficult first portion, letter by letter, while his daughter wrote it +down. + +"Now, Mary," he added, "remember Tom was always harum scarum, and you +must make allowances for this daughter of his. Her very name +is--ah--disconcerting. I haven't seen him for years, and as for her...." +A shrug epitomised his apprehension. He smiled with an effort at wit. +"Just the same, they're as much your family as mine. If he _is_ my +brother, he is your uncle. And if she's my niece, you're both cousins." + +Mary nodded. "Don't worry, father. I'll be nice to her, poor thing. What +nationality was her mother?--to get such an awful name." + +"I don't know. Russian, or Polish, or Spanish, or something. It was just +like Tom. She was an actress or singer--I don't remember. They met in +Buenos Ayres. It was an elopement. Her husband--" + +"Then she was already married!" + +Mary's dismay was unfeigned and spontaneous, and her father's irritation +grew more pronounced. He had not meant that. It had slipped out. + +"There was a divorce afterward, of course. I never knew the details. Her +mother died out in China--no; in Tasmania. It was in China that Tom--" +His lips shut with almost a snap. He was not going to make any more +slips. Mary waited, then turned to the door, where she paused. + +"I've given her the rooms over the rose court," she said. "And I'm going +now to take a last look." + +Frederick Travers turned back to the desk, as if to put the letters +away, changed his mind, and slowly and ponderingly reread them. + + + "Dear Fred: + + "It's been a long time since I was so near to the old home, + and I'd like to take a run up. Unfortunately, I played ducks + and drakes with my Yucatan project--I think I wrote about + it--and I'm broke as usual. Could you advance me funds for + the run? I'd like to arrive first class. Polly is with me, + you know. I wonder how you two will get along. + + "Tom. + + "P.S. If it doesn't bother you too much, send it along + next mail." + + + _"Dear Uncle Fred":_ + +the other letter ran, in what seemed to him a strange, foreign-taught, +yet distinctly feminine hand. + + "Dad doesn't know I am writing this. He told me what he said + to you. It is not true. He is coming home to die. He doesn't + know it, but I've talked with the doctors. And he'll have to + come home, for we have no money. We're in a stuffy little + boarding house, and it is not the place for Dad. He's helped + other persons all his life, and now is the time to help him. + He didn't play ducks and drakes in Yucatan. I was with him, + and I know. He dropped all he had there, and he was robbed. + He can't play the business game against New Yorkers. That + explains it all, and I am proud he can't. + + "He always laughs and says I'll never be able to get along + with you. But I don't agree with him. Besides, I've never seen + a really, truly blood relative in my life, and there's your + daughter. Think of it!--a real live cousin! + + "In anticipation, + "Your niece, + "BRONISLAWA PLASKOWEITZKAIA TRAVERS. + + "P.S. You'd better telegraph the money, or you won't see Dad + at all. He doesn't know how sick he is, and if he meets any + of his old friends he'll be off and away on some wild goose + chase. He's beginning to talk Alaska. Says it will get the + fever out of his bones. Please know that we must pay the + boarding house, or else we'll arrive without luggage. + + "B.P.T." + + +Frederick Travers opened the door of a large, built-in safe and +methodically put the letters away in a compartment labelled "Thomas +Travers." + +"Poor Tom! Poor Tom!" he sighed aloud. + + +II + +The big motor car waited at the station, and Frederick Travers thrilled +as he always thrilled to the distant locomotive whistle of the train +plunging down the valley of Isaac Travers River. First of all westering +white-men, had Isaac Travers gazed on that splendid valley, its +salmon-laden waters, its rich bottoms, and its virgin forest slopes. +Having seen, he had grasped and never let go. "Land-poor," they had +called him in the mid-settler period. But that had been in the days when +the placers petered out, when there were no wagon roads nor tugs to draw +in sailing vessels across the perilous bar, and when his lonely grist +mill had been run under armed guards to keep the marauding Klamaths off +while wheat was ground. Like father, like son, and what Isaac Travers +had grasped, Frederick Travers had held. It had been the same tenacity +of hold. Both had been far-visioned. Both had foreseen the +transformation of the utter West, the coming of the railroad, and the +building of the new empire on the Pacific shore. + +Frederick Travers thrilled, too, at the locomotive whistle, because, +more than any man's, it was his railroad. His father had died still +striving to bring the railroad in across the mountains that averaged a +hundred thousand dollars to the mile. He, Frederick, had brought it in. +He had sat up nights over that railroad; bought newspapers, entered +politics, and subsidised party machines; and he had made pilgrimages, +more than once, at his own expense, to the railroad chiefs of the East. +While all the county knew how many miles of his land were crossed by the +right of way, none of the county guessed nor dreamed the number of his +dollars which had gone into guaranties and railroad bonds. He had done +much for his county, and the railroad was his last and greatest +achievement, the capstone of the Travers' effort, the momentous and +marvellous thing that had been brought about just yesterday. It had +been running two years, and, highest proof of all of his judgment, +dividends were in sight. And farther reaching reward was in sight. It +was written in the books that the next Governor of California was to be +spelled, Frederick A. Travers. + +Twenty years had passed since he had seen his elder brother, and then it +had been after a gap of ten years. He remembered that night well. Tom +was the only man who dared run the bar in the dark, and that last time, +between nightfall and the dawn, with a southeaster breezing up, he had +sailed his schooner in and out again. There had been no warning of his +coming--a clatter of hoofs at midnight, a lathered horse in the stable, +and Tom had appeared, the salt of the sea on his face as his mother +attested. An hour only he remained, and on a fresh horse was gone, while +rain squalls rattled upon the windows and the rising wind moaned through +the redwoods, the memory of his visit a whiff, sharp and strong, from +the wild outer world. A week later, sea-hammered and bar-bound for that +time, had arrived the revenue cutter _Bear_, and there had been a +column of conjecture in the local paper, hints of a heavy landing of +opium and of a vain quest for the mysterious schooner _Halcyon_. Only +Fred and his mother, and the several house Indians, knew of the +stiffened horse in the barn and of the devious way it was afterward +smuggled back to the fishing village on the beach. + +Despite those twenty years, it was the same old Tom Travers that +alighted from the Pullman. To his brother's eyes, he did not look sick. +Older he was of course. The Panama hat did not hide the grey hair, and +though indefinably hinting of shrunkenness, the broad shoulders were +still broad and erect. As for the young woman with him, Frederick +Travers experienced an immediate shock of distaste. He felt it vitally, +yet vaguely. It was a challenge and a mock, yet he could not name nor +place the source of it. It might have been the dress, of tailored linen +and foreign cut, the shirtwaist, with its daring stripe, the black +wilfulness of the hair, or the flaunt of poppies on the large straw hat +or it might have been the flash and colour of her--the black eyes and +brows, the flame of rose in the cheeks, the white of the even teeth that +showed too readily. "A spoiled child," was his thought, but he had no +time to analyse, for his brother's hand was in his and he was making his +niece's acquaintance. + +There it was again. She flashed and talked like her colour, and she +talked with her hands as well. He could not avoid noting the smallness +of them. They were absurdly small, and his eyes went to her feet to make +the same discovery. Quite oblivious of the curious crowd on the station +platform, she had intercepted his attempt to lead to the motor car and +had ranged the brothers side by side. Tom had been laughingly +acquiescent, but his younger brother was ill at ease, too conscious of +the many eyes of his townspeople. He knew only the old Puritan way. +Family displays were for the privacy of the family, not for the public. +He was glad she had not attempted to kiss him. It was remarkable she had +not. Already he apprehended anything of her. + +She embraced them and penetrated them with sun-warm eyes that seemed to +see through them, and over them, and all about them. + +"You're really brothers," she cried, her hands flashing with her eyes. +"Anybody can see it. And yet there is a difference--I don't know. I +can't explain." + +In truth, with a tact that exceeded Frederick Travers' farthest +disciplined forbearance, she did not dare explain. Her wide artist-eyes +had seen and sensed the whole trenchant and essential difference. Alike +they looked, of the unmistakable same stock, their features reminiscent +of a common origin; and there resemblance ceased. Tom was three inches +taller, and well-greyed was the long, Viking moustache. His was the same +eagle-like nose as his brother's, save that it was more eagle-like, +while the blue eyes were pronouncedly so. The lines of the face were +deeper, the cheek-bones higher, the hollows larger, the weather-beat +darker. It was a volcanic face. There had been fire there, and the fire +still lingered. Around the corners of the eyes were more +laughter-wrinkles and in the eyes themselves a promise of deadlier +seriousness than the younger brother possessed. Frederick was bourgeois +in his carriage, but in Tom's was a certain careless ease and +distinction. It was the same pioneer blood of Isaac Travers in both men, +but it had been retorted in widely different crucibles. Frederick +represented the straight and expected line of descent. His brother +expressed a vast and intangible something that was unknown in the +Travers stock. And it was all this that the black-eyed girl saw and knew +on the instant. All that had been inexplicable in the two men and their +relationship cleared up in the moment she saw them side by side. + +"Wake me up," Tom was saying. "I can't believe I arrived on a train. And +the population? There were only four thousand thirty years ago." + +"Sixty thousand now," was the other's answer. "And increasing by leaps +and bounds. Want to spin around for a look at the city? There's plenty +of time." + +As they sped along the broad, well-paved streets, Tom persisted in his +Rip Van Winkle pose. The waterfront perplexed him. Where he had once +anchored his sloop in a dozen feet of water, he found solid land and +railroad yards, with wharves and shipping still farther out. + +"Hold on! Stop!" he cried, a few blocks on, looking up at a solid +business block. "Where is this, Fred?" + +"Fourth and Travers--don't you remember?" + +Tom stood up and gazed around, trying to discern the anciently familiar +configuration of the land under its clutter of buildings. + +"I ... I think...." he began hesitantly. "No; by George, I'm sure of it. +We used to hunt cottontails over that ground, and shoot blackbirds in +the brush. And there, where the bank building is, was a pond." He turned +to Polly. "I built my first raft there, and got my first taste of the +sea." + +"Heaven knows how many gallons of it," Frederick laughed, nodding to the +chauffeur. "They rolled you on a barrel, I remember." + +"Oh! More!" Polly cried, clapping her hands. + +"There's the park," Frederick pointed out a little later, indicating a +mass of virgin redwoods on the first dip of the bigger hills. + +"Father shot three grizzlies there one afternoon," was Tom's remark. + +"I presented forty acres of it to the city," Frederick went on. "Father +bought the quarter section for a dollar an acre from Leroy." + +Tom nodded, and the sparkle and flash in his eyes, like that of his +daughter, were unlike anything that ever appeared in his brother's eyes. + +"Yes," he affirmed, "Leroy, the negro squawman. I remember the time he +carried you and me on his back to Alliance, the night the Indians burned +the ranch. Father stayed behind and fought." + +"But he couldn't save the grist mill. It was a serious setback to him." + +"Just the same he nailed four Indians." + +In Polly's eyes now appeared the flash and sparkle. + +"An Indian-fighter!" she cried. "Tell me about him." + +"Tell her about Travers Ferry," Tom said. + +"That's a ferry on the Klamath River on the way to Orleans Bar and +Siskiyou. There was great packing into the diggings in those days, and, +among other things, father had made a location there. There was rich +bench farming land, too. He built a suspension bridge--wove the cables +on the spot with sailors and materials freighted in from the coast. It +cost him twenty thousand dollars. The first day it was open, eight +hundred mules crossed at a dollar a head, to say nothing of the toll for +foot and horse. That night the river rose. The bridge was one hundred +and forty feet above low water mark. Yet the freshet rose higher than +that, and swept the bridge away. He'd have made a fortune there +otherwise." + +"That wasn't it at all," Tom blurted out impatiently. "It was at Travers +Ferry that father and old Jacob Vance were caught by a war party of Mad +River Indians. Old Jacob was killed right outside the door of the log +cabin. Father dragged the body inside and stood the Indians off for a +week. Father was some shot. He buried Jacob under the cabin floor." + +"I still run the ferry," Frederick went on, "though there isn't so much +travel as in the old days. I freight by wagon-road to the Reservation, +and then mule-back on up the Klamath and clear in to the forks of Little +Salmon. I have twelve stores on that chain now, a stage-line to the +Reservation, and a hotel there. Quite a tourist trade is beginning to +pick up." + +And the girl, with curious brooding eyes, looked from brother to brother +as they so differently voiced themselves and life. + +"Ay, he was some man, father was," Tom murmured. + +There was a drowsy note in his speech that drew a quick glance of +anxiety from her. The machine had turned into the cemetery, and now +halted before a substantial vault on the crest of the hill. + +"I thought you'd like to see it," Frederick was saying. "I built that +mausoleum myself, most of it with my own hands. Mother wanted it. The +estate was dreadfully encumbered. The best bid I could get out of the +contractors was eleven thousand. I did it myself for a little over +eight." + +"Must have worked nights," Tom murmured admiringly and more sleepily +than before. + +"I did, Tom, I did. Many a night by lantern-light. I was so busy. I was +reconstructing the water works then--the artesian wells had failed--and +mother's eyes were troubling her. You remember--cataract--I wrote you. +She was too weak to travel, and I brought the specialists up from San +Francisco. Oh, my hands were full. I was just winding up the disastrous +affairs of the steamer line father had established to San Francisco, and +I was keeping up the interest on mortgages to the tune of one hundred +and eighty thousand dollars." + +A soft stertorous breathing interrupted him. Tom, chin on chest, was +asleep. Polly, with a significant look, caught her uncle's eye. Then +her father, after an uneasy restless movement, lifted drowsy lids. + +"Deuced warm day," he said with a bright apologetic laugh. "I've been +actually asleep. Aren't we near home?" + +Frederick nodded to the chauffeur, and the car rolled on. + + +III + +The house that Frederick Travers had built when his prosperity came, was +large and costly, sober and comfortable, and with no more pretence than +was naturally attendant on the finest country home in the county. Its +atmosphere was just the sort that he and his daughter would create. But +in the days that followed his brother's home-coming, all this was +changed. Gone was the subdued and ordered repose. Frederick was neither +comfortable nor happy. There was an unwonted flurry of life and +violation of sanctions and traditions. Meals were irregular and +protracted, and there were midnight chafing-dish suppers and bursts of +laughter at the most inappropriate hours. + +Frederick was abstemious. A glass of wine at dinner was his wildest +excess. Three cigars a day he permitted himself, and these he smoked +either on the broad veranda or in the smoking room. What else was a +smoking room for? Cigarettes he detested. Yet his brother was ever +rolling thin, brown-paper cigarettes and smoking them wherever he might +happen to be. A litter of tobacco crumbs was always to be found in the +big easy chair he frequented and among the cushions of the window-seats. +Then there were the cocktails. Brought up under the stern tutelage of +Isaac and Eliza Travers, Frederick looked upon liquor in the house as an +abomination. Ancient cities had been smitten by God's wrath for just +such practices. Before lunch and dinner, Tom, aided and abetted by +Polly, mixed an endless variety of drinks, she being particularly adept +with strange swivel-stick concoctions learned at the ends of the earth. +To Frederick, at such times, it seemed that his butler's pantry and +dining room had been turned into bar-rooms. When he suggested this, +under a facetious show, Tom proclaimed that when he made his pile he +would build a liquor cabinet in every living room of his house. + +And there were more young men at the house than formerly, and they +helped in disposing of the cocktails. Frederick would have liked to +account in that manner for their presence, but he knew better. His +brother and his brother's daughter did what he and Mary had failed to +do. They were the magnets. Youth and joy and laughter drew to them. The +house was lively with young life. Ever, day and night, the motor cars +honked up and down the gravelled drives. There were picnics and +expeditions in the summer weather, moonlight sails on the bay, starts +before dawn or home-comings at midnight, and often, of nights, the many +bedrooms were filled as they had never been before. Tom must cover all +his boyhood ramblings, catch trout again on Bull Creek, shoot quail over +Walcott's Prairie, get a deer on Round Mountain. That deer was a cause +of pain and shame to Frederick. What if it was closed season? Tom had +triumphantly brought home the buck and gleefully called it +sidehill-salmon when it was served and eaten at Frederick's own table. + +They had clambakes at the head of the bay and musselbakes down by the +roaring surf; and Tom told shamelessly of the _Halcyon_, and of the run +of contraband, and asked Frederick before them all how he had managed to +smuggle the horse back to the fishermen without discovery. All the young +men were in the conspiracy with Polly to pamper Tom to his heart's +desire. And Frederick heard the true inwardness of the killing of the +deer; of its purchase from the overstocked Golden Gate Park; of its +crated carriage by train, horse-team and mule-back to the fastnesses of +Round Mountain; of Tom falling asleep beside the deer-run the first time +it was driven by; of the pursuit by the young men, the jaded saddle +horses, the scrambles and the falls, and the roping of it at Burnt Ranch +Clearing; and, finally, of the triumphant culmination, when it was +driven past a second time and Tom had dropped it at fifty yards. To +Frederick there was a vague hurt in it all. When had such consideration +been shown him? + +There were days when Tom could not go out, postponements of outdoor +frolics, when, still the centre, he sat and drowsed in the big chair, +waking, at times, in that unexpected queer, bright way of his, to roll +a cigarette and call for his _ukulele_--a sort of miniature guitar of +Portuguese invention. Then, with strumming and tumtuming, the live +cigarette laid aside to the imminent peril of polished wood, his full +baritone would roll out in South Sea _hulas_ and sprightly French and +Spanish songs. + +One, in particular, had pleased Frederick at first. The favourite song +of a Tahitian king, Tom explained--the last of the Pomares, who had +himself composed it and was wont to lie on his mats by the hour singing +it. It consisted of the repetition of a few syllables. "_E meu ru ru a +vau_," it ran, and that was all of it, sung in a stately, endless, +ever-varying chant, accompanied by solemn chords from the _ukelele_. +Polly took great joy in teaching it to her uncle, but when, himself +questing for some of this genial flood of life that bathed about his +brother, Frederick essayed the song, he noted suppressed glee on the +part of his listeners, which increased, through giggles and snickers, to +a great outburst of laughter. To his disgust and dismay, he learned +that the simple phrase he had repeated and repeated was nothing else +than "I am so drunk." He had been made a fool of. Over and over, +solemnly and gloriously, he, Frederick Travers, had announced how drunk +he was. After that, he slipped quietly out of the room whenever it was +sung. Nor could Polly's later explanation that the last word was +"happy," and not "drunk," reconcile him; for she had been compelled to +admit that the old king was a toper, and that he was always in his cups +when he struck up the chant. + +Frederick was constantly oppressed by the feeling of being out of it +all. He was a social being, and he liked fun, even if it were of a more +wholesome and dignified brand than that to which his brother was +addicted. He could not understand why in the past the young people had +voted his house a bore and come no more, save on state and formal +occasions, until now, when they flocked to it and to his brother, but +not to him. Nor could he like the way the young women petted his +brother, and called him Tom, while it was intolerable to see them twist +and pull his buccaneer moustache in mock punishment when his sometimes +too-jolly banter sank home to them. + +Such conduct was a profanation to the memory of Isaac and Eliza Travers. +There was too much an air of revelry in the house. The long table was +never shortened, while there was extra help in the kitchen. Breakfast +extended from four until eleven, and the midnight suppers, entailing +raids on the pantry and complaints from the servants, were a vexation to +Frederick. The house had become a restaurant, a hotel, he sneered +bitterly to himself; and there were times when he was sorely tempted to +put his foot down and reassert the old ways. But somehow the ancient +sorcery of his masterful brother was too strong upon him; and at times +he gazed upon him with a sense almost of awe, groping to fathom the +alchemy of charm, baffled by the strange lights and fires in his +brother's eyes, and by the wisdom of far places and of wild nights and +days written in his face. What was it? What lordly vision had the other +glimpsed?--he, the irresponsible and careless one? Frederick remembered +a line of an old song--"Along the shining ways he came." Why did his +brother remind him of that line? Had he, who in boyhood had known no +law, who in manhood had exalted himself above law, in truth found the +shining ways? + +There was an unfairness about it that perplexed Frederick, until he +found solace in dwelling upon the failure Tom had made of life. Then it +was, in quiet intervals, that he got some comfort and stiffened his own +pride by showing Tom over the estate. + +"You have done well, Fred," Tom would say. "You have done very well." + +He said it often, and often he drowsed in the big smooth-running +machine. + +"Everything orderly and sanitary and spick and span--not a blade of +grass out of place," was Polly's comment. "How do you ever manage it? I +should not like to be a blade of grass on your land," she concluded, +with a little shivery shudder. + +"You have worked hard," Tom said. + +"Yes, I have worked hard," Frederick affirmed. "It was worth it." + +He was going to say more, but the strange flash in the girl's eyes +brought him to an uncomfortable pause. He felt that she measured him, +challenged him. For the first time his honourable career of building a +county commonwealth had been questioned--and by a chit of a girl, the +daughter of a wastrel, herself but a flighty, fly-away, foreign +creature. + +Conflict between them was inevitable. He had disliked her from the first +moment of meeting. She did not have to speak. Her mere presence made him +uncomfortable. He felt her unspoken disapproval, though there were times +when she did not stop at that. Nor did she mince language. She spoke +forthright, like a man, and as no man had ever dared to speak to him. + +"I wonder if you ever miss what you've missed," she told him. "Did you +ever, once in your life, turn yourself loose and rip things up by the +roots? Did you ever once get drunk? Or smoke yourself black in the +face? Or dance a hoe-down on the ten commandments? Or stand up on your +hind legs and wink like a good fellow at God?" + +"Isn't she a rare one!" Tom gurgled. "Her mother over again." + +Outwardly smiling and calm, there was a chill of horror at Frederick's +heart. It was incredible. + +"I think it is the English," she continued, "who have a saying that a +man has not lived until he has kissed his woman and struck his man. I +wonder--confess up, now--if you ever struck a man." + +"Have you?" he countered. + +She nodded, an angry reminiscent flash in her eyes, and waited. + +"No, I have never had that pleasure," he answered slowly. "I early +learned control." + +Later, irritated by his self-satisfied complacence and after listening +to a recital of how he had cornered the Klamath salmon-packing, planted +the first oysters on the bay and established that lucrative monopoly, +and of how, after exhausting litigation and a campaign of years he had +captured the water front of Williamsport and thereby won to control of +the Lumber Combine, she returned to the charge. + +"You seem to value life in terms of profit and loss," she said. "I +wonder if you have ever known love." + +The shaft went home. He had not kissed his woman. His marriage had been +one of policy. It had saved the estate in the days when he had been +almost beaten in the struggle to disencumber the vast holdings Isaac +Travers' wide hands had grasped. The girl was a witch. She had probed an +old wound and made it hurt again. He had never had time to love. He had +worked hard. He had been president of the chamber of commerce, mayor of +the city, state senator, but he had missed love. At chance moments he +had come upon Polly, openly and shamelessly in her father's arms, and he +had noted the warmth and tenderness in their eyes. Again he knew that he +had missed love. Wanton as was the display, not even in private did he +and Mary so behave. Normal, formal, and colourless, she was what was to +be expected of a loveless marriage. He even puzzled to decide whether +the feeling he felt for her was love. Was he himself loveless as well? + +In the moment following Polly's remark, he was aware of a great +emptiness. It seemed that his hands had grasped ashes, until, glancing +into the other room, he saw Tom asleep in the big chair, very grey and +aged and tired. He remembered all that he had done, all that he +possessed. Well, what did Tom possess? What had Tom done?--save play +ducks and drakes with life and wear it out until all that remained was +that dimly flickering spark in a dying body. + +What bothered Frederick in Polly was that she attracted him as well as +repelled him. His own daughter had never interested him in that way. +Mary moved along frictionless grooves, and to forecast her actions was +so effortless that it was automatic. But Polly! many-hued, +protean-natured, he never knew what she was going to do next. + +"Keeps you guessing, eh?" Tom chuckled. + +She was irresistible. She had her way with Frederick in ways that in +Mary would have been impossible. She took liberties with him, cosened +him or hurt him, and compelled always in him a sharp awareness of her +existence. + +Once, after one of their clashes, she devilled him at the piano, playing +a mad damned thing that stirred and irritated him and set his pulse +pounding wild and undisciplined fancies in the ordered chamber of his +brain. The worst of it was she saw and knew just what she was doing. She +was aware before he was, and she made him aware, her face turned to look +at him, on her lips a mocking, contemplative smile that was almost a +superior sneer. It was this that shocked him into consciousness of the +orgy his imagination had been playing him. From the wall above her, the +stiff portraits of Isaac and Eliza Travers looked down like reproachful +spectres. Infuriated, he left the room. He had never dreamed such +potencies resided in music. And then, and he remembered it with shame, +he had stolen back outside to listen, and she had known, and once more +she had devilled him. + +When Mary asked him what he thought of Polly's playing, an unbidden +contrast leaped to his mind. Mary's music reminded him of church. It was +cold and bare as a Methodist meeting house. But Polly's was like the mad +and lawless ceremonial of some heathen temple where incense arose and +nautch girls writhed. + +"She plays like a foreigner," he answered, pleased with the success and +oppositeness of his evasion. + +"She is an artist," Mary affirmed solemnly. "She is a genius. When does +she ever practise? When did she ever practise? You know how I have. My +best is like a five-finger exercise compared with the foolishest thing +she ripples off. Her music tells me things--oh, things wonderful and +unutterable. Mine tells me, 'one-two-three, one-two-three.' Oh, it is +maddening! I work and work and get nowhere. It is unfair. Why should she +be born that way, and not I?" + +"Love," was Frederick's immediate and secret thought; but before he +could dwell upon the conclusion, the unprecedented had happened and Mary +was sobbing in a break-down of tears. He would have liked to take her in +his arms, after Tom's fashion, but he did not know how. He tried, and +found Mary as unschooled as himself. It resulted only in an embarrassed +awkwardness for both of them. + +The contrasting of the two girls was inevitable. Like father like +daughter. Mary was no more than a pale camp-follower of a gorgeous, +conquering general. Frederick's thrift had been sorely educated in the +matter of clothes. He knew just how expensive Mary's clothes were, yet +he could not blind himself to the fact that Polly's vagabond makeshifts, +cheap and apparently haphazard, were always all right and far more +successful. Her taste was unerring. Her ways with a shawl were +inimitable. With a scarf she performed miracles. + +"She just throws things together," Mary complained. "She doesn't even +try. She can dress in fifteen minutes, and when she goes swimming she +beats the boys out of the dressing rooms." Mary was honest and +incredulous in her admiration. "I can't see how she does it. No one +could dare those colours, but they look just right on her." + +"She's always threatened that when I became finally flat broke she'd set +up dressmaking and take care of both of us," Tom contributed. + +Frederick, looking over the top of a newspaper, was witness to an +illuminating scene; Mary, to his certain knowledge, had been primping +for an hour ere she appeared. + +"Oh! How lovely!" was Polly's ready appreciation. Her eyes and face +glowed with honest pleasure, and her hands wove their delight in the +air. "But why not wear that bow so and thus?" + +Her hands flashed to the task, and in a moment the miracle of taste and +difference achieved by her touch was apparent even to Frederick. + +Polly was like her father, generous to the point of absurdity with her +meagre possessions. Mary admired a Spanish fan--a Mexican treasure that +had come down from one of the grand ladies of the Court of the Emperor +Maximilian. Polly's delight flamed like wild-fire. Mary found herself +the immediate owner of the fan, almost labouring under the fictitious +impression that she had conferred an obligation by accepting it. Only a +foreign woman could do such things, and Polly was guilty of similar +gifts to all the young women. It was her way. It might be a lace +handkerchief, a pink Paumotan pearl, or a comb of hawksbill turtle. It +was all the same. Whatever their eyes rested on in joy was theirs. To +women, as to men, she was irresistible. + +"I don't dare admire anything any more," was Mary's plaint. "If I do she +always gives it to me." + +Frederick had never dreamed such a creature could exist. The women of +his own race and place had never adumbrated such a possibility. He knew +that whatever she did--her quick generosities, her hot enthusiasms or +angers, her birdlike caressing ways--was unbelievably sincere. Her +extravagant moods at the same time shocked and fascinated him. Her voice +was as mercurial as her feelings. There were no even tones, and she +talked with her hands. Yet, in her mouth, English was a new and +beautiful language, softly limpid, with an audacity of phrase and +tellingness of expression that conveyed subtleties and nuances as +unambiguous and direct as they were unexpected from one of such +childlikeness and simplicity. He woke up of nights and on his darkened +eyelids saw bright memory-pictures of the backward turn of her vivid, +laughing face. + + +IV + +Like daughter like father. Tom, too, had been irresistible. All the +world still called to him, and strange men came from time to time with +its messages. Never had there been such visitors to the Travers home. +Some came with the reminiscent roll of the sea in their gait. Others +were black-browed ruffians; still others were fever-burnt and sallow; +and about all of them was something bizarre and outlandish. Their talk +was likewise bizarre and outlandish, of things to Frederick unguessed +and undreamed, though he recognised the men for what they were--soldiers +of fortune, adventurers, free lances of the world. But the big patent +thing was the love and loyalty they bore their leader. They named him +variously?