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The Project Gutenberg eBook of "The Strand Magazine February 1904 Vol xxvii No 158", by Various.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 47642 ***</div>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_01frontice.jpg" width="358" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"I HEARD HIM CHUCKLE AS THE LIGHT FELL UPON A PATCHED DUNLOP TYRE."</p>
<p>(<em>See page <a href="#Page_135">135.</a></em>)</p></div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="transnote">
<p class="center">Note: The Table of Contents was added by the Transcriber.</p>
</div>
<h2>TABLE OF CONTENTS</h2>
<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of Contents">
<tr><td class="tdl"> </td><td class="tdr">Page</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. By A Conan Doyle.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">THE VOICES OF PARLIAMENT. By Alex. Grant.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">MR. DONAH. By Tom Gallon.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">THE STORY OF BRADSHAW. By Newton Deane.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">GOLDEN BARS. By Max Pemberton.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">OUR GRANDMOTHERS' FASHION-PLATES. By Arabella Drysdale-Davis.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">THE WILLING SCAPE-GOAT. By S. B. Robinson</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_178">178</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">CHILDHOOD IN PICTURES. By S. K. Ludovic.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">DALSTONE LANE. By W. W. Jacobs.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">AFGHAN BEAST FABLES. Illustrated by J. A. Shepherd.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">WONDERS OF THE WORLD</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">THE FORBIDDEN CITY OF LHASSA. By G. T. Tsybikov.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_216">216</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">THE PHOENIX AND THE CARPET. Copyright 1904, by George Newnes, Limited. </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_223">223</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">WHAT IS A GOOD ADVERTISEMENT?</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">CURIOSITIES. Copyright 1904, by George Newnes, Limited.</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_236"> 236</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<div id="title">
<hr class="full" />
<h1 style="page-break-before: avoid;"><span class="smcap">The Strand Magazine.</span></h1>
<h3>Vol. xxvii. FEBRUARY, 1904. No. 159.</h3>
<hr class="full" />
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="THE_RETURN_OF" id="THE_RETURN_OF"></a>THE RETURN OF<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">SHERLOCK HOLMES.</span></h2>
<h3>By A. CONAN DOYLE.</h3>
<p class="p1"><em>V.—The Adventure of the Priory School.</em></p>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 118px;">
<img src="images/123-drop-we.png" width="118" height="120" alt="We" />
<span class="hidden">W</span></span><span class="smcap">e</span> have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small stage at
Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more sudden and startling
than the first appearance of Dr. Thorneycroft Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc.
His card, which seemed too small to carry the weight of his academic
distinctions, preceded him by a few seconds, and then he entered
himself—so large, so pompous, and so dignified that he was the very
embodiment of self-possession and solidity. And yet his first action
when the door had closed behind him was to stagger against the table,
whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that majestic figure
prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin hearthrug.</p>
<p>We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared in silent
amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which told of some sudden
and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life. Then Holmes hurried with a
cushion for his head and I with brandy for his lips. The heavy white face
was seamed with lines of trouble, the hanging pouches under the closed
eyes were leaden in colour, the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the
corners, the rolling chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore the grime
of a long journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from the well-shaped
head. It was a sorely-stricken man who lay before us.</p>
<p>"What is it, Watson?" asked Holmes.</p>
<p>"Absolute exhaustion—possibly mere hunger and fatigue," said I, with my
finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life trickled thin and
small.</p>
<p>"Return ticket from Mackleton, in the North of England," said Holmes,
drawing it from the watch-pocket. "It is not twelve o'clock yet. He has
certainly been an early starter."</p>
<p>The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of vacant, grey
eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had scrambled on to his
feet, his face crimson with shame.</p>
<p>"Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes; I have been a little overwrought.
Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a biscuit I have no doubt
that I should be better. I came personally, Mr. Holmes, in order to
ensure that you would return with me. I feared that no telegram would
convince you of the absolute urgency of the case."</p>
<p>"When you are quite restored——"</p>
<p>"I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how I came to be so weak. I wish
you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me by the next train."</p>
<p>My friend shook his head.</p>
<p>"My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very busy at
present. I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Documents, and the
Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial. Only a very important issue
could call me from London at present."</p>
<p>"Important!" Our visitor threw up his hands. "Have you heard nothing of
the abduction of the only son of the Duke of Holdernesse?"</p>
<p>"What! the late Cabinet Minister?"</p>
<p>"Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there was some
rumour in the <cite>Globe</cite> last night. I thought it might have reached your
ears."</p>
<p>Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked out Volume "H" in his
encyclopædia of reference.</p>
<p>"'Holdernesse, 6th Duke, K.G., P.C.'—half the alphabet! 'Baron Beverley,
Earl of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> Carston'—dear me, what a list! 'Lord Lieutenant of Hallamshire
since 1900. Married Edith, daughter of Sir Charles Appledore, 1888. Heir
and only child, Lord Saltire. Owns about two hundred and fifty thousand
acres. Minerals in Lancashire and Wales. Address: Carlton House Terrace;
Holdernesse Hall, Hallamshire; Carston Castle, Bangor, Wales. Lord of the
Admiralty, 1872; Chief Secretary of State for——' Well, well, this man
is certainly one of the greatest subjects of the Crown!"</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_124.jpg" width="500" height="448" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE HEAVY WHITE FACE WAS SEAMED WITH<br />
LINES OF TROUBLE."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"The greatest and perhaps the wealthiest. I am aware, Mr. Holmes, that
you take a very high line in professional matters, and that you are
prepared to work for the work's sake. I may tell you, however, that his
Grace has already intimated that a cheque for five thousand pounds will
be handed over to the person who can tell him where his son is, and
another thousand to him who can name the man, or men, who have taken him."</p>
<p>"It is a princely offer," said Holmes. "Watson, I think that we shall
accompany Dr. Huxtable back to the North of England. And now, Dr.
Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk you will kindly tell me what
has happened, when it happened, how it happened, and, finally, what Dr.
Thorneycroft Huxtable, of the Priory School, near Mackleton, has to do
with the matter, and why he comes three days after an event—the state of
your chin gives the date—to ask for my humble services."</p>
<p>Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits. The light had come back
to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks as he set himself with great
vigour and lucidity to explain the situation.</p>
<p>"I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is a preparatory school,
of which I am the founder and principal. 'Huxtable's Sidelights on
Horace' may possibly recall my name to your memories. The Priory
is, without exception, the best and most select preparatory school
in England. Lord Leverstoke, the Earl of Blackwater, Sir Cathcart
Soames—they all have entrusted their sons to me. But I felt that
my school had reached its zenith when, three weeks ago, the Duke of
Holdernesse sent Mr. James Wilder, his secretary, with the intimation
that young Lord Saltire, ten years old, his only son and heir, was about
to be committed to my charge. Little did I think that this would be the
prelude to the most crushing misfortune of my life.</p>
<p>"On May 1st the boy arrived, that being the beginning of the summer term.
He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into our ways. I may tell
you—I trust that I am not indiscreet, but half-confidences are absurd
in such a case—that he was not entirely happy at home. It is an open
secret that the Duke's married life had not been a peaceful one, and the
matter had ended in a separation by mutual consent, the Duchess taking
up her residence in the South of France. This had occurred very shortly
before, and the boy's sympathies are known to have been strongly with his
mother. He moped after her departure from Holdernesse Hall, and it was
for this reason that the Duke desired to send him to my establishment.
In a fortnight<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> the boy was quite at home with us, and was apparently
absolutely happy.</p>
<p>"He was last seen on the night of May 13th—that is, the night of last
Monday. His room was on the second floor, and was approached through
another larger room in which two boys were sleeping. These boys saw and
heard nothing, so that it is certain that young Saltire did not pass out
that way. His window was open, and there is a stout ivy plant leading to
the ground. We could trace no footmarks below, but it is sure that this
is the only possible exit.</p>
<p>"His absence was discovered at seven o'clock on Tuesday morning. His bed
had been slept in. He had dressed himself fully before going off in his
usual school suit of black Eton jacket and dark grey trousers. There were
no signs that anyone had entered the room, and it is quite certain that
anything in the nature of cries, or a struggle, would have been heard,
since Caunter, the elder boy in the inner room, is a very light sleeper.</p>
<p>"When Lord Saltire's disappearance was discovered I at once called a roll
of the whole establishment, boys, masters, and servants. It was then
that we ascertained that Lord Saltire had not been alone in his flight.
Heidegger, the German master, was missing. His room was on the second
floor, at the farther end of the building, facing the same way as Lord
Saltire's. His bed had also been slept in; but he had apparently gone
away partly dressed, since his shirt and socks were lying on the floor.
He had undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy, for we could see the
marks of his feet where he had landed on the lawn. His bicycle was kept
in a small shed beside this lawn, and it also was gone.</p>
<p>"He had been with me for two years, and came with the best references;
but he was a silent, morose man, not very popular either with masters
or boys. No trace could be found of the fugitives, and now on Thursday
morning we are as ignorant as we were on Tuesday. Inquiry was, of course,
made at once at Holdernesse Hall. It is only a few miles away, and we
imagined that in some sudden attack of home-sickness he had gone back
to his father; but nothing had been heard of him. The Duke is greatly
agitated—and as to me, you have seen yourselves the state of nervous
prostration to which the suspense and the responsibility have reduced me.
Mr. Holmes, if ever you put forward your full powers, I implore you to do
so now, for never in your life could you have a case which is more worthy
of them."</p>
<p>Sherlock Holmes had listened with the utmost intentness to the statement
of the unhappy schoolmaster. His drawn brows and the deep furrow
between them showed that he needed no exhortation to concentrate all
his attention upon a problem which, apart from the tremendous interests
involved, must appeal so directly to his love of the complex and the
unusual. He now drew out his note-book and jotted down one or two
memoranda.</p>
<p>"You have been very remiss in not coming to me sooner," said he,
severely. "You start me on my investigation with a very serious handicap.
It is inconceivable, for example, that this ivy and this lawn would have
yielded nothing to an expert observer."</p>
<p>"I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes. His Grace was extremely desirous to avoid
all public scandal. He was afraid of his family unhappiness being dragged
before the world. He has a deep horror of anything of the kind."</p>
<p>"But there has been some official investigation?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir, and it has proved most disappointing. An apparent clue was at
once obtained, since a boy and a young man were reported to have been
seen leaving a neighbouring station by an early train. Only last night
we had news that the couple had been hunted down in Liverpool, and they
prove to have no connection whatever with the matter in hand. Then it was
that in my despair and disappointment, after a sleepless night, I came
straight to you by the early train."</p>
<p>"I suppose the local investigation was relaxed while this false clue was
being followed up?"</p>
<p>"It was entirely dropped."</p>
<p>"So that three days have been wasted. The affair has been most deplorably
handled."</p>
<p>"I feel it, and admit it."</p>
<p>"And yet the problem should be capable of ultimate solution. I shall be
very happy to look into it. Have you been able to trace any connection
between the missing boy and this German master?"</p>
<p>"None at all."</p>
<p>"Was he in the master's class?"</p>
<p>"No; he never exchanged a word with him so far as I know."</p>
<p>"That is certainly very singular. Had the boy a bicycle?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Was any other bicycle missing?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p>
<p>"Is that certain?"</p>
<p>"Quite."</p>
<p>"Well, now, you do not mean to seriously suggest that this German rode
off upon a bicycle in the dead of the night bearing the boy in his arms?"</p>
<p>"Certainly not."</p>
<p>"Then what is the theory in your mind?"</p>
<p>"The bicycle may have been a blind. It may have been hidden somewhere and
the pair gone off on foot."</p>
<p>"Quite so; but it seems rather an absurd blind, does it not? Were there
other bicycles in this shed?"</p>
<p>"Several."</p>
<p>"Would he not have hidden <em>a couple</em> had he desired to give the idea that
they had gone off upon them?"</p>
<p>"I suppose he would."</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_126.jpg" width="500" height="452" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"WHAT IS THE THEORY IN YOUR MIND?"</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Of course he would. The blind theory won't do. But the incident is an
admirable starting-point for an investigation. After all, a bicycle is
not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy. One other question. Did
anyone call to see the boy on the day before he disappeared?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Did he get any letters?"</p>
<p>"Yes; one letter."</p>
<p>"From whom?"</p>
<p>"From his father."</p>
<p>"Do you open the boys' letters?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"How do you know it was from the father?"</p>
<p>"The coat of arms was on the envelope, and it was addressed in the Duke's
peculiar stiff hand. Besides, the Duke remembers having written."</p>
<p>"When had he a letter before that?"</p>
<p>"Not for several days."</p>
<p>"Had he ever one from France?"</p>
<p>"No; never."</p>
<p>"You see the point of my questions, of course. Either the boy was
carried off by force or he went of his own free will. In the latter
case you would expect that some prompting from outside would be needed
to make so young a lad do such a thing. If he has had no visitors, that
prompting must have come in letters. Hence I try to find out who were his
correspondents."</p>
<p>"I fear I cannot help you much. His only correspondent, so far as I know,
was his own father."</p>
<p>"Who wrote to him on the very day of his disappearance. Were the
relations between father and son very friendly?"</p>
<p>"His Grace is never very friendly with anyone. He is completely immersed
in large public questions, and is rather inaccessible to all ordinary
emotions. But he was always kind to the boy in his own way."</p>
<p>"But the sympathies of the latter were with the mother?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Did he say so?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"The Duke, then?"</p>
<p>"Good heavens, no!"</p>
<p>"Then how could you know?"</p>
<p>"I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his Grace's
secretary.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> It was he who gave me the information about Lord Saltire's
feelings."</p>
<p>"I see. By the way, that last letter of the Duke's—was it found in the
boy's room after he was gone?"</p>
<p>"No; he had taken it with him. I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time that we
were leaving for Euston."</p>
<p>"I will order a four-wheeler. In a quarter of an hour we shall be at your
service. If you are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable, it would be well to
allow the people in your neighbourhood to imagine that the inquiry is
still going on in Liverpool, or wherever else that red herring led your
pack. In the meantime I will do a little quiet work at your own doors,
and perhaps the scent is not so cold but that two old hounds like Watson
and myself may get a sniff of it."</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>That evening found us in the cold, bracing atmosphere of the Peak
country, in which Dr. Huxtable's famous school is situated. It was
already dark when we reached it. A card was lying on the hall table,
and the butler whispered something to his master, who turned to us with
agitation in every heavy feature.</p>
<p>"The Duke is here," said he. "The Duke and Mr. Wilder are in the study.
Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you."</p>
<p>I was, of course, familiar with the pictures of the famous statesman,
but the man himself was very different from his representation. He was a
tall and stately person, scrupulously dressed, with a drawn, thin face,
and a nose which was grotesquely curved and long. His complexion was of a
dead pallor, which was more startling by contrast with a long, dwindling
beard of vivid red, which flowed down over his white waistcoat, with his
watch-chain gleaming through its fringe. Such was the stately presence
who looked stonily at us from the centre of Dr. Huxtable's hearthrug.
Beside him stood a very young man, whom I understood to be Wilder, the
private secretary. He was small, nervous, alert, with intelligent,
light-blue eyes and mobile features. It was he who at once, in an
incisive and positive tone, opened the conversation.</p>
<p>"I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to prevent you from
starting for London. I learned that your object was to invite Mr.
Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this case. His Grace is
surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should have taken such a step without
consulting him."</p>
<p>"When I learned that the police had failed——"</p>
<p>"His Grace is by no means convinced that the police have failed."</p>
<p>"But surely, Mr. Wilder——"</p>
<p>"You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his Grace is particularly anxious
to avoid all public scandal. He prefers to take as few people as possible
into his confidence."</p>
<p>"The matter can be easily remedied," said the brow-beaten doctor; "Mr.
Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the morning train."</p>
<p>"Hardly that, doctor, hardly that," said Holmes, in his blandest voice.
"This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I propose to spend a
few days upon your moors, and to occupy my mind as best I may. Whether I
have the shelter of your roof or of the village inn is, of course, for
you to decide."</p>
<p>I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of
indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous voice of the
red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a dinner-gong.</p>
<p>"I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have done wisely
to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already been taken into your
confidence, it would indeed be absurd that we should not avail ourselves
of his services. Far from going to the inn, Mr. Holmes, I should be
pleased if you would come and stay with me at Holdernesse Hall."</p>
<p>"I thank your Grace. For the purposes of my investigation I think that it
would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of the mystery."</p>
<p>"Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information which Mr. Wilder or I can
give you is, of course, at your disposal."</p>
<p>"It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall," said
Holmes. "I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have formed any
explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious disappearance of your
son?"</p>
<p>"No, sir, I have not."</p>
<p>"Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you, but I have no
alternative. Do you think that the Duchess had anything to do with the
matter?"</p>
<p>The great Minister showed perceptible hesitation.</p>
<p>"I do not think so," he said, at last.</p>
<p>"The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been kidnapped
for the purpose of levying ransom. You have not had any demand of the
sort?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p>
<p>"No, sir."</p>
<p>"One more question, your Grace. I understand that you wrote to your son
upon the day when this incident occurred."</p>
<p>"No; I wrote upon the day before."</p>
<div class="figright">
<img src="images/ill_128.jpg" width="370" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"BESIDE HIM STOOD A VERY YOUNG MAN."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Exactly. But he received it on that day?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Was there anything in your letter which might have unbalanced him or
induced him to take such a step?"</p>
<p>"No, sir, certainly not."</p>
<p>"Did you post that letter yourself?"</p>
<p>The nobleman's reply was interrupted by his secretary, who broke in with
some heat.</p>
<p>"His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself," said he.
"This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and I myself put
them in the post-bag."</p>
<p>"You are sure this one was among them?"</p>
<p>"Yes; I observed it."</p>
<p>"How many letters did your Grace write that day?"</p>
<p>"Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence. But surely this is
somewhat irrelevant?"</p>
<p>"Not entirely," said Holmes.</p>
<p>"For my own part," the Duke continued, "I have advised the police to
turn their attention to the South of France. I have already said that I
do not believe that the Duchess would encourage so monstrous an action,
but the lad had the most wrong-headed opinions, and it is possible that
he may have fled to her, aided and abetted by this German. I think, Dr.
Huxtable, that we will now return to the Hall."</p>
<p>I could see that there were other questions which Holmes would have
wished to put; but the nobleman's abrupt manner showed that the interview
was at an end. It was evident that to his intensely aristocratic nature
this discussion of his intimate family affairs with a stranger was most
abhorrent, and that he feared lest every fresh question would throw a
fiercer light into the discreetly shadowed corners of his ducal history.</p>
<p>When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend flung himself at
once with characteristic eagerness into the investigation.</p>
<p>The boy's chamber was carefully examined, and yielded nothing save the
absolute conviction that it was only through the window that he could
have escaped. The German master's room and effects gave no further clue.
In his case a trailer of ivy had given way under his weight, and we
saw by the light of a lantern the mark on the lawn where his heels had
come down. That one dint in the short green grass was the only material
witness left of this inexplicable nocturnal flight.</p>
<p>Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after eleven.
He had obtained a large ordnance map of the neighbourhood, and this
he brought into my room, where he laid it out on the bed, and, having
balanced the lamp in the middle of it, he began to smoke over it, and
occasionally to point out objects of interest with the reeking amber of
his pipe.</p>
<p>"This case grows upon me, Watson," said he. "There are decidedly some
points of interest in connection with it. In this early stage I want you
to realize those geographical features which may have a good deal to do
with our investigation.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p>
<p>"Look at this map. This dark square is the Priory School. I'll put a pin
in it. Now, this line is the main road. You see that it runs east and
west past the school, and you see also that there is no side road for
a mile either way. If these two folk passed away by road it was <em>this</em>
road."</p>
<p>"Exactly."</p>
<p>"By a singular and happy chance we are able to some extent to check what
passed along this road during the night in question. At this point, where
my pipe is now resting, a country constable was on duty from twelve to
six. It is, as you perceive, the first cross road on the east side. This
man declares that he was not absent from his post for an instant, and he
is positive that neither boy nor man could have gone that way unseen. I
have spoken with this policeman to-night, and he appears to me to be a
perfectly reliable person. That blocks this end. We have now to deal with
the other. There is an inn here, the Red Bull, the landlady of which was
ill. She had sent to Mackleton for a doctor, but he did not arrive until
morning, being absent at another case. The people at the inn were alert
all night, awaiting his coming, and one or other of them seems to have
continually had an eye upon the road. They declare that no one passed. If
their evidence is good, then we are fortunate enough to be able to block
the west, and also to be able to say that the fugitives did <em>not</em> use the
road at all."</p>
<p>"But the bicycle?" I objected.</p>
<p>"Quite so. We will come to the bicycle presently. To continue our
reasoning: if these people did not go by the road, they must have
traversed the country to the north of the house or to the south of the
house. That is certain. Let us weigh the one against the other. On the
south of the house is, as you perceive, a large district of arable land,
cut up into small fields, with stone walls between them. There, I admit
that a bicycle is impossible. We can dismiss the idea. We turn to the
country on the north. Here there lies a grove of trees, marked as the
'Ragged Shaw,' and on the farther side stretches a great rolling moor,
Lower Gill Moor, extending for ten miles and sloping gradually upwards.
Here, at one side of this wilderness, is Holdernesse Hall, ten miles by
road, but only six across the moor. It is a peculiarly desolate plain. A
few moor farmers have small holdings, where they rear sheep and cattle.
Except these, the plover and the curlew are the only inhabitants until
you come to the Chesterfield high road. There is a church there, you see,
a few cottages, and an inn. Beyond that the hills become precipitous.
Surely it is here to the north that our quest must lie."</p>
<p>"But the bicycle?" I persisted.</p>
<p>"Well, well!" said Holmes, impatiently. "A good cyclist does not need a
high road. The moor is intersected with paths and the moon was at the
full. Halloa! what is this?"</p>
<p>There was an agitated knock at the door, and an instant afterwards Dr.
Huxtable was in the room. In his hand he held a blue cricket-cap, with a
white chevron on the peak.</p>
<p>"At last we have a clue!" he cried. "Thank Heaven! at last we are on the
dear boy's track! It is his cap."</p>
<p>"Where was it found?"</p>
<p>"In the van of the gipsies who camped on the moor. They left on Tuesday.
To-day the police traced them down and examined their caravan. This was
found."</p>
<p>"How do they account for it?"</p>
<p>"They shuffled and lied—said that they found it on the moor on Tuesday
morning. They know where he is, the rascals! Thank goodness, they are all
safe under lock and key. Either the fear of the law or the Duke's purse
will certainly get out of them all that they know."</p>
<p>"So far, so good," said Holmes, when the doctor had at last left the
room. "It at least bears out the theory that it is on the side of the
Lower Gill Moor that we must hope for results. The police have really
done nothing locally, save the arrest of these gipsies. Look here,
Watson! There is a watercourse across the moor. You see it marked here
in the map. In some parts it widens into a morass. This is particularly
so in the region between Holdernesse Hall and the school. It is vain to
look elsewhere for tracks in this dry weather; but at <em>that</em> point there
is certainly a chance of some record being left. I will call you early
to-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we can throw some little
light upon the mystery."</p>
<p>The day was just breaking when I woke to find the long, thin form of
Holmes by my bedside. He was fully dressed, and had apparently already
been out.</p>
<p>"I have done the lawn and the bicycle shed," said he. "I have also had a
ramble through the Ragged Shaw. Now, Watson, there is cocoa ready in the
next room. I must beg you to hurry, for we have a great day before us."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p>
<p>His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with the exhilaration of the
master workman who sees his work lie ready before him. A very different
Holmes, this active, alert man, from the introspective and pallid dreamer
of Baker Street. I felt, as I looked upon that supple figure, alive with
nervous energy, that it was indeed a strenuous day that awaited us.</p>
<div class="figleft">
<img src="images/ill_130.jpg" width="430" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>SKETCH MAP SHOWING THE LOCALITY.</p></div>
</div>
<p>And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment. With high hopes we
struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with a thousand
sheep paths, until we came to the broad, light-green belt which marked
the morass between us and Holdernesse. Certainly, if the lad had gone
homewards, he must have passed this, and he could not pass it without
leaving his traces. But no sign of him or the German could be seen. With
a darkening face my friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant
of every muddy stain upon the mossy surface. Sheep-marks there were in
profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had left their tracks.
Nothing more.</p>
<p>"Check number one," said Holmes, looking gloomily over the rolling
expanse of the moor. "There is another morass down yonder and a narrow
neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa! what have we here?"</p>
<p>We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway. In the middle of it,
clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of a bicycle.</p>
<p>"Hurrah!" I cried. "We have it."</p>
<p>But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled and expectant
rather than joyous.</p>
<p>"A bicycle certainly, but not <em>the</em> bicycle," said he. "I am familiar
with forty-two different impressions left by tyres. This, as you
perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer cover. Heidegger's
tyres were Palmer's, leaving longitudinal stripes. Aveling, the
mathematical master, was sure upon the point. Therefore, it is not
Heidegger's track."</p>
<p>"The boy's, then?"</p>
<p>"Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle to have been in his possession.
But this we have utterly failed to do. This track, as you perceive, was
made by a rider who was going from the direction of the school."</p>
<p>"Or towards it?"</p>
<p>"No, no, my dear Watson. The more deeply sunk impression is, of course,
the hind wheel, upon which the weight rests. You perceive several places
where it has passed across and obliterated the more shallow mark of the
front one. It was undoubtedly heading away from the school. It may or may
not be connected with our inquiry, but we will follow it backwards before
we go any farther."</p>
<p>We did so, and at the end of a few hundred yards lost the tracks as we
emerged from the boggy portion of the moor. Following the path backwards,
we picked out another spot, where a spring trickled across it. Here, once
again, was the mark of the bicycle, though nearly obliterated by the
hoofs of cows. After that there was no sign, but the path ran right on
into Ragged Shaw, the wood which backed on to the school. From this wood
the cycle must have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> emerged. Holmes sat down on a boulder and rested his
chin in his hands. I had smoked two cigarettes before he moved.</p>
<p>"Well, well," said he, at last. "It is, of course, possible that a
cunning man might change the tyre of his bicycle in order to leave
unfamiliar tracks. A criminal who was capable of such a thought is a man
whom I should be proud to do business with. We will leave this question
undecided and hark back to our morass again, for we have left a good deal
unexplored."</p>
<p>We continued our systematic survey of the edge of the sodden portion of
the moor, and soon our perseverance was gloriously rewarded. Right across
the lower part of the bog lay a miry path. Holmes gave a cry of delight
as he approached it. An impression like a fine bundle of telegraph wires
ran down the centre of it. It was the Palmer tyre.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 378px;">
<img src="images/ill_131.jpg" width="378" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"AN IMPRESSION LIKE A FINE<br />
BUNDLE OF TELEGRAPH WIRES<br />
RAN DOWN THE CENTRE OF IT."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!" cried Holmes, exultantly. "My
reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson."</p>
<p>"I congratulate you."</p>
<p>"But we have a long way still to go. Kindly walk clear of the path. Now
let us follow the trail. I fear that it will not lead very far."</p>
<p>We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of the moor is
intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequently lost sight of
the track, we always succeeded in picking it up once more.</p>
<p>"Do you observe," said Holmes, "that the rider is now undoubtedly forcing
the pace? There can be no doubt of it. Look at this impression, where you
get both tyres clear. The one is as deep as the other. That can only mean
that the rider is throwing his weight on to the handle-bar, as a man does
when he is sprinting. By Jove! he has had a fall."</p>
<p>There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of the track.
Then there were a few footmarks, and the tyre reappeared once more.</p>
<p>"A side-slip," I suggested.</p>
<p>Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse. To my horror I
perceived that the yellow blossoms were all dabbled with crimson. On the
path, too, and among the heather were dark stains of clotted blood.</p>
<p>"Bad!" said Holmes. "Bad! Stand clear, Watson! Not an unnecessary
footstep! What do I read here? He fell wounded, he stood up, he
remounted, he proceeded. But there is no other track. Cattle on this side
path. He was surely not gored by a bull? Impossible! But I see no traces
of anyone else. We must push on, Watson. Surely with stains as well as
the track to guide us he cannot escape us now."</p>
<p>Our search was not a very long one. The tracks of the tyre began to curve
fantastically upon the wet and shining path. Suddenly, as I looked ahead,
the gleam of metal caught my eye from amid the thick gorse bushes. Out of
them we dragged a bicycle, Palmer-tyred, one pedal bent, and the whole
front of it horribly smeared and slobbered with blood. On the other side
of the bushes a shoe was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> projecting. We ran round, and there lay the
unfortunate rider. He was a tall man, full bearded, with spectacles,
one glass of which had been knocked out. The cause of his death was a
frightful blow upon the head, which had crushed in part of his skull.
That he could have gone on after receiving such an injury said much for
the vitality and courage of the man. He wore shoes, but no socks, and
his open coat disclosed a night-shirt beneath it. It was undoubtedly the
German master.</p>
<div class="figright">
<img src="images/ill_132.jpg" width="500" height="534" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THERE LAY THE UNFORTUNATE RIDER."</p></div>
</div>
<p>Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with great
attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I could see by his
ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not, in his opinion, advanced
us much in our inquiry.</p>
<p>"It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson," said he, at last.
"My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we have already
lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste another hour. On the
other hand, we are bound to inform the police of the discovery, and to
see that this poor fellow's body is looked after."</p>
<p>"I could take a note back."</p>
<p>"But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is a fellow
cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will guide the
police."</p>
<p>I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the frightened man
with a note to Dr. Huxtable.</p>
<p>"Now, Watson," said he, "we have picked up two clues this morning. One
is the bicycle with the Palmer tyre, and we see what that has led to.
The other is the bicycle with the patched Dunlop. Before we start to
investigate that, let us try to realize what we <em>do</em> know so as to make
the most of it, and to separate the essential from the accidental.</p>
<p>"First of all I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly left of
his own free will. He got down from his window and he went off, either
alone or with someone. That is sure."</p>
<p>I assented.</p>
<p>"Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master. The boy was
fully dressed when he fled. Therefore, he foresaw what he would do. But
the German went without his socks. He certainly acted on very short
notice."</p>
<p>"Undoubtedly."</p>
<p>"Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw the flight of
the boy. Because he wished to overtake him and bring him back. He seized
his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in pursuing him met his death."</p>
<p>"So it would seem."</p>
<p>"Now I come to the critical part of my argument. The natural action of a
man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> him. He would know
that he could overtake him. But the German does not do so. He turns to
his bicycle. I am told that he was an excellent cyclist. He would not do
this if he did not see that the boy had some swift means of escape."</p>
<p>"The other bicycle."</p>
<p>"Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death five miles from
the school—not by a bullet, mark you, which even a lad might conceivably
discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a vigorous arm. The lad, then,
<em>had</em> a companion in his flight. And the flight was a swift one, since
it took five miles before an expert cyclist could overtake them. Yet we
survey the ground round the scene of the tragedy. What do we find? A few
cattle tracks, nothing more. I took a wide sweep round, and there is no
path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have had nothing to do
with the actual murder. Nor were there any human footmarks."</p>
<p>"Holmes," I cried, "this is impossible."</p>
<p>"Admirable!" he said. "A most illuminating remark. It <em>is</em> impossible as
I state it, and therefore I must in some respect have stated it wrong.
Yet you saw for yourself. Can you suggest any fallacy?"</p>
<p>"He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?"</p>
<p>"In a morass, Watson?"</p>
<p>"I am at my wits' end."</p>
<p>"Tut, tut; we have solved some worse problems. At least we have plenty of
material, if we can only use it. Come, then, and, having exhausted the
Palmer, let us see what the Dunlop with the patched cover has to offer
us."</p>
<p>We picked up the track and followed it onwards for some distance; but
soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted curve, and we left the
watercourse behind us. No further help from tracks could be hoped for. At
the spot where we saw the last of the Dunlop tyre it might equally have
led to Holdernesse Hall, the stately towers of which rose some miles to
our left, or to a low, grey village which lay in front of us, and marked
the position of the Chesterfield high road.</p>
<p>As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the sign of a
game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden groan and clutched me
by the shoulder to save himself from falling. He had had one of those
violent strains of the ankle which leave a man helpless. With difficulty
he limped up to the door, where a squat, dark, elderly man was smoking a
black clay pipe.</p>
<p>"How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?" said Holmes.</p>
<p>"Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?" the countryman
answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes.</p>
<p>"Well, it's printed on the board above your head. It's easy to see a man
who is master of his own house. I suppose you haven't such a thing as a
carriage in your stables?"</p>
<p>"No; I have not."</p>
<p>"I can hardly put my foot to the ground."</p>
<p>"Don't put it to the ground."</p>
<p>"But I can't walk."</p>
<p>"Well, then, hop."</p>
<p>Mr. Reuben Hayes's manner was far from gracious, but Holmes took it with
admirable good-humour.</p>
<p>"Look here, my man," said he. "This is really rather an awkward fix for
me. I don't mind how I get on."</p>
<p>"Neither do I," said the morose landlord.</p>
<p>"The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign for the use
of a bicycle."</p>
<p>The landlord pricked up his ears.</p>
<p>"Where do you want to go?"</p>
<p>"To Holdernesse Hall."</p>
<p>"Pals of the Dook, I suppose?" said the landlord, surveying our
mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.</p>
<p>Holmes laughed good-naturedly.</p>
<p>"He'll be glad to see us, anyhow."</p>
<p>"Why?"</p>
<p>"Because we bring him news of his lost son."</p>
<p>The landlord gave a very visible start.</p>
<p>"What, you're on his track?"</p>
<p>"He has been heard of in Liverpool. They expect to get him every hour."</p>
<p>Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face. His manner was
suddenly genial.</p>
<p>"I've less reason to wish the Dook well than most men," said he, "for I
was his head coachman once, and cruel had he treated me. It was him that
sacked me without a character on the word of a lying corn-chandler. But
I'm glad to hear that the young lord was heard of in Liverpool, and I'll
help you to take the news to the Hall."</p>
<p>"Thank you," said Holmes. "We'll have some food first. Then you can bring
round the bicycle."</p>
<p>"I haven't got a bicycle."</p>
<p>Holmes held up a sovereign.</p>
<p>"I tell you, man, that I haven't got one. I'll let you have two horses as
far as the Hall."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p>
<p>"Well, well," said Holmes, "we'll talk about it when we've had something
to eat."</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 386px;">
<img src="images/ill_134.jpg" width="386" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p class="left">"WITH DIFFICULTY HE LIMPED UP<br />
TO THE DOOR."</p></div>
</div>
<p>When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen it was astonishing
how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered. It was nearly nightfall, and
we had eaten nothing since early morning, so that we spent some time
over our meal. Holmes was lost in thought, and once or twice he walked
over to the window and stared earnestly out. It opened on to a squalid
courtyard. In the far corner was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at work.