--Black Tom, Blondine, Husky Travers, Malemute Tom, +Swiftwater Tom--but most of all he was Captain Tom. Their projects and +propositions were equally various, from the South Sea trader with the +discovery of a new guano island and the Latin-American with a nascent +revolution on his hands, on through Siberian gold chases and the +prospecting of the placer benches of the upper Kuskokeem, to darker +things that were mentioned only in whispers. And Captain Tom regretted +the temporary indisposition that prevented immediate departure with +them, and continued to sit and drowse more and more in the big chair. It +was Polly, with a camaraderie distasteful to her uncle, who got these +men aside and broke the news that Captain Tom would never go out on the +shining ways again. But not all of them came with projects. Many made +love-calls on their leader of old and unforgetable days, and Frederick +sometimes was a witness to their meeting, and he marvelled anew at the +mysterious charm in his brother that drew all men to him. + +"By the turtles of Tasman!" cried one, "when I heard you was in +California, Captain Tom, I just had to come and shake hands. I reckon +you ain't forgot Tasman, eh?--nor the scrap at Thursday Island. +Say--old Tasman was killed by his niggers only last year up German New +Guinea way. Remember his cook-boy?--Ngani-Ngani? He was the ringleader. +Tasman swore by him, but Ngani-Ngani hatcheted him just the same." + +"Shake hands with Captain Carlsen, Fred," was Tom's introduction of his +brother to another visitor. "He pulled me out of a tight place on the +West Coast once. I'd have cashed in, Carlsen, if you hadn't happened +along." + +Captain Carlsen was a giant hulk of a man, with gimlet eyes of palest +blue, a slash-scarred mouth that a blazing red beard could not quite +hide, and a grip in his hand that made Frederick squirm. + +A few minutes later, Tom had his brother aside. + +"Say, Fred, do you think it will bother to advance me a thousand?" + +"Of course," Frederick answered splendidly. "You know half of that I +have is yours, Tom." + +And when Captain Carlsen departed, Frederick was morally certain that +the thousand dollars departed with him. + +Small wonder Tom had made a failure of life--and come home to die. +Frederick sat at his own orderly desk taking stock of the difference +between him and his brother. Yes, and if it hadn't been for him, there +would have been no home for Tom to die in. + +Frederick cast back for solace through their joint history. It was he +who had always been the mainstay, the dependable one. Tom had laughed +and rollicked, played hooky from school, disobeyed Isaac's commandments. +To the mountains or the sea, or in hot water with the neighbours and the +town authorities--it was all the same; he was everywhere save where the +dull plod of work obtained. And work was work in those backwoods days, +and he, Frederick, had done the work. Early and late and all days he had +been at it. He remembered the season when Isaac's wide plans had taken +one of their smashes, when food had been scarce on the table of a man +who owned a hundred thousand acres, when there had been no money to +hire harvesters for the hay, and when Isaac would not let go his grip on +a single one of his acres. He, Frederick, had pitched the hay, while +Isaac mowed and raked. Tom had lain in bed and run up a doctor bill with +a broken leg, gained by falling off the ridge-pole of the barn--which +place was the last in the world to which any one would expect to go to +pitch hay. About the only work Tom had ever done, it seemed to him, was +to fetch in venison and bear-oil, to break colts, and to raise a din in +the valley pastures and wooded canyons with his bear-hounds. + +Tom was the elder, yet when Isaac died, the estate, with all its vast +possibilities would have gone to ruin, had not he, Frederick, buckled +down to it and put the burden on his back. Work! He remembered the +enlargement of the town water-system--how he had manoeuvred and +financed, persuaded small loans at ruinous interest, and laid pipe and +made joints by lantern light while the workmen slept, and then been up +ahead of them to outline and direct and rack his brains over the +raising of the next week-end wages. For he had carried on old Isaac's +policy. He would not let go. The future would vindicate. + +And Tom!--with a bigger pack of bear dogs ranging the mountains and +sleeping out a week at a time. Frederick remembered the final conference +in the kitchen--Tom, and he, and Eliza Travers, who still cooked and +baked and washed dishes on an estate that carried a hundred and eighty +thousand dollars in mortgages. + + +"Don't divide," Eliza Travers had pleaded, resting her soap-flecked, +parboiled arms. "Isaac was right. It will be worth millions. The country +is opening up. We must all pull together." + +"I don't want the estate," Tom cried. "Let Frederick have it. What I +want...." + +He never completed the sentence, but all the vision of the world burned +in his eyes. + +"I can't wait," he went on. "You can have the millions when they come. +In the meantime let me have ten thousand. I'll sign off quitclaim to +everything. And give me the old schooner, and some day I'll be back with +a pot of money to help you out." + +Frederick could see himself, in that far past day, throwing up his arms +in horror and crying: + +"Ten thousand!--when I'm strained to the breaking point to raise this +quarter's interest!" + +"There's the block of land next to the court house," Tom had urged. "I +know the bank has a standing offer for ten thousand." + +"But it will be worth a hundred thousand in ten years," Frederick had +objected. + +"Call it so. Say I quitclaim everything for a hundred thousand. Sell it +for ten and let me have it. It's all I want, and I want it now. You can +have the rest." + +And Tom had had his will as usual (the block had been mortgaged instead +of sold), and sailed away in the old schooner, the benediction of the +town upon his head, for he had carried away in his crew half the +riff-raff of the beach. + +The bones of the schooner had been left on the coast of Java. That had +been when Eliza Travers was being operated on for her eyes, and +Frederick had kept it from her until indubitable proof came that Tom was +still alive. + +Frederick went over to his files and drew out a drawer labelled "Thomas +Travers." In it were packets, methodically arranged. He went over the +letters. They were from everywhere--China, Rangoon, Australia, South +Africa, the Gold Coast, Patagonia, Armenia, Alaska. Briefly and +infrequently written, they epitomised the wanderer's life. Frederick ran +over in his mind a few of the glimpsed highlights of Tom's career. He +had fought in some sort of foreign troubles in Armenia. He had been an +officer in the Chinese army, and it was a certainty that the trade he +later drove in the China Seas was illicit. He had been caught running +arms into Cuba. It seemed he had always been running something somewhere +that it ought not to have been run. And he had never outgrown it. One +letter, on crinkly tissue paper, showed that as late as the +Japanese-Russian War he had been caught running coal into Port Arthur +and been taken to the prize court at Sasebo, where his steamer was +confiscated and he remained a prisoner until the end of the war. + +Frederick smiled as he read a paragraph: "_How do you prosper? Let me +know any time a few thousands will help you_." He looked at the date, +April 18, 1883, and opened another packet. "_May 5th_," 1883, was the +dated sheet he drew out. "_Five thousand will put me on my feet again. +If you can, and love me, send it along pronto--that's Spanish for +rush_." + +He glanced again at the two dates. It was evident that somewhere between +April 18th and May 5th Tom had come a cropper. With a smile, half +bitter, Frederick skimmed on through the correspondence: "_There's a +wreck on Midway Island. A fortune in it, salvage you know. Auction in +two days. Cable me four thousand_." The last he examined, ran: "_A deal +I can swing with a little cash. It's big, I tell you. It's so big I +don't dare tell you_." He remembered that deal--a Latin-American +revolution. He had sent the cash, and Tom had swung it, and himself as +well, into a prison cell and a death sentence. + +Tom had meant well, there was no denying that. And he had always +religiously forwarded his I O U's. Frederick musingly weighed the packet +of them in his hand, as though to determine if any relation existed +between the weight of paper and the sums of money represented on it. + +He put the drawer back in the cabinet and passed out. Glancing in at the +big chair he saw Polly just tiptoeing from the room. Tom's head lay +back, and his breathing was softly heavy, the sickness pronouncedly +apparent on his relaxed face. + + +V + +"I have worked hard," Frederick explained to Polly that evening on the +veranda, unaware that when a man explains it is a sign his situation is +growing parlous. "I have done what came to my hand--how creditably it is +for others to say. And I have been paid for it. I have taken care of +others and taken care of myself. The doctors say they have never seen +such a constitution in a man of my years. Why, almost half my life is +yet before me, and we Travers are a long-lived stock. I took care of +myself, you see, and I have myself to show for it. I was not a waster. I +conserved my heart and my arteries, and yet there are few men who can +boast having done as much work as I have done. Look at that hand. +Steady, eh? It will be as steady twenty years from now. There is nothing +in playing fast and loose with oneself." + +And all the while Polly had been following the invidious comparison that +lurked behind his words. + +"You can write 'Honourable' before your name," she flashed up proudly. +"But my father has been a king. He has lived. Have you lived? What have +you got to show for it? Stocks and bonds, and houses and servants--pouf! +Heart and arteries and a steady hand--is that all? Have you lived merely +to live? Were you afraid to die? I'd rather sing one wild song and burst +my heart with it, than live a thousand years watching my digestion and +being afraid of the wet. When you are dust, my father will be ashes. +That is the difference." + +"But my dear child--" he began. + +"What have you got to show for it?" she flamed on. "Listen!" + +From within, through the open window, came the tinkling of Tom's +_ukulele_ and the rollicking lilt of his voice in an Hawaiian _hula_. It +ended in a throbbing, primitive love-call from the sensuous tropic night +that no one could mistake. There was a burst of young voices, and a +clamour for more. Frederick did not speak. He had sensed something vague +and significant. + +Turning, he glanced through the window at Tom, flushed and royal, +surrounded by the young men and women, under his Viking moustache +lighting a cigarette from a match held to him by one of the girls. It +abruptly struck Frederick that never had he lighted a cigar at a match +held in a woman's hand. + +"Doctor Tyler says he oughtn't to smoke--it only aggravates," he said; +and it was all he could say. + +As the fall of the year came on, a new type of men began to frequent the +house. They proudly called themselves "sour-doughs," and they were +arriving in San Francisco on the winter's furlough from the +gold-diggings of Alaska. More and more of them came, and they pre-empted +a large portion of one of the down-town hotels. Captain Tom was fading +with the season, and almost lived in the big chair. He drowsed oftener +and longer, but whenever he awoke he was surrounded by his court of +young people, or there was some comrade waiting to sit and yarn about +the old gold days and plan for the new gold days. + +For Tom--Husky Travers, the Yukoners named him--never thought that the +end approached. A temporary illness, he called it, the natural +enfeeblement following upon a prolonged bout with Yucatan fever. In the +spring he would be right and fit again. Cold weather was what he needed. +His blood had been cooked. In the meantime it was a case of take it easy +and make the most of the rest. + +And no one undeceived him--not even the Yukoners, who smoked pipes and +black cigars and chewed tobacco on Frederick's broad verandas until he +felt like an intruder in his own house. There was no touch with them. +They regarded him as a stranger to be tolerated. They came to see Tom. +And their manner of seeing him was provocative of innocent envy pangs to +Frederick. Day after day he watched them. He would see the Yukoners +meet, perhaps one just leaving the sick room and one just going in. They +would clasp hands, solemnly and silently, outside the door. The +newcomer would question with his eyes, and the other would shake his +head. And more than once Frederick noted the moisture in their eyes. +Then the newcomer would enter and draw his chair up to Tom's, and with +jovial voice proceed to plan the outfitting for the exploration of the +upper Kuskokeem; for it was there Tom was bound in the spring. Dogs +could be had at Larabee's--a clean breed, too, with no taint of the soft +Southland strains. It was rough country, it was reported, but if +sour-doughs couldn't make the traverse from Larabee's in forty days +they'd like to see a _chechako_ do it in sixty. + +And so it went, until Frederick wondered, when he came to die, if there +was one man in the county, much less in the adjoining county, who would +come to him at his bedside. + +Seated at his desk, through the open windows would drift whiffs of +strong tobacco and rumbling voices, and he could not help catching +snatches of what the Yukoners talked. + +"D'ye recollect that Koyokuk rush in the early nineties?" he would hear +one say. "Well, him an' me was pardners then, tradin' an' such. We had +a dinky little steamboat, the _Blatterbat_. He named her that, an' it +stuck. He was a caution. Well, sir, as I was sayin', him an' me loaded +the little _Blatterbat_ to the guards an' started up the Koyokuk, me +firin' an' engineerin' an' him steerin', an' both of us deck-handin'. +Once in a while we'd tie to the bank an' cut firewood. It was the fall, +an' mush-ice was comin' down, an' everything gettin' ready for the +freeze up. You see, we was north of the Arctic Circle then an' still +headin' north. But they was two hundred miners in there needin' grub if +they wintered, an' we had the grub. + +"Well, sir, pretty soon they begun to pass us, driftin' down the river +in canoes an' rafts. They was pullin' out. We kept track of them. When a +hundred an' ninety-four had passed, we didn't see no reason for keepin' +on. So we turned tail and started down. A cold snap had come, an' the +water was fallin' fast, an' dang me if we didn't ground on a +bar--up-stream side. The _Blatterbat_ hung up solid. Couldn't budge +her. 'It's a shame to waste all that grub,' says I, just as we was +pullin' out in a canoe. 'Let's stay an' eat it,' says he. An' dang me if +we didn't. We wintered right there on the _Blatterbat_, huntin' and +tradin' with the Indians, an' when the river broke next year we brung +down eight thousand dollars' worth of skins. Now a whole winter, just +two of us, is goin' some. But never a cross word out of him. +Best-tempered pardner I ever seen. But fight!" + +"Huh!" came the other voice. "I remember the winter Oily Jones allowed +he'd clean out Forty Mile. Only he didn't, for about the second yap he +let off he ran afoul of Husky Travers. It was in the White Caribou. 'I'm +a wolf!' yaps Jones. You know his style, a gun in his belt, fringes on +his moccasins, and long hair down his back. 'I'm a wolf,' he yaps, 'an' +this is my night to howl. Hear me, you long lean makeshift of a human +critter?'--an' this to Husky Travers." + +"Well?" the other voice queried, after a pause. + +"In about a second an' a half Oily Jones was on the floor an' Husky on +top askin' somebody kindly to pass him a butcher knife. What's he do but +plumb hack off all of Oily Jones' long hair. 'Now howl, damn you, howl,' +says Husky, gettin' up." + +"He was a cool one, for a wild one," the first voice took up. "I seen +him buck roulette in the Little Wolverine, drop nine thousand in two +hours, borrow some more, win it back in fifteen minutes, buy the drinks, +an' cash in--dang me, all in fifteen minutes." + +One evening Tom was unusually brightly awake, and Frederick, joining the +rapt young circle, sat and listened to his brother's serio-comic +narrative of the night of wreck on the island of Blang; of the swim +through the sharks where half the crew was lost; of the great pearl +which Desay brought ashore with him; of the head-decorated palisade that +surrounded the grass palace wherein dwelt the Malay queen with her royal +consort, a shipwrecked Chinese Eurasian; of the intrigue for the pearl +of Desay; of mad feasts and dances in the barbaric night, and quick +dangers and sudden deaths; of the queen's love-making to Desay, of +Desay's love-making to the queen's daughter, and of Desay, every joint +crushed, still alive, staked out on the reef at low tide to be eaten by +the sharks; of the coming of the plague; of the beating of tom-toms and +the exorcising of the devil-devil doctors; of the flight over the +man-trapped, wild-pig runs of the mountain bush-men; and of the final +rescue by Tasman, he who was hatcheted only last year and whose head +reposed in some Melanesian stronghold--and all breathing of the warmth +and abandon and savagery of the burning islands of the sun. + +And despite himself, Frederick sat entranced; and when all the tale was +told, he was aware of a queer emptiness. He remembered back to his +boyhood, when he had pored over the illustrations in the old-fashioned +geography. He, too, had dreamed of amazing adventure in far places and +desired to go out on the shining ways. And he had planned to go; yet he +had known only work and duty. Perhaps that was the difference. Perhaps +that was the secret of the strange wisdom in his brother's eyes. For +the moment, faint and far, vicariously, he glimpsed the lordly vision +his brother had seen. He remembered a sharp saying of Polly's. "You have +missed romance. You traded it for dividends." She was right, and yet, +not fair. He had wanted romance, but the work had been placed ready to +his hand. He had toiled and moiled, day and night, and been faithful to +his trust. Yet he had missed love and the world-living that was forever +a-whisper in his brother. And what had Tom done to deserve it?--a +wastrel and an idle singer of songs. + +His place was high. He was going to be the next governor of California. +But what man would come to him and lie to him out of love? The thought +of all his property seemed to put a dry and gritty taste in his mouth. +Property! Now that he looked at it, one thousand dollars was like any +other thousand dollars; and one day (of his days) was like any other +day. He had never made the pictures in the geography come true. He had +not struck his man, nor lighted his cigar at a match held in a woman's +hand. A man could sleep in only one bed at a time--Tom had said that. He +shuddered as he strove to estimate how many beds he owned, how many +blankets he had bought. And all the beds and blankets would not buy one +man to come from the end of the earth, and grip his hand, and cry, "By +the turtles of Tasman!" + +Something of all this he told Polly, an undercurrent of complaint at the +unfairness of things in his tale. And she had answered: + +"It couldn't have been otherwise. Father bought it. He never drove +bargains. It was a royal thing, and he paid for it royally. You grudged +the price, don't you see. You saved your arteries and your money and +kept your feet dry." + + +VI + +On an afternoon in the late fall all were gathered about the big chair +and Captain Tom. Though he did not know it, he had drowsed the whole day +through and only just awakened to call for his _ukulele_ and light a +cigarette at Polly's hand. But the _ukulele_ lay idle on his arm, and +though the pine logs crackled in the huge fireplace he shivered and took +note of the cold. + +"It's a good sign," he said, unaware that the faintness of his voice +drew the heads of his listeners closer. "The cold weather will be a +tonic. It's a hard job to work the tropics out of one's blood. But I'm +beginning to shape up now for the Kuskokeem. In the spring, Polly, we +start with the dogs, and you'll see the midnight sun. How your mother +would have liked the trip. She was a game one. Forty sleeps with the +dogs, and we'll be shaking out yellow nuggets from the moss-roots. +Larabee has some fine animals. I know the breed. They're timber wolves, +that's what they are, big grey timber wolves, though they sport brown +about one in a litter--isn't that right, Bennington?" + +"One in a litter, that's just about the average," Bennington, the +Yukoner, replied promptly, but in a voice hoarsely unrecognisable. + +"And you must never travel alone with them," Captain Tom went on. "For +if you fall down they'll jump you. Larabee's brutes only respect a man +when he stands upright on his legs. When he goes down, he's meat. I +remember coming over the divide from Tanana to Circle City. That was +before the Klondike strike. It was in '94 ... no, '95, and the bottom +had dropped out of the thermometer. There was a young Canadian with the +outfit. His name was it was ... a peculiar one ... wait a minute it will +come to me...." + +His voice ceased utterly, though his lips still moved. A look of +unbelief and vast surprise dawned on his face. Followed a sharp, +convulsive shudder. And in that moment, without warning, he saw Death. +He looked clear-eyed and steady, as if pondering, then turned to Polly. +His hand moved impotently, as if to reach hers, and when he found it, +his fingers could not close. He gazed at her with a great smile that +slowly faded. The eyes drooped as the life went out, and remained a face +of quietude and repose. The _ukulele_ clattered to the floor. One by one +they went softly from the room, leaving Polly alone. + +From the veranda, Frederick watched a man coming up the driveway. By the +roll of the sea in his walk, Frederick could guess for whom the stranger +came. The face was swarthy with sun and wrinkled with age that was given +the lie by the briskness of his movements and the alertness in the keen +black eyes. In the lobe of each ear was a tiny circlet of gold. + +"How do you do, sir," the man said, and it was patent that English was +not the tongue he had learned at his mother's knee. "How's Captain Tom? +They told me in the town that he was sick." + +"My brother is dead," Frederick answered. + +The stranger turned his head and gazed out over the park-like grounds +and up to the distant redwood peaks, and Frederick noted that he +swallowed with an effort. + +"By the turtles of Tasman, he was a man," he said, in a deep, changed +voice. + +"By the turtles of Tasman, he was a man," Frederick repeated; nor did he +stumble over the unaccustomed oath. + + + + +THE ETERNITY OF FORMS + + +A strange life has come to an end in the death of Mr. Sedley Crayden, of +Crayden Hill. + +Mild, harmless, he was the victim of a strange delusion that kept him +pinned, night and day, in his chair for the last two years of his life. +The mysterious death, or, rather, disappearance, of his elder brother, +James Crayden, seems to have preyed upon his mind, for it was shortly +after that event that his delusion began to manifest itself. + +Mr. Crayden never vouchsafed any explanation of his strange conduct. +There was nothing the matter with him physically; and, mentally, the +alienists found him normal in every way save for his one remarkable +idiosyncrasy. His remaining in his chair was purely voluntary, an act of +his own will. And now he is dead, and the mystery remains unsolved. + +--_Extract from the Newton Courier-Times._ + + +Briefly, I was Mr. Sedley Crayden's confidential servant and valet for +the last eight months of his life. During that time he wrote a great +deal in a manuscript that he kept always beside him, except when he +drowsed or slept, at which times he invariably locked it in a desk +drawer close to his hand. + +I was curious to read what the old gentleman wrote, but he was too +cautious and cunning. I never got a peep at the manuscript. If he were +engaged upon it when I attended on him, he covered the top sheet with a +large blotter. It was I who found him dead in his chair, and it was then +that I took the liberty of abstracting the manuscript. I was very +curious to read it, and I have no excuses to offer. + +After retaining it in my secret possession for several years, and after +ascertaining that Mr. Crayden left no surviving relatives, I have +decided to make the nature of the manuscript known. It is very long, and +I have omitted nearly all of it, giving only the more lucid fragments. +It bears all the earmarks of a disordered mind, and various experiences +are repeated over and over, while much is so vague and incoherent as to +defy comprehension. Nevertheless, from reading it myself, I venture to +predict that if an excavation is made in the main basement, somewhere in +the vicinity of the foundation of the great chimney, a collection of +bones will be found which should very closely resemble those which James +Crayden once clothed in mortal flesh. + +--_Statement of Rudolph Heckler._ + + +Here follows the excerpts from the manuscript, made and arranged by +Rudolph Heckler: + + +I never killed my brother. Let this be my first word and my last. Why +should I kill him? We lived together in unbroken harmony for twenty +years. We were old men, and the fires and tempers of youth had long +since burned out. We never disagreed even over the most trivial things. +Never was there such amity as ours. We were scholars. We cared nothing +for the outside world. Our companionship and our books were +all-satisfying. Never were there such talks as we held. Many a night we +have sat up till two and three in the morning, conversing, weighing +opinions and judgments, referring to authorities--in short, we lived at +high and friendly intellectual altitudes. + + * * * * * + +He disappeared. I suffered a great shock. Why should he have +disappeared? Where could he have gone? It was very strange. I was +stunned. They say I was very sick for weeks. It was brain fever. This +was caused by his inexplicable disappearance. It was at the beginning of +the experience I hope here to relate, that he disappeared. + +How I have endeavoured to find him. I am not an excessively rich man, +yet have I offered continually increasing rewards. I have advertised in +all the papers, and sought the aid of all the detective bureaus. At the +present moment, the rewards I have out aggregate over fifty thousand +dollars. + + * * * * * + +They say he was murdered. They also say murder will out. Then I say, why +does not his murder come out? Who did it? Where is he? Where is Jim? My +Jim? + + * * * * * + +We were so happy together. He had a remarkable mind, a most remarkable +mind, so firmly founded, so widely informed, so rigidly logical, that it +was not at all strange that we agreed in all things. Dissension was +unknown between us. Jim was the most truthful man I have ever met. In +this, too, we were similar, as we were similar in our intellectual +honesty. We never sacrificed truth to make a point. We had no points to +make, we so thoroughly agreed. It is absurd to think that we could +disagree on anything under the sun. + + * * * * * + +I wish he would come back. Why did he go? Who can ever explain it? I am +lonely now, and depressed with grave forebodings--frightened by terrors +that are of the mind and that put at naught all that my mind has ever +conceived. Form is mutable. This is the last word of positive science. +The dead do not come back. This is incontrovertible. The dead are dead, +and that is the end of it, and of them. And yet I have had experiences +here--here, in this very room, at this very desk, that--But wait. Let me +put it down in black and white, in words simple and unmistakable. Let me +ask some questions. Who mislays my pen? That is what I desire to know. +Who uses up my ink so rapidly? Not I. And yet the ink goes. + +The answer to these questions would settle all the enigmas of the +universe. I know the answer. I am not a fool. And some day, if I am +plagued too desperately, I shall give the answer myself. I shall give +the name of him who mislays my pen and uses up my ink. It is so silly to +think that I could use such a quantity of ink. The servant lies. I know. + + * * * * * + +I have got me a fountain pen. I have always disliked the device, but my +old stub had to go. I burned it in the fireplace. The ink I keep under +lock and key. I shall see if I cannot put a stop to these lies that are +being written about me. And I have other plans. It is not true that I +have recanted. I still believe that I live in a mechanical universe. It +has not been proved otherwise to me, for all that I have peered over his +shoulder and read his malicious statement to the contrary. He gives me +credit for no less than average stupidity. He thinks I think he is real. +How silly. I know he is a brain-figment, nothing more. + +There are such things as hallucinations. Even as I looked over his +shoulder and read, I knew that this was such a thing. If I were only +well it would be interesting. All my life I have wanted to experience +such phenomena. And now it has come to me. I shall make the most of it. +What is imagination? It can make something where there is nothing. How +can anything be something where there is nothing? How can anything be +something and nothing at the same time? I leave it for the +metaphysicians to ponder. I know better. No scholastics for me. This is +a real world, and everything in it is real. What is not real, is not. +Therefore he is not. Yet he tries to fool me into believing that he +is ... when all the time I know he has no existence outside of my own +brain cells. + + * * * * * + +I saw him to-day, seated at the desk, writing. It gave me quite a shock, +because I had thought he was quite dispelled. Nevertheless, on looking +steadily, I found that he was not there--the old familiar trick of the +brain. I have dwelt too long on what has happened. I am becoming +morbid, and my old indigestion is hinting and muttering. I shall take +exercise. Each day I shall walk for two hours. + + * * * * * + +It is impossible. I cannot exercise. Each time I return from my walk, he +is sitting in my chair at the desk. It grows more difficult to drive him +away. It is my chair. Upon this I insist. It _was_ his, but he is dead +and it is no longer his. How one can be befooled by the phantoms of his +own imagining! There is nothing real in this apparition. I know it. I am +firmly grounded with my fifty years of study. The dead are dead. + + * * * * * + +And yet, explain one thing. To-day, before going for my walk, I +carefully put the fountain pen in my pocket before leaving the room. I +remember it distinctly. I looked at the clock at the time. It was twenty +minutes past ten. Yet on my return there was the pen lying on the desk. +Some one had been using it. There was very little ink left. I wish he +would not write so much. It is disconcerting. + + * * * * * + +There was one thing upon which Jim and I were not quite agreed. He +believed in the eternity of the forms of things. Therefore, entered in +immediately the consequent belief in immortality, and all the other +notions of the metaphysical philosophers. I had little patience with him +in this. Painstakingly I have traced to him the evolution of his belief +in the eternity of forms, showing him how it has arisen out of his early +infatuation with logic and mathematics. Of course, from that warped, +squinting, abstract view-point, it is very easy to believe in the +eternity of forms. + +I laughed at the unseen world. Only the real was real, I contended, and +what one did not perceive, was not, could not be. I believed in a +mechanical universe. Chemistry and physics explained everything. "Can no +being be?" he demanded in reply. I said that his question was but the +major promise of a fallacious Christian Science syllogism. Oh, believe +me, I know my logic, too. But he was very stubborn. I never had any +patience with philosophic idealists. + + * * * * * + +Once, I made to him my confession of faith. It was simple, brief, +unanswerable. Even as I write it now I know that it is unanswerable. +Here it is. I told him: "I assert, with Hobbes, that it is impossible to +separate thought from matter that thinks. I assert, with Bacon, that all +human understanding arises from the world of sensations. I assert, with +Locke, that all human ideas are due to the functions of the senses. I +assert, with Kant, the mechanical origin of the universe, and that +creation is a natural and historical process. I assert, with Laplace, +that there is no need of the hypothesis of a creator. And, finally, I +assert, because of all the foregoing, that form is ephemeral. Form +passes. Therefore we pass." + +I repeat, it was unanswerable. Yet did he answer with Paley's notorious +fallacy of the watch. Also, he talked about radium, and all but asserted +that the very existence of matter had been exploded by these later-day +laboratory researches. It was childish. I had not dreamed he could be so +immature. + +How could one argue with such a man? I then asserted the reasonableness +of all that is. To this he agreed, reserving, however, one exception. He +looked at me, as he said it, in a way I could not mistake. The inference +was obvious. That he should be guilty of so cheap a quip in the midst of +a serious discussion, astounded me. + + * * * * * + +The eternity of forms. It is ridiculous. Yet is there a strange magic in +the words. If it be true, then has he not ceased to exist. Then does he +exist. This is impossible. + + * * * * * + +I have ceased exercising. As long as I remain in the room, the +hallucination does not bother me. But when I return to the room after an +absence, he is always there, sitting at the desk, writing. Yet I dare +not confide in a physician. I must fight this out by myself. + + * * * * * + +He grows more importunate. To-day, consulting a book on the shelf, I +turned and found him again in the chair. This is the first time he has +dared do this in my presence. Nevertheless, by looking at him steadily +and sternly for several minutes, I compelled him to vanish. This proves +my contention. He does not exist. If he were an eternal form I could not +make him vanish by a mere effort of my will. + + * * * * * + +This is getting damnable. To-day I gazed at him for an entire hour +before I could make him leave. Yet it is so simple. What I see is a +memory picture. For twenty years I was accustomed to seeing him there at +the desk. The present phenomenon is merely a recrudescence of that +memory picture--a picture which was impressed countless times on my +consciousness. + + * * * * * + +I gave up to-day. He exhausted me, and still he would not go. I sat and +watched him hour after hour. He takes no notice of me, but continually +writes. I know what he writes, for I read it over his shoulder. It is +not true. He is taking an unfair advantage. + + * * * * * + +Query: He is a product of my consciousness; is it possible, then, that +entities may be created by consciousness? + + * * * * * + +We did not quarrel. To this day I do not know how it happened. Let me +tell you. Then you will see. We sat up late that never-to-be-forgotten +last night of his existence. It was the old, old discussion--the +eternity of forms. How many hours and how many nights we had consumed +over it! + +On this night he had been particularly irritating, and all my nerves +were screaming. He had been maintaining that the human soul was itself a +form, an eternal form, and that the light within his brain would go on +forever and always. I took up the poker. + +"Suppose," I said, "I should strike you dead with this?" + +"I would go on," he answered. + +"As a conscious entity?" I demanded. + +"Yes, as a conscious entity," was his reply. "I should go on, from +plane to plane of higher existence, remembering my earth-life, you, this +very argument--ay, and continuing the argument with you." + +It was only argument[1]. I swear it was only argument. I never lifted a +hand. How could I? He was my brother, my elder brother, Jim. + +I cannot remember. I was very exasperated. He had always been so +obstinate in this metaphysical belief of his. The next I knew, he was +lying on the hearth. Blood was running. It was terrible. He did not +speak. He did not move. He must have fallen in a fit and struck his +head. I noticed there was blood on the poker. In falling he must have +struck upon it with his head. And yet I fail to see how this can be, for +I held it in my hand all the time. I was still holding it in my hand as +I looked at it. + +[Footnote 1: (Forcible--ha! ha!