On the other side were the stables. Holmes had sat down again after one
of these excursions, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with a loud
exclamation.</p>
<p>"By Heaven, Watson, I believe that I've got it!" he cried. "Yes, yes, it
must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing any cow-tracks to-day?"</p>
<p>"Yes, several."</p>
<p>"Where?"</p>
<p>"Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on the path, and
again near where poor Heidegger met his death."</p>
<p>"Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see on the moor?"</p>
<p>"I don't remember seeing any."</p>
<p>"Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our line, but never
a cow on the whole moor; very strange, Watson, eh?"</p>
<p>"Yes, it is strange."</p>
<p>"Now, Watson, make an effort; throw your mind back! Can you see those
tracks upon the path?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I can."</p>
<p>"Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that, Watson"—he
arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion—: : : : :—"and
sometimes like this"—: · : · : · : ·—"and occasionally like this"—. ·
. · . · . "Can you remember that?"</p>
<p>"No, I cannot."</p>
<p>"But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at our leisure
and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been not to draw my conclusion!"</p>
<p>"And what is your conclusion?"</p>
<p>"Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and gallops. By
George, Watson, it was no brain of a country publican that thought out
such a blind as that! The coast seems to be clear, save for that lad in
the smithy. Let us slip out and see what we can see."</p>
<p>There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-down stable.
Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and laughed aloud.</p>
<p>"Old shoes, but newly shod—old shoes, but new nails. This case deserves
to be a classic. Let us go across to the smithy."</p>
<p>The lad continued his work without regarding us. I saw Holmes's eye
darting to right and left among the litter of iron and wood which was
scattered about the floor. Suddenly, however, we heard a step behind us,
and there was the landlord, his heavy eyebrows drawn down over his savage
eyes, his swarthy features convulsed with passion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> He held a short,
metal-headed stick in his hand, and he advanced in so menacing a fashion
that I was right glad to feel the revolver in my pocket.</p>
<p>"You infernal spies!" the man cried. "What are you doing there?"</p>
<p>"Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes," said Holmes, coolly, "one might think that you
were afraid of our finding something out."</p>
<p>The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim mouth
loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing than his frown.</p>
<p>"You're welcome to all you can find out in my smithy," said he. "But look
here, mister, I don't care for folk poking about my place without my
leave, so the sooner you pay your score and get out of this the better I
shall be pleased."</p>
<p>"All right, Mr. Hayes—no harm meant," said Holmes. "We have been having
a look at your horses, but I think I'll walk after all. It's not far, I
believe."</p>
<p>"Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That's the road to the left."
He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his premises.</p>
<p>We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the instant
that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.</p>
<p>"We were warm, as the children say, at that inn," said he. "I seem to
grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no; I can't possibly
leave it."</p>
<p>"I am convinced," said I, "that this Reuben Hayes knows all about it. A
more self-evident villain I never saw."</p>
<p>"Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the horses, there is
the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this Fighting Cock. I think
we shall have another look at it in an unobtrusive way."</p>
<p>A long, sloping hillside, dotted with grey limestone boulders, stretched
behind us. We had turned off the road, and were making our way up the
hill, when, looking in the direction of Holdernesse Hall, I saw a cyclist
coming swiftly along.</p>
<p>"Get down, Watson!" cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon my shoulder. We
had hardly sunk from view when the man flew past us on the road. Amid a
rolling cloud of dust I caught a glimpse of a pale, agitated face—a face
with horror in every lineament, the mouth open, the eyes staring wildly
in front. It was like some strange caricature of the dapper James Wilder
whom we had seen the night before.</p>
<p>"The Duke's secretary!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, let us see what he
does."</p>
<p>We scrambled from rock to rock until in a few moments we had made our way
to a point from which we could see the front door of the inn. Wilder's
bicycle was leaning against the wall beside it. No one was moving about
the house, nor could we catch a glimpse of any faces at the windows.
Slowly the twilight crept down as the sun sank behind the high towers of
Holdernesse Hall. Then in the gloom we saw the two side-lamps of a trap
light up in the stable yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards heard
the rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore off at a
furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.</p>
<p>"What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes whispered.</p>
<p>"It looks like a flight."</p>
<p>"A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, it certainly
was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door."</p>
<p>A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. In the middle of
it was the black figure of the secretary, his head advanced, peering out
into the night. It was evident that he was expecting someone. Then at
last there were steps in the road, a second figure was visible for an
instant against the light, the door shut, and all was black once more.
Five minutes later a lamp was lit in a room upon the first floor.</p>
<p>"It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by the Fighting
Cock," said Holmes.</p>
<p>"The bar is on the other side."</p>
<p>"Quite so. These are what one may call the private guests. Now, what in
the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that den at this hour of night,
and who is the companion who comes to meet him there? Come, Watson,
we must really take a risk and try to investigate this a little more
closely."</p>
<p>Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the door of the
inn. The bicycle still leaned against the wall. Holmes struck a match and
held it to the back wheel, and I heard him chuckle as the light fell upon
a patched Dunlop tyre. Up above us was the lighted window.</p>
<p>"I must have a peep through that, Watson. If you bend your back and
support yourself upon the wall, I think that I can manage."</p>
<p>An instant later his feet were on my shoulders. But he was hardly up
before he was down again.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_136.jpg" width="358" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE MAN FLEW PAST US ON THE ROAD."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Come, my friend," said he, "our day's work has been quite long enough.
I think that we have gathered all that we can. It's a long walk to the
school, and the sooner we get started the better."</p>
<p>He hardly opened his lips during that weary trudge across the moor, nor
would he enter the school when he reached it, but went on to Mackleton
Station, whence he could send some telegrams. Late at night I heard him
consoling Dr. Huxtable, prostrated by the tragedy of his master's death,
and later still he entered my room as alert and vigorous as he had been
when he started in the morning. "All goes well, my friend," said he. "I
promise that before to-morrow evening we shall have reached the solution
of the mystery."</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>At eleven o'clock next morning my friend and I were walking up the famous
yew avenue of Holdernesse Hall. We were ushered through the magnificent
Elizabethan doorway and into his Grace's study. There we found Mr. James
Wilder, demure and courtly, but with some trace of that wild terror of
the night before still lurking in his furtive eyes and in his twitching
features.</p>
<p>"You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry; but the fact is that the
Duke is far from well. He has been very much upset by the tragic news. We
received a telegram from Dr. Huxtable yesterday afternoon, which told us
of your discovery."</p>
<p>"I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder."</p>
<p>"But he is in his room."</p>
<p>"Then I must go to his room."</p>
<p>"I believe he is in his bed."</p>
<p>"I will see him there."</p>
<p>Holmes's cold and inexorable manner showed the secretary that it was
useless to argue with him.</p>
<p>"Very good, Mr. Holmes; I will tell him that you are here."</p>
<p>After half an hour's delay the great nobleman appeared. His face was
more cadaverous than ever, his shoulders had rounded, and he seemed to
me to be an altogether older man than he had been the morning before. He
greeted us with a stately courtesy and seated himself at his desk, his
red beard streaming down on to the table.</p>
<p>"Well, Mr. Holmes?" said he.</p>
<p>But my friend's eyes were fixed upon the secretary, who stood by his
master's chair.</p>
<p>"I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr. Wilder's
absence."</p>
<p>The man turned a shade paler and cast a malignant glance at Holmes.</p>
<p>"If your Grace wishes——"</p>
<p>"Yes, yes; you had better go. Now, Mr. Holmes, what have you to say?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p>
<p>My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreating
secretary.</p>
<p>"The fact is, your Grace," said he, "that my colleague, Dr. Watson, and
myself had an assurance from Dr. Huxtable that a reward had been offered
in this case. I should like to have this confirmed from your own lips."</p>
<p>"Certainly, Mr. Holmes."</p>
<p>"It amounted, if I am correctly informed, to five thousand pounds to
anyone who will tell you where your son is?"</p>
<p>"Exactly."</p>
<p>"And another thousand to the man who will name the person or persons who
keep him in custody?"</p>
<p>"Exactly."</p>
<p>"Under the latter heading is included, no doubt, not only those who may
have taken him away, but also those who conspire to keep him in his
present position?"</p>
<p>"Yes, yes," cried the Duke, impatiently. "If you do your work well,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will have no reason to complain of niggardly
treatment."</p>
<p>My friend rubbed his thin hands together with an appearance of avidity
which was a surprise to me, who knew his frugal tastes.</p>
<p>"I fancy that I see your Grace's cheque-book upon the table," said he.
"I should be glad if you would make me out a cheque for six thousand
pounds. It would be as well, perhaps, for you to cross it. The Capital
and Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch, are my agents."</p>
<p>His Grace sat very stern and upright in his chair, and looked stonily at
my friend.</p>
<p>"Is this a joke, Mr. Holmes? It is hardly a subject for pleasantry."</p>
<p>"Not at all, your Grace. I was never more earnest in my life."</p>
<p>"What do you mean, then?"</p>
<p>"I mean that I have earned the reward. I know where your son is, and I
know some, at least, of those who are holding him."</p>
<p>The Duke's beard had turned more aggressively red than ever against his
ghastly white face.</p>
<p>"Where is he?" he gasped.</p>
<p>"He is, or was last night, at the Fighting Cock Inn, about two miles from
your park gate."</p>
<p>The Duke fell back in his chair.</p>
<p>"And whom do you accuse?"</p>
<p>Sherlock Holmes's answer was an astounding one. He stepped swiftly
forward and touched the Duke upon the shoulder.</p>
<p>"I accuse <em>you</em>," said he. "And now, your Grace, I'll trouble you for
that cheque."</p>
<p>Never shall I forget the Duke's appearance as he sprang up and clawed
with his hands like one who is sinking into an abyss. Then, with an
extraordinary effort of aristocratic self-command, he sat down and sank
his face in his hands. It was some minutes before he spoke.</p>
<p>"How much do you know?" he asked at last, without raising his head.</p>
<p>"I saw you together last night."</p>
<p>"Does anyone else besides your friend know?"</p>
<p>"I have spoken to no one."</p>
<p>The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his cheque-book.</p>
<p>"I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to write your
cheque, however unwelcome the information which you have gained may be to
me. When the offer was first made I little thought the turn which events
might take. But you and your friend are men of discretion, Mr. Holmes?"</p>
<p>"I hardly understand your Grace."</p>
<p>"I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes. If only you two know of this
incident, there is no reason why it should go any farther. I think twelve
thousand pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it not?"</p>
<p>But Holmes smiled and shook his head.</p>
<p>"I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be arranged so easily. There
is the death of this schoolmaster to be accounted for."</p>
<p>"But James knew nothing of that. You cannot hold him responsible for
that. It was the work of this brutal ruffian whom he had the misfortune
to employ."</p>
<p>"I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks upon a crime
he is morally guilty of any other crime which may spring from it."</p>
<p>"Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. But surely not in the eyes
of the law. A man cannot be condemned for a murder at which he was not
present, and which he loathes and abhors as much as you do. The instant
that he heard of it he made a complete confession to me, so filled was he
with horror and remorse. He lost not an hour in breaking entirely with
the murderer. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must save him—you must save him! I
tell you that you must save him!" The Duke had dropped the last attempt
at self-command, and was pacing the room with a convulsed face and with
his clenched hands raving in the air. At last he mastered himself and sat
down once more at his desk. "I appreciate your conduct in coming here
before you spoke to anyone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> else," said he. "At least we may take counsel
how far we can minimize this hideous scandal."</p>
<p>"Exactly," said Holmes. "I think, your Grace, that this can only be done
by absolute and complete frankness between us. I am disposed to help your
Grace to the best of my ability; but in order to do so I must understand
to the last detail how the matter stands. I realize that your words
applied to Mr. James Wilder, and that he is not the murderer."</p>
<div class="figleft">
<img src="images/ill_138.jpg" width="363" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE MURDERER HAS ESCAPED."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"No; the murderer has escaped."</p>
<p>Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.</p>
<p>"Your Grace can hardly have heard of any small reputation which I
possess, or you would not imagine that it is so easy to escape me. Mr.
Reuben Hayes was arrested at Chesterfield on my information at eleven
o'clock last night. I had a telegram from the head of the local police
before I left the school this morning."</p>
<p>The Duke leaned back in his chair and stared with amazement at my friend.</p>
<p>"You seem to have powers that are hardly human," said he. "So Reuben
Hayes is taken? I am right glad to hear it, if it will not react upon the
fate of James."</p>
<p>"Your secretary?"</p>
<p>"No, sir; my son."</p>
<p>It was Holmes's turn to look astonished.</p>
<p>"I confess that this is entirely new to me, your Grace. I must beg you to
be more explicit."</p>
<p>"I will conceal nothing from you. I agree with you that complete
frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best policy in this
desperate situation to which James's folly and jealousy have reduced
us. When I was a very young man, Mr. Holmes, I loved with such a love
as comes only once in a lifetime. I offered the lady marriage, but she
refused it on the grounds that such a match might mar my career. Had she
lived I would certainly never have married anyone else. She died, and
left this one child, whom for her sake I have cherished and cared for.
I could not acknowledge the paternity to the world; but I gave him the
best of educations, and since he came to manhood I have kept him near
my person. He surprised my secret, and has presumed ever since upon the
claim which he has upon me and upon his power of provoking a scandal,
which would be abhorrent to me. His presence had something to do with the
unhappy issue of my marriage. Above all, he hated my young legitimate
heir from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> first with a persistent hatred. You may well ask me why,
under these circumstances, I still kept James under my roof. I answer
that it was because I could see his mother's face in his, and that for
her dear sake there was no end to my long-suffering. All her pretty ways,
too—there was not one of them which he could not suggest and bring back
to my memory. I <em>could</em> not send him away. But I feared so much lest he
should do Arthur—that is, Lord Saltire—a mischief that I dispatched him
for safety to Dr. Huxtable's school.</p>
<p>"James came into contact with this fellow Hayes because the man was a
tenant of mine, and James acted as agent. The fellow was a rascal from
the beginning, but in some extraordinary way James became intimate with
him. He had always a taste for low company. When James determined to
kidnap Lord Saltire it was of this man's service that he availed himself.
You remember that I wrote to Arthur upon that last day. Well, James
opened the letter and inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him in a
little wood called the Ragged Shaw, which is near to the school. He used
the Duchess's name, and in that way got the boy to come. That evening
James bicycled over—I am telling you what he has himself confessed to
me—and he told Arthur, whom he met in the wood, that his mother longed
to see him, that she was awaiting him on the moor, and that if he would
come back into the wood at midnight he would find a man with a horse, who
would take him to her. Poor Arthur fell into the trap. He came to the
appointment and found this fellow Hayes with a led pony. Arthur mounted,
and they set off together. It appears—though this James only heard
yesterday—that they were pursued, that Hayes struck the pursuer with his
stick, and that the man died of his injuries. Hayes brought Arthur to his
public-house, the Fighting Cock, where he was confined in an upper room,
under the care of Mrs. Hayes, who is a kindly woman, but entirely under
the control of her brutal husband.</p>
<p>"Well, Mr. Holmes, that was the state of affairs when I first saw you two
days ago. I had no more idea of the truth than you. You will ask me what
was James's motive in doing such a deed. I answer that there was a great
deal which was unreasoning and fanatical in the hatred which he bore my
heir. In his view he should himself have been heir of all my estates, and
he deeply resented those social laws which made it impossible. At the
same time he had a definite motive also. He was eager that I should break
the entail, and he was of opinion that it lay in my power to do so. He
intended to make a bargain with me—to restore Arthur if I would break
the entail, and so make it possible for the estate to be left to him by
will. He knew well that I should never willingly invoke the aid of the
police against him. I say that he would have proposed such a bargain to
me, but he did not actually do so, for events moved too quickly for him,
and he had not time to put his plans into practice.</p>
<p>"What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your discovery of this
man Heidegger's dead body. James was seized with horror at the news. It
came to us yesterday as we sat together in this study. Dr. Huxtable had
sent a telegram. James was so overwhelmed with grief and agitation that
my suspicions, which had never been entirely absent, rose instantly to a
certainty, and I taxed him with the deed. He made a complete voluntary
confession. Then he implored me to keep his secret for three days longer,
so as to give his wretched accomplice a chance of saving his guilty life.
I yielded—as I have always yielded—to his prayers, and instantly James
hurried off to the Fighting Cock to warn Hayes and give him the means
of flight. I could not go there by daylight without provoking comment,
but as soon as night fell I hurried off to see my dear Arthur. I found
him safe and well, but horrified beyond expression by the dreadful
deed he had witnessed. In deference to my promise, and much against my
will, I consented to leave him there for three days under the charge of
Mrs. Hayes, since it was evident that it was impossible to inform the
police where he was without telling them also who was the murderer, and
I could not see how that murderer could be punished without ruin to my
unfortunate James. You asked for frankness, Mr. Holmes, and I have taken
you at your word, for I have now told you everything without an attempt
at circumlocution or concealment. Do you in your turn be as frank with
me."</p>
<p>"I will," said Holmes. "In the first place, your Grace, I am bound to
tell you that you have placed yourself in a most serious position in the
eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony and you have aided the escape
of a murderer; for I cannot doubt that any money which was taken by James
Wilder to aid his accomplice in his flight came from your Grace's purse."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p>
<p>The Duke bowed his assent.</p>
<p>"This is indeed a most serious matter. Even more culpable in my opinion,
your Grace, is your attitude towards your younger son. You leave him in
this den for three days."</p>
<p>"Under solemn promises——"</p>
<p>"What are promises to such people as these? You have no guarantee that he
will not be spirited away again. To humour your guilty elder son you have
exposed your innocent younger son to imminent and unnecessary danger. It
was a most unjustifiable action."</p>
<p>The proud lord of Holdernesse was not accustomed to be so rated in
his own ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high forehead, but his
conscience held him dumb.</p>
<p>"I will help you, but on one condition only. It is that you ring for the
footman and let me give such orders as I like."</p>
<p>Without a word the Duke pressed the electric bell. A servant entered.</p>
<p>"You will be glad to hear," said Holmes, "that your young master is
found. It is the Duke's desire that the carriage shall go at once to the
Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.</p>
<p>"Now," said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disappeared, "having
secured the future, we can afford to be more lenient with the past. I
am not in an official position, and there is no reason, so long as the
ends of justice are served, why I should disclose all that I know. As to
Hayes I say nothing. The gallows awaits him, and I would do nothing to
save him from it. What he will divulge I cannot tell, but I have no doubt
that your Grace could make him understand that it is to his interest to
be silent. From the police point of view he will have kidnapped the boy
for the purpose of ransom. If they do not themselves find it out I see no
reason why I should prompt them to take a broader point of view. I would
warn your Grace, however, that the continued presence of Mr. James Wilder
in your household can only lead to misfortune."</p>
<p>"I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he shall
leave me for ever and go to seek his fortune in Australia."</p>
<p>"In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that any
unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence, I would
suggest that you make such amends as you can to the Duchess, and that you
try to resume those relations which have been so unhappily interrupted."</p>
<p>"That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes. I wrote to the Duchess this
morning."</p>
<p>"In that case," said Holmes, rising, "I think that my friend and I can
congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results from our little
visit to the North. There is one other small point upon which I desire
some light. This fellow Hayes had shod his horses with shoes which
counterfeited the tracks of cows. Was it from Mr. Wilder that he learned
so extraordinary a device?"</p>
<p>The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of intense surprise
on his face. Then he opened a door and showed us into a large room
furnished as a museum. He led the way to a glass case in a corner, and
pointed to the inscription.</p>
<p>"These shoes," it ran, "were dug up in the moat of Holdernesse Hall. They
are for the use of horses; but they are shaped below with a cloven foot
of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the track. They are supposed to have
belonged to some of the marauding Barons of Holdernesse in the Middle
Ages."</p>
<p>Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed it along the
shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.</p>
<p>"Thank you," said he, as he replaced the glass. "It is the second most
interesting object that I have seen in the North."</p>
<p>"And the first?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p>
<p>Holmes folded up his cheque and placed it carefully in his note-book.
"I am a poor man," said he, as he patted it affectionately and thrust it
into the depths of his inner pocket.</p>
<p>Copyright, 1904, by A. Conan Doyle, in the United States of America.</p>
<hr class="chapter" />
<div class="add">
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_141.jpg" width="550" height="207" alt="" />
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 118px;">
<img src="images/141-drop-t.png" width="118" height="120" alt="T" />
<span class="hidden">T</span></span><span class="smcap">he</span> more particular object of this article is to describe some of the
various styles of Parliamentary speakers, and to give a pictorial
presentment of short passages from the speeches of members who
participate frequently in the debates, showing the approximate pitch
and modulation of the voices. For the latter purpose nearly two hundred
different speeches were "sampled."</p>
<p>Anyone familiar with the theories and principles of speech sounds knows
that it is an impossibility to render accurately the multitude of sounds
occurring in even a short typical passage. Different plans for writing
speech sounds have been tried with varying success. Any system aiming
at scientific accuracy implies a degree of minute analysis which is
impracticable in an endeavour to procure an estimate of the pitch and
average inflection of numerous voices heard at some distance, and under
conditions not favourable to close scrutiny. In speech a single syllable
may traverse half an octave, a semitone, or a fraction of a semitone,
and it may be jerked out in separate tones, or undulate in portamento.
There is usually, however, a prime sound, which may be more prominent and
longer sustained than the other sounds that go to round off the syllable.
With a succession of those prime sounds, which, for convenience, may be
called notes, it is possible to give a rough notion (which is all that is
claimed here) of how a speaker's voice rises and falls in the hearing of
an ordinary listener.</p>
<p>Each of the samples represents an average bit of speaking. The notes
given must not be taken literally. If the speaking tone, for instance,
was somewhere about D, and descended to somewhere about A, those notes D
and A would be near enough for the purpose of these observations. True
musical intervals are out of the question, but the accompanying diagrams
have been written on the bass clef in the natural key, this being the
most simple and direct way of showing roughly the variation as between
different speakers, and the prevailing pitch, as nearly as it has been
possible to discover them.</p>
<p>The natural speaking notes of a man's voice vary considerably in
different places and in different circumstances. A certain accomplished
cathedral singer who has studied this question puts the average pitch
of preachers' voices at about F sharp in the bass clef. He has heard
preachers ascend to top tenor G and A, descending to C (above the bass
clef), improbable though it sounds. Others he has observed speaking
effectively from B to F (bass clef), with F as the top tone. He himself,
with an exceptionally deep voice, has in speaking an average pitch of low
G, with inflections upwards to F and downwards to C below the clef. One
acknowledged authority gives the ordinary range of the speaking voice of
a man as the notes comprised in the bass clef, <i>i.e.</i>, G to A, B flat
to F sharp above the clef being occasionally used. Another authority
points out that a good tone is desired for singing within two octaves,
whereas, in speaking, an audible tone is desired at pitches generally
within one-fifth, and only occasionally extending to an octave. Still
another authority says that the part of a bass voice most often brought
into requisition will consist of the notes D, E, F, G, and in the case
of a tenor voice of G, A, B, C, the dominant note for the bass being E
or F, and for the tenor A or B. At the same time it is admitted by one
of those authorities that great actors have used with best effect their
lowest notes, <i>i.e.</i>, extending upward from C below the bass clef. Of
course, the declamation of the actor as well<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> as that of the clergyman is
more favourable to a sustained and singing quality of tone than ordinary
speech. The same is true to a certain extent in the case of Parliamentary
speaking.</p>
<p>In the House of Commons there is a good deal of uniformity in the pitch,
which is lower than might be expected. The pitch of three-quarters of the
speaking tones heard in the House is within one-third, viz., C to E, and
the note most frequently used is D. Descents to A and G, and even lower,
are frequent, but seldom do voices rise above the top A of the clef. The
acoustic properties of the chamber and perhaps the element of imitation,
which, after all, is the genesis of speech itself, may account partly for
the prevailing similarity in pitch.</p>
<p>A voice often appears to be jumping a scale when in reality it is
sticking to one or two dominant notes. Pronounced accentuation gives
the appearance of inflection, and by some people the former is regarded
as the more important consideration. The singing voice in a monotone
song or a recitative exemplifies the value of emphasis as distinct from
modulation.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/ill_142.jpg" width="400" height="161" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>T. P. O'Connor</p></div>
</div>
<div class="music-file">
[<a href="music/021a.mid">Listen</a>]
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/ill_142a.jpg" width="400" height="153" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>W. O'Brien</p></div>
</div>
<div class="music-file">
[<a href="music/021b.mid">Listen</a>]
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/ill_142b.jpg" width="400" height="159" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>J. M. Healy</p></div>
</div>
<div class="music-file">
[<a href="music/021c.mid">Listen</a>]
</div>
<p>A notable instance of the power of accentuation in speaking is the
elocution of Mr. T. P. O'Connor, whose brilliancy no one may deny. He
often sinks his voice to an almost inaudible whisper, attaining thereby
impressiveness, and heightening the effect in the following passage,
which receives the strength of loud tones. Mr. W. O'Brien and Mr. T. M.
Healy use a similar device, and so do other members. It is telling, but
apt to be overdone, words at the end of a sentence being continually lost
to some of the audience. Mr. O'Connor's voice is seldom above or below
C and D. Mr. O'Brien modulates somewhat more. Both members have good
articulation and resonant tones. Mr. Healy has a lower and fuller voice
than either of the other two. He has a very decided habit of throwing a
point at his opponents with a big, contemptuous shout. The voice often
swings into a musical curve when he utters something pithy and amusing,
carrying with it the suggestion of a great laugh.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/ill_142c.jpg" width="400" height="160" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>R. B. Haldane</p></div>
</div>
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</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/ill_142d.jpg" width="400" height="90" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Sir John Gorst</p></div>
</div>
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</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/ill_142e.jpg" width="400" height="88" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Ivor Guest</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Among members whose voices appear to be pitched very high, but are in
reality not so, may be mentioned Mr. R. B. Haldane, Sir John Gorst, Mr.
Ivor Guest, Mr. Sydney Buxton, Mr. Robson, Mr. Scott Montagu, and several
others. In each case the quality is light. Mr. Haldane's voice has no
great body in it and does not carry too well. Possibly long practice at
the courts induces his rapid utterance. One who appreciates Mr. Haldane's
high intellectual level cannot help wishing that Nature had endowed him
with the tones of some other public men, whose intensity is rather vocal
than intellectual. Sir John Gorst has one of the pleasantest voices
in the House and perfect articulation, his chief note being about F,
with falls to C. Mr. Guest repeatedly descends to G. Mr. Sydney Buxton
speaks often and briefly, but into a short space of time he can cram a
wonderful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> lot of words, being one of the most rapid speakers in the
House. The dominant note is about C sharp, and the modulation seldom
varies in character, the speech being broken up into short phrases, with
a downward inflection at the end of each. This is a style of speaking
characteristic of a great many members. Mr. Robson, one of the most
formidable among the younger men of the Opposition, adds to a clever
debating power a distinct utterance and an earnest, careful style.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/ill_143.jpg" width="400" height="162" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>S. Buxton</p></div>
</div>
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</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/ill_143a.jpg" width="400" height="79" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>W. S. Robson</p></div>
</div>
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<p>There are few really deep voices in the House. Mr. C. Fenwick may lay
claim to the lowest pitch. His strong, vigorous, ringing style is a
good index to the character which has raised its owner from work in the
collieries to a seat in Parliament. Added to his excellent voice, which
fills the House, he has a natural and forcible manner of gesture. The
dominant note is somewhere between lower A and B flat. Sir Edgar Vincent
also possesses a pronounced bass organ, which is musical, resonant, and
full of tone, and which would be even more effective with added "light
and shade." Lower G and A occur frequently in his speech. Sir F. Powell,
Sir John Brunner, and Sir Samuel Hoare are other deep-voiced members.
The late Sir William Allan's speaking suggested that he was trolling
out notes impossible to the rest of mankind; but, though he had a big,
rugged, splendid voice, in keeping with his handsome stature and leonine
head, we find he said the many candid things that helped to stiffen the
back of the Admiralty on an average note about D. One good quality of his
speaking was the prolonged singing tone which he gave to some syllables.
The Welsh members, however, display this peculiarity more than others.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_143b.jpg" width="400" height="156" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>C. Fenwick</p></div>
</div>
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<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_143c.jpg" width="400" height="153" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Sir E. Vincent</p></div>
</div>
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</div>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_143d.jpg" width="400" height="160" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Sir W<sup>m</sup>. Allan</p></div>
</div>
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<p>There are a considerable number of members who vary but little from
monotone. That is to say, their speech strikes the ear of the ordinary
listener as running along pretty nearly on one tone. As has already
been pointed out, there are always considerable variations on single
syllables and even on consonants, which are more or less perceptible,
and which have their own due effect in rendering a voice agreeable. The
existence of a perfect monotone through a passage of spoken sounds,
vowels and consonants, in singing or speaking is well-nigh impossible.
At all events, the beginning and the end of a spoken sound, unless that
sound be a simple vowel, have each a certain twist which may often be
detected. In many voices it is very noticeable. But the volume of tone
that reaches the ear in a sound that is meant to be sustained overwhelms
the little twist at the beginning or the end, and is for all practical
purposes one note. In singing that is always true. In speaking it is
true up to a certain point. Some speaking voices appear to be almost
entirely confined to one tone, because to the auditor it is only one
dominant note throughout that is appreciable. Many members, designedly
and undesignedly, depart but little from this apparent monotone, which is
to some extent associated with the dignified and solemn manner, but may
be due in some cases to inability to render the delivery responsive to
the mood. If there is little inflection and no accentuation the result
is bad. But it does<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> not follow that good delivery requires a continual
coursing up and down the gamut.</p>
<p>It has been stated, by one in a position to judge, that Mr. Bright seldom
dropped or raised his voice more than a semitone, and everybody has
experienced, or heard of, the charm of Bright's delivery. No disrespect
is implied, therefore, when the following gentlemen are mentioned as
being among those numerous members who depart very little from the one
dominant pitch: Mr. Cathcart Wason, Sir W. Holland, Mr. Channing, Mr.
Claude Hay, Sir Samuel Hoare, Mr. Arnold-Forster, Sir William Harcourt,
Mr. John Burns, Sir Fortescue Flannery, and Mr. Bryce.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_144.jpg" width="400" height="164" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>J. Cathcart Wason</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Mr. Wason adheres pretty closely to the neighbourhood of C sharp, and
combines with a swift utterance an earnest demeanour and a total absence
of hesitation. Sir W. Holland, the possessor of a deep, rich vocal organ,
seldom goes away from B or C. Mr. Channing gets a good deal said on C
sharp, with a slight downward inflection at the end of a sentence. Mr.
Claude Hay also adheres pretty generally to C sharp. Sir Samuel Hoare
is heard through the medium of full, sonorous tones, his manner being
eminently that of a man of ripe experience and practical methods.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_144a.jpg" width="400" height="158" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>H. O. Arnold-Forster</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Mr. Arnold-Forster, the new Secretary of State for War, one of the most
serious speakers in the House, has a rather thin voice and a rapid
utterance, but he articulates well and reaches his audience in a clear,
direct manner.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_144b.jpg" width="400" height="155" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Sir W<sup>m</sup>. Harcourt</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Sir William Harcourt is one of few left belonging to the old school.