--comment of Rudolph Heckler on margin.)] + + * * * * * + +It is an hallucination. That is a conclusion of common sense. I have +watched the growth of it. At first it was only in the dimmest light +that I could see him sitting in the chair. But as the time passed, and +the hallucination, by repetition, strengthened, he was able to appear in +the chair under the strongest lights. That is the explanation. It is +quite satisfactory. + + * * * * * + +I shall never forget the first time I saw it. I had dined alone +downstairs. I never drink wine, so that what happened was eminently +normal. It was in the summer twilight that I returned to the study. I +glanced at the desk. There he was, sitting. So natural was it, that +before I knew I cried out "Jim!" Then I remembered all that had +happened. Of course it was an hallucination. I knew that. I took the +poker and went over to it. He did not move nor vanish. The poker cleaved +through the non-existent substance of the thing and struck the back of +the chair. Fabric of fancy, that is all it was. The mark is there on the +chair now where the poker struck. I pause from my writing and turn and +look at it--press the tips of my fingers into the indentation. + + * * * * * + +He _did_ continue the argument. I stole up to-day and looked over his +shoulder. He was writing the history of our discussion. It was the same +old nonsense about the eternity of forms. But as I continued to read, he +wrote down the practical test I had made with the poker. Now this is +unfair and untrue. I made no test. In falling he struck his head on the +poker. + + * * * * * + +Some day, somebody will find and read what he writes. This will be +terrible. I am suspicious of the servant, who is always peeping and +peering, trying to see what I write. I must do something. Every servant +I have had is curious about what I write. + + * * * * * + +Fabric of fancy. That is all it is. There is no Jim who sits in the +chair. I know that. Last night, when the house was asleep, I went down +into the cellar and looked carefully at the soil around the chimney. It +was untampered with. The dead do not rise up. + + * * * * * + +Yesterday morning, when I entered the study, there he was in the chair. +When I had dispelled him, I sat in the chair myself all day. I had my +meals brought to me. And thus I escaped the sight of him for many hours, +for he appears only in the chair. I was weary, but I sat late, until +eleven o'clock. Yet, when I stood up to go to bed, I looked around, and +there he was. He had slipped into the chair on the instant. Being only +fabric of fancy, all day he had resided in my brain. The moment it was +unoccupied, he took up his residence in the chair. Are these his boasted +higher planes of existence--his brother's brain and a chair? After all, +was he not right? Has his eternal form become so attenuated as to be an +hallucination? Are hallucinations real entities? Why not? There is food +for thought here. Some day I shall come to a conclusion upon it. + + * * * * * + +He was very much disturbed to-day. He could not write, for I had made +the servant carry the pen out of the room in his pocket But neither +could I write. + + * * * * * + +The servant never sees him. This is strange. Have I developed a keener +sight for the unseen? Or rather does it not prove the phantom to be what +it is--a product of my own morbid consciousness? + + * * * * * + +He has stolen my pen again. Hallucinations cannot steal pens. This is +unanswerable. And yet I cannot keep the pen always out of the room. I +want to write myself. + + * * * * * + +I have had three different servants since my trouble came upon me, and +not one has seen him. Is the verdict of their senses right? And is that +of mine wrong? Nevertheless, the ink goes too rapidly. I fill my pen +more often than is necessary. And furthermore, only to-day I found my +pen out of order. I did not break it. + + * * * * * + +I have spoken to him many times, but he never answers. I sat and watched +him all morning. Frequently he looked at me, and it was patent that he +knew me. + + * * * * * + +By striking the side of my head violently with the heel of my hand, I +can shake the vision of him out of my eyes. Then I can get into the +chair; but I have learned that I must move very quickly in order to +accomplish this. Often he fools me and is back again before I can sit +down. + + * * * * * + +It is getting unbearable. He is a jack-in-the-box the way he pops into +the chair. He does not assume form slowly. He pops. That is the only way +to describe it. I cannot stand looking at him much more. That way lies +madness, for it compels me almost to believe in the reality of what I +know is not. Besides, hallucinations do not pop. + + * * * * * + +Thank God he only manifests himself in the chair. As long as I occupy +the chair I am quit of him. + + * * * * * + +My device for dislodging him from the chair by striking my head, is +failing. I have to hit much more violently, and I do not succeed perhaps +more than once in a dozen trials. My head is quite sore where I have so +repeatedly struck it. I must use the other hand. + + * * * * * + +My brother was right. There is an unseen world. Do I not see it? Am I +not cursed with the seeing of it all the time? Call it a thought, an +idea, anything you will, still it is there. It is unescapable. Thoughts +are entities. We create with every act of thinking. I have created this +phantom that sits in my chair and uses my ink. Because I have created +him is no reason that he is any the less real. He is an idea; he is an +entity: ergo, ideas are entities, and an entity is a reality. + + * * * * * + +Query: If a man, with the whole historical process behind him, can +create an entity, a real thing, then is not the hypothesis of a Creator +made substantial? If the stuff of life can create, then it is fair to +assume that there can be a He who created the stuff of life. It is +merely a difference of degree. I have not yet made a mountain nor a +solar system, but I have made a something that sits in my chair. This +being so, may I not some day be able to make a mountain or a solar +system? + + * * * * * + +All his days, down to to-day, man has lived in a maze. He has never seen +the light. I am convinced that I am beginning to see the light--not as +my brother saw it, by stumbling upon it accidentally, but deliberately +and rationally. My brother is dead. He has ceased. There is no doubt +about it, for I have made another journey down into the cellar to see. +The ground was untouched. I broke it myself to make sure, and I saw what +made me sure. My brother has ceased, yet have I recreated him. This is +not my old brother, yet it is something as nearly resembling him as I +could fashion it. I am unlike other men. I am a god. I have created. + + * * * * * + +Whenever I leave the room to go to bed, I look back, and there is my +brother sitting in the chair. And then I cannot sleep because of +thinking of him sitting through all the long night-hours. And in the +morning, when I open the study door, there he is, and I know he has sat +there the night long. + + * * * * * + +I am becoming desperate from lack of sleep. I wish I could confide in a +physician. + + * * * * * + +Blessed sleep! I have won to it at last. Let me tell you. Last night I +was so worn that I found myself dozing in my chair. I rang for the +servant and ordered him to bring blankets. I slept. All night was he +banished from my thoughts as he was banished from my chair. I shall +remain in it all day. It is a wonderful relief. + + * * * * * + +It is uncomfortable to sleep in a chair. But it is more uncomfortable to +lie in bed, hour after hour, and not sleep, and to know that he is +sitting there in the cold darkness. + + * * * * * + +It is no use. I shall never be able to sleep in a bed again. I have +tried it now, numerous times, and every such night is a horror. If I +could but only persuade him to go to bed! But no. He sits there, and +sits there--I know he does--while I stare and stare up into the +blackness and think and think, continually think, of him sitting there. +I wish I had never heard of the eternity of forms. + + * * * * * + +The servants think I am crazy. That is but to be expected, and it is why +I have never called in a physician. + + * * * * * + +I am resolved. Henceforth this hallucination ceases. From now on I shall +remain in the chair. I shall never leave it. I shall remain in it night +and day and always. + + * * * * * + +I have succeeded. For two weeks I have not seen him. Nor shall I ever +see him again. I have at last attained the equanimity of mind necessary +for philosophic thought. I wrote a complete chapter to-day. + + * * * * * + +It is very wearisome, sitting in a chair. The weeks pass, the months +come and go, the seasons change, the servants replace each other, while +I remain. I only remain. It is a strange life I lead, but at least I am +at peace. + + * * * * * + +He comes no more. There is no eternity of forms. I have proved it. For +nearly two years now, I have remained in this chair, and I have not seen +him once. True, I was severely tried for a time. But it is clear that +what I thought I saw was merely hallucination. He never was. Yet I do +not leave the chair. I am afraid to leave the chair. + + + + +TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD + + +Me? I'm not a drooler. I'm the assistant, I don't know what Miss Jones +or Miss Kelsey could do without me. There are fifty-five low-grade +droolers in this ward, and how could they ever all be fed if I wasn't +around? I like to feed droolers. They don't make trouble. They can't. +Something's wrong with most of their legs and arms, and they can't talk. +They're very low-grade. I can walk, and talk, and do things. You must be +careful with the droolers and not feed them too fast. Then they choke. +Miss Jones says I'm an expert. When a new nurse comes I show her how to +do it. It's funny watching a new nurse try to feed them. She goes at it +so slow and careful that supper time would be around before she finished +shoving down their breakfast. Then I show her, because I'm an expert. +Dr. Dalrymple says I am, and he ought to know. A drooler can eat twice +as fast if you know how to make him. + +My name's Tom. I'm twenty-eight years old. Everybody knows me in the +institution. This is an institution, you know. It belongs to the State +of California and is run by politics. I know. I've been here a long +time. Everybody trusts me. I run errands all over the place, when I'm +not busy with the droolers. I like droolers. It makes me think how lucky +I am that I ain't a drooler. + +I like it here in the Home. I don't like the outside. I know. I've been +around a bit, and run away, and adopted. Me for the Home, and for the +drooling ward best of all. I don't look like a drooler, do I? You can +tell the difference soon as you look at me. I'm an assistant, expert +assistant. That's going some for a feeb. Feeb? Oh, that's feeble-minded. +I thought you knew. We're all feebs in here. + +But I'm a high-grade feeb. Dr. Dalrymple says I'm too smart to be in the +Home, but I never let on. It's a pretty good place. And I don't throw +fits like lots of the feebs. You see that house up there through the +trees. The high-grade epilecs all live in it by themselves. They're +stuck up because they ain't just ordinary feebs. They call it the club +house, and they say they're just as good as anybody outside, only +they're sick. I don't like them much. They laugh at me, when they ain't +busy throwing fits. But I don't care. I never have to be scared about +falling down and busting my head. Sometimes they run around in circles +trying to find a place to sit down quick, only they don't. Low-grade +epilecs are disgusting, and high-grade epilecs put on airs. I'm glad I +ain't an epilec. There ain't anything to them. They just talk big, +that's all. + +Miss Kelsey says I talk too much. But I talk sense, and that's more than +the other feebs do. Dr. Dalrymple says I have the gift of language. I +know it. You ought to hear me talk when I'm by myself, or when I've got +a drooler to listen. Sometimes I think I'd like to be a politician, only +it's too much trouble. They're all great talkers; that's how they hold +their jobs. + +Nobody's crazy in this institution. They're just feeble in their minds. +Let me tell you something funny. There's about a dozen high-grade girls +that set the tables in the big dining room. Sometimes when they're done +ahead of time, they all sit down in chairs in a circle and talk. I sneak +up to the door and listen, and I nearly die to keep from laughing. Do +you want to know what they talk? It's like this. They don't say a word +for a long time. And then one says, "Thank God I'm not feeble-minded." +And all the rest nod their heads and look pleased. And then nobody says +anything for a time. After which the next girl in the circle says, +"Thank God I'm not feeble-minded," and they nod their heads all over +again. And it goes on around the circle, and they never say anything +else. Now they're real feebs, ain't they? I leave it to you. I'm not +that kind of a feeb, thank God. + +Sometimes I don't think I'm a feeb at all. I play in the band and read +music. We're all supposed to be feebs in the band except the leader. +He's crazy. We know it, but we never talk about it except amongst +ourselves. His job is politics, too, and we don't want him to lose it. I +play the drum. They can't get along without me in this institution. I +was sick once, so I know. It's a wonder the drooling ward didn't break +down while I was in hospital. + +I could get out of here if I wanted to. I'm not so feeble as some might +think. But I don't let on. I have too good a time. Besides, everything +would run down if I went away. I'm afraid some time they'll find out I'm +not a feeb and send me out into the world to earn my own living. I know +the world, and I don't like it. The Home is fine enough for me. + +You see how I grin sometimes. I can't help that. But I can put it on a +lot. I'm not bad, though. I look at myself in the glass. My mouth is +funny, I know that, and it lops down, and my teeth are bad. You can tell +a feeb anywhere by looking at his mouth and teeth. But that doesn't +prove I'm a feeb. It's just because I'm lucky that I look like one. + +I know a lot. If I told you all I know, you'd be surprised. But when I +don't want to know, or when they want me to do something I don't want +to do, I just let my mouth lop down and laugh and make foolish noises. I +watch the foolish noises made by the low-grades, and I can fool anybody. +And I know a lot of foolish noises. Miss Kelsey called me a fool the +other day. She was very angry, and that was where I fooled her. + +Miss Kelsey asked me once why I don't write a book about feebs. I was +telling her what was the matter with little Albert. He's a drooler, you +know, and I can always tell the way he twists his left eye what's the +matter with him. So I was explaining it to Miss Kelsey, and, because she +didn't know, it made her mad. But some day, mebbe, I'll write that book. +Only it's so much trouble. Besides, I'd sooner talk. + +Do you know what a micro is? It's the kind with the little heads no +bigger than your fist. They're usually droolers, and they live a long +time. The hydros don't drool. They have the big heads, and they're +smarter. But they never grow up. They always die. I never look at one +without thinking he's going to die. Sometimes, when I'm feeling lazy, or +the nurse is mad at me, I wish I was a drooler with nothing to do and +somebody to feed me. But I guess I'd sooner talk and be what I am. + +Only yesterday Doctor Dalrymple said to me, "Tom," he said, "I just +don't know what I'd do without you." And he ought to know, seeing as +he's had the bossing of a thousand feebs for going on two years. Dr. +Whatcomb was before him. They get appointed, you know. It's politics. +I've seen a whole lot of doctors here in my time. I was here before any +of them. I've been in this institution twenty-five years. No, I've got +no complaints. The institution couldn't be run better. + +It's a snap to be a high-grade feeb. Just look at Doctor Dalrymple. He +has troubles. He holds his job by politics. You bet we high-graders talk +politics. We know all about it, and it's bad. An institution like this +oughtn't to be run on politics. Look at Doctor Dalrymple. He's been here +two years and learned a lot. Then politics will come along and throw +him out and send a new doctor who don't know anything about feebs. + +I've been acquainted with just thousands of nurses in my time. Some of +them are nice. But they come and go. Most of the women get married. +Sometimes I think I'd like to get married. I spoke to Dr. Whatcomb about +it once, but he told me he was very sorry, because feebs ain't allowed +to get married. I've been in love. She was a nurse. I won't tell you her +name. She had blue eyes, and yellow hair, and a kind voice, and she +liked me. She told me so. And she always told me to be a good boy. And I +was, too, until afterward, and then I ran away. You see, she went off +and got married, and she didn't tell me about it. + +I guess being married ain't what it's cracked up to be. Dr. Anglin and +his wife used to fight. I've seen them. And once I heard her call him a +feeb. Now nobody has a right to call anybody a feeb that ain't. Dr. +Anglin got awful mad when she called him that. But he didn't last long. +Politics drove him out, and Doctor Mandeville came. He didn't have a +wife. I heard him talking one time with the engineer. The engineer and +his wife fought like cats and dogs, and that day Doctor Mandeville told +him he was damn glad he wasn't tied to no petticoats. A petticoat is a +skirt. I knew what he meant, if I was a feeb. But I never let on. You +hear lots when you don't let on. + +I've seen a lot in my time. Once I was adopted, and went away on the +railroad over forty miles to live with a man named Peter Bopp and his +wife. They had a ranch. Doctor Anglin said I was strong and bright, and +I said I was, too. That was because I wanted to be adopted. And Peter +Bopp said he'd give me a good home, and the lawyers fixed up the papers. + +But I soon made up my mind that a ranch was no place for me. Mrs. Bopp +was scared to death of me and wouldn't let me sleep in the house. They +fixed up the woodshed and made me sleep there. I had to get up at four +o'clock and feed the horses, and milk cows, and carry the milk to the +neighbours. They called it chores, but it kept me going all day. I +chopped wood, and cleaned chicken houses, and weeded vegetables, and +did most everything on the place. I never had any fun. I hadn't no time. + +Let me tell you one thing. I'd sooner feed mush and milk to feebs than +milk cows with the frost on the ground. Mrs. Bopp was scared to let me +play with her children. And I was scared, too. They used to make faces +at me when nobody was looking, and call me "Looney." Everybody called me +Looney Tom. And the other boys in the neighbourhood threw rocks at me. +You never see anything like that in the Home here. The feebs are better +behaved. + +Mrs. Bopp used to pinch me and pull my hair when she thought I was too +slow, and I only made foolish noises and went slower. She said I'd be +the death of her some day. I left the boards off the old well in the +pasture, and the pretty new calf fell in and got drowned. Then Peter +Bopp said he was going to give me a licking. He did, too. He took a +strap halter and went at me. It was awful. I'd never had a licking in my +life. They don't do such things in the Home, which is why I say the +Home is the place for me. + +I know the law, and I knew he had no right to lick me with a strap +halter. That was being cruel, and the guardianship papers said he +mustn't be cruel. I didn't say anything. I just waited, which shows you +what kind of a feeb I am. I waited a long time, and got slower, and made +more foolish noises; but he wouldn't, send me back to the Home, which +was what I wanted. But one day, it was the first of the month, Mrs. +Brown gave me three dollars, which was for her milk bill with Peter +Bopp. That was in the morning. When I brought the milk in the evening I +was to bring back the receipt. But I didn't. I just walked down to the +station, bought a ticket like any one, and rode on the train back to the +Home. That's the kind of a feeb I am. + +Doctor Anglin was gone then, and Doctor Mandeville had his place. I +walked right into his office. He didn't know me. "Hello," he said, "this +ain't visiting day." "I ain't a visitor," I said. "I'm Tom. I belong +here." Then he whistled and showed he was surprised. I told him all +about it, and showed him the marks of the strap halter, and he got +madder and madder all the time and said he'd attend to Mr. Peter Bopp's +case. + +And mebbe you think some of them little droolers weren't glad to see me. + +I walked right into the ward. There was a new nurse feeding little +Albert. "Hold on," I said. "That ain't the way. Don't you see how he's +twisting that left eye? Let me show you." Mebbe she thought I was a new +doctor, for she just gave me the spoon, and I guess I filled little +Albert up with the most comfortable meal he'd had since I went away. +Droolers ain't bad when you understand them. I heard Miss Jones tell +Miss Kelsey once that I had an amazing gift in handling droolers. + +Some day, mebbe, I'm going to talk with Doctor Dalrymple and get him to +give me a declaration that I ain't a feeb. Then I'll get him to make me +a real assistant in the drooling ward, with forty dollars a month and my +board. And then I'll marry Miss Jones and live right on here. And if +she won't have me, I'll marry Miss Kelsey or some other nurse. There's +lots of them that want to get married. And I won't care if my wife gets +mad and calls me a feeb. What's the good? And I guess when one's learned +to put up with droolers a wife won't be much worse. + +I didn't tell you about when I ran away. I hadn't no idea of such a +thing, and it was Charley and Joe who put me up to it. They're +high-grade epilecs, you know. I'd been up to Doctor Wilson's office with +a message, and was going back to the drooling ward, when I saw Charley +and Joe hiding around the corner of the gymnasium and making motions to +me. I went over to them. + +"Hello," Joe said. "How's droolers?" + +"Fine," I said. "Had any fits lately?" + +That made them mad, and I was going on, when Joe said, "We're running +away. Come on." + +"What for?" I said. + +"We're going up over the top of the mountain," Joe said. + +"And find a gold mine," said Charley. "We don't have fits any more. +We're cured." + +"All right," I said. And we sneaked around back of the gymnasium and in +among the trees. Mebbe we walked along about ten minutes, when I +stopped. + +"What's the matter?" said Joe. + +"Wait," I said. "I got to go back." + +"What for?" said Joe. + +And I said, "To get little Albert." + +And they said I couldn't, and got mad. But I didn't care. I knew they'd +wait. You see, I've been here twenty-five years, and I know the back +trails that lead up the mountain, and Charley and Joe didn't know those +trails. That's why they wanted me to come. + +So I went back and got little Albert. He can't walk, or talk, or do +anything except drool, and I had to carry him in my arms. We went on +past the last hayfield, which was as far as I'd ever gone. Then the +woods and brush got so thick, and me not finding any more trail, we +followed the cow-path down to a big creek and crawled through the fence +which showed where the Home land stopped. + +We climbed up the big hill on the other side of the creek. It was all +big trees, and no brush, but it was so steep and slippery with dead +leaves we could hardly walk. By and by we came to a real bad place. It +was forty feet across, and if you slipped you'd fall a thousand feet, or +mebbe a hundred. Anyway, you wouldn't fall--just slide. I went across +first, carrying little Albert. Joe came next. But Charley got scared +right in the middle and sat down. + +"I'm going to have a fit," he said. + +"No, you're not," said Joe. "Because if you was you wouldn't 'a' sat +down. You take all your fits standing." + +"This is a different kind of a fit," said Charley, beginning to cry. + +He shook and shook, but just because he wanted to he couldn't scare up +the least kind of a fit. + +Joe got mad and used awful language. But that didn't help none. So I +talked soft and kind to Charley. That's the way to handle feebs. If you +get mad, they get worse. I know. I'm that way myself. That's why I was +almost the death of Mrs. Bopp. She got mad. + +It was getting along in the afternoon, and I knew we had to be on our +way, so I said to Joe: + +"Here, stop your cussing and hold Albert. I'll go back and get him." + +And I did, too; but he was so scared and dizzy he crawled along on hands +and knees while I helped him. When I got him across and took Albert back +in my arms, I heard somebody laugh and looked down. And there was a man +and woman on horseback looking up at us. He had a gun on his saddle, and +it was her who was laughing. + +"Who in hell's that?" said Joe, getting scared. "Somebody to catch us?" + +"Shut up your cussing," I said to him. "That is the man who owns this +ranch and writes books." + +"How do you do, Mr. Endicott," I said down to him. + +"Hello," he said. "What are you doing here?" + +"We're running away," I said. + +And he said, "Good luck. But be sure and get back before dark." + +"But this is a real running away," I said. + +And then both he and his wife laughed. + +"All right," he said. "Good luck just the same. But watch out the bears +and mountain lions don't get you when it gets dark." + +Then they rode away laughing, pleasant like; but I wished he hadn't said +that about the bears and mountain lions. + +After we got around the hill, I found a trail, and we went much faster. +Charley didn't have any more signs of fits, and began laughing and +talking about gold mines. The trouble was with little Albert. He was +almost as big as me. You see, all the time I'd been calling him little +Albert, he'd been growing up. He was so heavy I couldn't keep up with +Joe and Charley. I was all out of breath. So I told them they'd have to +take turns in carrying him, which they said they wouldn't. Then I said +I'd leave them and they'd get lost, and the mountain lions and bears +would eat them. Charley looked like he was going to have a fit right +there, and Joe said, "Give him to me." And after that we carried him in +turn. + +We kept right on up that mountain. I don't think there was any gold +mine, but we might 'a' got to the top and found it, if we hadn't lost +the trail, and if it hadn't got dark, and if little Albert hadn't tired +us all out carrying him. Lots of feebs are scared of the dark, and Joe +said he was going to have a fit right there. Only he didn't. I never saw +such an unlucky boy. He never could throw a fit when he wanted to. Some +of the feebs can throw fits as quick as a wink. + +By and by it got real black, and we were hungry, and we didn't have no +fire. You see, they don't let feebs carry matches, and all we could do +was just shiver. And we'd never thought about being hungry. You see, +feebs always have their food ready for them, and that's why it's better +to be a feeb than earning your living in the world. + +And worse than everything was the quiet. There was only one thing worse, +and it was the noises. There was all kinds of noises every once in a +while, with quiet spells in between. I reckon they were rabbits, but +they made noises in the brush like wild animals--you know, rustle +rustle, thump, bump, crackle crackle, just like that. First Charley got +a fit, a real one, and Joe threw a terrible one. I don't mind fits in +the Home with everybody around. But out in the woods on a dark night is +different. You listen to me, and never go hunting gold mines with +epilecs, even if they are high-grade. + +I never had such an awful night. When Joe and Charley weren't throwing +fits they were making believe, and in the darkness the shivers from the +cold which I couldn't see seemed like fits, too. And I shivered so hard +I thought I was getting fits myself. And little Albert, with nothing to +eat, just drooled and drooled. I never seen him as bad as that before. +Why, he twisted that left eye of his until it ought to have dropped out. +I couldn't see it, but I could tell from the movements he made. And Joe +just lay and cussed and cussed, and Charley cried and wished he was +back in the Home. + +We didn't die, and next morning we went right back the way we'd come. +And little Albert got awful heavy. Doctor Wilson was mad as could be, +and said I was the worst feeb in the institution, along with Joe and +Charley. But Miss Striker, who was a nurse in the drooling ward then, +just put her arms around me and cried, she was that happy I'd got back. +I thought right there that mebbe I'd marry her. But only a month +afterward she got married to the plumber that came up from the city to +fix the gutter-pipes of the new hospital. And little Albert never +twisted his eye for two days, it was that tired. + +Next time I run away I'm going right over that mountain. But I ain't +going to take epilecs along. They ain't never cured, and when they get +scared or excited they throw fits to beat the band. But I'll take little +Albert. Somehow I can't get along without him. And anyway, I ain't going +to run away. The drooling ward's a better snap than gold mines, and I +hear there's a new nurse coming. Besides, little Albert's bigger than I +am now, and I could never carry him over a mountain. And he's growing +bigger every day. It's astonishing. + + + + +THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY + + +He lay on his back. So heavy was his sleep that the stamp of hoofs and +cries of the drivers from the bridge that crossed the creek did not +rouse him. Wagon after wagon, loaded high with grapes, passed the bridge +on the way up the valley to the winery, and the coming of each wagon was +like an explosion of sound and commotion in the lazy quiet of the +afternoon. + +But the man was undisturbed. His head had slipped from the folded +newspaper, and the straggling unkempt hair was matted with the foxtails +and burrs of the dry grass on which it lay. He was not a pretty sight. +His mouth was open, disclosing a gap in the upper row where several +teeth at some time had been knocked out. He breathed stertorously, at +times grunting and moaning with the pain of his sleep. Also, he was very +restless, tossing his arms about, making jerky, half-convulsive +movements, and at times rolling his head from side to side in the burrs. +This restlessness seemed occasioned partly by some internal discomfort, +and partly by the sun that streamed down on his face and by the flies +that buzzed and lighted and crawled upon the nose and cheeks and +eyelids. There was no other place for them to crawl, for the rest of the +face was covered with matted beard, slightly grizzled, but greatly +dirt-stained and weather-discoloured. + +The cheek-bones were blotched with the blood congested by the debauch +that was evidently being slept off. This, too, accounted for the +persistence with which the flies clustered around the mouth, lured by +the alcohol-laden exhalations. He was a powerfully built man, +thick-necked, broad-shouldered, with sinewy wrists and toil-distorted +hands. Yet the distortion was not due to recent toil, nor were the +callouses other than ancient that showed under the dirt of the one palm +upturned. From time to time this hand clenched tightly and spasmodically +into a fist, large, heavy-boned and wicked-looking. + +The man lay in the dry grass of a tiny glade that ran down to the +tree-fringed bank of the stream. On either side of the glade was a +fence, of the old stake-and-rider type, though little of it was to be +seen, so thickly was it overgrown by wild blackberry bushes, scrubby +oaks and young madrono trees. In the rear, a gate through a low paling +fence led to a snug, squat bungalow, built in