There is the traditional Parliamentary style—a studied form of
oratory—deliberate, lofty, and impressive; the manner that is followed
at a considerable distance by some of the younger men. We find in Sir
William Harcourt's speech a series of words almost on the one note,
uttered in a restrained tone and finishing at each phrase with a
characteristic turn of the voice—perhaps, also, a suppressed laugh or
a "humph," the meaning of which can never be mistaken. The voice is not
so strong as it used to be, but the fine old type of English oratory is
still there. The diagrams relating to Mr. Arnold-Forster and Sir William
Harcourt, though probably not quite correct in the matter of pitch, give
an idea of the modulation.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_144c.jpg" width="400" height="83" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>John Burns.</p></div>
</div>
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<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_144d.jpg" width="400" height="161" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Rt. Hon. Jos. Bryce</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Mr. John Burns speaks well within a third, and delivers most of his
breezy remarks somewhere about C and D with a musical organ of resonant
and robust quality. Sir Fortescue Flannery has a quiet but distinct,
full-toned, pleasant voice, which modulates little apart from a
pronounced drop at the end of each phrase or sentence. Mr. Bryce's
conspicuous quality as a speaker, <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">qua</i> speaker, lies in the successful
way in which he plans his discourse. Exordium, proposition, division,
narration, confirmation, refutation, peroration—he seems to be conscious
of all these rhetorical parts in his most casual intervention in debate.
His delivery is detached. The frequent pause, cutting off sharply each
phrase, is reminiscent of the professor's rostrum. No doubt this device
helps the understanding, though it runs the risk of being inelegant. Mr.
Bryce talks on D, with constant falls to A. His voice has a good ring and
an accent belonging to the North.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_145.jpg" width="400" height="152" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Sir M. Hicks Beach</p></div>
</div>
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<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_145a.jpg" width="400" height="154" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Rt. Hon. J. Morley</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Members who have marked inflection, yet do not bridge over a large
interval, include Sir Michael Hicks Beach, Mr. John Morley, Sir Edward
Grey, Mr. Austen Chamberlain, Mr. John Redmond, Mr. T. W. Russell, Sir
William Anson, Mr. Keir Hardie, Lord Hugh Cecil, Sir James Fergusson,
Mr. Richard Bell, and a host of others. Sir M. Hicks Beach has a calm,
deliberate, dignified manner; his voice is clear and distinct, and it
flows in easy cadences without effort. Few can compel more easily the
attention of their audience. Mr. Morley's delivery is of a different
type, and is even more telling on the platform than in the House. When
occasionally induced to depart from a restrained attitude—which suits
him best and which proves him the possessor of an exceedingly mild,
pleasant, and sympathetic voice—his production inclines to "throatiness"
and the carrying quality is diminished. Only to this extent is his
delivery unequal, but his tones are usually slow and musical. His average
notes run about D and E.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_145b.jpg" width="400" height="156" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Sir E. Grey</p></div>
</div>
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<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_145c.jpg" width="400" height="159" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>R<sup>t.</sup> Hon. A. Chamberlain</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Sir Edward Grey, the most prominent young man on the Liberal side, has
a style of his own. His quiet voice is even more youthful than himself,
and is used without forcing or visible effort. One never hears him
"tear a passion to tatters." He reserves most of his speeches for big
debates, and these are usually masterpieces of form, well thought out,
and arranged in simple, telling language. Many points of resemblance
have been discovered between Mr. Austen Chamberlain and his father. The
resemblance in mannerism is, perhaps, more pronounced than similarity in
voice. There is a distant echo of the elder statesman when the younger
speaks, but Mr. A. Chamberlain's tones are not so clear as those of his
"right honourable friend." His natural production is not so good; the
voice is deeper and the articulation is less distinct. The relationship
compels comparison, but that does not prevent the recognition of Mr.
Austen Chamberlain as a telling speaker and a powerful debater. His
dominant note is seldom much away from somewhere between C and D.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_145d.jpg" width="400" height="158" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>J. Redmond</p></div>
</div>
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<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_145e.jpg" width="400" height="157" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>J. W. Russell</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Mr. John Redmond, the leader of the Irish Nationalist party, has none
of those vocal extravagances which frequently characterize some of his
followers. He has usually a well-set-out argument to lay before the
House, and his full voice and plain utterance hold the attention. Mr. T.
W. Russell is so earnest on any theme he attacks that his prevailing mood
may be said to be vehemence. This forcible manner accounts for a large
measure of his success on the platform, for even an English audience
likes to be roused now and again. He separates his syllables after the
Scotch fashion, and has thus a very distinct pronunciation, gesticulates<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>
a good deal, and rejoices in a clear, ringing voice of an average pitch.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_146.jpg" width="400" height="155" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Sir W<sup>m.</sup> Anson</p></div>
</div>
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<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_146a.jpg" width="400" height="158" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>J. Keir Hardie</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Sir William Anson is academical in his style, with a rather quiet manner,
indulging in little variation of any sort, and delighting in a precise,
neatly-rounded sentence. Mr. Keir Hardie is chiefly concerned in saying
what he has got to say in an earnest, determined sort of manner. He has a
good voice, which he never forces. One peculiarity, which characterizes
other speakers also, is the habit of running on with half-a-dozen words,
then dropping the voice both in pitch and intensity, pausing, and again
proceeding in the same manner. Due regard may not be had either to the
conclusion of a sentence or the moods that have their recognised rise
or fall. A habit such as this may serve a purpose in arresting the
attention, but it is apt to become tiresome. Mr. Hardie speaks usually on
D, constantly dropping his pitch a tone or more.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_146b.jpg" width="400" height="157" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Lord H. Cecil</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Lord Hugh Cecil has the voice of the family—clear and ringing. He
indulges in occasional upward progressions, on what notes it is
impossible to say. Like many more brilliant men he has a number of habits
all his own, chief of which is a wringing of the hands while speaking.
He commonly adheres to D and E. The Cecils and the Balfours have all
voices more or less resembling each other. None is heavy. The quality is
resonant and ringing, the articulation in each case being very distinct.
The late Marquis of Salisbury had a much mellower voice than his son Lord
Hugh, though in later years it weakened very much.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_146c.jpg" width="400" height="159" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>W<sup>m.</sup> Jones</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Some of the Welsh voices in the House come nearest the singing or
sustained manner. We have a notable instance in the speaking of Mr. W.
Jones. Mr. Lloyd-George and Mr. W. Abraham (Rhondda Valley) display a
like characteristic. Mr. Jones speaks less frequently than the House
would desire. His Celtic spirit and cultivated intellect find expression
in a voice which can go direct to the hearts of his audience. Hear
him speak for the Penrhyn miners or champion Welsh nationality and
institutions, and you hear the true orator, the man who, with his own
soul moved, can move and persuade others. His voice seems to sing in
a soft musical cadence, the manner being at the same time earnest,
impassioned, and intense. Every syllable reaches his hearers. He
roams over many notes, constantly covering an octave, and giving true
inflection to every mood, to the accompaniment of natural and eloquent
gestures. The above diagram gives a notion of the modulation, his true
pitch being perhaps a little higher.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_146d.jpg" width="400" height="162" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>D. Lloyd-George</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Mr. Lloyd-George, one of the most skilful debaters and word-fencers
in the House—a man destined to have a high place in the State, who
has the word of the Prime Minister that he has risen high among
Parliamentarians—possesses a flexible voice of light, clear, and
pleasant quality. He articulates perfectly, and never minces his words
one way or another. The voice is admirably adapted to the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">rôle</i> he
plays, for he has no need of one to suit a heavy style. When in a
practical mood he gets along on D and E, but at other times he bridges a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>
considerable interval. Mr. Abraham might well be expected to sing a
number of notes, seeing that he takes a part in the Eisteddfod. Like his
leader, he indulges in a good deal of gesture.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_147.jpg" width="400" height="237" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>R<sup>t.</sup> Hon. A. J. Balfour</p></div>
</div>
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<p>A number of individual styles remain to be mentioned. When the Prime
Minister speaks we are conscious of listening to a great personality.
His voice fills the chamber, and yet it is not a big, robust organ.
It has that undefinable something in its timbre which one listens for
in a first-class baritone's singing. It has the carrying quality in
a great degree, and needs but little exertion because of the perfect
articulation to which it gives sound. Mr. Balfour seldom speaks rapidly,
and when he pauses abruptly his hearers may expect to receive a smart
epigram, an ingeniously-turned phrase, or a surprising application of an
interruption. He is one of the keenest fencers in the House, delighting
to make even a small point against his opponents, though it be at the
expense of a great deal of elaboration. He is a skilful reasoner—a
dialectician of the highest order. These qualities naturally infer
variety in speech, and Mr. Balfour's elocution, in the modern sense of
the word, responds to the various moods efficiently, and yet without
much overstraining. The note on which he does most speaking is somewhere
between D and E, but he frequently ranges the octave from G to G.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_147a.jpg" width="400" height="157" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>R<sup>t.</sup> Hon. G. Wyndham</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Mr. George Wyndham, whose name has been cursed and blessed by Irish
Nationalists, has great gifts of eloquence and a powerful, clear voice,
which he uses with great effect. His delivery seems to improve each
Session. The progress of the Irish Land Bill through the House last
Session showed him to be master of the most intricate details of his
subject, and his lucid expositions gained the admiration of all who heard
him. D is the note on which he most frequently speaks, and the diagram
illustrates a passage from his speech on the second reading of the Land
Bill.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_147b.jpg" width="400" height="158" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>Sir H. Campbell-Bannerman</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman makes himself heard to some effect by
means of clear utterance rather than strong tones. Notwithstanding an
occasional huskiness he is a pleasant speaker, and the English he uses in
debate is above reproach. He is usually heard on E.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_147c.jpg" width="400" height="240" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>R<sup>t.</sup> Hon. Joseph Chamberlain</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Mr. Chamberlain's triumph is his debating power. The substance of his
speeches almost overshadows the manner of delivery. In the case of the
Prime Minister the manner, in addition to the substance, engrosses
a large share of attention. Mr. Chamberlain is direct, trenchant,
unsparing, when the occasion offers. He will not trouble over peddling
points for their own sake. He must have a big issue or nothing, and
heavy, slashing blows please him best. He is a sure-footed fighter. The
manner in which he sometimes springs to the table with a bound proves
it, apart from his reputation. To all appearance nervousness is not in
his nature. His normal voice is soft, almost inclined to approach a
thick quality, yet so admirably does he enunciate, so pleasing a variety
is given to its tones, and so perfect a restraint is exercised, that
never a syllable is lost in any part of the House. Every mood finds due
expression.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> From vehemence he can return to pleasantry by an easy step.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_148.jpg" width="400" height="244" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>R<sup>t.</sup> Hon. H. H. Asquith</p></div>
</div>
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<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_148a.jpg" width="400" height="158" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>R<sup>t.</sup> Hon. C. T. Ritchie</p></div>
</div>
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<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_148b.jpg" width="400" height="152" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>R<sup>t.</sup> Hon. Sir John Brodrick</p></div>
</div>
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<p>Mr. Asquith modulates his voice a good deal, but largely uses the power
of emphasis at the risk of being unheard at the end of occasional
sentences. Resonance, vigour, and brevity characterize his speaking. Mr.
Gibson Bowles expresses himself rapidly, readily, and wittily, in a good
tone, about D and E. His <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">rôle</i> of candid friend to the Government lends
something to the piquancy of his remarks. Mr. Ritchie, in introducing
his first, and perhaps last, Budget, used the modulation represented in
the diagram at one part of his speech. He has a hurried, broken-up style
of delivery, though the possessor of a good voice. Mr. Brodick's manner
is anxious, and distinctness suffers, more especially when the mood is
that of indignation. As Secretary for War he rose well to the occasion in
the severe ordeals he had to pass through last Session. Mr. Chaplin has
a serviceable vocal organ, with which he combines an effective manner.
His speeches are perspicuous to a degree. There is a big bit of the
old-fashioned, dignified Parliamentarian about him, and he is invariably
welcomed in debate. Mr. Dillon's voice is like a clenched fist, ready for
the striking blow. His manner is often vehement and always forcible. Few
are superior in the expression of passionate bitterness. He is fond of
dwelling on differently-pitched strings of notes—viz., C sharp, E, or F.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_148c.jpg" width="400" height="162" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>The Speaker</p></div>
</div>
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[<a href="music/027d.mid">Listen</a>]
</div>
<p>The last voice to be mentioned here is that of the Speaker (the Right
Hon. W. Court Gully). Its tones are, like the manner of the right hon.
gentleman, dignified and gracious. Musical and distinct, it is heard with
equal force in storm and calm, and when it speaks it carries a persuasion
more certain and effective than does the voice of the Prime Minister
himself.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_148d.jpg" width="550" height="151" alt="" />
</div>
<hr class="chapter" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_149.jpg" width="500" height="411" alt="Mr Donah by Tom Gallon" />
</div>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 149px;">
<img src="images/149-drop-if.png" width="138" height="120" alt="I" />
<span class="hidden">"I</span></span><span class="smcap">f</span> there is one matter about which I am more particular than another,"
said Sir Leopold Kershaw, with much emphasis, "it is that due recognition
should be given to the absolute equality of man with his fellow-man. Show
me my fellow-man"—Sir Leopold was very defiant at this point—"and I
will grasp him by the hand and hail him as 'Brother.' And I defy anyone
to prevent me!"</p>
<p>Sir Leopold Kershaw—big, portly, and somewhat brow-beating—stood in
front of the blazing fire in his comfortable dining-room and addressed
these remarks to his son. Some eight or nine winters only having passed
over the head of that young gentleman, it must be presumed that his
father addressed him for lack of a better audience. Master Teddy Kershaw,
for his part, gazed solemnly up at his father from the depths of an easy
chair, and took in the ponderous phrases like gospel.</p>
<p>"Then I suppose, papa, that Wilkins is my brother?" said the child,
slowly, after some moments of deep thought. Wilkins, it should be said,
was the butler.</p>
<p>Sir Leopold Kershaw coughed. "My child, there are certain distinctions
absolutely necessary to be observed. Wilkins, although nominally your
brother, has already, I am given to understand, an abnormally large
following of relatives, and needs no addition to them. When I touched
upon the principles of brotherhood just now, I did not speak so much of
distinct individuals as of man in the abstract. Wilkins, I trust, knows
his place"—Sir Leopold frowned a little, and seemed to suggest that, if
Wilkins did not, there were those capable of teaching him—"and is, in a
sense, provided for. In an ideal condition of society men would share and
share alike: one man would not be permitted to partake of roast pheasant
while his less fortunate fellow gnawed the humble trotter; feather beds
would be unknown among the classes while the masses continued to court
repose upon doorsteps."</p>
<p>Now, the mind of a child is a peculiar thing—having a tendency, by
some strange gift of the gods, to retain the true and to cast aside
the worthless. So it happened that the mind of little Teddy Kershaw,
by some subtle process, eliminated from his father's speech all that
was mere verbiage, and began to construct for itself a glorious fabric
called Universal Brotherhood. Setting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> aside those who were well fed and
prosperous, the child came to see in every houseless wanderer of the
streets—in every toil-worn, white-faced man or woman—some being who
had a right, not only to his pity, but to every luxury which he himself
enjoyed. And the idea grew and grew until it filled his childish mind,
and until—like a small and gallant Crusader—he began to feel that he
must do something, more than mere thoughts and words, to carry the thing
into effect. He began for the first time to notice, with a sort of pained
wonder, that little children, smaller and weaker even than himself,
shivered in the streets while he rolled along in his father's carriage;
that women carried heavy baskets, while his own mother would scarce put
her delicate feet to the ground and was buried in furs and wraps. The
incongruity of it came full upon him; and he determined at last, in an
inspired moment, to do something to remedy the matter.</p>
<p>To carry out his desires in the presence of those who were responsible
for him was, of course, out of the question; instead, he watched his
opportunity, and slipped out of the house one day unobserved.</p>
<p>The town house of Sir Leopold Kershaw was in a very fine and extremely
aristocratic square; but quite near to it—crouching and hiding under the
wing of its grandeur—was a terrible nest of slums. And into this, by
some natural instinct, drifted Master Teddy Kershaw.</p>
<p>With that newly-kindled love of humanity fairly bursting out of him he
was prepared to seize the first likely wastrel by the hand and give
instant effect to his father's many speeches; and he had not far to seek.</p>
<p>Just on the borderland, where the genteel streets began to grow more
shabby and where untidy women and children seemed to be overflowing out
of every house, stood a costermonger's barrow, the proprietor of which
was leaning, in a dejected attitude, against it. It was the poorest
barrow imaginable, with one of its shafts mended with string, and with a
few sorry-looking vegetables, which never by any chance could have grown
in any imaginable garden, displayed upon it.</p>
<p>The costermonger himself had evidently come to the conclusion that it was
quite useless to attempt to impose his wares, at any price, even in that
most poverty-stricken market; despair sat heavily upon him, and lurked
even in the empty bowl of his cold pipe. Yet he was comparatively a young
man, and not ill-looking; and the woman who leaned near him, with her
elbows on the barrow and her chin propped in her hands, had once, and
not so long ago, been quite pretty, despite the gaudy hat which drooped
disconsolately over her eyes.</p>
<p>Here, surely, was a forlorn brother indeed! Teddy hesitated for but an
instant, and then advanced towards the man. He felt that it would be
wiser not to shake hands with him at once, as that smacked too much of
familiarity; so he merely bowed and put a casual question—suggested by
the barrow—as to the state of trade.</p>
<p>"Can't you sell anything?" he asked.</p>
<p>The costermonger looked Teddy up and down in astonishment, and then
looked round at the woman and jerked his head sideways in a very curious
fashion; drew the back of his hand slowly and elaborately across his
mouth, and looked at Teddy again.</p>
<p>"No, yer 'Ighness, I can't," he replied, slowly and emphatically. Turning
to the woman, with another jerk of the head, he muttered something about
a "rum start."</p>
<p>"But wouldn't people buy the things if you shouted?" asked the boy.