the California Spanish +style and seeming to have been compounded directly from the landscape of +which it was so justly a part. Neat and trim and modestly sweet was the +bungalow, redolent of comfort and repose, telling with quiet certitude +of some one that knew, and that had sought and found. + +Through the gate and into the glade came as dainty a little maiden as +ever stepped out of an illustration made especially to show how dainty +little maidens may be. Eight years she might have been, and, possibly, a +trifle more, or less. Her little waist and little black-stockinged +calves showed how delicately fragile she was; but the fragility was of +mould only. There was no hint of anaemia in the clear, healthy complexion +nor in the quick, tripping step. She was a little, delicious blond, +with hair spun of gossamer gold and wide blue eyes that were but +slightly veiled by the long lashes. Her expression was of sweetness and +happiness; it belonged by right to any face that sheltered in the +bungalow. + +She carried a child's parasol, which she was careful not to tear against +the scrubby branches and bramble bushes as she sought for wild poppies +along the edge of the fence. They were late poppies, a third generation, +which had been unable to resist the call of the warm October sun. + +Having gathered along one fence, she turned to cross to the opposite +fence. Midway in the glade she came upon the tramp. Her startle was +merely a startle. There was no fear in it. She stood and looked long and +curiously at the forbidding spectacle, and was about to turn back when +the sleeper moved restlessly and rolled his hand among the burrs. She +noted the sun on his face, and the buzzing flies; her face grew +solicitous, and for a moment she debated with herself. Then she tiptoed +to his side, interposed the parasol between him and the sun, and +brushed away the flies. After a time, for greater ease, she sat down +beside him. + +An hour passed, during which she occasionally shifted the parasol from +one tired hand to the other. At first the sleeper had been restless, +but, shielded from the flies and the sun, his breathing became gentler +and his movements ceased. Several times, however, he really frightened +her. The first was the worst, coming abruptly and without warning. +"Christ! How deep! How deep!" the man murmured from some profound of +dream. The parasol was agitated; but the little girl controlled herself +and continued her self-appointed ministrations. + +Another time it was a gritting of teeth, as of some intolerable agony. +So terribly did the teeth crunch and grind together that it seemed they +must crash into fragments. A little later he suddenly stiffened out. The +hands clenched and the face set with the savage resolution of the dream. +The eyelids trembled from the shock of the fantasy, seemed about to +open, but did not. Instead, the lips muttered: + +"No; by God, no. And once more no. I won't peach." The lips paused, then +went on. "You might as well tie me up, warden, and cut me to pieces. +That's all you can get outa me--blood. That's all any of you-uns has +ever got outa me in this hole." + +After this outburst the man slept gently on, while the little girl still +held the parasol aloft and looked down with a great wonder at the +frowsy, unkempt creature, trying to reconcile it with the little part of +life that she knew. To her ears came the cries of men, the stamp of +hoofs on the bridge, and the creak and groan of wagons heavy-laden. It +was a breathless California Indian summer day. Light fleeces of cloud +drifted in the azure sky, but to the west heavy cloud banks threatened +with rain. A bee droned lazily by. From farther thickets came the calls +of quail, and from the fields the songs of meadow larks. And oblivious +to it all slept Ross Shanklin--Ross Shanklin, the tramp and outcast, +ex-convict 4379, the bitter and unbreakable one who had defied all +keepers and survived all brutalities. + +Texas-born, of the old pioneer stock that was always tough and stubborn, +he had been unfortunate. At seventeen years of age he had been +apprehended for horse-stealing. Also, he had been convicted of stealing +seven horses which he had not stolen, and he had been sentenced to +fourteen years' imprisonment. This was severe under any circumstances, +but with him it had been especially severe, because there had been no +prior convictions against him. The sentiment of the people who believed +him guilty had been that two years was adequate punishment for the +youth, but the county attorney, paid according to the convictions he +secured, had made seven charges against him and earned seven fees. Which +goes to show that the county attorney valued twelve years of Ross +Shanklin's life at less than a few dollars. + +Young Ross Shanklin had toiled in hell; he had escaped, more than once; +and he had been caught and sent back to toil in other and various hells. +He had been triced up and lashed till he fainted, had been revived and +lashed again. He had been in the dungeon ninety days at a time. He had +experienced the torment of the straightjacket. He knew what the humming +bird was. He had been farmed out as a chattel by the state to the +contractors. He had been trailed through swamps by blood hounds. Twice +he had been shot. For six years on end he had cut a cord and a half of +wood each day in a convict lumber camp. Sick or well, he had cut that +cord and a half or paid for it under a whip-lash knotted and pickled. + +And Ross Shanklin had not sweetened under the treatment. He had sneered, +and cursed, and defied. He had seen convicts, after the guards had +manhandled them, crippled in body for life, or left to maunder in mind +to the end of their days. He had seen convicts, even his own cell-mate, +goaded to murder by their keepers, go to the gallows cursing God. He had +been in a break in which eleven of his kind were shot down. He had been +through a mutiny, where, in the prison yard, with gatling guns trained +upon them, three hundred convicts had been disciplined with +pick-handles wielded by brawny guards. + +He had known every infamy of human cruelty, and through it all he had +never been broken. He had resented and fought to the last, until, +embittered and bestial, the day came when he was discharged. Five +dollars were given him in payment for the years of his labour and the +flower of his manhood. And he had worked little in the years that +followed. Work he hated and despised. He tramped, begged and stole, lied +or threatened as the case might warrant, and drank to besottedness +whenever he got the chance. + +The little girl was looking at him when he awoke. Like a wild animal, +all of him was awake the instant he opened his eyes. The first he saw +was the parasol, strangely obtruded between him and the sky. He did not +start nor move, though his whole body seemed slightly to tense. His eyes +followed down the parasol handle to the tight-clutched little fingers, +and along the arm to the child's face. Straight and unblinking, he +looked into her eyes, and she, returning the look, was chilled and +frightened by his glittering eyes, cold and harsh, withal bloodshot, and +with no hint in them of the warm humanness she had been accustomed to +see and feel in human eyes. They were the true prison eyes--the eyes of +a man who had learned to talk little, who had forgotten almost how to +talk. + +"Hello," he said finally, making no effort to change his position. "What +game are you up to?" + +His voice was gruff and husky, and at first it had been harsh; but it +had softened queerly in a feeble attempt at forgotten kindliness. + +"How do you do?" she said. "I'm not playing. The sun was on your face, +and mamma says one oughtn't to sleep in the sun." + +The sweet clearness of her child's voice was pleasant to him, and he +wondered why he had never noticed it in children's voices before. He sat +up slowly and stared at her. He felt that he ought to say something, but +speech with him was a reluctant thing. + +"I hope you slept well," she said gravely. + +"I sure did," he answered, never taking his eyes from her, amazed at the +fairness and delicacy of her. "How long was you holdin' that contraption +up over me?" + +"O-oh," she debated with herself, "a long, long time. I thought you +would never wake up." + +"And I thought you was a fairy when I first seen you." + +He felt elated at his contribution to the conversation. + +"No, not a fairy," she smiled. + +He thrilled in a strange, numb way at the immaculate whiteness of her +small even teeth. + +"I was just the good Samaritan," she added. + +"I reckon I never heard of that party." + +He was cudgelling his brains to keep the conversation going. Never +having been at close quarters with a child since he was man-grown, he +found it difficult. + +"What a funny man not to know about the good Samaritan. Don't you +remember? A certain man went down to Jericho--" + +"I reckon I've been there," he interrupted. + +"I knew you were a traveller!" she cried, clapping her hands. "Maybe you +saw the exact spot." + +"What spot?" + +"Why, where he fell among thieves and was left half dead. And then the +good Samaritan went to him, and bound up his wounds, and poured in oil +and wine--was that olive oil, do you think?" + +He shook his head slowly. + +"I reckon you got me there. Olive oil is something the dagoes cooks +with. I never heard of it for busted heads." + +She considered his statement for a moment. + +"Well," she announced, "we use olive oil in our cooking, so we must be +dagoes. I never knew what they were before. I thought it was slang." + +"And the Samaritan dumped oil on his head," the tramp muttered +reminiscently. "Seems to me I recollect a sky pilot sayin' something +about that old gent. D'ye know, I've been looking for him off'n' on all +my life, and never scared up hide or hair of him. They ain't no more +Samaritans." + +"Wasn't I one?" she asked quickly. + +He looked at her steadily, with a great curiosity and wonder. Her ear, +by a movement exposed to the sun, was transparent. It seemed he could +almost see through it. He was amazed at the delicacy of her colouring, +at the blue of her eyes, at the dazzle of the sun-touched golden hair. +And he was astounded by her fragility. It came to him that she was +easily broken. His eye went quickly from his huge, gnarled paw to her +tiny hand in which it seemed to him he could almost see the blood +circulate. He knew the power in his muscles, and he knew the tricks and +turns by which men use their bodies to ill-treat men. In fact, he knew +little else, and his mind for the time ran in its customary channel. It +was his way of measuring the beautiful strangeness of her. He calculated +a grip, and not a strong one, that could grind her little fingers to +pulp. He thought of fist-blows he had given to men's heads, and +received on his own head, and felt that the least of them could shatter +hers like an eggshell. He scanned her little shoulders and slim waist, +and knew in all certitude that with his two hands he could rend her to +pieces. + +"Wasn't I one?" she insisted again. + +He came back to himself with a shock--or away from himself, as the case +happened. He was loth that the conversation should cease. + +"What?" he answered. "Oh, yes; you bet you was a Samaritan, even if you +didn't have no olive oil." He remembered what his mind had been dwelling +on, and asked, "But ain't you afraid?" + +She looked at him uncomprehendingly. + +"Of ... of me?" he added lamely. + +She laughed merrily. + +"Mamma says never to be afraid of anything. She says that if you're +good, and you think good of other people, they'll be good, too." + +"And you was thinkin' good of me when you kept the sun off," he +marvelled. + +"But it's hard to think good of bees and nasty crawly things," she +confessed. + +"But there's men that is nasty and crawly things," he argued. + +"Mamma says no. She says there's good in every one." + +"I bet you she locks the house up tight at night just the same," he +proclaimed triumphantly. + +"But she doesn't. Mamma isn't afraid of anything. That's why she lets me +play out here alone when I want. Why, we had a robber once. Mamma got +right up and found him. And what do you think! He was only a poor hungry +man. And she got him plenty to eat from the pantry, and afterward she +got him work to do." + +Ross Shanklin was stunned. The vista shown him of human nature was +unthinkable. It had been his lot to live in a world of suspicion and +hatred, of evil-believing and evil-doing. It had been his experience, +slouching along village streets at nightfall, to see little children, +screaming with fear, run from him to their mothers. He had even seen +grown women shrink aside from him as he passed along the sidewalk. + +He was aroused by the girl clapping her hands as she cried out. + +"I know what you are! You're an open air crank. That's why you were +sleeping here in the grass." + +He felt a grim desire to laugh, but repressed it. + +"And that's what tramps are--open air cranks," she continued. "I often +wondered. Mamma believes in the open air. I sleep on the porch at night. +So does she. This is our land. You must have climbed the fence. Mamma +lets me when I put on my climbers--they're bloomers, you know. But you +ought to be told something. A person doesn't know when they snore +because they're asleep. But you do worse than that. You grit your teeth. +That's bad. Whenever you are going to sleep you must think to yourself, +'I won't grit my teeth, I won't grit my teeth,' over and over, just like +that, and by and by you'll get out of the habit. + +"All bad things are habits. And so are all good things. And it depends +on us what kind our habits are going to be. I used to pucker my +eyebrows--wrinkle them all up, but mamma said I must overcome that +habit. She said that when my eyebrows were wrinkled it was an +advertisement that my brain was wrinkled inside, and that it wasn't good +to have wrinkles in the brain. And then she smoothed my eyebrows with +her hand and said I must always think _smooth_--_smooth_ inside, and +_smooth_ outside. And do you know, it was easy. I haven't wrinkled my +brows for ever so long. I've heard about filling teeth by thinking. But +I don't believe that. Neither does mamma." + +She paused, rather out of breath. Nor did he speak. Her flow of talk had +been too much for him. Also, sleeping drunkenly, with open mouth, had +made him very thirsty. But, rather than lose one precious moment, he +endured the torment of his scorching throat and mouth. He licked his dry +lips and struggled for speech. + +"What is your name?" he managed at last. + +"Joan." + +She looked her own question at him, and it was not necessary to voice +it. + +"Mine is Ross Shanklin," he volunteered, for the first time in forgotten +years giving his real name. + +"I suppose you've travelled a lot." + +"I sure have, but not as much as I might have wanted to." + +"Papa always wanted to travel, but he was too busy at the office. He +never could get much time. He went to Europe once with mamma. That was +before I was born. It takes money to travel." + +Ross Shanklin did not know whether to agree with this statement or not. + +"But it doesn't cost tramps much for expenses," she took the thought +away from him. "Is that why you tramp?" + +He nodded and licked his lips. + +"Mamma says it's too bad that men must tramp to look for work. But +there's lots of work now in the country. All the farmers in the valley +are trying to get men. Have you been working?" + +He shook his head, angry with himself that he should feel shame at the +confession when his savage reasoning told him he was right in despising +work. But this was followed by another thought. This beautiful little +creature was some man's child. She was one of the rewards of work. + +"I wish I had a little girl like you," he blurted out, stirred by a +sudden consciousness of passion for paternity. "I'd work my hands off. +I ... I'd do anything." + +She considered his case with fitting gravity. + +"Then you aren't married?" + +"Nobody would have me." + +"Yes they would, if...." + +She did not turn up her nose, but she favoured his dirt and rags with a +look of disapprobation he could not mistake. + +"Go on," he half-shouted. "Shoot it into me. If I was washed--if I wore +good clothes--if I was respectable--if I had a job and worked +regular--if I wasn't what I am." + +To each statement she nodded. + +"Well, I ain't that kind," he rushed on. + +"I'm no good. I'm a tramp. I don't want to work, that's what. And I like +dirt." + +Her face was eloquent with reproach as she said, "Then you were only +making believe when you wished you had a little girl like me?" + +This left him speechless, for he knew, in all the deeps of his new-found +passion, that that was just what he did want. + +With ready tact, noting his discomfort, she sought to change the +subject. + +"What do you think of God?" she asked. + +"I ain't never met him. What do you think about him?" + +His reply was evidently angry, and she was frank in her disapproval. + +"You are very strange," she said. "You get angry so easily. I never saw +anybody before that got angry about God, or work, or being clean." + +"He never done anything for me," he muttered resentfully. He cast back +in quick review of the long years of toil in the convict camps and +mines. "And work never done anything for me neither." + +An embarrassing silence fell. + +He looked at her, numb and hungry with the stir of the father-love, +sorry for his ill temper, puzzling his brain for something to say. She +was looking off and away at the clouds, and he devoured her with his +eyes. He reached out stealthily and rested one grimy hand on the very +edge of her little dress. It seemed to him that she was the most +wonderful thing in the world. The quail still called from the coverts, +and the harvest sounds seemed abruptly to become very loud. A great +loneliness oppressed him. + +"I'm ... I'm no good," he murmured huskily and repentantly. + +But, beyond a glance from her blue eyes, she took no notice. The silence +was more embarrassing than ever. He felt that he could give the world +just to touch with his lips that hem of her dress where his hand rested. +But he was afraid of frightening her. He fought to find something to +say, licking his parched lips and vainly attempting to articulate +something, anything. + +"This ain't Sonoma Valley," he declared finally. "This is fairy land, +and you're a fairy. Mebbe I'm asleep and dreaming. I don't know. You and +me don't know how to talk together, because, you see, you're a fairy and +don't know nothing but good things, and I'm a man from the bad, wicked +world." + +Having achieved this much, he was left gasping for ideas like a stranded +fish. + +"And you're going to tell me about the bad, wicked world," she cried, +clapping her hands. "I'm just dying to know." + +He looked at her, startled, remembering the wreckage of womanhood he had +encountered on the sunken ways of life. She was no fairy. She was flesh +and blood, and the possibilities of wreckage were in her as they had +been in him even when he lay at his mother's breast. And there was in +her eagerness to know. + +"Nope," he said lightly, "this man from the bad, wicked world ain't +going to tell you nothing of the kind. He's going to tell you of the +good things in that world. He's going to tell you how he loved hosses +when he was a shaver, and about the first hoss he straddled, and the +first hoss he owned. Hosses ain't like men. They're better. They're +clean--clean all the way through and back again. And, little fairy, I +want to tell you one thing--there sure ain't nothing in the world like +when you're settin' a tired hoss at the end of a long day, and when you +just speak, and that tired animal lifts under you willing and hustles +along. Hosses! They're my long suit. I sure dote on hosses. Yep. I used +to be a cowboy once." + +She clapped her hands in the way that tore so delightfully to his heart, +and her eyes were dancing, as she exclaimed: + +"A Texas cowboy! I always wanted to see one! I heard papa say once that +cowboys are bow-legged. Are you?" + +"I sure was a Texas cowboy," he answered. "But it was a long time ago. +And I'm sure bow-legged. You see, you can't ride much when you're young +and soft without getting the legs bent some. Why, I was only a +three-year-old when I begun. He was a three-year-old, too, fresh-broken. +I led him up alongside the fence, clumb to the top rail, and dropped +on. He was a pinto, and a real devil at bucking, but I could do +anything with him. I reckon he knowed I was only a little shaver. Some +hosses knows lots more 'n' you think." + +For half an hour Ross Shanklin rambled on with his horse reminiscences, +never unconscious for a moment of the supreme joy that was his through +the touch of his hand on the hem of her dress. The sun dropped slowly +into the cloud bank, the quail called more insistently, and empty wagon +after empty wagon rumbled back across the bridge. Then came a woman's +voice. + +"Joan! Joan!" it called. "Where are you, dear?" + +The little girl answered, and Ross Shanklin saw a woman, clad in a soft, +clinging gown, come through the gate from the bungalow. She was a +slender, graceful woman, and to his charmed eyes she seemed rather to +float along than walk like ordinary flesh and blood. + +"What have you been doing all afternoon?" the woman asked, as she came +up. + +"Talking, mamma," the little girl replied "I've had a very interesting +time." + +Ross Shanklin scrambled to his feet and stood watchfully and awkwardly. +The little girl took the mother's hand, and she, in turn, looked at him +frankly and pleasantly, with a recognition of his humanness that was a +new thing to him. In his mind ran the thought: _the woman who ain't +afraid_. Not a hint was there of the timidity he was accustomed to +seeing in women's eyes. And he was quite aware, and never more so, of +his bleary-eyed, forbidding appearance. + +"How do you do?" she greeted him sweetly and naturally. + +"How do you do, ma'am," he responded, unpleasantly conscious of the +huskiness and rawness of his voice. + +"And did you have an interesting time, too?" she smiled. + +"Yes, ma'am. I sure did. I was just telling your little girl about +hosses." + +"He was a cowboy, once, mamma," she cried. + +The mother smiled her acknowledgment to him, and looked fondly down at +the little girl. The thought that came into Ross Shanklin's mind was the +awfulness of the crime if any one should harm either of the wonderful +pair. This was followed by the wish that some terrible danger should +threaten, so that he could fight, as he well knew how, with all his +strength and life, to defend them. + +"You'll have to come along, dear," the mother said. "It's growing late." +She looked at Ross Shanklin hesitantly. "Would you care to have +something to eat?" + +"No, ma'am, thanking you kindly just the same. I ... I ain't hungry." + +"Then say good-bye, Joan," she counselled. + +"Good-bye." The little girl held out her hand, and her eyes lighted +roguishly. "Good-bye, Mr. Man from the bad, wicked world." + +To him, the touch of her hand as he pressed it in his was the capstone +of the whole adventure. + +"Good-bye, little fairy," he mumbled. "I reckon I got to be pullin' +along." + +But he did not pull along. He stood staring after his vision until it +vanished through the gate. The day seemed suddenly empty. He looked +about him irresolutely, then climbed the fence, crossed the bridge, and +slouched along the road. He was in a dream. He did not note his feet nor +the way they led him. At times he stumbled in the dust-filled ruts. + +A mile farther on, he aroused at the crossroads. Before him stood the +saloon. He came to a stop and stared at it, licking his lips. He sank +his hand into his pants pocket and fumbled a solitary dime. "God!" he +muttered. "God!" Then, with dragging, reluctant feet, went on along the +road. + +He came to a big farm. He knew it must be big, because of the bigness of +the house and the size and number of the barns and outbuildings. On the +porch, in shirt sleeves, smoking a cigar, keen-eyed and middle-aged, was +the farmer. + +"What's the chance for a job?" Ross Shanklin asked. + +The keen eyes scarcely glanced at him. + +"A dollar a day and grub," was the answer. + +Ross Shanklin swallowed and braced himself. + +"I'll pick grapes all right, or anything. But what's the chance for a +steady job? You've got a big ranch here. I know hosses. I was born on +one. I can drive team, ride, plough, break, do anything that anybody +ever done with hosses." + +The other looked him over with an appraising, incredulous eye. + +"You don't look it," was the judgment. + +"I know I don't. Give me a chance. That's all. I'll prove it." + +The farmer considered, casting an anxious glance at the cloud bank into +which the sun had sunk. + +"I'm short a teamster, and I'll give you the chance to make good. Go and +get supper with the hands." + +Ross Shanklin's voice was very husky, and be spoke with an effort. + +"All right. I'll make good. Where can I get a drink of water and wash +up?" + + + + +THE PRODIGAL FATHER + +I + + +Josiah Childs was ordinarily an ordinary-appearing, prosperous business +man. He wore a sixty-dollar, business-man's suit, his shoes were +comfortable and seemly and made from the current last, his tie, collars +and cuffs were just what all prosperous business men wore, and an +up-to-date, business-man's derby was his wildest adventure in head-gear. +Oakland, California, is no sleepy country town, and Josiah Childs, as +the leading grocer of a rushing Western metropolis of three hundred +thousand, appropriately lived, acted, and dressed the part. + +But on this morning, before the rush of custom began, his appearance at +the store, while it did not cause a riot, was sufficiently startling to +impair for half an hour the staff's working efficiency. He nodded +pleasantly to the two delivery drivers loading their wagons for the +first trip of the morning, and cast upward the inevitable, complacent +glance at the sign that ran across the front of the building--CHILDS' +CASH STORE. The lettering, not too large, was of dignified black and +gold, suggestive of noble spices, aristocratic condiments, and +everything of the best (which was no more than to be expected of a scale +of prices ten per cent. higher than any other grocery in town). But what +Josiah Childs did not see as he turned his back on the drivers and +entered, was the helpless and mutual fall of surprise those two worthies +perpetrated on each other's necks. They clung together for support. + +"Did you catch the kicks, Bill?" one moaned. + +"Did you pipe the head-piece?" Bill moaned back. + +"Now if he was goin' to a masquerade ball...." + +"Or attendin' a reunion of the Rough Riders...." + +"Or goin' huntin' bear...." + +"Or swearin' off his taxes...." + +"Instead of goin' all the way to the effete East--Monkton says he's +going clear to Boston...." + +The two drivers held each other apart at arm's length, and fell limply +together again. + +For Josiah Childs' outfit was all their actions connotated. His hat was +a light fawn, stiff-rimmed John B. Stetson, circled by a band of Mexican +stamped leather. Over a blue flannel shirt, set off by a drooping +Windsor tie, was a rough-and-ready coat of large-ribbed corduroy. Pants +of the same material were thrust into high-laced shoes of the sort worn +by surveyors, explorers, and linemen. + +A clerk at a near counter almost petrified at sight of his employer's +bizarre rig. Monkton, recently elevated to the managership, gasped, +swallowed, and maintained his imperturbable attentiveness. The lady +bookkeeper, glancing down from her glass eyrie on the inside balcony, +took one look and buried her giggles in the day book. Josiah Childs saw +most of all this, but he did not mind. He was starting on his vacation, +and his head and heart were buzzing with plans and anticipations of the +most adventurous vacation he had taken in ten years. Under his eyelids +burned visions of East Falls, Connecticut, and of all the home scenes he +had been born to and brought up in. Oakland, he was thoroughly aware, +was more modern than East Falls, and the excitement caused by his garb +was only to be expected. Undisturbed by the sensation he knew he was +creating among his employes, he moved about, accompanied by his manager, +making last suggestions, giving final instructions, and radiating fond, +farewell glances at all the loved details of the business he had built +out of nothing. + +He had a right to be proud of Childs' Cash Store. Twelve years before he +had landed in Oakland with fourteen dollars and forty-three cents. Cents +did not circulate so far West, and after the fourteen dollars were gone, +he continued to carry the three pennies in his pocket for a weary while. +Later, when he had got a job clerking in a small grocery for eleven +dollars a week, and had begun sending a small monthly postal order to +one, Agatha Childs, East Falls, Connecticut, he invested the three +coppers in postage stamps. Uncle Sam could not reject his own lawful +coin of the realm. + +Having spent all his life in cramped New England, where sharpness and +shrewdness had been whetted to razor-edge on the harsh stone of meagre +circumstance, he had found himself abruptly in the loose and +free-and-easy West, where men thought in thousand-dollar bills and +newsboys dropped dead at sight of copper cents. Josiah Childs bit like +fresh acid into the new industrial and business conditions. He had +vision. He saw so many ways of making money all at once, that at first +his brain was in a whirl. + +At the same time, being sane and conservative, he had resolutely avoided +speculation. The solid and substantial called to him. Clerking at eleven +dollars a week, he took note of the lost opportunities, of the openings +for safe enterprise, of the countless leaks in the business. If, despite +all this, the boss could make a good living, what couldn't he, Josiah +Childs, do with his Connecticut training? It was like a bottle of wine +to a thirsty hermit, this coming to the active, generous-spending West +after thirty-five years in East Falls, the last fifteen of which had +been spent in humdrum clerking in the humdrum East Falls general store. +Josiah Childs' head buzzed with the easy possibilities he saw. But he +did not lose his head. No detail was overlooked. He spent his spare +hours in studying Oakland, its people, how they made their money, and +why they spent it and where. He walked the central streets, watching the +drift of the buying crowds, even counting them and compiling the +statistics in various notebooks. He studied the general credit system of +the trade, and the particular credit systems of the different districts. +He could tell to a dot the average wage or salary earned by the +householders of any locality, and he made it a point of thoroughness to +know every locality from the waterfront slums to the aristocratic Lake +Merritt and Piedmont sections, from West Oakland, where dwelt the +railroad employes, to the semi-farmers of Fruitvale at the opposite end +of the city. + +Broadway, on the main street and in the very heart of the shopping +district, where no grocer had ever been insane enough to dream of +establishing a business, was his ultimate selection. But that required +money, while he had to start from the smallest of beginnings. His first +store was on lower Filbert, where lived the nail-workers. In half a +year, three other little corner groceries went out of business while he +was compelled to enlarge his premises. He understood the principle of +large sales at small profits, of stable qualities of goods, and of a +square deal. He had glimpsed, also, the secret of advertising. Each week +he set forth one article that sold at a loss to him. This was not an +advertised loss, but an absolute loss. His one clerk prophesied +impending bankruptcy when butter, that cost Childs thirty cents, was +sold for twenty-five cents, when twenty-two-cent coffee was passed +across the counter at eighteen cents. The neighbourhood housewives came +for these bargains and remained to buy other articles that sold at a +profit. Moreover, the whole neighbourhood came quickly to know Josiah +Childs, and the busy crowd of buyers in his store was an attraction in +itself. + +But Josiah Childs made no mistake. He knew the ultimate foundation on +which his prosperity rested. He studied the nail works until he came to +know as much about them as the managing directors. Before the first +whisper had stirred abroad, he sold his store, and with a modest sum of +ready cash went in search of a new location. Six months later the nail +works closed down, and closed down forever. + +His next store was established on Adeline Street, where lived a +comfortable, salaried class. Here, his shelves carried a higher-grade +and a more diversified stock. By the same old method, he drew his crowd. +He established a delicatessen counter. He dealt directly with the +farmers, so that his butter and eggs were not only always dependable but +were a shade better than those sold by the finest groceries in the city. +One of his specialties was Boston baked beans, and so popular did it +become that the Twin Cabin Bakery paid him better than handsomely for +the privilege of taking it over. He made time to study the farmers, the +very apples they grew, and certain farmers he taught how properly to +make cider. As a side-line, his New England apple cider proved his +greatest success, and before long, after he had invaded San Francisco, +Berkeley, and Alameda, he ran it as an independent business. + +But always his eyes were fixed on Broadway. Only one other intermediate +move did he make, which was to as near as he could get to the Ashland +Park Tract, where every purchaser of land was legally pledged to put up +no home that should cost less than four thousand dollars. After that +came Broadway. A strange swirl had come in the tide of the crowd. The +drift was to Washington Street, where real estate promptly soared while +on Broadway it was as if the bottom had fallen out. One big store after +another, as the leases expired, moved to Washington. + +The crowd will come back, Josiah Childs said, but he said it to himself. +He knew the crowd. Oakland was growing, and he knew why it was growing. +Washington Street was too narrow to carry the increasing traffic. Along +Broadway, in the physical nature of things, the electric cars, ever in +greater numbers, would have to run. The realty dealers said that the +crowd would never come back, while the leading merchants followed the +crowd. And then it was, at a ridiculously low figure, that Josiah Childs +got a long lease on a modern, Class A building on Broadway, with a +buying option at a fixed price. It was the beginning of the end for +Broadway, said the realty dealers, when a grocery was established in its +erstwhile sacred midst. Later, when the crowd did come back, they said +Josiah Childs was lucky. Also, they whispered among themselves that he +had cleared at least fifty thousand on the transaction. + +It was an entirely different store from his previous ones. There were no +more bargains. Everything was of the superlative best, and superlative +best prices were charged. He catered to the most expensive trade in +town. Only those who could carelessly afford to pay ten per cent. more +than anywhere else, patronised him, and so excellent was his service +that they could not afford to go elsewhere. His horses and delivery +wagons were more expensive and finer than any one else's in town. He +paid his drivers, and clerks, and bookkeepers higher wages than any +other store could dream of paying. As a result, he got more efficient +men, and they rendered him and his patrons a more satisfying service. In +short, to deal at Childs' Cash Store became almost the infallible index +of social status. + +To cap everything, came the great San Francisco earthquake and fire, +which caused one hundred thousand people abruptly to come across the Bay +and live in Oakland. Not least to profit from so extraordinary a boom, +was Josiah Childs. And now, after twelve years' absence, he was +departing on a visit to East Falls, Connecticut. In the twelve years he +had not received a letter from Agatha, nor had he seen even a photograph +of his and Agatha's boy. + +Agatha and he had never got along together. Agatha was masterful. Agatha +had a tongue. She was strong on old-fashioned morality. She was +unlovely in her rectitude. Josiah never could quite make out how he had +happened to marry her. She was two years his senior, and had long ranked +as an old maid She had taught school, and was known by the young +generation as the sternest disciplinarian in its experience. She had +become set in her ways, and when she married it was merely an exchange +of a number of pupils for one. Josiah had to stand the hectoring and +nagging that thitherto had been distributed among many. As to how the +marriage came about, his Uncle Isaac nearly hit it off one day when he +said in confidence: "Josiah, when Agatha married you it was a case of +marrying a struggling young man. I reckon you was overpowered. Or maybe +you broke your leg and couldn't get away." + +"Uncle Isaac," Josiah answered, "I didn't break my leg. I ran my +dangdest, but she just plum run me down and out of breath." + +"Strong in the wind, eh?" Uncle Isaac chuckled. + +"We've ben married five years now," Josiah agreed, "and I've never known +her to lose it." + +"And never will," Uncle Isaac added. + +This conversation had taken place in the last days, and so dismal an +outlook proved too much for Josiah Childs. Meek he was, under Agatha's +firm tuition, but he was very healthy, and his promise of life was too +long for his patience. He was only thirty-three, and he came of a +long-lived stock. Thirty-three more years with Agatha and Agatha's +nagging was too hideous to contemplate. So, between a sunset and a +rising, Josiah Childs disappeared from East Falls. And from that day, +for twelve years, he had received no letter from her. Not that it was +her fault. He had carefully avoided letting her have his address. His +first postal money orders were sent to her from Oakland, but in the +years that followed he had arranged his remittances so that they bore +the scattered postmarks of most of the states west of the Rockies. + +But twelve years, and the confidence born of deserved success, had +softened his memories. After all, she was the mother of his boy, and it +was incontestable that she had always meant well. Besides, he was not +working so hard now, and he had more time to think of things besides his +business. He wanted to see the boy, whom he had never seen and who had +turned three before his father ever learned he was a father. Then, too, +homesickness had begun to crawl in him. In a dozen years he had not seen +snow, and he was always wondering if New England fruits and berries had +not a finer tang than those of California. Through hazy vistas he saw +the old New England life, and he wanted to see it again in the flesh +before he died. + +And, finally, there was duty. Agatha was his wife. He would bring her +back with him to the West. He felt that he could stand it. He was a man, +now, in the world of men. He ran things, instead of being run, and +Agatha would quickly find it out. Nevertheless, he wanted Agatha to come +to him for his own sake. So it was that he had put on his frontier rig. +He would be the prodigal father, returning as penniless as when he +left, and it would be up to her whether or not she killed the fatted +calf. Empty of hand, and looking it, he would come back wondering if he +could get his old job in the general store. Whatever followed would be +Agatha's affair. + +By the time he said good-bye to his staff and emerged on the sidewalk, +five more of his delivery wagons were backed up and loading. + +He ran his eye proudly over them, took a last fond glance at the +black-and-gold letters, and signalled the electric car at the corner. + + +II + +He ran up to East Falls from New York. In the Pullman smoker he became +acquainted with several business men. The conversation, turning on the +West, was quickly led by him. As president of the Oakland Chamber of +Commerce, he was an authority. His words carried weight, and he knew +what he was talking about, whether it was Asiatic trade, the Panama +Canal, or the Japanese coolie question. It was very exhilarating, this +stimulus of respectful attention accorded him by these prosperous +Eastern men, and before he knew it he was at East Falls. + +He was the only person who alighted, and the station was deserted. +Nobody was there expecting anybody. The long twilight of a January +evening was beginning, and the bite of the keen air made him suddenly +conscious that his clothing was saturated with tobacco smoke. He +shuddered involuntarily. Agatha did not tolerate tobacco. He half-moved +to toss the fresh-lighted cigar away, then it was borne in upon him that +this was the old East Falls atmosphere overpowering him, and he resolved +to combat it, thrusting the cigar between his teeth and gripping it with +the firmness of a dozen years of Western resolution. + +A few steps brought him into the little main street. The chilly, stilted +aspect of it shocked him. Everything seemed frosty and pinched, just as +the cutting air did after the warm balminess of California. Only several +persons, strangers to his recollection, were abroad, and they favoured +him with incurious glances. They were wrapped in an uncongenial and +frosty imperviousness. His first impression was surprise at his +surprise. Through the wide perspective of twelve years of Western life, +he had consistently and steadily discounted the size and importance of +East Falls; but this was worse than all discounting. Things were more +meagre than he had dreamed. The general store took his breath away. +Countless myriads of times he had contrasted it with his own spacious +emporium, but now he saw that in justice he had overdone it. He felt +certain that it could not accommodate two of his delicatessen counters, +and he knew that he could lose all of it in one of his storerooms. + +He took the familiar turning to the right at the head of the street, and +as he plodded along the slippery walk he decided that one of the first +things he must do was to buy sealskin cap and gloves. The thought of +sleighing cheered him for a moment, until, now on the outskirts of the +village, he was sanitarily perturbed by the adjacency of dwelling houses +and barns. Some were even connected. Cruel memories of bitter morning +chores oppressed him. The thought of chapped hands and chilblains was +almost terrifying, and his heart sank at sight of the double +storm-windows, which he knew were solidly fastened and unraisable, while +the small ventilating panes, the size of ladies' handkerchiefs, smote +him with sensations of suffocation. Agatha'll like California, he +thought, calling to his mind visions of roses in dazzling sunshine and +the wealth of flowers that bloomed the twelve months round. + +And then, quite illogically, the years were bridged and the whole leaden +weight of East Falls descended upon him like a damp sea fog. He fought +it from him, thrusting it off and aside by sentimental thoughts on the +"honest snow," the "fine elms," the "sturdy New England spirit," and the +"great homecoming." But at sight of Agatha's house he wilted. Before he +knew it, with a recrudescent guilty pang, he had tossed the half-smoked +cigar away and slackened his pace until his feet dragged in the old +lifeless, East Falls manner. He tried to remember that he was the owner +of Childs' Cash Store, accustomed to command, whose words were listened +to with respect in the Employers' Association, and who wielded the gavel +at the meetings of the Chamber of Commerce. He strove to conjure visions +of the letters in black and gold, and of the string of delivery wagons +backed up to the sidewalk. But Agatha's New England spirit was as sharp +as the frost, and it travelled to him through solid house-walls and +across the intervening hundred yards. + +Then he became aware that despite his will he had thrown the cigar away. +This brought him an awful vision. He saw himself going out in the frost +to the woodshed to smoke. His memory of Agatha he found less softened by +the lapse of years than it had been when three thousand miles +intervened. It was unthinkable. No; he couldn't do it. He was too old, +too used to smoking all over the house, to do the woodshed stunt now. +And everything depended on how he began. He would put his foot down. He +would smoke in the house that very night ... in the kitchen, he feebly +amended. No, by George, he would smoke now. He would arrive smoking. +Mentally imprecating the cold, he exposed his bare hands and lighted +another cigar. His manhood seemed to flare up with the match. He would +show her who was boss. Right from the drop of the hat he would show her. + +Josiah Childs had been born in this house. And it was long before he +was born that his father had built it. Across the low stone fence, +Josiah could see the kitchen porch and door, the connected woodshed, and +the several outbuildings. Fresh from the West, where everything was new +and in constant flux, he was astonished at the lack of change. +Everything was as it had always been. He could almost see himself, a +boy, doing the chores. There, in the woodshed, how many cords of wood +had he bucksawed and split! Well, thank the Lord, that was past. + +The walk to the kitchen showed signs of recent snow-shovelling. That had +been one of his tasks. He wondered who did it now, and suddenly +remembered that his own son must be twelve. In another moment he would +have knocked at the kitchen door, but the _skreek_ of a bucksaw from the +woodshed led him aside. He looked in and saw a boy hard at work. +Evidently, this was his son. Impelled by the wave of warm emotion that +swept over him, he all but rushed in upon the lad. He controlled himself +with an effort. + +"Father here?" he asked curtly, though from under the stiff brim of his +John B. Stetson he studied the boy closely. + +Sizable for his age, he thought. A mite spare in the ribs maybe, and +that possibly due to rapid growth. But the face strong and pleasing and +the eyes like Uncle Isaac's. When all was said, a darn good sample. + +"No, sir," the boy answered, resting on the saw-buck. + +"Where is he?" + +"At sea," was the answer. + +Josiah Childs felt a something very akin to relief and joy tingle +through him. Agatha had married again--evidently a seafaring man. Next, +came an ominous, creepy sensation. Agatha had committed bigamy. He +remembered Enoch Arden, read aloud to the class by the teacher in the +old schoolhouse, and began to think of himself as a hero. He would do +the heroic. By George, he would. He would sneak away and get the first +train for California. She would never know. + +But there was Agatha's New England morality, and her New England +conscience. She received a regular remittance. She knew he was alive. It +was impossible that she could have done this thing. He groped wildly for +a solution. Perhaps she had sold the old home, and this boy was somebody +else's boy. + +"What is your name?" Josiah asked. + +"Johnnie," came the reply. + +"Last name I mean?" + +"Childs, Johnnie Childs." + +"And your father's name?--first name?" + +"Josiah Childs." + +"And he's away at sea, you say?" + +"Yes, sir." + +This set Josiah wondering again. + +"What kind of a man is he?" + +"Oh, he's all right--a good provider, Mom says. And he is. He always +sends his money home, and he works hard for it, too, Mom says. She says +he always was a good worker, and he's better'n other men she ever saw. +He don't smoke, or drink, or swear, or do anything he oughtn't. And he +never did. He was always that way, Mom says, and she knew him all her +life before ever they got married. He's a very kind man, and never hurts +anybody's feelings. Mom says he's the most considerate man she ever +knew." + +Josiah's heart went weak. Agatha had done it after all--had taken a +second husband when she knew her first was still alive. Well, he had +learned charity in the West, and he could be charitable. He would go +quietly away. Nobody would ever know. Though it was rather mean of her, +the thought flashed through him, that she should go on cashing his +remittances when she was married to so model and steady-working a +seafaring husband who brought his wages home. He cudgelled his brains in +an effort to remember such a man out of all the East Falls men he had +known. + +"What's he look like?" + +"Don't know. Never saw him. He's at sea all the time. But I know how +tall he is. Mom says I'm goin' to be bigger'n him, and he was five feet +eleven. There's a picture of him in the album. His face is thin, and he +has whiskers." + +A great illumination came to Josiah. He was himself five feet eleven. He +had worn whiskers, and his face had been thin in those days. And Johnnie +had said his father's name was Josiah Childs. He, Josiah, was this model +husband who neither smoked, swore, nor drank. He was this seafaring man +whose memory had been so carefully shielded by Agatha's forgiving +fiction. He warmed toward her. She must have changed mightily since he +left. He glowed with penitence. Then his heart sank as he thought of +trying to live up to this reputation Agatha had made for him. This boy +with the trusting blue eyes would expect it of him. Well, he'd have to +do it. Agatha had been almighty square with him. He hadn't thought she +had it in her. + +The resolve he might there and then have taken was doomed never to be, +for he heard the kitchen door open to give vent to a woman's nagging, +irritable voice. + +"Johnnie!--you!" it cried. + +How often had he heard it in the old days: "Josiah!--you!" A shiver went +through him. Involuntarily, automatically, with a guilty start, he +turned his hand back upward so that the cigar was hidden. He felt +himself shrinking and shrivelling as she stepped out on the stoop. It +was his unchanged wife, the same shrew wrinkles, with the same +sour-drooping corners to the thin-lipped mouth. But there was more +sourness, an added droop, the lips were thinner, and the shrew wrinkles +were deeper. She swept Josiah with a hostile, withering stare. + +"Do you think your father would stop work to talk to tramps?" she +demanded of the boy, who visibly quailed, even as Josiah. + +"I was only answering his questions," Johnnie pleaded doggedly but +hopelessly. "He wanted to know--" + +"And I suppose you told him," she snapped. "What business is it of his +prying around? No, and he gets nothing to eat. As for you, get to work +at once. I'll teach you, idling at your chores. Your father wa'n't like +that. Can't I ever make you like him?" + +Johnnie bent his back, and the bucksaw resumed its protesting skreek. +Agatha surveyed Josiah sourly. It was patent she did not recognise him. + +"You be off," she commanded harshly. "None of your snooping around +here." + +Josiah felt the numbness of paralysis creeping over him. He moistened +his lips and tried to say something, but found himself bereft of speech. + +"You be off, I say," she rasped in her high-keyed voice, "or I'll put +the constable after you." + +Josiah turned obediently. He heard the door slam as he went down the +walk. As in a nightmare he opened the gate he had opened ten thousand +times and stepped out on the sidewalk. He felt dazed. Surely it was a +dream. Very soon he would wake up with a sigh of relief. He rubbed his +forehead and paused indecisively. The monotonous complaint of the +bucksaw came to his ears. If that boy had any of the old Childs spirit +in him, sooner or later he'd run away. Agatha was beyond the endurance +of human flesh. She had not changed, unless for the worse, if such a +thing were possible. That boy would surely run for it, maybe soon. Maybe +now. + +Josiah Childs straightened up and threw his shoulders back. The +great-spirited West, with its daring and its carelessness of +consequences when mere obstacles stand in the way of its desire, flamed +up in him. He looked at his watch, remembered the time table, and spoke +to himself, solemnly, aloud. It was an affirmation of faith: + +"I don't care a hang about the law. That boy can't be crucified. I'll +give her a double allowance, four times, anything, but he goes with me. +She can follow on to California if she wants, but I'll draw up an +agreement, in which what's what, and she'll sign it, and live up to it, +by George, if she wants to stay. And she will," he added grimly. "She's +got to have somebody to nag." + +He opened the gate and strode back to the woodshed door. Johnnie looked +up, but kept on sawing. + +"What'd you like to do most of anything in the world?" Josiah demanded +in a tense, low voice. + +Johnnie hesitated, and almost stopped sawing. Josiah made signs for him +to keep it up. + +"Go to sea," Johnnie answered. "Along with my father." + +Josiah felt himself trembling. + +"Would you?" he asked eagerly. + +"Would I!" + +The look of joy on Johnnie's face decided everything. + +"Come here, then. Listen. I'm your father. I'm Josiah Childs. Did you +ever want to run away?" + +Johnnie nodded emphatically. + +"That's what I did," Josiah went on. "I ran away." He fumbled for his +watch hurriedly. "We've just time to catch the train for California. I +live there now. Maybe Agatha, your mother, will come along afterward. +I'll tell you all about it on the train. Come on." + +He gathered the half-frightened, half-trusting boy into his arms for a +moment, then, hand in hand, they fled across the yard, out of the gate, +and down the street. They heard the kitchen door open, and the last they +heard was: + +"Johnnie!--you! Why ain't you sawing? I'll attend to your case +directly!" + + + + +THE FIRST POET + + +SCENE: _A summer plain, the eastern side of which is bounded by grassy +hills of limestone, the other sides by a forest. The hill nearest to the +plain terminates in a cliff, in the face of which, nearly at the level +of the ground, are four caves, with low, narrow entrances. Before the +caves, and distant from them less than one hundred feet, is a broad, +flat rock, on which are laid several sharp slivers of flint, which, like +the rock, are blood-stained. Between the rock and the cave-entrances, on +a low pile of stones, is squatted a man, stout and hairy. Across his +knees is a thick club, and behind him crouches a woman. At his right and +left are two men somewhat resembling him, and like him, bearing wooden +clubs. These four face the west, and between them and the bloody rock +squat some threescore of cave-folk, talking loudly among themselves. It +is late afternoon. The name of him on the pile of stones is Uk, the +name of his mate, Ala; and of those at his right and left, Ok and Un._ + +_Uk:_ + +Be still! + +(_Turning to the woman behind him_) + +Thou seest that they become still. None save me can make his kind be +still, except perhaps the chief of the apes, when in the night he deems +he hears a serpent.... At whom dost thou stare so long? At Oan? Oan, +come to me! + +_Oan:_ + +I am thy cub. + +_Uk:_ + +Oan, thou art a fool! + +_Ok and Un:_ + +Ho! ho! Oan is a fool! + +_All the Tribe:_ + +Ho! ho! Oan is a fool! + +_Oan:_ + +Why am I a fool? + +_Uk:_ + +Dost thou not chant strange words? Last night I heard thee chant strange +words at the mouth of thy cave. + +_Oan:_ + +Ay! they are marvellous words; they were born within me in the dark. + +_Uk:_ + +Art thou a woman, that thou shouldst bring forth? Why dost thou not +sleep when it is dark? + +_Oan:_ + +I did half sleep; perhaps I dreamed. + +_Uk:_ + +And why shouldst thou dream, not having had more than thy portion of +flesh? Hast thou slain a deer in the forest and brought it not to the +Stone? + +_All the Tribe:_ + +Wa! Wa! He hath slain in the forest, and brought not the meat to the +Stone! + +_Uk:_ + +Be still, ye! + +(_To Ala_) + +Thou seest that they become still.... Oan, hast thou slain and kept to +thyself? + +_Oan:_ + +Nay, thou knowest that I am not apt at the chase. Also it irks me to +squat on a branch all day above a path, bearing a rock upon my thighs. +Those words did but awaken within me when I was peaceless in the night. + +_Uk:_ + +And why wast thou peaceless in the night? + +_Oan:_ + +Thy mate wept, for that thou didst heat her. + +_Uk:_ + +Ay! she lamented loudly. But thou shalt make thy half-sleep henceforth +at the mouth of the cave, so that when Gurr the tiger cometh, thou +shalt hear him sniff between the boulders, and shalt strike the flints, +whose stare he hatest. Gurr cometh nightly to the caves. + +_One of the Tribe:_ + +Ay! Gurr smelleth the Stone! + +_Uk:_ + +Be still! + +(_To Ala_) + +Had he not become still, Ok and Un would have beaten him with their +clubs.... But, Oan, tell us those words that were born to thee when Ala +did weep. + +_Oan (arising):_ + +They are wonderful words. They are such: + + The bright day is gone-- + +_Uk:_ + +Now I see thou art liar as well as fool: behold, the day is not gone! + +_Oan:_ + +But the day was gone in that hour when my song was born to me. + +_Uk:_ + +Then shouldst thou have sung it only at that time, and not when it is +yet day. But beware lest thou awaken me in the night. Make thou many +stars, that they fly in the whiskers of Gurr. + +_Oan:_ + +My song is even of stars. + +_Uk:_ + +It was Ul, thy father's wont, ere I slew him with four great stones, to +climb to the tops of the tallest trees and reach forth his hand, to see +if he might not pluck a star. But I said: "Perhaps they be as +chestnut-burs." And all the tribe did laugh. Ul was also a fool. But +what dost thou sing of stars? + +_Oan:_ + +I will begin again: + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sad, sad, sad-- + +_Uk:_ + +Nay, the night maketh thee sad; not sad, sad, sad. For when I say to +Ala, "Gather thou dried leaves," I say not, "Gather thou dried leaves, +leaves, leaves." Thou art a fool! + +_Ok and Un:_ + +Thou art a fool! + +_All the Tribe:_ + +Thou art a fool! + +_Uk:_ + +Yea, he is a fool. But say on, Oan, and tell us of thy chestnut-burs. + +_Oan:_ + +I will begin again: + + The bright day is gone-- + +_Uk:_ + +Thou dost not say, "gone, gone, gone!" + +_Oan:_ + +I am thy cub. Suffer that I speak: so shall the tribe admire greatly. + +_Uk:_ + +Speak on! + +_Oan:_ + +I will begin once more: + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sad, sad-- + +_Uk:_ + +Said I not that "sad" should be spoken but once? Shall I set Ok and Un +upon thee with their branches? + +_Oan:_ + +But it was so born within me--even "sad, sad--" + +_Uk:_ + +If again thou twice or thrice say "sad," thou shalt be dragged to the +Stone. + +_Oan:_ + +Owl Ow! I am thy cub! Yet listen: + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sad-- + +Ow! Ow! thou makest me more sad than the night doth! The song-- + +_Uk:_ + +Ok! Un! Be prepared! + +_Oan (hastily):_ + +Nay! have mercy! I will begin afresh: + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sad. + The--the--the-- + +_Uk:_ + +Thou hast forgotten, and art a fool! See, Ala, he is a fool! + +_Ok and Un:_ + +He is a fool! + +_All the Tribe:_ + +He is a fool! + +_Oan:_ + +I am not a fool! This is a new thing. In the past, when ye did chant, O +men, ye did leap about the Stone, beating your breasts and crying, "Hai, +hai, hai!" Or, if the moon was great, "Hai, hai! hai, hai, hai!" But +this song is made even with such words as ye do speak, and is a great +wonder. One may sit at the cave's mouth, and moan it many times as the +light goeth out of the sky. + +_One of the Tribe:_ + +Ay! even thus doth he sit at the mouth of our cave, making us marvel, +and more especially the women. + +_Uk:_ + +Be still!... When I would make women marvel, I do show them a wolf's +brains upon my club, or the great stone that I cast, or perhaps do whirl +my arms mightily, or bring home much meat. How should a man do +otherwise? I will have no songs in this place. + +_Oan:_ + +Yet suffer that I sing my song unto the tribe. Such things have not been +before. It may be that they shall praise thee, seeing that I who do make +this song am thy cub. + +_Uk:_ + +Well, let us have the song. + +_Oan (facing the tribe):_ + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sa--sad. + But the stars are very white. + They whisper that the day shall return. + O stars; little pieces of the day! + +_Uk:_ + +This is indeed madness. Hast thou heard a star whisper? Did Ul, thy +father, tell thee that he heard the stars whisper when he was in the +tree-top? And of what moment is it that a star be a piece of the day, +seeing that its light is of no value? Thou art a fool! + +_Ok and Un:_ + +Thou art a fool! + +_All the Tribe:_ + +Thou art a fool! + +_Oan:_ + +But it was so born unto me. And at that birth it was as though I would +weep, yet had not been stricken; I was moreover glad, yet none had given +me a gift of meat. + +_Uk:_ + +It is a madness. How shall the stars profit us? Will they lead us to a +bear's den, or where the deer foregather, or break for us great bones +that we come at their marrow? Will they tell us anything at all? Wait +thou until the night, and we shall peer forth from between the boulders, +and all men shall take note that the stars cannot whisper.... Yet it may +be that they are pieces of the day. This is a deep matter. + +_Oan:_ + +Ay! they are pieces of the moon! + +_Uk:_ + +What further madness is this? How shall they be pieces of two things +that are not the same? Also it was not thus in the song. + +_Oan:_ + +I will make me a new song. We do change the shape of wood and stone, but +a song is made out of nothing. Ho! ho! I can fashion things from +nothing! Also I say that the stars come down at morning and become the +dew. + +_Uk:_ + +Let us have no more of these stars. It may be that a song is a good +thing, if it be of what a man knoweth. Thus, if thou singest of my club, +or of the bear that I slew, of the stain on the Stone, or the cave and +the warm leaves in the cave, it might be well. + +_Oan:_ + +I will make thee a song of Ala! + +_Uk (furiously):_ + +Thou shalt make me no such song! Thou shalt make me a song of the +deer-liver that thou hast eaten! Did I not give to thee of the liver of +the she-deer, because thou didst bring me crawfish? + +_Oan:_ + +Truly I did eat of the liver of the she-deer; but to sing thereof is +another matter. + +_Uk:_ + +It was no labour for thee to sing of the stars. See now our clubs and +casting-stones, with which we slay flesh to eat; also the caves in which +we dwell, and the Stone whereon we make sacrifice; wilt thou sing no +song of those? + +_Oan:_ + +It may be that I shall sing thee songs of them. But now, as I strive +here to sing of the doe's liver, no words are born unto me: I can but +sing, "O liver! O red liver!" + +_Uk:_ + +That is a good song: thou seest that the liver is red. It is red as +blood. + +_Oan:_ + +But I love not the liver, save to eat of it. + +_Uk:_ + +Yet the song of it is good. When the moon is full we shall sing it about +the Stone. We shall beat upon our breasts and sing, "O liver! O red +liver!" And all the women in the caves shall be affrightened. + +_Oan:_ + +I will not have that song of the liver! It shall be Ok's song; the tribe +must say, "Ok hath made the song!" + +_Ok:_ + +Ay! I shall be a great singer; I shall sing of a wolf's heart, and say, +"Behold, it is red!" + +_Uk:_ + +Thou art a fool, and shalt sing only, "Hai, hai!" as thy father before +thee. But Oan shall make me a song of my club, for the women listen to +his songs. + +_Oan:_ + +I will make thee no songs, neither of thy club, nor thy cave, nor thy +doe's-liver. Yea! though thou give me no more flesh, yet will I live +alone in the forest, and eat the seed of grasses, and likewise rabbits, +that are easily snared. And I will sleep in a tree-top, and I will sing +nightly: + + The bright day is gone. + The night maketh me sad, sad, sad, + sad, sad, sad-- + +_Uk:_ + +Ok and Un, arise and slay! + +(_Ok and Un rush upon Oan, who stoops and picks up two casting-stones, +with one of which he strikes Ok between the eyes, and with the other +mashes the hand of Un, so that he drops his club. Uk arises._) + +_Uk:_ + +Behold! Gurr cometh! he cometh swiftly from the wood! + +(_The Tribe, including Oan and Ala, rush for the cave-mouths. As Oan +passes Uk, the latter runs behind Oan and crushes his skull with a blow +of his club._) + +_Uk:_ + +O men! O men with the heart of hyenas! Behold, Gurr cometh not! I did +but strive to deceive you, that I might the more easily slay this +singer, who is very swift of foot.... Gather ye before me, for I would +speak wisdom.... It is not well that there be any song among us other +than what our fathers sang in the past, or, if there be songs, let them +be of such matters as are of common understanding. If a man sing of a +deer, so shall he be drawn, it may be, to go forth and slay a deer, or +even a moose. And if he sing of his casting-stones, it may be that he +become more apt in the use thereof. And if he sing of his cave, it may +be that he shall defend it more stoutly when Gurr teareth at the +boulders. But it is a vain thing to make songs of the stars, that seem +scornful even of me; or of the moon, which is never two nights the same; +or of the day, which goeth about its business and will not linger though +one pierce a she-babe with a flint. But as for me, I would have none of +these songs. For if I sing of such in the council, how shall I keep my +wits? And if I think thereof, when at the chase, it may be that I babble +it forth, and the meat hear and escape. And ere it be time to eat, I do +give my mind solely to the care of my hunting-gear. And if one sing when +eating, he may fall short of his just portion. And when, one hath eaten, +doth not he go straightway to sleep? So where shall men find a space for +singing? But do ye as ye will: as for me, I will have none of these +songs and stars. + +Be it also known to all the women that if, remembering these wild words +of Oan, they do sing them to themselves, or teach them to the young +ones, they shall be beaten with brambles. Cause swiftly that the wife of +Ok cease from her wailing, and bring hither the horses that were slain +yesterday, that I may apportion them. Had Oan wisdom, he might have +eaten thereof; and had a mammoth fallen into our pit, he might have +feasted many days. But Oan was a fool! + +_Un:_ + +Oan was a fool! + +_All the Tribe:_ + +Oan was a fool! + + + + +FINIS + + +It was the last of Morganson's bacon. In all his life he had never +pampered his stomach. In fact, his stomach had been a sort of negligible +quantity that bothered him little, and about which he thought less. But +now, in the long absence of wonted delights, the keen yearning of his +stomach was tickled hugely by the sharp, salty bacon. + +His face had a wistful, hungry expression. The cheeks were hollow, and +the skin seemed stretched a trifle tightly across the cheek-bones. His +pale blue eyes were troubled. There was that in them that showed the +haunting imminence of something terrible. Doubt was in them, and anxiety +and foreboding. The thin lips were thinner than they were made to be, +and they seemed to hunger towards the polished frying-pan. + +He sat back and drew forth a pipe. He looked into it with sharp +scrutiny, and tapped it emptily on his open palm. He turned the +hair-seal tobacco pouch inside out and dusted the lining, treasuring +carefully each flake and mite of tobacco that his efforts gleaned. The +result was scarce a thimbleful. He searched in his pockets, and brought +forward, between thumb and forefinger, tiny pinches of rubbish. Here and +there in this rubbish were crumbs of tobacco. These he segregated with +microscopic care, though he occasionally permitted small particles of +foreign substance to accompany the crumbs to the hoard in his palm. He +even deliberately added small, semi-hard woolly fluffs, that had come +originally from the coat lining, and that had lain for long months in +the bottoms of the pockets. + +At the end of fifteen minutes he had the pipe part filled. He lighted it +from the camp fire, and sat forward on the blankets, toasting his +moccasined feet and smoking parsimoniously. When the pipe was finished +he sat on, brooding into the dying flame of the fire. Slowly the worry +went out of his eyes and resolve came in. Out of the chaos of his +fortunes he had finally achieved a way. But it was not a pretty way. +His face had become stern and wolfish, and the thin lips were drawn very +tightly. + +With resolve came action. He pulled himself stiffly to his feet and +proceeded to break camp. He packed the rolled blankets, the frying-pan, +rifle, and axe on the sled, and passed a lashing around the load. Then +he warmed his hands at the fire and