"Other people shout what they have to sell." Which was evident by the
babel of noise about them.</p>
<p>The costermonger, who appeared to have got over his surprise, and who
seemed to be rather a friendly sort of fellow, proceeded to explanations.
"You see, yer 'Ighness, it's this 'ere way," he began. "I've 'ollered an'
'ollered till there ain't a puff of bref left in me; an' it's me private
opinion that if yer was to bring sparrergrass tied up wiv pink ribbin
into this 'ere street an' chuck it at 'em, they'd chuck it back agin.
As fer this little lot"—he indicated the contents of the barrow with a
backward jerk of his thumb—"they'll see me blue-mouldy afore they'll lay
out a bloomin' farden on 'em."</p>
<p>Having so far relieved his mind, the man looked into the bowl of his pipe
and, finding nothing there, returned the pipe to his pocket; then took up
the handles of the barrow and prepared to move away.</p>
<p>Now it happened that Master Teddy knew that his father and mother were
out and were not expected to return until late; it was probably owing to
that circumstance that he had escaped from durance so easily. Further,
the boy knew that, in a household where he ruled supreme as the only
child of a rich man, he could practically do as he liked. True, he had
never attempted so bold a scheme as that which was at the present moment
seething in his small brain;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> but he felt not the slightest doubt that he
could carry it through successfully and without opposition. Accordingly,
in the most casual fashion possible, he asked the costermonger if he
would come and have some lunch.</p>
<p>The unfortunate man almost upset the barrow in the shock of the moment;
but, recovering himself, began to perform the most extraordinary antics
Teddy had ever seen. First he straightened himself from the hips and gave
a sudden tilt to his hat with both hands, which threw it dexterously over
one eye; next he twisted up the collar of his coat and stuck his thumbs
in the arm-holes of his waistcoat; then took a little skip backwards and
a little skip forwards; put his tongue into his cheek and ejaculated the
single word: "Walker!"</p>
<div class="figright">
<img src="images/ill_151.jpg" width="500" height="464" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"WALKER!"</p></div>
</div>
<p>Perceiving from these signs, in a dim fashion, that the man doubted
the honesty of his intentions, Teddy became more emphatic, assuring
the man that he lived quite near at hand, and that lunch would be just
about ready; that he would be quite alone with them; even going so far
as to enumerate some of the dishes which might be expected. But the
costermonger evidently still had his doubts.</p>
<p>The woman, however, with the keenness of her sex, saw farther into the
matter than the man. She spoke in a lower voice.</p>
<p>"Sam, there may be summink in it, arter all. 'E's a little swell, by the
looks of 'im, an' 'e don't look 'ard-'earted enough to go for to guy us,
do 'e?"</p>
<p>The man, who appeared, even under the most distressing circumstances,
to have some latent spark of humour about him, scratched his head for a
moment, and then addressed the boy with extreme politeness.</p>
<p>"Seein' as 'ow you're so pressin', yer nibs, I dunno but what we won't
take a snack wiv yer—me an' me Donah"—he indicated the woman with one
hand. "Do yer fink I might leave the barrer in yer front garding?"</p>
<p>Teddy was wise enough to see that the carrying out of the latter
suggestion might cause tongues to wag in the aristocratic square, so
it was finally decided that the barrow should be left in the care of a
worthy man, of disreputable appearance, who lived in a yard near at hand,
and who, for its better protection, agreed to sleep in it until their
return.</p>
<p>It is probable that, had Master Teddy Kershaw brought in a travelling
menagerie with him—including the elephant—to lunch, Wilkins the butler
would scarcely have expressed surprise, whatever his private feelings
might have been. Therefore, when the boy introduced his two new friends
into the house, gravely referring to them as "Mr. and Mrs. Donah," and
announcing that they would partake of lunch with him, Wilkins merely
bowed and murmured "Very good, Master Edwin"; discreetly waiting until he
had gained the seclusion of his pantry before exploding.</p>
<p>Mrs. Donah was very much subdued and decidedly ill at ease; but Mr.
Donah, on the other hand, made himself quite at home with much rapidity.
He addressed the appallingly stiff footman pleasantly as "Calves," and
taunted him with the suggestion that he was quite big enough to be "put
into trahsis." Finally, having appeased his appetite, he lounged easily
about the room and admired its appointments.</p>
<p>"I say, yer nibs, is this 'ere yer guv'nor's chivvy?" he asked presently,
stopping in front of a full-length portrait of Sir Leopold Kershaw—a
portrait which, by the way,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> appeared to frown down upon him with
anything but a brotherly expression.</p>
<p>"I beg your pardon?" said Teddy.</p>
<p>"I sed: 'Is this yer guv'nor's chivvy?' 'Chivvy' bein' parlyvoo for
face," replied Mr. Donah.</p>
<p>"Oh, I see," said the boy. "Yes, that's my father."</p>
<p>Mr. Donah surveyed the portrait for some moments, with his head on one
side; finally turning to Mrs. Donah, with that curious sideways jerk of
the head.</p>
<p>"Twig 'is dial, ole gal? Lor' luv us—'e's a 'ot 'un—I giv' yer <em>my</em>
word. 'Eard 'im spout once, abaht every bloke bein' 'is bruvver. That was
abaht 'lection time las' year. Ain't 'eard nuffink from 'im since, an' I
don't fink 'e's bin ter tea dahn our court, 'as 'e?"</p>
<p>"You're quite right about what my father says," broke in Teddy, proudly.
"Every man is his brother, and everyone has the right to exactly the same
things that he enjoys."</p>
<p>"Yuss; if 'e can git 'em," responded Mr. Donah, with fine scorn. "But if
I 'ooked it wiv a dozen or two of 'is spoons 'e wouldn't 'ave nuffink to
say abaht it—bless yer eyes—not 'e!"</p>
<p>Mr. Donah was becoming so particularly scornful, and he jerked his head
so threateningly in the direction of the portrait, that Teddy deemed it
wise to change the subject; accordingly he said:—</p>
<p>"It's because I believe that my father is right that I asked you and Mrs.
Donah to come in to lunch to-day. I'm not quite sure—but I think my
father would have been delighted to welcome you."</p>
<p>"Take yer oaf of it!" replied Mr. Donah, with a chuckle. "'E'll be that
upset w'en 'e finds 'e's missed us, there won't be no 'oldin' 'im. As to
me—I'm fair bowed down wiv it—an' the missis—w'y, ole gal, wot yer
blubbin' for?"</p>
<p>Mrs. Donah, who had really eaten very sparingly of everything put before
her, had suddenly begun to dab her eyes in a most suspicious manner with
the corner of her shawl. Mr. Donah's question, however, appeared at once
to rouse her; she got up hurriedly and jerked her hat straight with some
fierceness, and told him angrily to—"Come aht of it!"</p>
<p>"'Ere we've bin a-settin' and shovin' grub into ourselves, like beasts,
and that poor little nipper at 'ome wivaht so much as a bite!"</p>
<p>Mr. Donah, appeared instantly to droop; his fine spirits were gone in a
moment. Indeed, Teddy had a suspicion that he saw the man draw his sleeve
hurriedly across his eyes. Curiously, too, there was a sort of dull,
heavy anger upon him as he made for the door.</p>
<p>"Come back ter the barrer, ole gal," he said, in a voice more husky even
than usual. "An' don't fink that I was fergettin' the nipper—'cos I
wasn't." Stopping awkwardly at the door, he came back to the boy. "As fer
you, my nibs—you're a nobleman—that's wot <em>you</em> are. There ain't no
flam abaht you, an' no partic'ler gas-works. It's a deal pleasanter ter
fill a man's stummick than to fill 'is bloomin' 'ed. If yer don't mind,
I'd be prahd ter shake a fin wiv yer."</p>
<p>Understanding by this that Mr. Donah desired to shake hands, Teddy
promptly responded. He had but dimly understood the half of what they
said, or he might have pressed something further upon them; but they were
gone before he had had time to make up his mind what to do; and the house
returned to its normal condition.</p>
<p>With a curious distrust of that loud-voiced father of his, the boy
refrained from saying anything about his extraordinary guests; so that
nothing of the matter came to the ears of Sir Leopold Kershaw.</p>
<p>Some three nights later little Teddy Kershaw had a dream. He thought in
his dream that he had just sat down comfortably to dinner, and that in
some extraordinary fashion the dining-room was open to the street; and
that first one hungry child and then another crept in upon him unawares,
and snatched desperately the very food from before him; that although
Thomas, the large footman, and Wilkins, the equally large butler, and
even his father, Sir Leopold, strove hard to drive the famished mites
away, they swarmed thicker and faster—until at last, by some subtle
dream-change not to be explained in waking hours, his seat at the table
was usurped and he had taken the place of a shivering street-boy, who
seemed the hungriest of them all; so that he stood outside the house,
among the ragged ones, shivering with cold and hunger. Waking suddenly he
still seemed to shiver, and found, to his astonishment, that the window
of his room was wide open.</p>
<p>While he was meditating sleepily upon this circumstance a stranger thing
happened—the head and shoulders of a man appeared against the light of
the sky, and the man himself dropped, with a soft thud, into the room.</p>
<p>Teddy started up in bed and opened his mouth with the full intention of
giving vocal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> effect to his alarm; but in an instant a hand—rough, and
not particularly sweet-smelling—had closed over it, and a gruff voice,
which seemed in the darkness curiously familiar, whispered huskily in his
ear:</p>
<p>"Lie dahn, will yer! If yer so much as breave I'll be the death of yer!"</p>
<p>Teddy Kershaw could see nothing distinctly in the darkness; only the dim
form of the man seemed to hover above him. On the man releasing his grip
Teddy lay down passively, and tried to breathe as little as possible.</p>
<p>"'Oller, an' I'll be back afore yer can say 'knife' an' do fer yer,"
whispered the man again. Then, quite noiselessly, he crept to the door
and opened it, and glided out into the house.</p>
<p>Master Teddy Kershaw, consumed by curiosity, waited for a few moments and
then slipped out of bed and went through the door also. Outside on the
stair-case a dim light was burning; and, leaning over the stair-head,
Teddy could see the man gliding down and keeping as much as possible
within the shadow of the wall. A door creaked on its hinges and the man
disappeared.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 464px;">
<img src="images/ill_153.jpg" width="464" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"LEANING OVER THE STAIR-HEAD, TEDDY COULD SEE THE MAN
GLIDING DOWN."</p></div>
</div>
<p>Teddy, mindful of the threat which had been breathed into his ear, was
just about to creep back again when he heard another door open more
noisily than the first, and then a quick challenging voice; the sound of
running feet—a scuffle—and a fall: then other doors opening and more
running feet; and lights seemed to flash up all over the house. Unable
to restrain himself any longer, Teddy scuttled downstairs in his small
pyjamas and headed straight for the fray.</p>
<p>In the dining-room he burst in upon a curious group. In the centre was
Mr. Donah, struggling feebly and ineffectually between the grasp of two
of the footmen; standing by the fireplace, looking at Mr. Donah sternly,
was Sir Leopold Kershaw, appearing dignified even in a dressing-gown
and with his hair rumpled; while the room was half-filled by a crowd of
semi-clad, startled servants.</p>
<p>"Yer 'Ighness," exclaimed Mr. Donah, with some poor show of cheerfulness,
as the boy appeared, "yer 'umble is a fair gorner!"</p>
<p>Sir Leopold, apparently not hearing the remark or not understanding,
proceeded to improve the occasion.</p>
<p>"You have been caught, my fine fellow, in the perpetration of one of
the most heinous crimes possible to imagine—that of purloining, after
forcible entry, goods to which you have no right. Now, sir, I am a
Justice of the Peace, and, while I must warn you not to say anything
which will tend to incriminate you at your public trial, I am willing to
hear any remarks you may make with reference to your purpose in being
here or your reason for selecting my abode for your nefarious practices."</p>
<p>Mr. Donah looked all round him, somewhat helplessly; fixed his eye on
Teddy, and winked with some cheerfulness; gave that peculiar jerk to his
head which seemed to express any emotion of the moment; and spoke.</p>
<p>"Guv'nor, <em>and</em> yer 'Ighness, it's a thousand to one in canary birds
that I'm up the wust gum-tree as ever you see! Fair nabbed, wiv me dukes
on the bloomin' 'all-marked ladles and corfee-pots, I am, an' don't yer
fergit it! As fer alibis an' sich-like fings, yer won't find one abaht
me, if yer search me till Easter Monday. It's a fair cop, an' no error.
Same time I should jist like to say as 'ow this is the fust time I've
been on the rails in all my natural, an' it ain't exactly my fault."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p>
<p>"Pray explain yourself," said Sir Leopold, loftily.</p>
<p>"Righto, ole Poker-back, just 'arf a shake! I'm a-comin' to it. I've got
a little nipper at 'ome, wot's wasted away to a mere shadder—yer might
let go a bloke's arm an' let him rub 'is dial-plate, Calves—'an 'e's
a-lyin' in one room, an' most of the bed-clothes is up the spout. I've
'ollered 'Fine 'earty cabbage!' till I've got it on my brain, an' 'tain't
no good. Then, comin' in 'ere wiv the missis t'other day ter lunch
(leastways they called it lunch, but it was abaht a full week's grub fer
us) wiv 'is 'Ighness——"</p>
<p>"To lunch? What is the man talking about?" broke in Sir Leopold Kershaw,
sternly.</p>
<p>"W'y, 'is nibs comes aht w'en me and the ole gal was a-standin' by the
barrer, and ses 'e, quite friendly-like, 'Come in an' 'ave lunch alonger
me,' ses 'e. Not 'avin' me party frock on, in consequence of it bein'
kep' at the wash, I 'ung back; but 'is nibs was that pressin' there was
no gettin' over 'im, an' very 'andsome 'e done us, I mus' say." Thus Mr.
Donah, with much emphasis.</p>
<p>"It is perfectly right," said Teddy, coming a little farther into the
room. "I had heard what you said, father, about every man being my
brother, except Wilkins" (the unfortunate butler blushed hotly on finding
himself brought into such prominent notice), "and Mr. Donah, as well as
Mrs. Donah, looked so miserable and so hungry that I thought you wouldn't
mind. So I brought them in here, and we had quite a good time."</p>
<p>"You brought them in here?" ejaculated the master of the house, in
amazement.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_154.jpg" width="500" height="473" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"'YOU BROUGHT THEM IN HERE?' EJACULATED THE MASTER OF THE
HOUSE."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Yes," said Teddy, boldly. Then, beginning to feel dimly and miserably
that Mr. Donah was in a very tight place, Teddy, for the first time in
his brief career, began to lie. "In fact, I told Mr. Donah that I thought
he had a perfect right to everything which we had, and I'm afraid I even
suggested that it wouldn't matter very much if he just helped himself
to——"</p>
<p>"'Ere, stow it, yer 'Ighness; no perjury," exclaimed Mr. Donah. "Yer
won't never sing wiv the angels if yer go on in that way." He turned
suddenly towards Sir Leopold, and spoke with a certain despairing
fierceness upon him: "Look 'ere, guv'nor—I don't want 'is nibs to
be tellin' no crams abaht it. I come in 'ere, an' I 'as a jolly good
feed—fair wallers in it, I does—till the ole gal breaks dahn, an'
reminds me abaht our little nipper at 'ome, wivaht a crust. I goes 'ome
that night an' meets the parish doctor on the stairs. 'Dockery'—that's
me name w'en I goes a-ridin' in the park—'Dockery,' ses 'e, 'that kid o'
yourn wants nourishment—beef tea—good eggs; and you did ought ter get
'im away into the country.' Lor' luv us—w'y didn't 'e tell me to take
'im to 'ave tea alonger the Queen at Buckingham Pallis while 'e was abaht
it?"</p>
<p>"You were not able to provide these necessaries for your child?" said Sir
Leopold, somewhat unnecessarily.</p>
<p>"I were not," responded Mr. Donah, doggedly. "So that night I sits
a-thinkin', an' a-thinkin', till me head fair buzzes, an' all next day I
thinks a bit 'arder, till at last it comes over me that it ain't right,
arter wot you've said abaht me bein' yer bruvver, that 'is nibs 'ere
should be 'avin' roas' duck an' tomater sauce, so ter speak, an' my pore
kid a-chewin' 'is fingers fer comfort. An' this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> mornin', seein' 'im
look a bit finner than usual, I got fair desp'rit', an' couldn't stan'
it no longer. So I made up me min' as 'ow I'd 'elp meself to a bit of me
bruvver's silver stuff."</p>
<p>"To use one of the vulgarisms familiar to your class, my friend,"
interposed Sir Leopold, "I am afraid that your statement won't wash."</p>
<p>"It'll wash a lump better than some er yer spoutings," retorted Mr.