pulled on his mittens. He was +foot-sore, and limped noticeably as he took his place at the head of the +sled. When he put the looped haul-rope over his shoulder, and leant his +weight against it to start the sled, he winced. His flesh was galled by +many days of contact with the haul-rope. + +The trail led along the frozen breast of the Yukon. At the end of four +hours he came around a bend and entered the town of Minto. It was +perched on top of a high earth bank in the midst of a clearing, and +consisted of a road house, a saloon, and several cabins. He left his +sled at the door and entered the saloon. + +"Enough for a drink?" he asked, laying an apparently empty gold sack +upon the bar. + +The barkeeper looked sharply at it and him, then set out a bottle and a +glass. + +"Never mind the dust," he said. + +"Go on and take it," Morganson insisted. + +The barkeeper held the sack mouth downward over the scales and shook it, +and a few flakes of gold dust fell out. Morganson took the sack from +him, turned it inside out, and dusted it carefully. + +"I thought there was half-a-dollar in it," he said. + +"Not quite," answered the other, "but near enough. I'll get it back with +the down weight on the next comer." + +Morganson shyly poured the whisky into the glass, partly filling it. + +"Go on, make it a man's drink," the barkeeper encouraged. + +Morganson tilted the bottle and filled the glass to the brim. He drank +the liquor slowly, pleasuring in the fire of it that bit his tongue, +sank hotly down his throat, and with warm, gentle caresses permeated his +stomach. + +"Scurvy, eh?" the barkeeper asked. + +"A touch of it," he answered. "But I haven't begun to swell yet. Maybe I +can get to Dyea and fresh vegetables, and beat it out." + +"Kind of all in, I'd say," the other laughed sympathetically. "No dogs, +no money, and the scurvy. I'd try spruce tea if I was you." + +At the end of half-an-hour, Morganson said good-bye and left the saloon. +He put his galled shoulder to the haul-rope and took the river-trail +south. An hour later he halted. An inviting swale left the river and led +off to the right at an acute angle. He left his sled and limped up the +swale for half a mile. Between him and the river was three hundred yards +of flat ground covered with cottonwoods. He crossed the cottonwoods to +the bank of the Yukon. The trail went by just beneath, but he did not +descend to it. South toward Selkirk he could see the trail widen its +sunken length through the snow for over a mile. But to the north, in the +direction of Minto, a tree-covered out-jut in the bank a quarter of a +mile away screened the trail from him. + +He seemed satisfied with the view and returned to the sled the way he +had come. He put the haul-rope over his shoulder and dragged the sled up +the swale. The snow was unpacked and soft, and it was hard work. The +runners clogged and stuck, and he was panting severely ere he had +covered the half-mile. Night had come on by the time he had pitched his +small tent, set up the sheet-iron stove, and chopped a supply of +firewood. He had no candles, and contented himself with a pot of tea +before crawling into his blankets. + +In the morning, as soon as he got up, he drew on his mittens, pulled the +flaps of his cap down over his ears, and crossed through the cottonwoods +to the Yukon. He took his rifle with him. As before, he did not descend +the bank. He watched the empty trail for an hour, beating his hands and +stamping his feet to keep up the circulation, then returned to the tent +for breakfast. There was little tea left in the canister--half a dozen +drawings at most; but so meagre a pinch did he put in the teapot that he +bade fair to extend the lifetime of the tea indefinitely. His entire +food supply consisted of half-a-sack of flour and a part-full can of +baking powder. He made biscuits, and ate them slowly, chewing each +mouthful with infinite relish. When he had had three he called a halt. +He debated a while, reached for another biscuit, then hesitated. He +turned to the part sack of flour, lifted it, and judged its weight. + +"I'm good for a couple of weeks," he spoke aloud. + +"Maybe three," he added, as he put the biscuits away. + +Again he drew on his mittens, pulled down his ear-flaps, took the rifle, +and went out to his station on the river bank. He crouched in the snow, +himself unseen, and watched. After a few minutes of inaction, the frost +began to bite in, and he rested the rifle across his knees and beat his +hands back and forth. Then the sting in his feet became intolerable, and +he stepped back from the bank and tramped heavily up and down among the +trees. But he did not tramp long at a time. Every several minutes he +came to the edge of the bank and peered up and down the trail, as though +by sheer will he could materialise the form of a man upon it. The short +morning passed, though it had seemed century-long to him, and the trail +remained empty. + +It was easier in the afternoon, watching by the bank. The temperature +rose, and soon the snow began to fall--dry and fine and crystalline. +There was no wind, and it fell straight down, in quiet monotony. He +crouched with eyes closed, his head upon his knees, keeping his watch +upon the trail with his ears. But no whining of dogs, churning of sleds, +nor cries of drivers broke the silence. With twilight he returned to the +tent, cut a supply of firewood, ate two biscuits, and crawled into his +blankets. He slept restlessly, tossing about and groaning; and at +midnight he got up and ate another biscuit. + +Each day grew colder. Four biscuits could not keep up the heat of his +body, despite the quantities of hot spruce tea he drank, and he +increased his allowance, morning and evening, to three biscuits. In the +middle of the day he ate nothing, contenting himself with several cups +of excessively weak real tea. This programme became routine. In the +morning three biscuits, at noon real tea, and at night three biscuits. +In between he drank spruce tea for his scurvy. He caught himself making +larger biscuits, and after a severe struggle with himself went back to +the old size. + +On the fifth day the trail returned to life. To the south a dark object +appeared, and grew larger. Morganson became alert. He worked his rifle, +ejecting a loaded cartridge from the chamber, by the same action +replacing it with another, and returning the ejected cartridge into the +magazine. He lowered the trigger to half-cock, and drew on his mitten to +keep the trigger-hand warm. As the dark object came nearer he made it +out to be a man, without dogs or sled, travelling light. He grew +nervous, cocked the trigger, then put it back to half-cock again. The +man developed into an Indian, and Morganson, with a sigh of +disappointment, dropped the rifle across his knees. The Indian went on +past and disappeared towards Minto behind the out-jutting clump of +trees. + +But Morganson conceived an idea. He changed his crouching spot to a +place where cottonwood limbs projected on either side of him. Into these +with his axe he chopped two broad notches. Then in one of the notches he +rested the barrel of his rifle and glanced along the sights. He covered +the trail thoroughly in that direction. He turned about, rested the +rifle in the other notch, and, looking along the sights, swept the trail +to the clump of trees behind which it disappeared. + +He never descended to the trail. A man travelling the trail could have +no knowledge of his lurking presence on the bank above. The snow surface +was unbroken. There was no place where his tracks left the main trail. + +As the nights grew longer, his periods of daylight watching of the trail +grew shorter. Once a sled went by with jingling bells in the darkness, +and with sullen resentment he chewed his biscuits and listened to the +sounds. Chance conspired against him. Faithfully he had watched the +trail for ten days, suffering from the cold all the prolonged torment of +the damned, and nothing had happened. Only an Indian, travelling light, +had passed in. Now, in the night, when it was impossible for him to +watch, men and dogs and a sled loaded with life, passed out, bound south +to the sea and the sun and civilisation. + +So it was that he conceived of the sled for which he waited. It was +loaded with life, his life. His life was fading, fainting, gasping away +in the tent in the snow. He was weak from lack of food, and could not +travel of himself. But on the sled for which he waited were dogs that +would drag him, food that would fan up the flame of his life, money that +would furnish sea and sun and civilisation. Sea and sun and civilisation +became terms interchangeable with life, his life, and they were loaded +there on the sled for which he waited. The idea became an obsession, and +he grew to think of himself as the rightful and deprived owner of the +sled-load of life. + +His flour was running short, and he went back to two biscuits in the +morning and two biscuits at night. Because, of this his weakness +increased and the cold bit in more savagely, and day by day he watched +by the dead trail that would not live for him. At last the scurvy +entered upon its next stage. The skin was unable longer to cast off the +impurity of the blood, and the result was that the body began to swell. +His ankles grew puffy, and the ache in them kept him awake long hours at +night. Next, the swelling jumped to his knees, and the sum of his pain +was more than doubled. + +Then there came a cold snap. The temperature went down and down--forty, +fifty, sixty degrees below zero. He had no thermometer, but this he knew +by the signs and natural phenomena understood by all men in that +country--the crackling of water thrown on the snow, the swift sharpness +of the bite of the frost, and the rapidity with which his breath froze +and coated the canvas walls and roof of the tent. Vainly he fought the +cold and strove to maintain his watch on the bank. In his weak condition +he was an easy prey, and the frost sank its teeth deep into him before +he fled away to the tent and crouched by the fire. His nose and cheeks +were frozen and turned black, and his left thumb had frozen inside the +mitten. He concluded that he would escape with the loss of the first +joint. + +Then it was, beaten into the tent by the frost, that the trail, with +monstrous irony, suddenly teemed with life. Three sleds went by the +first day, and two the second. Once, during each day, he fought his way +out to the bank only to succumb and retreat, and each of the two times, +within half-an-hour after he retreated, a sled went by. + +The cold snap broke, and he was able to remain by the bank once more, +and the trail died again. For a week he crouched and watched, and never +life stirred along it, not a soul passed in or out. He had cut down to +one biscuit night and morning, and somehow he did not seem to notice it. +Sometimes he marvelled at the way life remained in him. He never would +have thought it possible to endure so much. + +When the trail fluttered anew with life it was life with which he could +not cope. A detachment of the North-West police went by, a score of +them, with many sleds and dogs; and he cowered down on the bank above, +and they were unaware of the menace of death that lurked in the form of +a dying man beside the trail. + +His frozen thumb gave him a great deal of trouble. While watching by the +bank he got into the habit of taking his mitten off and thrusting the +hand inside his shirt so as to rest the thumb in the warmth of his +arm-pit. A mail carrier came over the trail, and Morganson let him pass. +A mail carrier was an important person, and was sure to be missed +immediately. + +On the first day after his last flour had gone it snowed. It was always +warm when the snow fell, and he sat out the whole eight hours of +daylight on the bank, without movement, terribly hungry and terribly +patient, for all the world like a monstrous spider waiting for its prey. +But the prey did not come, and he hobbled back to the tent through the +darkness, drank quarts of spruce tea and hot water, and went to bed. + +The next morning circumstance eased its grip on him. As he started to +come out of the tent he saw a huge bull-moose crossing the swale some +four hundred yards away. Morganson felt a surge and bound of the blood +in him, and then went unaccountably weak. A nausea overpowered him, and +he was compelled to sit down a moment to recover. Then he reached for +his rifle and took careful aim. The first shot was a hit: he knew it; +but the moose turned and broke for the wooded hillside that came down to +the swale. Morganson pumped bullets wildly among the trees and brush at +the fleeing animal, until it dawned upon him that he was exhausting the +ammunition he needed for the sled-load of life for which he waited. + +He stopped shooting, and watched. He noted the direction of the animal's +flight, and, high up on the hillside in an opening among the trees, saw +the trunk of a fallen pine. Continuing the moose's flight in his mind he +saw that it must pass the trunk. He resolved on one more shot, and in +the empty air above the trunk he aimed and steadied his wavering rifle. +The animal sprang into his field of vision, with lifted fore-legs as it +took the leap. He pulled the trigger. With the explosion the moose +seemed to somersault in the air. It crashed down to earth in the snow +beyond and flurried the snow into dust. + +Morganson dashed up the hillside--at least he started to dash up. The +next he knew he was coming out of a faint and dragging himself to his +feet. He went up more slowly, pausing from time to time to breathe and +to steady his reeling senses. At last he crawled over the trunk. The +moose lay before him. He sat down heavily upon the carcase and laughed. +He buried his face in his mittened hands and laughed some more. + +He shook the hysteria from him. He drew his hunting knife and worked as +rapidly as his injured thumb and weakness would permit him. He did not +stop to skin the moose, but quartered it with its hide on. It was a +Klondike of meat. + +When he had finished he selected a piece of meat weighing a hundred +pounds, and started to drag it down to the tent. But the snow was soft, +and it was too much for him. He exchanged it for a twenty-pound piece, +and, with many pauses to rest, succeeded in getting it to the tent. He +fried some of the meat, but ate sparingly. Then, and automatically, he +went out to his crouching place on the bank. There were sled-tracks in +the fresh snow on the trail. The sled-load of life had passed by while +he had been cutting up the moose. + +But he did not mind. He was glad that the sled had not passed before the +coming of the moose. The moose had changed his plans. Its meat was worth +fifty cents a pound, and he was but little more than three miles from +Minto. He need no longer wait for the sled-load of life. The moose was +the sled-load of life. He would sell it. He would buy a couple of dogs +at Minto, some food and some tobacco, and the dogs would haul him south +along the trail to the sea, the sun, and civilisation. + +He felt hungry. The dull, monotonous ache of hunger had now become a +sharp and insistent pang. He hobbled back to the tent and fried a slice +of meat. After that he smoked two whole pipefuls of dried tea leaves. +Then he fried another slice of moose. He was aware of an unwonted glow +of strength, and went out and chopped some firewood. He followed that up +with a slice of meat. Teased on by the food, his hunger grew into an +inflammation. It became imperative every little while to fry a slice of +meat. He tried smaller slices and found himself frying oftener. + +In the middle of the day he thought of the wild animals that might eat +his meat, and he climbed the hill, carrying along his axe, the haul +rope, and a sled lashing. In his weak state the making of the cache and +storing of the meat was an all-afternoon task. He cut young saplings, +trimmed them, and tied them together into a tall scaffold. It was not so +strong a cache as he would have desired to make, but he had done his +best. To hoist the meat to the top was heart-breaking. The larger pieces +defied him until he passed the rope over a limb above, and, with one end +fast to a piece of meat, put all his weight on the other end. + +Once in the tent, he proceeded to indulge in a prolonged and solitary +orgy. He did not need friends. His stomach and he were company. Slice +after slice and many slices of meat he fried and ate. He ate pounds of +the meat. He brewed real tea, and brewed it strong. He brewed the last +he had. It did not matter. On the morrow he would be buying tea in +Minto. When it seemed he could eat no more, he smoked. He smoked all his +stock of dried tea leaves. What of it? On the morrow he would be smoking +tobacco. He knocked out his pipe, fried a final slice, and went to bed. +He had eaten so much he seemed bursting, yet he got out of his blankets +and had just one more mouthful of meat. + +In the morning he awoke as from the sleep of death. In his ears were +strange sounds. He did not know where he was, and looked about him +stupidly until he caught sight of the frying-pan with the last piece of +meat in it, partly eaten. Then he remembered all, and with a quick start +turned his attention to the strange sounds. He sprang from the blankets +with an oath. His scurvy-ravaged legs gave under him and he winced with +the pain. He proceeded more slowly to put on his moccasins and leave +the tent. + +From the cache up the hillside arose a confused noise of snapping and +snarling, punctuated by occasional short, sharp yelps. He increased his +speed at much expense of pain, and cried loudly and threateningly. He +saw the wolves hurrying away through the snow and underbrush, many of +them, and he saw the scaffold down on the ground. The animals were heavy +with the meat they had eaten, and they were content to slink away and +leave the wreckage. + +The way of the disaster was clear to him. The wolves had scented his +cache. One of them had leapt from the trunk of the fallen tree to the +top of the cache. He could see marks of the brute's paws in the snow +that covered the trunk. He had not dreamt a wolf could leap so far. A +second had followed the first, and a third and fourth, until the flimsy +scaffold had gone down under their weight and movement. + +His eyes were hard and savage for a moment as he contemplated the extent +of the calamity; then the old look of patience returned into them, and +he began to gather together the bones well picked and gnawed. There was +marrow in them, he knew; and also, here and there, as he sifted the +snow, he found scraps of meat that had escaped the maws of the brutes +made careless by plenty. + +He spent the rest of the morning dragging the wreckage of the moose down +the hillside. In addition, he had at least ten pounds left of the chunk +of meat he had dragged down the previous day. + +"I'm good for weeks yet," was his comment as he surveyed the heap. + +He had learnt how to starve and live. He cleaned his rifle and counted +the cartridges that remained to him. There were seven. He loaded the +weapon and hobbled out to his crouching-place on the bank. All day he +watched the dead trail. He watched all the week, but no life passed over +it. + +Thanks to the meat he felt stronger, though his scurvy was worse and +more painful. He now lived upon soup, drinking endless gallons of the +thin product of the boiling of the moose bones. The soup grew thinner +and thinner as he cracked the bones and boiled them over and over; but +the hot water with the essence of the meat in it was good for him, and +he was more vigorous than he had been previous to the shooting of the +moose. + +It was in the next week that a new factor entered into Morganson's life. +He wanted to know the date. It became an obsession. He pondered and +calculated, but his conclusions were rarely twice the same. The first +thing in the morning and the last thing at night, and all day as well, +watching by the trail, he worried about it. He awoke at night and lay +awake for hours over the problem. To have known the date would have been +of no value to him; but his curiosity grew until it equalled his hunger +and his desire to live. Finally it mastered him, and he resolved to go +to Minto and find out. + +It was dark when he arrived at Minto, but this served him. No one saw +him arrive. Besides, he knew he would have moonlight by which to return. +He climbed the bank and pushed open the saloon door. The light dazzled +him. The source of it was several candles, but he had been living for +long in an unlighted tent. As his eyes adjusted themselves, he saw three +men sitting around the stove. They were trail-travellers--he knew it at +once; and since they had not passed in, they were evidently bound out. +They would go by his tent next morning. + +The barkeeper emitted a long and marvelling whistle. + +"I thought you was dead," he said. + +"Why?" Morganson asked in a faltering voice. + +He had become unused to talking, and he was not acquainted with the +sound of his own voice. It seemed hoarse and strange. + +"You've been dead for more'n two months, now," the barkeeper explained. +"You left here going south, and you never arrived at Selkirk. Where have +you been?" + +"Chopping wood for the steamboat company," Morganson lied unsteadily. + +He was still trying to become acquainted with his own voice. He hobbled +across the floor and leant against the bar. He knew he must lie +consistently; and while he maintained an appearance of careless +indifference, his heart was beating and pounding furiously and +irregularly, and he could not help looking hungrily at the three men by +the stove. They were the possessors of life--his life. + +"But where in hell you been keeping yourself all this time?" the +barkeeper demanded. + +"I located across the river," he answered. "I've got a mighty big stack +of wood chopped." + +The barkeeper nodded. His face beamed with understanding. + +"I heard sounds of chopping several times," he said. "So that was you, +eh? Have a drink?" + +Morganson clutched the bar tightly. A drink! He could have thrown his +arms around the man's legs and kissed his feet. He tried vainly to utter +his acceptance; but the barkeeper had not waited and was already passing +out the bottle. + +"But what did you do for grub?" the latter asked. "You don't look as if +you could chop wood to keep yourself warm. You look terribly bad, +friend." + +Morganson yearned towards the delayed bottle and gulped dryly. + +"I did the chopping before the scurvy got bad," he said. "Then I got a +moose right at the start. I've been living high all right. It's the +scurvy that's run me down." + +He filled the glass, and added, "But the spruce tea's knocking it, I +think." + +"Have another," the barkeeper said. + +The action of the two glasses of whisky on Morganson's empty stomach and +weak condition was rapid. The next he knew he was sitting by the stove +on a box, and it seemed as though ages had passed. A tall, +broad-shouldered, black-whiskered man was paying for drinks. Morganson's +swimming eyes saw him drawing a greenback from a fat roll, and +Morganson's swimming eyes cleared on the instant. They were +hundred-dollar bills. It was life! His life! He felt an almost +irresistible impulse to snatch the money and dash madly out into the +night. + +The black-whiskered man and one of his companions arose. + +"Come on, Oleson," the former said to the third one of the party, a +fair-haired, ruddy-faced giant. + +Oleson came to his feet, yawning and stretching. + +"What are you going to bed so soon for?" the barkeeper asked +plaintively. "It's early yet." + +"Got to make Selkirk to-morrow," said he of the black whiskers. + +"On Christmas Day!" the barkeeper cried. + +"The better the day the better the deed," the other laughed. + +As the three men passed out of the door it came dimly to Morganson that +it was Christmas Eve. That was the date. That was what he had come to +Minto for. But it was overshadowed now by the three men themselves, and +the fat roll of hundred-dollar bills. + +The door slammed. + +"That's Jack Thompson," the barkeeper said. "Made two millions on +Bonanza and Sulphur, and got more coming. I'm going to bed. Have +another drink first." + +Morganson hesitated. + +"A Christmas drink," the other urged. "It's all right. I'll get it back +when you sell your wood." + +Morganson mastered his drunkenness long enough to swallow the whisky, +say good night, and get out on the trail. It was moonlight, and he +hobbled along through the bright, silvery quiet, with a vision of life +before him that took the form of a roll of hundred-dollar bills. + +He awoke. It was dark, and he was in his blankets. He had gone to bed in +his moccasins and mittens, with the flaps of his cap pulled down over +his ears. He got up as quickly as his crippled condition would permit, +and built the fire and boiled some water. As he put the spruce-twigs +into the teapot he noted the first glimmer of the pale morning light. He +caught up his rifle and hobbled in a panic out to the bank. As he +crouched and waited, it came to him that he had forgotten to drink his +spruce tea. The only other thought in his mind was the possibility of +John Thompson changing his mind and not travelling Christmas Day. + +Dawn broke and merged into day. It was cold and clear. Sixty below zero +was Morganson's estimate of the frost. Not a breath stirred the chill +Arctic quiet. He sat up suddenly, his muscular tensity increasing the +hurt of the scurvy. He had heard the far sound of a man's voice and the +faint whining of dogs. He began beating his hands back and forth against +his sides. It was a serious matter to bare the trigger hand to sixty +degrees below zero, and against that time he needed to develop all the +warmth of which his flesh was capable. + +They came into view around the outjutting clump of trees. To the fore +was the third man whose name he had not learnt. Then came eight dogs +drawing the sled. At the front of the sled, guiding it by the gee-pole, +walked John Thompson. The rear was brought up by Oleson, the Swede. He +was certainly a fine man, Morganson thought, as he looked at the bulk of +him in his squirrel-skin _parka_. The men and dogs were silhouetted +sharply against the white of the landscape. They had the seeming of two +dimension, cardboard figures that worked mechanically. + +Morganson rested his cocked rifle in the notch in the tree. He became +abruptly aware that his fingers were cold, and discovered that his right +hand was bare. He did not know that he had taken off the mitten. He +slipped it on again hastily. The men and dogs drew closer, and he could +see their breaths spouting into visibility in the cold air. When the +first man was fifty yards away, Morganson slipped the mitten from his +right hand. He placed the first finger on the trigger and aimed low. +When he fired the first man whirled half around and went down on the +trail. + +In the instant of surprise, Morganson pulled the trigger on John +Thompson--too low, for the latter staggered and sat down suddenly on the +sled. Morganson raised his aim and fired again. John Thompson sank down +backward along the top of the loaded sled. + +Morganson turned his attention to Oleson. At the same time that he noted +the latter running away towards Minto he noted that the dogs, coming to +where the first man's body blocked the trail, had halted. Morganson +fired at the fleeing man and missed, and Oleson swerved. He continued to +swerve back and forth, while Morganson fired twice in rapid succession +and missed both shots. Morganson stopped himself just as he was pulling +the trigger again. He had fired six shots. Only one more cartridge +remained, and it was in the chamber. It was imperative that he should +not miss his last shot. + +He held his fire and desperately studied Oleson's flight. The giant was +grotesquely curving and twisting and running at top speed along the +trail, the tail of his _parka_ flapping smartly behind. Morganson +trained his rifle on the man and with a swaying action followed his +erratic flight. Morganson's finger was getting numb. He could scarcely +feel the trigger. "God help me," he breathed a prayer aloud, and pulled +the trigger. The running man pitched forward on his face, rebounded from +the hard trail, and slid along, rolling over and over. He threshed for +a moment with his arms and then lay quiet. + +Morganson dropped his rifle (worthless now that the last cartridge was +gone) and slid down the bank through the soft snow. Now that he had +sprung the trap, concealment of his lurking-place was no longer +necessary. He hobbled along the trail to the sled, his fingers making +involuntary gripping and clutching movements inside the mittens. + +The snarling of the dogs halted him. The leader, a heavy dog, half +Newfoundland and half Hudson Bay, stood over the body of the man that +lay on the trail, and menaced Morganson with bristling hair and bared +fangs. The other seven dogs of the team were likewise bristling and +snarling. Morganson approached tentatively, and the team surged towards +him. He stopped again and talked to the animals, threatening and +cajoling by turns. He noticed the face of the man under the leader's +feet, and was surprised at how quickly it had turned white with the ebb +of life and the entrance of the frost. John Thompson lay back along the +top of the loaded sled, his head sunk in a space between two sacks and +his chin tilted upwards, so that all Morganson could see was the black +beard pointing skyward. + +Finding it impossible to face the dogs Morganson stepped off the trail +into the deep snow and floundered in a wide circle to the rear of the +sled. Under the initiative of the leader, the team swung around in its +tangled harness. Because of his crippled condition, Morganson could move +only slowly. He saw the animals circling around on him and tried to +retreat. He almost made it, but the big leader, with a savage lunge, +sank its teeth into the calf of his leg. The flesh was slashed and torn, +but Morganson managed to drag himself clear. + +He cursed the brutes fiercely, but could not cow them. They replied with +neck-bristling and snarling, and with quick lunges against their +breastbands. He remembered Oleson, and turned his back upon them and +went along the trail. He scarcely took notice of his lacerated leg. It +was bleeding freely; the main artery had been torn, but he did not know +it. + +Especially remarkable to Morganson was the extreme pallor of the Swede, +who the preceding night had been so ruddy-faced. Now his face was like +white marble. What with his fair hair and lashes he looked like a carved +statue rather than something that had been a man a few minutes before. +Morganson pulled off his mittens and searched the body. There was no +money-belt around the waist next to the skin, nor did he find a +gold-sack. In a breast pocket he lit on a small wallet. With fingers +that swiftly went numb with the frost, he hurried through the contents +of the wallet. There were letters with foreign stamps and postmarks on +them, and several receipts and memorandum accounts, and a letter of +credit for eight hundred dollars. That was all. There was no money. + +He made a movement to start back toward the sled, but found his foot +rooted to the trail. He glanced down and saw that he stood in a fresh +deposit of frozen red. There was red ice on his torn pants leg and on +the moccasin beneath. With a quick effort he broke the frozen clutch of +his blood and hobbled along the trail to the sled. The big leader that +had bitten him began snarling and lunging, and was followed in this +conduct by the whole team. + +Morganson wept weakly for a space, and weakly swayed from one side to +the other. Then he brushed away the frozen tears that gemmed his lashes. +It was a joke. Malicious chance was having its laugh at him. Even John +Thompson, with his heaven-aspiring whiskers, was laughing at him. + +He prowled around the sled demented, at times weeping and pleading with +the brutes for his life there on the sled, at other times raging +impotently against them. Then calmness came upon him. He had been making +a fool of himself. All he had to do was to go to the tent, get the axe, +and return and brain the dogs. He'd show them. + +In order to get to the tent he had to go wide of the sled and the savage +animals. He stepped off the trail into the soft snow. Then he felt +suddenly giddy and stood still. He was afraid to go on for fear he would +fall down. He stood still for a long time, balancing himself on his +crippled legs that were trembling violently from weakness. He looked +down and saw the snow reddening at his feet. The blood flowed freely as +ever. He had not thought the bite was so severe. He controlled his +giddiness and stooped to examine the wound. The snow seemed rushing up +to meet him, and he recoiled from it as from a blow. He had a panic fear +that he might fall down, and after a struggle he managed to stand +upright again. He was afraid of that snow that had rushed up to him. + +Then the white glimmer turned black, and the next he knew he was +awakening in the snow where he had fallen. He was no longer giddy. The +cobwebs were gone. But he could not get up. There was no strength in his +limbs. His body seemed lifeless. By a desperate effort he managed to +roll over on his side. In this position he caught a glimpse of the sled +and of John Thompson's black beard pointing skyward. Also he saw the +lead dog licking the face of the man who lay on the trail. Morganson +watched curiously. The dog was nervous and eager. Sometimes it uttered +short, sharp yelps, as though to arouse the man, and surveyed him with +ears cocked forward and wagging tail. At last it sat down, pointed its +nose upward, and began to howl. Soon all the team was howling. + +Now that he was down, Morganson was no longer afraid. He had a vision of +himself being found dead in the snow, and for a while he wept in +self-pity. But he was not afraid. The struggle had gone out of him. When +he tried to open his eyes he found that the wet tears had frozen them +shut. He did not try to brush the ice away. It did not matter. He had +not dreamed death was so easy. He was even angry that he had struggled +and suffered through so many weary weeks. He had been bullied and +cheated by the fear of death. Death did not hurt. Every torment he had +endured had been a torment of life. Life had defamed death. It was a +cruel thing. + +But his anger passed. The lies and frauds of life were of no consequence +now that he was coming to his own. He became aware of drowsiness, and +felt a sweet sleep stealing upon him, balmy with promises of easement +and rest. He heard faintly the howling of the dogs, and had a fleeting +thought that in the mastering of his flesh the frost no longer bit. Then +the light and the thought ceased to pulse beneath the tear-gemmed +eyelids, and with a tired sigh of comfort he sank into sleep. + + + + +THE END OF THE STORY + + +I + +The table was of hand-hewn spruce boards, and the men who played whist +had frequent difficulties in drawing home their tricks across the uneven +surface. Though they sat in their undershirts, the sweat noduled and +oozed on their faces; yet their feet, heavily moccasined and +woollen-socked, tingled with the bite of the frost. Such was the +difference of temperature in the small cabin between the floor level and +a yard or more above it. The sheet-iron Yukon Stove roared red-hot, yet, +eight feet away, on the meat-shelf, placed low and beside the door, lay +chunks of solidly frozen moose and bacon. The door, a third of the way +up from the bottom, was a thick rime. In the chinking between the logs +at the back of the bunks the frost showed white and glistening. A window +of oiled paper furnished light. The lower portion of the paper, on the +inside, was coated an inch deep with the frozen moisture of the men's +breath. + +They played a momentous rubber of whist, for the pair that lost was to +dig a fishing hole through the seven feet of ice and snow that covered +the Yukon. + +"It's mighty unusual, a cold snap like this in March," remarked the man +who shuffled. "What would you call it, Bob?" + +"Oh, fifty-five or sixty below--all of that. What do you make it, Doc?" + +Doc turned his head and glanced at the lower part of the door with a +measuring eye. + +"Not a bit worse than fifty. If anything, slightly under--say +forty-nine. See the ice on the door. It's just about the fifty mark, but +you'll notice the upper edge is ragged. The time she went seventy the +ice climbed a full four inches higher." He picked up his hand, and +without ceasing from sorting called "Come in," to a knock on the door. + +The man who entered was a big, broad-shouldered Swede, though his +nationality was not discernible until he had removed his ear-flapped cap +and thawed away the ice which had formed on beard and moustache and +which served to mask his face. While engaged in this, the men at the +table played out the hand. + +"I hear one doctor faller stop this camp," the Swede said inquiringly, +looking anxiously from face to face, his own face haggard and drawn from +severe and long endured pain. "I come long way. North fork of the Whyo." + +"I'm the doctor. What's the matter?" + +In response, the man held up his left hand, the second finger of which +was monstrously swollen. At the same time he began a rambling, +disjointed history of the coming and growth of his affliction. + +"Let me look at it," the doctor broke in impatiently. "Lay it on the +table. There, like that." + +Tenderly, as if it were a great boil, the man obeyed. + +"Humph," the doctor grumbled. "A weeping sinew. And travelled a hundred +miles to have it fixed. I'll fix it in a jiffy. You watch me, and next +time you can do it yourself." + +Without warning, squarely and at right angles, and savagely, the doctor +brought the edge of his hand down on the swollen crooked finger. The man +yelled with consternation and agony. It was more like the cry of a wild +beast, and his face was a wild beast's as he was about to spring on the +man who had perpetrated the joke. + +"That's all right," the doctor placated sharply and authoritatively. +"How do you feel? Better, eh? Of course. Next time you can do it +yourself--Go on and deal, Strothers. I think we've got you." + +Slow and ox-like, on the face of the Swede dawned relief and +comprehension. The pang over, the finger felt better. The pain was gone. +He examined the finger curiously, with wondering eyes, slowly crooking +it back and forth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a +gold-sack. + +"How much?" + +The doctor shook his head impatiently. "Nothing. I'm not +practising--Your play, Bob." + +The Swede moved heavily on his feet, re-examined the finger, then turned +an admiring gaze on the doctor. + +"You are good man. What your name?" + +"Linday, Doctor Linday," Strothers answered, as if solicitous to save +his opponent from further irritation. + +"The day's half done," Linday said to the Swede, at the end of the hand, +while he shuffled. "Better rest over to-night. It's too cold for +travelling. There's a spare bunk." + +He was a slender brunette of a man, lean-cheeked, thin-lipped, and +strong. The smooth-shaven face was a healthy sallow. All his movements +were quick and precise. He did not fumble his cards. The eyes were +black, direct, and piercing, with the trick of seeming to look beneath +the surfaces of things. His hands, slender, fine and nervous, appeared +made for delicate work, and to the most casual eye they conveyed an +impression of strength. + +"Our game," he announced, drawing in the last trick. "Now for the rub +and who digs the fishing hole." + +A knock at the door brought a quick exclamation from him. + +"Seems we just can't finish this rubber," he complained, as the door +opened. "What's the matter with _you_?"--this last to the stranger who +entered. + +The newcomer vainly strove to move his icebound jaws and jowls. That he +had been on trail for long hours and days was patent. The skin across +the cheekbones was black with repeated frost-bite. From nose to chin was +a mass of solid ice perforated by the hole through which he breathed. +Through this he had also spat tobacco juice, which had frozen, as it +trickled, into an amber-coloured icicle, pointed like a Van Dyke beard. + +He shook his head dumbly, grinned with his eyes, and drew near to the +stove to thaw his mouth to speech. He assisted the process with his +fingers, clawing off fragments of melting ice which rattled and sizzled +on the stove. + +"Nothing the matter with me," he finally announced. "But if they's a +doctor in the outfit he's sure needed. They's a man up the Little Peco +that's had a ruction with a panther, an' the way he's clawed is +something scand'lous." + +"How far up?" Doctor Linday demanded. + +"A matter of a hundred miles." + +"How long since?" + +"I've ben three days comin' down." + +"Bad?" + +"Shoulder dislocated. Some ribs broke for sure. Right arm broke. An' +clawed clean to the bone most all over but the face. We sewed up two or +three bad places temporary, and tied arteries with twine." + +"That settles it," Linday sneered. "Where were they?" + +"Stomach." + +"He's a sight by now." + +"Not on your life. Washed clean with bug-killin' dope before we +stitched. Only temporary anyway. Had nothin' but linen thread, but +washed that, too." + +"He's as good as dead," was Linday's judgment, as he angrily fingered +the cards. + +"Nope. That man ain't goin' to die. He knows I've come for a doctor, an' +he'll make out to live until you get there. He won't let himself die. I +know him." + +"Christian Science and gangrene, eh?" came the sneer. "Well, I'm not +practising. Nor can I see myself travelling a hundred miles at fifty +below for a dead man." + +"I can see you, an' for a man a long ways from dead." + +Linday shook his head. "Sorry you had your trip for nothing. Better stop +over for the night." + +"Nope. We'll be pullin' out in ten minutes." + +"What makes you so cocksure?" Linday demanded testily. + +Then it was that Tom Daw made the speech of his life. + +"Because he's just goin' on livin' till you get there, if it takes you a +week to make up your mind. Besides, his wife's with him, not sheddin' a +tear, or nothin', an' she's helpin' him live till you come. They think a +almighty heap of each other, an' she's got a will like hisn. If he +weakened, she'd just put her immortal soul into hisn an' make him live. +Though he ain't weakenin' none, you can stack on that. I'll stack on it. +I'll lay you three to one, in ounces, he's alive when you get there. I +got a team of dawgs down the bank. You ought to allow to start in ten +minutes, an' we ought to make it back in less'n three days because the +trail's broke. I'm goin' down to the dawgs now, an' I'll look for you in +ten minutes." + +Tom Daw pulled down his earflaps, drew on his mittens, and passed out. + +"Damn him!" Linday cried, glaring vindictively at the closed door. + + +II + +That night, long after dark, with twenty-five miles behind them, Linday +and Tom Daw went into camp. It was a simple but adequate affair: a fire +built in the snow; alongside, their sleeping-furs spread in a single bed +on a mat of spruce boughs; behind the bed an oblong of canvas stretched +to refract the heat. Daw fed the dogs and chopped ice and firewood. +Linday's cheeks burned with frost-bite as he squatted over the cooking. +They ate heavily, smoked a pipe and talked while they dried their +moccasins before the fire, and turned in to sleep the dead sleep of +fatigue and health. + +Morning found the unprecedented cold snap broken. Linday estimated the +temperature at fifteen below and rising. Daw was worried. That day would +see them in the canyon, he explained, and if the spring thaw set in the +canyon would run open water. The walls of the canyon were hundreds to +thousands of feet high. They could be climbed, but the going would be +slow. + +Camped well in the dark and forbidding gorge, over their pipe that +evening they complained of the heat, and both agreed that the +thermometer must be above zero--the first time in six months. + +"Nobody ever heard tell of a panther this far north," Daw was saying. +"Rocky called it a cougar. But I shot a-many of 'em down in Curry +County, Oregon, where I come from, an' we called 'em panther. Anyway, it +was a bigger cat than ever I seen. It was sure a monster cat. Now how'd +it ever stray to such out of the way huntin' range?--that's the +question." + +Linday made no comment. He was nodding. Propped on sticks, his moccasins +steamed unheeded and unturned. The dogs, curled in furry balls, slept in +the snow. The crackle of an ember accentuated the profound of silence +that reigned. He awoke with a start and gazed at Daw, who nodded and +returned the gaze. Both listened. From far off came a vague disturbance +that increased to a vast and sombre roaring. As it neared, +ever-increasing, riding the mountain tops as well as the canyon depths, +bowing the forest before it, bending the meagre, crevice-rooted pines on +the walls of the gorge, they knew it for what it was. A wind, strong and +warm, a balmy gale, drove past them, flinging a rocket-shower of sparks +from the fire. The dogs, aroused, sat on their haunches, bleak noses +pointed upward, and raised the long wolf howl. + +"It's the Chinook," Daw said. + +"It means the river trail, I suppose?" + +"Sure thing. And ten miles of it is easier than one over the tops." Daw +surveyed Linday for a long, considering minute. "We've just had fifteen +hours of trail," he shouted above the wind, tentatively, and again +waited. "Doc," he said finally, "are you game?" + +For answer, Linday knocked out his pipe and began to pull on his damp +moccasins. Between them, and in few minutes, bending to the force of the +wind, the dogs were harnessed, camp broken, and the cooking outfit and +unused sleeping furs lashed on the sled. Then, through the darkness, for +a night of travel, they churned out on the trail Daw had broken nearly a +week before. And all through the night the Chinook roared and they urged +the weary dogs and spurred their own jaded muscles. Twelve hours of it +they made, and stopped for breakfast after twenty-seven hours on trail. + +"An hour's sleep," said Daw, when they had wolfed pounds of straight +moose-meat fried with bacon. + +Two hours he let his companion sleep, afraid himself to close his eyes. +He occupied himself with making marks upon the soft-surfaced, shrinking +snow. Visibly it shrank. In two hours the snow level sank three inches. +From every side, faintly heard and near, under the voice of the spring +wind, came the trickling of hidden waters. The Little Peco, strengthened +by the multitudinous streamlets, rose against the manacles of winter, +riving the ice with crashings and snappings. + +Daw touched Linday on the shoulder; touched him again; shook, and shook +violently. + +"Doc," he murmured admiringly. "You can sure go some." + +The weary black eyes, under heavy lids, acknowledged the compliment. + +"But that ain't the question. Rocky is clawed something scand'lous. As I +said before, I helped sew up his in'ards. Doc...." He shook the man, +whose eyes had again closed. "I say, Doc! The question is: can you go +some more?--hear me? I say, can you go some more?" + +The weary dogs snapped and whimpered when kicked from their sleep. The +going was slow, not more than two miles an hour, and the animals took +every opportunity to lie down in the wet snow. + +"Twenty miles of it, and we'll be through the gorge," Daw encouraged. +"After that the ice can go to blazes, for we can take to the bank, and +it's only ten more miles to camp. Why, Doc, we're almost there. And when +you get Rocky fixed up, you can come down in a canoe in one day." + +But the ice grew more uneasy under them, breaking loose from the +shore-line and rising steadily inch by inch. In places where it still +held to the shore, the water overran and they waded and slushed across. +The Little Peco growled and muttered. Cracks and fissures were forming +everywhere as they battled on for the miles that each one of which meant +ten along the tops. + +"Get on the sled, Doc, an' take a snooze," Daw invited. + +The glare from the black eyes prevented him from repeating the +suggestion. + +As early as midday they received definite warning of the beginning of +the end. Cakes of ice, borne downward in the rapid current, began to +thunder beneath the ice on which they stood. The dogs whimpered +anxiously and yearned for the bank. + +"That means open water above," Daw explained. "Pretty soon she'll jam +somewheres, an' the river'll raise a hundred feet in a hundred minutes. +It's us for the tops if we can find a way to climb out. Come on! Hit her +up I! An' just to think, the Yukon'll stick solid for weeks." + +Unusually narrow at this point, the great walls of the canyon were too +precipitous to scale. Daw and Linday had to keep on; and they kept on +till the disaster happened. With a loud explosion, the ice broke asunder +midway under the team. The two animals in the middle of the string went +into the fissure, and the grip of the current on their bodies dragged +the lead-dog backward and in. Swept downstream under the ice, these +three bodies began to drag to the edge the two whining dogs that +remained. The men held back frantically on the sled, but were slowly +drawn along with it. It was all over in the space of seconds. Daw +slashed the wheel-dog's traces with his sheath-knife, and the animal +whipped over the ice-edge and was gone. The ice on which they stood, +broke into a large and pivoting cake that ground and splintered against +the shore ice and rocks. Between them they got the sled ashore and up +into a crevice in time to see the ice-cake up-edge, sink, and +down-shelve from view. + +Meat and sleeping furs were made into packs, and the sled was abandoned. +Linday resented Daw's taking the heavier pack, but Daw had his will. + +"You got to work as soon as you get there. Come on." + +It was one in the afternoon when they started to climb. At eight that +evening they cleared the rim and for half an hour lay where they had +fallen. Then came the fire, a pot of coffee, and an enormous feed of +moosemeat. But first Linday hefted the two packs, and found his own +lighter by half. + +"You're an iron man, Daw," he admired. + +"Who? Me? Oh, pshaw! You ought to see Rocky. He's made out of platinum, +an' armour plate, an' pure gold, an' all strong things. I'm mountaineer, +but he plumb beats me out. Down in Curry County I used to 'most kill the +boys when we run bear. So when I hooks up with Rocky on our first hunt I +had a mean idea to show 'm a few. I let out the links good an' generous, +'most nigh keepin' up with the dawgs, an' along comes Rocky a-treadin' +on my heels. I knowed he couldn't last that way, and I just laid down +an' did my dangdest. An' there he was, at the end of another hour, +a-treadin' steady an' regular on my heels. I was some huffed. 'Mebbe +you'd like to come to the front an' show me how to travel,' I says. +'Sure,' says he. An' he done it! I stayed with 'm, but let me tell you I +was plumb tuckered by the time the bear tree'd. + +"They ain't no stoppin' that man. He ain't afraid of nothin'. Last fall, +before the freeze-up, him an' me was headin' for camp about twilight. I +was clean shot out--ptarmigan--an' he had one cartridge left. An' the +dawgs tree'd a she grizzly. Small one. Only weighed about three hundred, +but you know what grizzlies is. 'Don't do it,' says I, when he ups with +his rifle. 'You only got that one shot, an' it's too dark to see the +sights.' + +"'Climb a tree,' says he. I didn't climb no tree, but when that bear +come down a-cussin' among the dawgs, an' only creased, I want to tell +you I was sure hankerin' for a tree. It was some ruction. Then things +come on real bad. The bear slid down a hollow against a big log. +Downside, that log was four feet up an' down. Dawgs couldn't get at bear +that way. Upside was steep gravel, an' the dawgs'd just naturally slide +down into the bear. They was no jumpin' back, an' the bear was +a-manglin' 'em fast as they come. All underbrush, gettin' pretty dark, +no cartridges, nothin'. + +"What's Rocky up an' do? He goes downside of log, reaches over with his +knife, an' begins slashin'. But he can only reach bear's rump, an' dawgs +bein' ruined fast, one-two-three time. Rocky gets desperate. He don't +like to lose his dawgs. He jumps on top log, grabs bear by the slack of +the rump, an' heaves over back'ard right over top of that log. Down they +go, kit an' kaboodle, twenty feet, bear, dawgs, an' Rocky, slidin', +cussin', an' scratchin', ker-plump into ten feet of water in the bed of +stream. They all swum out different ways. Nope, he didn't get the bear, +but he saved the dawgs. That's Rocky. They's no stoppin' him when his +mind's set." + +It was at the next camp that Linday heard how Rocky had come to be +injured. + +"I'd ben up the draw, about a mile from the cabin, lookin' for a piece +of birch likely enough for an axe-handle. Comin' back I heard the +darndest goings-on where we had a bear trap set. Some trapper had left +the trap in an old cache an' Rocky'd fixed it up. But the goings-on. It +was Rocky an' his brother Harry. First I'd hear one yell and laugh, an' +then the other, like it was some game. An' what do you think the fool +game was? I've saw some pretty nervy cusses down in Curry County, but +they beat all. They'd got a whoppin' big panther in the trap an' was +takin' turns rappin' it on the nose with a light stick. But that wa'n't +the point. I just come out of the brush in time to see Harry rap it. +Then he chops six inches off the stick an' passes it to Rocky. You see, +that stick was growin' shorter all the time. It ain't as easy as you +think. The panther'd slack back an' hunch down an' spit, an' it was +mighty lively in duckin' the stick. An' you never knowed when it'd jump. +It was caught by the hind leg, which was curious, too, an' it had some +slack I'm tellin' you. + +"It was just a game of dare they was playin', an' the stick gettin' +shorter an' shorter an' the panther madder 'n madder. Bimeby they wa'n't +no stick left--only a nubbin, about four inches long, an' it was Rocky's +turn. 'Better quit now,' says Harry. 'What for?' says Rocky. 'Because if +you rap him again they won't be no stick left for me,' Harry answers. +'Then you'll quit an' I win,' says Rocky with a laugh, an' goes to it. + +"An' I don't want to see anything like it again. That cat'd bunched back +an' down till it had all of six feet slack in its body. An' Rocky's +stick four inches long. The cat got him. You couldn't see one from +t'other. No chance to shoot. It was Harry, in the end, that got his +knife into the panther's jugular." + +"If I'd known how he got it I'd never have come," was Linday's comment. + +Daw nodded concurrence. + +"That's what she said. She told me sure not to whisper how it +happened." + +"Is he crazy?" Linday demanded in his wrath. + +"They're all crazy. Him an' his brother are all the time devilin' each +other to tom-fool things. I seen them swim the riffle last fall, bad +water an' mush-ice runnin'--on a dare. They ain't nothin' they won't +tackle. An' she's 'most as bad. Not afraid some herself. She'll do +anything Rocky'll let her. But he's almighty careful with her. Treats +her like a queen. No camp-work or such for her. That's why another man +an' me are hired on good wages. They've got slathers of money an' +they're sure dippy on each other. 'Looks like good huntin',' says Rocky, +when they struck that section last fall. 'Let's make a camp then,' says +Harry. An' me all the time thinkin' they was lookin' for gold. Ain't ben +a prospect pan washed the whole winter." + +Linday's anger mounted. "I haven't any patience with fools. For two +cents I'd turn back." + +"No you wouldn't," Daw assured him confidently. "They ain't enough grub +to turn back, an' we'll be there to-morrow. Just got to cross that last +divide an' drop down to the cabin. An' they's a better reason. You're +too far from home, an' I just naturally wouldn't let you turn back." + +Exhausted as Linday was, the flash in his black eyes warned Daw that he +had overreached himself. His hand went out. + +"My mistake, Doc. Forget it. I reckon I'm gettin' some cranky what of +losin' them dawgs." + + +III + +Not one day, but three days later, the two men, after being snowed in on +the summit by a spring blizzard, staggered up to a cabin that stood in a +fat bottom beside the roaring Little Peco. Coming in from the bright +sunshine to the dark cabin, Linday observed little of its occupants. He +was no more than aware of two men and a woman. But he was not interested +in them. He went directly to the bunk where lay the injured man. The +latter was lying on his back, with eyes closed, and Linday noted the +slender stencilling of the brows and the kinky silkiness of the brown +hair. Thin and wan, the face seemed too small for the muscular neck, yet +the delicate features, despite their waste, were firmly moulded. + +"What dressings have you been using?" Linday asked of the woman. + +"Corrosive, sublimate, regular solution," came the answer. + +He glanced quickly at her, shot an even quicker glance at the face of +the injured man, and stood erect. She breathed sharply, abruptly biting +off the respiration with an effort of will. Linday turned to the men. + +"You clear out--chop wood or something. Clear out." + +One of them demurred. + +"This is a serious case," Linday went on. "I want to talk to his wife." + +"I'm his brother," said the other. + +To him the woman looked, praying him with her eyes. He nodded +reluctantly and turned toward the door. + +"Me, too?" Daw queried from the bench where he had flung himself down. + +"You, too." + +Linday busied himself with a superficial examination of the patient +while the cabin was emptying. + +"So?" he said. "So that's your Rex Strang." + +She dropped her eyes to the man in the bunk as if to reassure herself of +his identity, and then in silence returned Linday's gaze. + +"Why don't you speak?" + +She shrugged her shoulders. "What is the use? You know it is Rex +Strang." + +"Thank you. Though I might remind you that it is the first time I have +ever seen him. Sit down." He waved her to a stool, himself taking the +bench. "I'm really about all in, you know. There's no turnpike from the +Yukon here." + +He drew a penknife and began extracting a thorn from his thumb. + +"What are you going to do?" she asked, after a minute's wait. + +"Eat and rest up before I start back." + +"What are you going to do about...." She inclined her head toward the +unconscious man. + +"Nothing." + +She went over to the bunk and rested her fingers lightly on the +tight-curled hair. + +"You mean you will kill him," she said slowly. "Kill him by doing +nothing, for you can save him if you will." + +"Take it that way." He considered a moment, and stated his thought with +a harsh little laugh. "From time immemorial in this weary old world it +has been a not uncommon custom so to dispose of wife-stealers." + +"You are unfair, Grant," she answered gently. "You forget that I was +willing and that I desired. I was a free agent. Rex never stole me. It +was you who lost me. I went with him, willing and eager, with song on my +lips. As well accuse me of stealing him. We went together." + +"A good way of looking at it," Linday conceded. "I see you are as keen a +thinker as ever, Madge. That must have bothered him." + +"A keen thinker can be a good lover--" + +"And not so foolish," he broke in. + +"Then you admit the wisdom of my course?" + +He threw up his hands. "That's the devil of it, talking with clever +women. A man always forgets and traps himself. I wouldn't wonder if you +won him with a syllogism." + +Her reply was the hint of a smile in her straight-looking blue eyes and +a seeming emanation of sex pride from all the physical being of her. + +"No, I take that back, Madge. If you'd been a numbskull you'd have won +him, or any one else, on your looks, and form, and carriage. I ought to +know. I've been through that particular mill, and, the devil take me, +I'm not through it yet." + +His speech was quick and nervous and irritable, as it always was, and, +as she knew, it was always candid. She took her cue from his last +remark. + +"Do you remember Lake Geneva?" + +"I ought to. I was rather absurdly happy." + +She nodded, and her eyes were luminous. "There is such a thing as old +sake. Won't you, Grant, please, just remember back ... a little ... oh, +so little ... of what we were to each other ... then?" + +"Now you're taking advantage," he smiled, and returned to the attack on +his thumb. He drew the thorn out, inspected it critically, then +concluded. "No, thank you. I'm not playing the Good Samaritan." + +"Yet you made this hard journey for an unknown man," she urged. + +His impatience was sharply manifest. "Do you fancy I'd have moved a step +had I known he was my wife's lover?" + +"But you are here ... now. And there he lies. What are you going to do?" + +"Nothing. Why should I? I am not at the man's service. He pilfered me." + +She was about to speak, when a knock came on the door. + +"Get out!" he shouted. + +"If you want any assistance--" + +"Get out! Get a bucket of water! Set it down outside!" + +"You are going to...?" she began tremulously. + +"Wash up." + +She recoiled from the brutality, and her lips tightened. + +"Listen, Grant," she said steadily. "I shall tell his brother. I know +the Strang breed. If you can forget old sake, so can I. If you don't do +something, he'll kill you. Why, even Tom Daw would if I asked." + +"You should know me better than to threaten," he reproved gravely, then +added, with a sneer: "Besides, I don't see how killing me will help your +Rex Strang." + +She gave a low gasp, closed her lips tightly, and watched his quick eyes +take note of the trembling that had beset her. + +"It's not hysteria, Grant," she cried hastily and anxiously, with +clicking teeth. "You never saw me with hysteria. I've never had it. I +don't know what it is, but I'll control it. I am merely beside myself. +It's partly anger--with you. And it's apprehension and fear. I don't +want to lose him. I do love him, Grant. He is my king, my lover. And I +have sat here beside him so many dreadful days now. Oh, Grant, please, +please." + +"Just nerves," he commented drily. "Stay with it. You can best it. If +you were a man I'd say take a smoke." + +She went unsteadily back to the stool, where she watched him and fought +for control. From the rough fireplace came the singing of a cricket. +Outside two wolf-dogs bickered. The injured man's chest rose and fell +perceptibly under the fur robes. She saw a smile, not altogether +pleasant, form on Linday's lips. + +"How much do you love him?" he asked. + +Her breast filled and rose, and her eyes shone with a light unashamed +and proud. He nodded in token that he was answered. + +"Do you mind if I take a little time?" He stopped, casting about for the +way to begin. "I remember reading a story--Herbert Shaw wrote it, I +think. I want to tell you about it. There was a woman, young and +beautiful; a man magnificent, a lover of beauty and a wanderer. I don't +know how much like your Rex Strang he was, but I fancy a sort of +resemblance. Well, this man was a painter, a bohemian, a vagabond. He +kissed--oh, several times and for several weeks--and rode away. She +possessed for him what I thought you possessed for me ... at Lake +Geneva. In ten years she wept the beauty out of her face. Some women +turn yellow, you know, when grief upsets their natural juices. + +"Now it happened that the man went blind, and ten years afterward, led +as a child by the hand, he stumbled back to her. There was nothing left. +He could no longer paint. And she was very happy, and glad he could not +see her face. Remember, he worshipped beauty. And he continued to hold +her in his arms and believe in her beauty. The memory of it was vivid in +him. He never ceased to talk about it, and to lament that he could not +behold it. + +"One day he told her of five great pictures he wished to paint. If only +his sight could be restored to paint them, he could write _finis_ and be +content. And then, no matter how, there came into her hands an elixir. +Anointed on his eyes, the sight would surely and fully return." + +Linday shrugged his shoulders. + +"You see her struggle. With sight, he could paint his five pictures. +Also, he would leave her. Beauty was his religion. It was impossible +that he could abide her ruined face. Five days she struggled. Then she +anointed his eyes." + +Linday broke off and searched her with his eyes, the high lights focused +sharply in the brilliant black. + +"The question is, do you love Rex Strang as much as that?" + +"And if I do?" she countered. + +"Do you?" + +"Yes." + +"You can sacrifice? You can give him up?" + +Slow and reluctant was her "Yes." + +"And you will come with me?" + +"Yes." This time her voice was a whisper. "When he is well--yes." + +"You understand. It must be Lake Geneva over again. You will be my +wife." + +She seemed to shrink and droop, but her head nodded. + +"Very well." He stood up briskly, went to his pack, and began +unstrapping. "I shall need help. Bring his brother in. Bring them all +in. Boiling water--let there be lots of it. I've brought bandages, but +let me see what you have in that line.--Here, Daw, build up that fire +and start boiling all the water you can.--Here you," to the other man, +"get that table out and under the window there. Clean it; scrub it; +scald it. Clean, man, clean, as you never cleaned a thing before. You, +Mrs. Strang, will be my helper. No sheets, I suppose. Well, we'll manage +somehow.--You're his brother, sir. I'll give the anaesthetic, but you +must keep it going afterward. Now listen, while I instruct you. In the +first place--but before that, can you take a pulse?..." + + +IV + +Noted for his daring and success as a surgeon, through the days and +weeks that followed Linday exceeded himself in daring and success. +Never, because of the frightful mangling and breakage, and because of +the long delay, had he encountered so terrible a case. But he had never +had a healthier specimen of human wreck to work upon. Even then he would +have failed, had it not been for the patient's catlike vitality and +almost uncanny physical and mental grip on life. + +There were days of high temperature and delirium; days of heart-sinking +when Strang's pulse was barely perceptible; days when he lay conscious, +eyes weary and drawn, the sweat of pain on his face. Linday was +indefatigable, cruelly efficient, audacious and fortunate, daring hazard +after hazard and winning. He was not content to make the man live. He +devoted himself to the intricate and perilous problem of making him +whole and strong again. + +"He will be a cripple?" Madge queried. + +"He will not merely walk and talk and be a limping caricature of his +former self," Linday told her. "He shall run and leap, swim riffles, +ride bears, fight panthers, and do all things to the top of his fool +desire. And, I warn you, he will fascinate women just as of old. Will +you like that? Are you content? Remember, you will not be with him." + +"Go on, go on," she breathed. "Make him whole. Make him what he was." + +More than once, whenever Strang's recuperation permitted, Linday put him +under the anaesthetic and did terrible things, cutting and sewing, +rewiring and connecting up the disrupted organism. Later, developed a +hitch in the left arm. Strang could lift it so far, and no farther. +Linday applied himself to the problem. It was a case of more wires, +shrunken, twisted, disconnected. Again it was cut and switch and ease +and disentangle. And all that saved Strang was his tremendous vitality +and the health of his flesh. + +"You will kill him," his brother complained. "Let him be. For God's sake +let him be. A live and crippled man is better than a whole and dead +one." + +Linday flamed in wrath. "You get out! Out of this cabin with you till +you can come back and say that I make him live. Pull--by God, man, +you've got to pull with me with all your soul. Your brother's travelling +a hairline razor-edge. Do you understand? A thought can topple him off. +Now get out, and come back sweet and wholesome, convinced beyond all +absoluteness that he will live and be what he was before you and he +played the fool together. Get out, I say." + +The brother, with clenched hands and threatening eyes, looked to Madge +for counsel. + +"Go, go, please," she begged. "He is right. I know he is right." + +Another time, when Strang's condition seemed more promising, the brother +said: + +"Doc, you're a wonder, and all this time I've forgotten to ask your +name." + +"None of your damn business. Don't bother me. Get out." + +The mangled right arm ceased from its healing, burst open again in a +frightful wound. + +"Necrosis," said Linday. + +"That does settle it," groaned the brother. + +"Shut up!" Linday snarled. "Get out! Take Daw with you. Take Bill, too. +Get rabbits--alive--healthy ones. Trap them. Trap everywhere." + +"How many?" the brother asked. + +"Forty of them--four thousand--forty thousand--all you can get. You'll +help me, Mrs. Strang. I'm going to dig into that arm and size up the +damage. Get out, you fellows. You for the rabbits." + +And he dug in, swiftly, unerringly, scraping away disintegrating bone, +ascertaining the extent of the active decay. + +"It never would have happened," he told Madge, "if he hadn't had so many +other things needing vitality first. Even he didn't have vitality +enough to go around. I was watching it, but I had to wait and chance it. +That piece must go. He could manage without it, but rabbit-bone will +make it what it was." + +From the hundreds of rabbits brought in, he weeded out, rejected, +selected, tested, selected and tested again, until he made his final +choice. He used the last of his chloroform and achieved the +bone-graft--living bone to living bone, living man and living rabbit +immovable and indissolubly bandaged and bound together, their mutual +processes uniting and reconstructing a perfect arm. + +And through the whole trying period, especially as Strang mended, +occurred passages of talk between Linday and Madge. Nor was he kind, nor +she rebellious. + +"It's a nuisance," he told her. "But the law is the law, and you'll need +a divorce before we can marry again. What do you say? Shall we go to +Lake Geneva?" + +"As you will," she said. + +And he, another time: "What the deuce did you see in him anyway? I know +he had money. But you and I were managing to get along with some sort +of comfort. My practice was averaging around forty thousand a year +then--I went over the books afterward. Palaces and steam yachts were +about all that was denied you." + +"Perhaps you've explained it," she answered. "Perhaps you were too +interested in your practice. Maybe you forgot me." + +"Humph," he sneered. "And may not your Rex be too interested in panthers +and short sticks?" + +He continually girded her to explain what he chose to call her +infatuation for the other man. + +"There is no explanation," she replied. And, finally, she retorted, "No +one can explain love, I least of all. I only knew love, the divine and +irrefragable fact, that is all. There was once, at Fort Vancouver, a +baron of the Hudson Bay Company who chided the resident Church of +England parson. The dominie had written home to England complaining that +the Company folk, from the head factor down, were addicted to Indian +wives. 