Donah, with some indignation. "Wot's the good er tellin' a man one minute
'e's yer bruvver an' 'as a right ter share everyfink wiv yer, an' lockin'
'im up the nex' fer 'elpin' 'isself? There, I've 'ad me little jaw; now
send fer the bloomin amberlance."</p>
<p>Sir Leopold Kershaw was thinking very hard indeed. It would be too much
to say that he was in any sense converted; such sudden conversions are
rare. But he had a wholesome dread of seeing his principles derided or
himself made a laughing-stock; and Mr. Donah's remarkably caustic mode of
speech would, he felt, suit the humour of the evening papers to a nicety.
Sir Leopold had a mental vision of himself prosecuting in a police-court,
and writhing under Mr. Donah's remarks in defence of his crime—the while
busy reporters scribbled as if for their lives. Moreover, the man, to do
him justice, had a certain honesty of purpose beneath all his ponderous
phrases; his only fault lay in the fact that he did not, in any sense,
understand the class about whom he talked so much. After a moment or two
of thought he sternly dismissed the whole of the servants, cautioning
them against chattering about the matter for the present; and was left
alone in the room with his little son and Mr. Donah.</p>
<p>"Now, Dockery: I think you said that was your name——"</p>
<p>"C'ristened Sam, at Sin George's in the Borough, on a Toosday—wiv me
a 'owlin' proper an' bitin' the parson's little finger," broke in Mr.
Dockery.</p>
<p>"Well, Dockery, the circumstances attending your offence are somewhat
peculiar, and I am disposed to take a lenient view of the matter. I am
impelled to this course by the remembrance that my son is, to an extent,
concerned in the affair"—Sir Leopold Kershaw felt that he must really
make an excuse of some kind or other—"and I am unwilling that he should
imagine that the principles I have so strongly laid down in his hearing
are sentiments merely, and that I am not prepared to carry them out when
opportunity occurs. I deny your right to purloin my property, but I will
have inquiry made into your case, and if I find that you are really
deserving I will carry my principles into effect. Leave me your name and
address—and then go."</p>
<p>Sam Dockery looked all about him for a moment in sheer amazement, put his
hat on, and then took it off in a great hurry; took those queer little
dancing steps of his, first backwards and then forwards, made a feint of
squaring up to Teddy, and finally put his arm before his eyes and broke
into unmistakable tears.</p>
<p>"Yer 'Ighness," he observed, in a shaky voice, when he had somewhat
recovered, "parss no rude remarks! This is me one an' only; I was
thinkin' of the nipper an' of 'ow 'e might 'ave bin wivaht 'is daddy
fer a munf er two. Guv'nor"—he turned to Sir Leopold—"I've sed a few
fings wot I didn't orter; let it parss. Yer ain't sich a bad sort as yer
look—an' Gawd knows yer didn't make yer own chivvy! Ask for Sam Dockery
dahn in Dock's Buildings, an' anyone will direck yer to me 'umble cot.
An' I'll interdooce yer to the missis an' the nipper."</p>
<p>Despite his levity Mr. Dockery appeared to find some difficulty in
getting out of the door. Sir Leopold—amazing man!—opened the hall-door
himself, and Teddy fancied he heard the quick chink of money. Curiously,
too, Sir Leopold, when he came back into the dining-room, wore a smile
on his usually stern face, and told Teddy, in quite a pleasant tone of
voice, to "cut away to bed."</p>
<p>Nor did Sir Leopold Kershaw forget his promise. Sam Dockery and his wife
were startled the very next day by a visit from the great man himself,
accompanied by "'is Ighness" and by a footman bearing a hamper. Nor
was this all: for, a lodge-keepership falling vacant on Sir Leopold's
country estate, Sam and his wife and the "nipper" were installed in it
in comfort; on which occasion Mr. Dockery gave himself airs in Duke's
Buildings, before his departure, and informed all and sundry that he was
going down to his country house "ter pot the bloomin' dicky-birds."</p>
<p>Sir Leopold Kershaw is as great a man as ever; but he talks less about
the equality and brotherhood of man.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="The_Story_of_Bradshaw" id="The_Story_of_Bradshaw"></a><i>The Story of "Bradshaw."</i></h2>
<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">By Newton Deane.</span></p>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 134px;">
<img src="images/156-drop-w.png" width="134" height="120" alt="W" />
<span class="hidden">"W</span></span><span class="smcap">hat</span> books do you consult most?" a political adherent once asked John
Bright in the midst of an arduous campaign. "The Bible and 'Bradshaw,'"
was the reply of the great Quaker. To this another statesman added that
both stood in equal need of commentators. "Bradshaw"—or, to give it
its correct title, "Bradshaw's General Railway and Steam Navigation
Guide"—is essentially a British institution, like the <cite>Times</cite>, football,
<cite>Punch</cite>, and cricket. In common with all great institutions, it is a
target for libel and detraction on the part of people who are a little
difficult to please. Its very accuracy has been questioned. It has been
said—by a succession of incorrigible humorists, including Charles
Dickens—to have driven countless British lieges to lunacy. Our retreats
for the insane are said to be invariably provided with a "Bradshaw ward,"
filled with the unhappy victims of the famous guide. But, seriously,
"Bradshaw"—like the Bench of Bishops—can afford to be indulgent in
the knowledge that it is indispensable. What should we do without
"Bradshaw"? What if the portly brochure in the buff covers, that was born
in the heart of England some sixty-five years ago, had never come into
existence? True, Londoners have their "A B C," but London is only a tenth
of the kingdom, and, besides, "Bradshaw" has all Europe for its province.
Anyway, the origin and early progress of "Bradshaw" are interesting
enough to be better known to the world.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_156.jpg" width="400" height="455" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>GEORGE BRADSHAW.</p>
<p><cite>From a Water Colour Drawing.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>The name of the man who founded the celebrated guide was George
Bradshaw. He was a Quaker, and a map-maker by calling. Before the
days of railways he employed himself on maps showing the canals of
Lancashire and Yorkshire. But by 1839 the kingdom was rapidly becoming
intersected by that astonishing—but, when one comes to think of it,
very simple—invention, the steel rail. The iron horse of Stephenson
was prancing stertorously about between Manchester and Liverpool and
Manchester and London and other cities. Passengers—who had hardly been
taken into Stephenson's calculations at all when he inaugurated the first
railway in 1825—were clamouring for transportation. A knowledge of train
arrivals and departures was imperative.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_156a.jpg" width="496" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE BRADSHAW RAILWAY GUIDE: OR, AIDS TO BEDLAM."</p>
<p><cite>From an Old Print.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>In the year of Queen Victoria's accession the only "guide" available for
the patrons of the Birmingham and Liverpool—or, as it was called, the
Grand Junction Railway—took the singular form of a large pewter medal,
which the traveller could carry in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> pocket. On the obverse of this
metallic guide was inscribed:—</p>
<p>Grand Junction Railway. Opened July 4, 1837.<br />
The trains leave:—</p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Birmingham.</span></p>
<table summary="Birmingham">
<tr>
<th>Hour. </th>
<th>Min.</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>VII.</td>
<td class="tdr">0</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>VIII.</td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XI.</td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>II.</td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>IV.</td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>VII.</td>
<td class="tdr">0</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Liverpool & Manchester.</span></p>
<table summary="Liverpool and Manchester">
<tr>
<th>Hour. </th>
<th>Min.</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>VI.</td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>VIII.</td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>XI.</td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>II.</td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>IV.</td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>VI.</td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>On the reverse:—</p>
<p class="center">Time and Distance from Birmingham.</p>
<table summary="Time and Distance from Birmingham">
<tr>
<th>To.</th>
<th><span class="smcap">H.</span></th>
<th><span class="smcap">M.</span></th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Wolverhampton </td>
<td>14¼ </td>
<td>0 40</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Stafford</td>
<td>29¼</td>
<td>1 15</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Whitmore</td>
<td>43¼</td>
<td>1 55</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Crewe</td>
<td>54</td>
<td>2 24</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Hartford</td>
<td>65¼</td>
<td>2 59</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Manchester }<br />
Liverpool }</td>
<td>97¼</td>
<td>4 30</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>Afterwards the railway companies—there were just seven of them—issued
monthly leaflets on their own account. What a convenience to the
travelling public it would be if someone would collect these leaflets and
reprint them in the form of a little book or pamphlet! No sooner did the
idea occur to Bradshaw than he acted on it. There is no doubt that had
he delayed there were others ready to promulgate the notion. Indeed, one
Gadsby, a Manchester printer, followed close at his heels, just missing
priority by a few weeks.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_157.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>THE COVER OF THE FIRST NUMBERS OF "BRADSHAW"—ACTUAL SIZE.</p></div>
</div>
<p>It was towards the end of October, the "10th mo." of the Quakers, that
the printing press at Manchester turned out the first "Bradshaw." It
was a very modest, unobtrusive little volume, bound in green cloth,
with a simple legend in gilt. It could be obtained of any bookseller or
railway company for the sum of sixpence. It was not, however, as we may
see, entitled "Bradshaw's Railway Guide"—that title was not to come
till later. Here, too, is the "address" or introduction to the first
"Bradshaw":—</p>
<p>"This book is published by the assistance of the several railway
companies, on which account the information it contains may be depended
upon as being correct and authentic. The necessity of such a work is
so obvious as to need no apology; and the merits of it can best be
ascertained by a reference to the execution both as regards the style
and correctness of the maps and plans with which it is illustrated."
For it must be borne in mind that Bradshaw was first and foremost a
map-engraver, and was not likely to let such an opportunity for a display
in public of his skill pass profitless by. We also give a reproduction
of the first page of Bradshaw's effort. From this little book we learn
that, like the French trams and omnibuses of to-day, there was one charge
for inside and another for outside passengers, six shillings being
the first-class fare between Liverpool and Manchester. Of the first
"time-tables," only two copies of each variety—for there was a slight
variation in the issues for October, 1839—are known to be in existence:
two are in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, and two are in the possession of
Bradshaw's successors, Henry Blacklock and Co., of Manchester,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> so that
they are among the rarest editions extant.</p>
<p>Some two months later, on New Year's Day, 1840, Bradshaw brought out his
little work in an amended form, with a brand-new title. This gave him
further opportunities, in the course of its thirty-eight pages, for maps
and letterpress, and to it he gave the title of "Railway Companion." It
is really in size and type and style the same thing as the time-tables;
but being sold at a shilling was continued distinct from the time-tables
until it was merged into the "Guide" in 1848. There is some interesting,
if somewhat startling, information in the "Companion." One can only gasp
at being confronted by "A table showing the rate of travelling from one
to four hundred miles an hour." These rosy anticipations have not yet
been realized—not even in the velocity of the electric mono-rail.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_158.jpg" width="329" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>TITLE-PAGE OF THE FIRST COPY OF "BRADSHAW."</p></div>
</div>
<p>How, it may be asked, did the railway companies of 1840 receive the
first general railway guide? Odd to relate, not with any great favour.
They even refused to supply their time-tables to Bradshaw when they
ascertained the use to which that enterprising Quaker was putting them.
"Why," they said, "if this fellow goes on in this way he will make
punctuality a kind of obligation, with penalties for failure. Whereas
at present, if the ten minutes past three train steams gently out at
twenty minutes to four, or even four o'clock, we do not fall much in the
esteem of the public, accustomed to the free and easy methods of the
stage-coach."</p>
<p>But the Quaker was not thus to be repressed. He got hold of the
time-tables somehow: he waited in person on the boards; afterwards
he even purchased stock in the hostile railway companies, and the
enterprise went on. But as yet the guides we have been describing were
not regularly issued. They were mere fitful publications, and it was not
until Adams, whom Bradshaw had secured as his London agent, urged upon
him the necessity of a regular issue that the first monthly "Guide" made
its <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">début</i> in the world. This was on December 1st, 1841. The "Guide"
differed from its predecessors in being bound in paper—not cloth—and
in consisting of but thirty-two pages of printed matter. By this time,
too Bradshaw could announce that "This work is published monthly, under
the direction and with the assistance of the railway companies, and
is carefully corrected up to the date it bears; every reliance may,
therefore, be placed on the accuracy of its details."</p>
<p>Moreover, it was dispensed in another and simpler form. The pages
of which it was composed were arranged on a single large sheet or
"broadside," "exhibiting at one view the hours of departure and arrival
of the trains on every railway in the kingdom, and are particularly
adapted for counting-houses and places of business." For this sheet only
threepence was demanded, but if mounted on stiff boards the price was two
shillings and ninepence.</p>
<p>In 1843 the railway mania, which afterwards enriched and beggared
thousands, was advancing apace. There were in that year just forty-eight
different railways in kingdom: and as the public were keenly interested
in them we find, together with a slight alteration in the title of
"Bradshaw" to the "Monthly General Railway and Steam Navigation Guide,"
more reading matter, and "a list of shares, exhibiting at one view the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
cost, traffic length, dividend, and market value of the same."</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_159.jpg" width="402" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>TITLE-PAGE OF THE FIRST COPY ISSUED WITH THE WORDS
"RAILWAY GUIDE."</p></div>
</div>
<p>There is one curious circumstance in the early history of "Bradshaw,"
which Mr. Percy Fitzgerald has pointed out. Its founder appears to have
been ashamed of its youth, for when the fortieth number had been attained
we find, in September, 1844, a sudden jump to number 146. Did those
missing hundred numbers ever afterwards disturb the pious Quaker's rest?</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_159a.jpg" width="550" height="418" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>FACSIMILE OF A PAGE OF THE VERY EARLIEST "BRADSHAW."</p></div>
</div>
<div class="larger-file">
[<a href="images/ill_159aa.jpg">See larger version</a>]
</div>
<p>From these early guides a great deal of entertainment and instruction
is to be obtained. There is no mention of "express" trains, for
instance; they are described as "first class," "second class," "mixed,"
"fast," and "mail." We are told that "first-class trains stop at
first-class stations." Third-class travellers travelled on the roof or
in open "waggons." At the other end of the scale of luxury were "glass
coaches"—<i>i.e.</i>, carriages with plenty of windows. Tickets are "passes"
or "check tickets," and it is strictly enjoined that "the check ticket
given to the passenger on payment of his fare will be demanded from him
at the station next before his arrival at London or Birmingham, and if
not then produced he will be liable to have the fare again demanded."
As to fares, we learn from the "Guide" that they fluctuate according to
day or night or the number of passengers in a carriage. The fare from
London to Birmingham was thirty-two shillings and sixpence first class,
but if six travelled inside by day the tariff was reduced to thirty
shillings, and a similar reduction for second-class passengers. Now that
the season-ticket system is so widespread and familiar, the reader learns
with some amazement that "An annual subscription ticket from London to
Brighton and back is £100." Here are some further extracts from the
"Guide":—</p>
<p>"Passengers are especially recommended to have their names and address or
destination written on each part of their luggage, when it will be placed
on the top of the coach in which they ride.</p>
<p>"If the passenger be destined for Manchester<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> or Liverpool, and has
booked his place through, his luggage will be placed on the Liverpool
or Manchester coach, and will not be disturbed until it reaches its
destination.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_160.jpg" width="500" height="328" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"WHERE THE SPACE IS DOTTED THE TRAINS CALL: WHERE A BLANK,
THUS ——, THEY DO NOT."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Where the space is dotted the trains call; where a blank, thus ——,
they do not." (Here is an example of this new arrangement, which, it must
be confessed, is a little revolutionary of the accepted method.) "Infants
in arms, <em>unable to walk</em>, free of charge.</p>
<p>"A passenger may claim the seat corresponding to the number on his
ticket, and when not numbered he may take any seat not previously
occupied.</p>
<p>"Preserve your ticket until called for by the company's servant." (Fancy
the passengers of 1904 requiring to be curbed in their propensity for
throwing their tickets out of the window!)</p>
<p>"Do not lean upon the door of the carriage."</p>
<p>But by far the most surprising injunction to us nowadays, when the tips
of railway porters show a tendency to expand instead of diminish, is
this: "No gratuity, under any circumstances, is allowed to be taken by
any servant of the company."</p>
<p>How incomprehensible to us nowadays, when not even Mr. Beit, Mr. Astor,
or Mr. Carnegie owns his own railway vehicle: "Gentlemen riding in their
own carriages are charged second-class fares."</p>
<p>How "Bradshaw" has grown from that day! It began with thirty odd pages;
it is now some twelve hundred. The weight of the first little "Guide"
was a couple of ounces—it now tips the scale at a pound and a half.