'Why didn't you explain the extenuating circumstances?' demanded +the baron. Replied the dominie: 'A cow's tail grows downward. I do not +attempt to explain why the cow's tail grows downward. I merely cite the +fact.'" + +"Damn clever women!" cried Linday, his eyes flashing his irritation. + +"What brought you, of all places, into the Klondike?" she asked once. + +"Too much money. No wife to spend it. Wanted a rest. Possibly overwork. +I tried Colorado, but their telegrams followed me, and some of them did +themselves. I went on to Seattle. Same thing. Ransom ran his wife out to +me in a special train. There was no escaping it. Operation successful. +Local newspapers got wind of it. You can imagine the rest. I had to +hide, so I ran away to Klondike. And--well, Tom Daw found me playing +whist in a cabin down on the Yukon." + +Came the day when Strang's bed was carried out of doors and into the +sunshine. + +"Let me tell him now," she said to Linday. + +"No; wait," he answered. + +Later, Strang was able to sit up on the edge of the bed, able to walk +his first giddy steps, supported on either side. + +"Let me tell him now," she said. + +"No. I'm making a complete job of this. I want no set-backs. There's a +slight hitch still in that left arm. It's a little thing, but I am going +to remake him as God made him. Tomorrow I've planned to get into that +arm and take out the kink. It will mean a couple of days on his back. +I'm sorry there's no more chloroform. He'll just have to bite his teeth +on a spike and hang on. He can do it. He's got grit for a dozen men." + +Summer came on. The snow disappeared, save on the far peaks of the +Rockies to the east. The days lengthened till there was no darkness, the +sun dipping at midnight, due north, for a few minutes beneath the +horizon. Linday never let up on Strang. He studied his walk, his body +movements, stripped him again and again and for the thousandth time made +him flex all his muscles. Massage was given him without end, until +Linday declared that Tom Daw, Bill, and the brother were properly +qualified for Turkish bath and osteopathic hospital attendants. But +Linday was not yet satisfied. He put Strang through his whole repertoire +of physical feats, searching him the while for hidden weaknesses. He put +him on his back again for a week, opened up his leg, played a deft trick +or two with the smaller veins, scraped a spot of bone no larger than a +coffee grain till naught but a surface of healthy pink remained to be +sewed over with the living flesh. + +"Let me tell him," Madge begged. + +"Not yet," was the answer. "You will tell him only when I am ready." + +July passed, and August neared its end, when he ordered Strang out on +trail to get a moose. Linday kept at his heels, watching him, studying +him. He was slender, a cat in the strength of his muscles, and he walked +as Linday had seen no man walk, effortlessly, with all his body, seeming +to lift the legs with supple muscles clear to the shoulders. But it was +without heaviness, so easy that it invested him with a peculiar grace, +so easy that to the eye the speed was deceptive. It was the killing +pace of which Tom Daw had complained. Linday toiled behind, sweating and +panting; from time to time, when the ground favoured, making short runs +to keep up. At the end of ten miles he called a halt and threw himself +down on the moss. + +"Enough!" he cried. "I can't keep up with you." + +He mopped his heated face, and Strang sat down on a spruce log, smiling +at the doctor, and, with the camaraderie of a pantheist, at all the +landscape. + +"Any twinges, or hurts, or aches, or hints of aches?" Linday demanded. + +Strang shook his curly head and stretched his lithe body, living and +joying in every fibre of it. + +"You'll do, Strang. For a winter or two you may expect to feel the cold +and damp in the old wounds. But that will pass, and perhaps you may +escape it altogether." + +"God, Doctor, you have performed miracles with me. I don't know how to +thank you. I don't even know your name." + +"Which doesn't matter. I've pulled you through, and that's the main +thing." + +"But it's a name men must know out in the world," Strang persisted. +"I'll wager I'd recognise it if I heard it." + +"I think you would," was Linday's answer. "But it's beside the matter. I +want one final test, and then I'm done with you. Over the divide at the +head of this creek is a tributary of the Big Windy. Daw tells me that +last year you went over, down to the middle fork, and back again, in +three days. He said you nearly killed him, too. You are to wait here and +camp to-night. I'll send Daw along with the camp outfit. Then it's up to +you to go to the middle fork and back in the same time as last year." + + +V + +"Now," Linday said to Madge. "You have an hour in which to pack. I'll go +and get the canoe ready. Bill's bringing in the moose and won't get back +till dark. We'll make my cabin to-day, and in a week we'll be in +Dawson." + +"I was in hope...." She broke off proudly. + +"That I'd forego the fee?" + +"Oh, a compact is a compact, but you needn't have been so hateful in the +collecting. You have not been fair. You have sent him away for three +days, and robbed me of my last words to him." + +"Leave a letter." + +"I shall tell him all." + +"Anything less than all would be unfair to the three of us," was +Linday's answer. + +When he returned from the canoe, her outfit was packed, the letter +written. + +"Let me read it," he said, "if you don't mind." + +Her hesitation was momentary, then she passed it over. + +"Pretty straight," he said, when he had finished it. "Now, are you +ready?" + +He carried her pack down to the bank, and, kneeling, steadied the canoe +with one hand while he extended the other to help her in. He watched her +closely, but without a tremor she held out her hand to his and prepared +to step on board. + +"Wait," he said. "One moment. You remember the story I told you of the +elixir. I failed to tell you the end. And when she had anointed his eyes +and was about to depart, it chanced she saw in the mirror that her +beauty had been restored to her. And he opened his eyes, and cried out +with joy at the sight of her beauty, and folded her in his arms." + +She waited, tense but controlled, for him to continue, a dawn of wonder +faintly beginning to show in her face and eyes. + +"You are very beautiful, Madge." He paused, then added drily, "The rest +is obvious. I fancy Rex Strang's arms won't remain long empty. +Good-bye." + +"Grant...." she said, almost whispered, and in her voice was all the +speech that needs not words for understanding. + +He gave a nasty little laugh. "I just wanted to show you I wasn't such a +bad sort. Coals of fire, you know." + +"Grant...." + +He stepped into the canoe and put out a slender, nervous hand. + +"Good-bye," he said. + +She folded both her own hands about his. + +"Dear, strong hand," she murmured, and bent and kissed it. + +He jerked it away, thrust the canoe out from the bank, dipped the paddle +in the swift rush of the current, and entered the head of the riffle +where the water poured glassily ere it burst into a white madness of +foam. + + + + +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + +ZANE GREY'S NOVELS + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list + + * * * * * + +THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS + +A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of +frontier warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is +captured by bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a +delightful close. + + +THE RAINBOW TRAIL + +The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great +western uplands--until at last love and faith awake. + + +DESERT GOLD + +The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with +the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who +is the story's heroine. + + +RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE + +A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon +authority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the +story. + + +THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN + +This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, +known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert +and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant +pines." + + +THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT + +A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young +New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall +become the second wife of one of the Mormons--Well, that's the problem +of this great story. + + +THE SHORT STOP + +The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and +fortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are +followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty +ought to win. + + +BETTY ZANE + +This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful +young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. + + +THE LONE STAR RANGER + +After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along +the Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a +young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down +upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one +side by honest men, on the other by outlaws. + + +THE BORDER LEGION + +Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless +Western mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved +him--she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, +and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader--and nurses him to +health again. Here enters another romance--when Joan, disguised as an +outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, a +thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. + + +THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS, by Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey + +The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," as told by +his sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his +first encounter with an Indian. We see "Bill" as a pony express rider, +then near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the +most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting +account of the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character in public +life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than "Buffalo +Bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list + + * * * * * + +MICHAEL O'HALLORAN, Illustrated by Frances Rogers. + +Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern +Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes +the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and +onward. + + +LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. + +This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story +is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it +is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs +of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and +the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood +and about whose family there hangs a mystery. + + +THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W.L. Jacobs. + +"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had +nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. +But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romance +of the rarest idyllic quality. + + +FRECKLES. Illustrated. + +Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he +takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great +Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to +the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The +Angel" are full of real sentiment. + + +A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated. + +The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of +the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness +towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of +her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and +unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. + + +AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors. + +The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The +story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing one. The +novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its +pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. + + +THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated. + +A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and +humor. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. + + + * * * * * + +LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. + +A charming story of a quaint corner of New England, where bygone romance +finds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love to +the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of the +prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old-fashioned Love stories. + + +MASTER OF THE VINEYARD. + +A pathetic love story of a young girl, Rosemary. The teacher of the +country school, who is also master of the vineyard, comes to know her +through her desire for books. She is happy in his love till another +woman comes into his life. But happiness and emancipation from her many +trials come to Rosemary at last. The book has a touch of humor and +pathos that will appeal to every reader. + + +OLD ROSE AND SILVER. + +A love story,--sentimental and humorous,--with the plot subordinate to +the character delineation of its quaint people and to the exquisite +descriptions of picturesque spots and of lovely, old, rare treasures. + + +A WEAVER OF DREAMS. + +This story tells of the love-affairs of three young people, with an +old-fashioned romance in the background. A tiny dog plays an important +role in serving as a foil for the heroine's talking ingeniousness. There +is poetry, as well as tenderness and charm, in this tale of a weaver of +dreams. + + +A SPINNER IN THE SUN. + +An old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in solitude and +whose features her neighbors have never seen. There is a mystery at the +heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of romance. + + +THE MASTER'S VIOLIN. + +A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuoso +consents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an +aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth cannot +express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life as can the +master. But a girl comes into his life, and through his passionate love +for her, he learns the lessons that life has to give--and his soul +awakes. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list + + * * * * * + +MOTHER. Illustrated by F.C. Yohn. + +This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy reality +of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother's +experiences. + + +SATURDAY'S CHILD. + +Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes. + +Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a +quest for happiness. She passes through three stages--poverty, wealth +and service--and works out a creditable salvation. + + +THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. + +Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock. + +The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be +swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied +interests, and has her own romance. + + +THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. + +Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert. + +How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted +herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life. + + +THE HEART OF RACHAEL. + +Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. + +Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and is working out these, +there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's most +appealing characters. + + * * * * * + +_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_ + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask far Grosset & Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +"K." Illustrated. + +K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him, +and goes to live in a little town where beautiful Sidney Page lives. She +is in training to become a nurse. The joys and troubles of their young +love are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has made +the author famous. + + +THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. + +Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. + +An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the +"Man in Lower Ten." The strongest elements of Mrs. Rinehart's success +are found in this book. + + +WHEN A MAN MARRIES. + +Illustrated by Harrison fisher and Mayo Bunker. + +A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him; finds that his +aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family +income and who has never seen the wife, knows nothing of the domestic +upheaval. How the young man met the situation is humorously and most +entertainingly told. + + +THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Illus. by Lester Ralph + +The summer occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of Arnold +Armstrong, the son of the owner, on the circular staircase. Following +the murder a bank failure is announced. Around these two events is woven +a plot of absorbing interest. + + +THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. + +Illustrated (Photo Play Edition.) + +Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly +realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious +doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with +world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and +slender means. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +SEWELL FORD'S STORIES + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, +sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. + + +SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. + +Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human +nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for +"side-stepping with Shorty." + + +SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. + +Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to +the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund," +and gives joy to all concerned. + + +SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS + +Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for +physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at +swell yachting parties. + + +TORCHY. Illus. by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg. + +A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the +youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his +experiences. + + +TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the +previous book. + + +ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but +that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, +which brings about many hilariously funny situations. + + +TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for +the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious +American slang. + + +WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. by F. Snapp and A.W. Brown. + +Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast, +in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his +friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to place +an engagement ring on Vee's finger. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +THE NOVELS OF CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +JEWEL: A Chapter in Her Life. + +Illustrated by Maude and Genevieve Cowles. + +A story breathing the doctrine of love and patience as exemplified in +the life of a child. Jewel will never grow old because of the +immortality of her love. + + +JEWEL'S STORY BOOK. Illustrated by Albert Schmitt. + +A sequel to "Jewel," in which the same characteristics of love and +cheerfulness touch and uplift the reader. + + +THE INNER FLAME. Frontispiece in color. + +A young mining engineer, whose chief ambition is to become an artist, +but who has no friends with whom to realize his hopes, has a way opened +to him to try his powers, and, of course, he is successful. + + +THE RIGHT PRINCESS. + +At a fashionable Long Island resort, a stately English woman employs a +forcible New England housekeeper to serve in her interesting home. Many +humorous situations result. A delightful love affair runs through it +all. + + +THE OPENED SHUTTERS. + +Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo Play. + +A beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by her +new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessed +sunlight of joy by casting aside self love. + + +THE RIGHT TRACK. + +Frontispiece in color by Greene Blumenschien. + +A story of a young girl who marries for money so that she can enjoy +things intellectual. Neglect of her husband and of her two step children +makes an unhappy home till a friend brings a new philosophy of happiness +into the household. + + +CLEVER BETSY. Illustrated by Rose O'Neill. + +The "Clever Betsy" was a boat--named for the unyielding spinster whom +the captain hoped to marry. Through the two Betsy's a delightful group +of people are introduced. + + * * * * * + +_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_ + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +B.M. BOWER'S NOVELS + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +CHIP OF THE FLYING U. + +Wherein the love affairs of Chip and Delia Whitman are charmingly and +humorously told. + + +THE HAPPY FAMILY. + +A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen +jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. + + +HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT. + +Describing a gay party of Easterners who exchange a cottage at Newport +for a Montana ranch-house. + + +THE RANGE DWELLERS. + +Spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and +Juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly story. + + +THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS. + +A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author among the +cowboys. + + +THE LONESOME TRAIL. + +A little branch of sage brush and the recollection of a pair of large +brown eyes upset "Weary" Davidson's plans. + + +THE LONG SHADOW. + +A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free outdoor life of a +mountain ranch. It is a fine love story. + + +GOOD INDIAN. + +A stirring romance of life on an Idaho ranch. + + +FLYING U RANCH. + +Another delightful story about Chip and his pals. + + +THE FLYING U'S LAST STAND. + +An amusing account of Chip and the other boys opposing a party of school +teachers. + + +THE UPHILL CLIMB. + +A story of a mountain ranch and of a man's hard fight on the uphill road +to manliness. + + +THE PHANTOM HERD. + +The title of a moving-picture staged it New Mexico by the "Flying U" +boys. + + +THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX. + +The "Flying U" boys stage a fake bank robbery for film purposes which +precedes a real one for lust of gold. + + +THE GRINGOS. + +A story of love and adventure on a ranch in California. + + +STARR OF THE DESERT. + +A New Mexico ranch story of mystery and adventure. + + +THE LOOKOUT MAN. + +A Northern California story full of action, excitement and love. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +THE NOVELS OF WINSTON CHURCHILL + + * * * * * + +THE INSIDE OF THE CUP. Illustrated by Howard Giles. + +The Reverend John Hodder is called to a fashionable church in a +middle-western city. He knows little of modern problems and in his +theology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church could +desire. But the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakening +follows and in the end he works out a solution. + + +A FAR COUNTRY. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. + +This novel is concerned with big problems of the day. As _The Inside of +the Cup_ gets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, so +_A Far Country_ deals in a story that is intense and dramatic, with +other vital issues confronting the twentieth century. + + +A MODERN CHRONICLE. Illustrated by J.H. Gardner Soper. + +This, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, +is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. It +is frankly a modern love story. + + +MR. CREWE'S CAREER. Illus. by A.I. Keller and Kinneys. + +A new England state is under the political domination of a railway and +Mr. Crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the people +is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own +interest in a political way. The daughter of the railway president plays +no small part in the situation. + + +THE CROSSING. Illustrated by S. Adamson and L. Baylis. + +Describing the battle of Fort Moultrie, the blazing of the Kentucky +wilderness, the expedition of Clark and his handful of followers in +Illinois, the beginning of civilization along the Ohio and Mississippi, +and the treasonable schemes against Washington. + + +CONISTON. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn. + +A deft blending of love and politics. A New Englander is the hero, a +crude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then +surrendered all for the love of a woman. + + +THE CELEBRITY. An episode. + +An inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities +between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. It is the purest, +keenest fun--and is American to the core. + + +THE CRISIS. Illustrated with scenes from the Photo-Play. + +A book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid +power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are +inspiring. + + +RICHARD CARVEL. Illustrated by Malcolm Frazer. + +An historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of Colonial +times, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases and +interesting throughout. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +JOHN FOX, JR'S. STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE. + +Illustrated by F.C. Yohn. + +The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree +that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine +lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he +finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the +_foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and +the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder +chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." + + +THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME + +Illustrated by F.C. Yohn. + +This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come." It +is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often +springs the flower of civilization. + +"Chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he +came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, +seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and +mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, +by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the +mountains. + + +A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND. + +Illustrated by F.C. Yohn. + +The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of +moonshiner and of feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the +heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight." Two +impetuous young Southerners' fall under the spell of "The Blight's" +charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the +love making of the mountaineers. + +Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some of +Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives. + + * * * * * + +_Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_ + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS + +May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown. + +No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young +people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the +time when the reader was Seventeen. + + +PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant. + +This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, +tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a +finished, exquisite work. + + +PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm. + +Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases +of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness +that have ever been written. + + +THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C.E. Chambers. + +Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his +father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a +fine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success. + + +THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece. + +A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country +editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love +interest. + + +THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. + +The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, +drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another +to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising +suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. + + * * * * * + +_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_ + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + +NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE + +HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. + +May be had wherever books are sold Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. + + * * * * * + +MAVERICKS. + +A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations +are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. One +of the sweetest love stories ever told. + + +A TEXAS RANGER. + +How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into +the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of +thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed +through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. + + +WYOMING. + +In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured the +breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the +frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. + + +RIDGWAY OF MONTANA. + +The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and +mining industries are the religion of the country. The political +contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story +great strength and charm.. + + +BUCKY O'CONNOR. + +Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with +the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing +fascination of style and plot. + + +CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT. + +A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter +feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusual +woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly +characteristic of the great free West. + + +BRAND BLOTTERS. + +A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life of +the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love +interest running through its 320 pages. + + * * * * * + +GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + * * * * * + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Turtles of Tasman, by Jack London + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TURTLES OF TASMAN *** + +***** This file should be named 16257.txt or 16257.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/2/5/16257/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Taavi Kalju and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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