And think of the immense labour involved in the production of each
monthly issue. It taxes all the resources of a large staff of editors
and printers—for are not "perpetual and minute changes taking place
in the hours and places," which "have to be introduced often at the
last moment"? Every single page has literally to be packed to bursting
with type, not merely with words and numerals, but with characters and
spaces—altogether three thousand to the page, or equivalent to a dozen
ordinary octavo volumes. Every change, however trifling, inaugurated
by the traffic superintendent of the smallest railway has here to
instantly set down. New trains must be crowded in somehow into an already
overcrowded page for there must be no "over-running." No wonder, then,
that if "Bradshaw's Guide" is difficult to compile it is often equally
difficult to understand. It has been called "a recondite treatise on the
subject of railway times." From the earliest day its method has elicited
the severest criticism from the wits. George Cruikshank and other wits
called it an "Aid to Bedlam." Mark Lemon wrote innumerable skits in
<cite>Punch</cite>, which his friend Leech illustrated. In one of these (May 24th,
1856) we have nearly two pages devoted to "Bradshaw—a Mystery," in which
two lovers, parted by distance, seek to unite by means of the "Guide."
They are utterly unable to discover when Orlando's train should depart
and arrive. Both are plunged into the madness of despair. At last blind
chance favours the lovers, and the fair one confesses:—</p>
<p class="center">"Bradshaw" has nearly maddened me.</p>
<div class="container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i0"><span class="smcap">Orlando</span>: And me.</div>
<div class="i0">He talks of trains arriving that ne'er start;</div>
<div class="i0">Of trains that seem to start and ne'er arrive;</div>
<div class="i0">Of junctions where no union is effected:</div>
<div class="i0">Of coaches meeting trains that never come;</div>
<div class="i0">Of trains to catch a coach that never goes;</div>
<div class="i0">Of trains that start after they have arrived;</div>
<div class="i0">Of trains arriving long before they leave.</div>
<div class="i0">He bids us "see" some page that can't be found.</div>
<div class="i0">Henceforth take me not "Bradshaw" for your guide.</div>
<div class="i7">(<i>Curtain.</i>)</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_160a.jpg" width="344" height="400" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>AN ILLUSTRATION BY LEECH FOR "BRADSHAW: A MYSTERY," IN
"PUNCH."</p></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_161.jpg" width="500" height="443" alt="Golden Bars" />
</div>
<h4>A STORY OF THE AFRICAN TREASURE.</h4>
<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">By Max Pemberton.</span></p>
<p class="p2">I.</p>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 119px;">
<img src="images/161-drop-th.png" width="119" height="120" alt="" />
<span class="hidden">T</span></span><span class="smcap">hey</span> were talking of treasure in the parlour of the Three Tuns at
Gravesend—old salts, every one of them, to whom five hundred pounds a
year had been riches beyond desire. The precise inspiration of their
eloquence chanced to be the money which had been smuggled out of Africa
at the time of the war. Some said that it was all banked in France and
Holland; others declared that a few paltry millions had gone to America.
In the heat of the argument pipes were broken and glasses overturned.
Gilbert Lorimer, a young officer on a Scotch tramp, who had been ashore
on his captain's business, smiled often and said little; but he corrected
old Crabb of the Margate service, and drew down upon himself that
worthy's wrath thereby.</p>
<p>"There's more nonsense than not talked about a million of money," the
captain had remarked, sententiously. The others agreed. Had anyone
bestowed such a trifle upon them, they would have been at no loss how to
handle it.</p>
<p>"I'd pop my lot in the Savings Bank," said Billy of the wherry, in
parsimonious solemnity. Jack the waterman, however, declared that he
would ferry his across the river and leave it to-morrow with the lawyers.
Then the sage and learned Skipper Crabb delivered himself of the oracle.</p>
<p>"A million weighs close upon five tons," said he.</p>
<p>"More than ten," exclaimed Gilbert Lorimer, quietly.</p>
<p>"Ah, here's Crœsus," was the captain's sly retort, "and I dare say,"
he put it familiarly to Gilbert, "that you are very much at home with
sums like that. Suppose you make it champagne, young man?"</p>
<p>Gilbert laughed drily. He was a fine specimen of a sailor, and he would
have been called handsome by the women in spite of the scar upon his
cheek—an ugly gash which seemed to have a history behind it. A little
reserved and proud, he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> listened to the talk of money with some
contempt; but the captain's challenge drew him out, and he rang the bell
impatiently for the barman.</p>
<p>"Champagne, by all means," he said, "since the next that I shall drink
will be in Sydney. As to your million, I know nothing about it; but I
once owned some large part of one. What's more, I was careless enough to
lose it."</p>
<p>A solemn silence fell upon the company. Gilbert Lorimer raised his glass
and gave them "To our next." The aged Captain Crabb surrendered at once
to a master. I, alone, followed the young sailor from the room and asked
him, at the river's bank, to let me have a story.</p>
<p>"Yonder's my ship," he said, indicating the anchor light of a large
steamer. "She would be at the Nore before I had well begun."</p>
<p>"Then why not write it——?"</p>
<p>He shook his head.</p>
<p>"I am handier with the gloves," said he.</p>
<p>"Oh, but you can spin a plain yarn, I'll be bound."</p>
<p>"Well, as to that——"</p>
<p>The great steamer sounded her siren and he leaped into the wherry.
His last word was a cheery "So long." But he sent me the story of his
treasure three months afterwards, and I give it here with scarce a line
deleted or a phrase re-turned.</p>
<p class="p2">II.</p>
<p>Every man on board the <i>Oceanus</i>—sometime a mail-boat to the South
African ports—knew that we carried treasure to Europe, but what was the
amount of it, or for whom we carried it, our captain, Joey Castle, alone
could say. We had been chartered at Sydney for the purpose, being one
of the fastest steamers in Southern waters, and we took in the bullion,
chiefly in golden ingots, at Lorenzo Marques. Some did say that it was
the property of a Dutch bank, which preferred the American flag to the
German, for the <i>Oceanus</i> was under American colours, and a handier
steamer of her tonnage I never sailed in. Grant you that the crew were
a rough lot—niggers and Lascars, Poles and Swedes, with half-a-dozen
Christian white men to put currants on your cake. Well, the owners were
one of the safest houses in New York, and fat Joey Castle you might
have trusted with the Bank of England itself. Not two cents did he care
whether he had a hold full of diamonds or of doughnuts.</p>
<p>"I'm going right through, gentlemen," he said to us at dinner the night
we sailed, "and if any tin warship threatens me I'll make Europe laugh.
Risk! Why, there's twenty times the risk in a roundabout at a fair! Let
'em stop me if they like—I'll put 'em through the goose-step before
they've been two minutes aboard, as sure as my name's Joey Castle!"</p>
<p>Well, we didn't think very much about it, but there had been a lot
of talk ashore concerning the British Government and how it handled
suspicious ships entering or leaving Lorenzo Marques. I myself thought
it not unlikely that we should have some trouble. To put it honestly, I
didn't take the hook on the end of this Dutch bank line; and I just said
to myself that our gold was Government gold, and that if it were found
aboard of us all the Stars and Stripes between 'Frisco and Sandy Hook
wouldn't be worth a red cent to us. We should have to pay out, and quick
about it.</p>
<p>In this view I stood alone, however, and I must say that when we put to
sea without let or hindrance, and were steaming next morning due south
before a rattling breeze and with a splendid swell under us, I dismissed
the subject as readily as the others and considered our port already
made. That opinion lasted for ten days. On the eleventh day, at noon, we
sighted a British cruiser on our port quarter. Poor old Joey Castle! He
didn't say a word about the Stars and Stripes then. His topic concerned
the nether regions. You shivered in your boots when he talked to the
engineers. I was on the bridge when the nigger Sam cried up his news
of the other ship; and while I was spying her through my glass Captain
Castle himself came out of the chart-room and asked me what was there.</p>
<p>"Looks like an ugly one, sir," said I; "a cruiser, I should say, of the
second class."</p>
<p>He took the glass from my hand—I can see him now, fat and florid, and as
plainly anxious at heart as a nervous man could be. I thought then of all
his boasts the night we left Lorenzo, and I was really a bit sorry for
him.</p>
<p>"Do you think she means mischief, Mr. Lorimer?" he asked, with the glass
still to his eye.</p>
<p>I said that he was the best judge of that.</p>
<p>"These dirty Britishers have their finger in every pie," he went on,
presently. "Well, we'll make 'em look foolish. What the deuce are they
doing in the stokehold? Just let me have a word with Nicolson, will you?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p>
<p>His "word" was something to hear. A barge-master who had dropped his
dinner overboard might have come up to Joey Castle at his best; but I
doubt it. He had the ship doing sixteen knots before one bell in the
afternoon watch. She was a Belfast-built mail-boat, with boilers and
engines not twelve months old, and a better for the purpose we could not
have chartered. By three bells it was patent that the cruiser gained
nothing on us. Her smoke burned upon a clear horizon, but her stumpy
funnel was no longer to be seen. The captain seemed as pleased as a
schoolboy who has won a race—he ordered champagne for our mess and he
talked as big as he had done when we sailed from Lorenzo.</p>
<p>"Here's to a good pair of heels and hoofs for the Britisher," was his
toast. "I'd like to see him stop me, by thunder. There'll be good money
for this at Bremerhaven, and more to come afterwards. Fill your glass,
Lorimer, and drink to a sharp eye on the next watch. Let him come aboard
just for five minutes, and I'll teach him the French language as they
speak it out 'Frisco way. It's a wonderful tongue there, Lorimer, a
wonderful tongue!"</p>
<p>I did not doubt it. Spoken as Joey Castle speaks it, a harbour-master
will take off his hat to you. What I was not so sure of was the
Britisher's understanding of it. Many a ship sailing out of Lorenzo had
been stopped and searched—so much was common gossip aboard. If the
cruiser overhauled us, she would certainly find our million pounds'
worth of ingots—marked "fruit" though they might be, kept in the great
refrigerator for better security.</p>
<p>Here was something more tangible than Joey Castle's French lingo. I did
not know much about international law, but it was in my head that our
ship would be sent to a British port and the gold aboard her handed over
to the British Government. With the crew, I had a sense of personal
honour in the matter. If it had been my ship I would have sunk the
<i>Oceanus</i> before I hauled down my colours to any foreigner, let her flag
be what it might. But what the captain was going to do I did not know;
and thirty-six hours passed before I was any wiser. The afternoon watch
taught me little. Now and then I saw the stumpy funnel upon the horizon;
at other times there was nothing but the hand's-breadth of smoke to mark
the cruiser's course.</p>
<p>On the following day she seemed to be playing a game with us. First she
would show herself clear and threatening on the horizon; then we lost her
again and were just breathing freely when up she pops, like a squatting
hare, and has a good look at us. The see-saw worked on the captain like
an overdose of French absinthe. He couldn't rest a minute anywhere. He
swore and cursed, prayed and threatened, until I thought the men would
mutiny and have done with it. That, however, was to come later on, when
the gold fever fairly got hold of them. They were willing enough for the
time being.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_163.jpg" width="365" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"HE SWORE AND CURSED, PRAYED AND THREATENED."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"What do you make of it now, Mr. Lorimer?" says the captain at
supper-time. I answered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> him just as bluntly as he had asked me.</p>
<p>"She's got the legs of you, sir—it seems to me that she's waiting for
something or other. Perhaps it's only a watching job," I put it to him.</p>
<p>"I was thinking the same. The little man in the cap waiting for the
big man in the cocked hat. Well, I hope he'll keep himself cool. We'll
give him a fever draught if he comes aboard. Just pass the whisky, will
you?—my head's queer to-night; but there's a good deal in it—a great
deal—Lorimer, and it's coming out by-and-by."</p>
<p>I had no doubt of it—he had taken enough whisky that afternoon to start
a bar. As for what was in his head, a madder scheme never came to any man
whom fear had robbed of nerve and sense.</p>
<p>"If the cocked hat wants to come aboard here, he shall," he said,
presently; "that's my notion, Lorimer. Let him come aboard and hear
the French lingo. We'll do the honours and then drum him out. You'll
be standing by in the launch with as much gold as she'll carry in her
coal-holes. The life-boats can take the rest. You and Nicolson and the
'fourth' must take charge of them. I'll pick you up next day and you'll
have your compasses. There's not weather enough to hurt a toy yacht, and
a night out will do you good. All this, mind you, if he has the heels
of us and means to come aboard. But I don't believe he can make sixteen
knots, and that's what we're making now."</p>
<p>Well, he chuckled away over this wild notion just as though it had been
a sane man's plan; and, fuddled as he was with the whisky, he kept
repeating it until I was tired of hearing it. When Billy Frost, our
young fourth officer, came down presently to say that the cruiser had
picked us up again and was using her search-light, it was a relief to
go on deck and tot the position up. My belief all along had been that
the cruiser had the legs of us, and what I saw from the bridge confirmed
my judgment. She stood now upon our starboard quarter—her search-light
ran all over us in silvery waves like water washing down a rock-side.
And yet, mind you, she did not challenge us, did not ask us a question;
but just followed us, patiently waiting, I did not doubt, for some
further instructions to be received in European waters. This doubt and
uncertainty plagued our captain to the last point. "They shall come
aboard, by Heaven," he said; "ten days more of this would kill me." I
knew then how much he had at stake, and that it was no mere captain's
wage which had tempted him to carry gold from the Transvaal. He was
playing for a bigger sum of money than he had ever played for in all his
life, and the game had robbed him of his man's common sense.</p>
<p>The cruiser's search-light contrived for a good hour or more to play all
over us like a hose. It made the captain dance, I can tell you; and when
they dropped it just upon eight bells in the morning watch, I saw that he
had come to a resolution and that nothing would turn him from it.</p>
<p>"We must get the brass overboard, Lorimer," he said; "this crew will turn
ugly if the thing goes on. We'll make a beginning with the launch. Take
Sam the nigger, Peter Barlow, and young Nicolson the engineer, and bear
west for Ascension. I'll make them search us at dawn and turn back for
you; keep your bearings as close as you can and take an observation every
hour. We should pick you up by noon to-morrow—I'll mark the place on the
chart. A cockle-shell could swim in this sea, and the launch will come to
no harm. It's a great scheme, man, and there's few would have thought of
it."</p>
<p>I tried to argue with him, putting it that, even if the cruiser did
search us, she would have no authority to take the gold; moreover, it
would be an international question for the two Governments. He wouldn't
hear a word of it.</p>
<p>"Let 'em wrangle," he said; "I'll hold the dollars meanwhile. The men
will turn on me if I don't. Why, just look at it. They come aboard and
find nothing but silver spoons. The report goes in that we are all right,
and we steam to Bremerhaven without let or hindrance. It's mighty, man,
just mighty; and I'll not be turned from it."</p>
<p>So he had his way. The cruiser fell back at the dark hour before the
dawn, and we began to get the ingots of gold into the launch. This was
one of Simpson's larger boats, carried by us especially to transport
bullion expeditiously—part of the whole affair planned out from the
beginning. Willing hands passed up the golden bars—we packed a fortune
on the deck, and the men stood round about shivering with greed of the
treasure. Let the scheme be mad or sane, I had to go through with it
then; and I own up to a better opinion of it as the time went on. Nothing
could be easier to a trained seaman than to keep such a course as the
captain laid down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> for us. We had compasses, sextants, and our navigation
books. There was not wind enough to shake a judge's wig nor any omen of
bad weather. Let us get away under cover of the darkness, and the rest
would be child's play. The "if" was a big one. The light might strike
upon us at any instant. I went about the deck with my heart in my mouth.
Sometimes I covered my eyes with my arm, fearing to find the bright beams
upon me. It was all or nothing—an hour's grace or a million sterling on
board the British ship.</p>
<p>Well, we lowered the launch with her heavy cargo of ingots—as many of
them as we dared to put into her—and getting her away under shelter of
the steamer we headed due west toward Ascension Isle. True, there was an
ugly red glimmer from our funnel, but the furnace was under a half-deck,
and our memory didn't run to lights, be sure of it. I had Sam the nigger
with me, together with Nicolson the young engineer, and Peter Barlow for
quarter-master; these were the hands named for my crew; and I was not a
little astonished when we were well away from the steamer's side to hear
the loud voice of Mike the Irishman—a lazy rogue I would gladly have
left behind me.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_165.jpg" width="500" height="366" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE BLINDING LIGHT SWEPT OVER THEM."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Why, Mike," cries I, "and how did you get here?"</p>
<p>"Please, your honour, I just dropped in," says he.</p>
<p>"Then, if I had a rope's end, I'd make you drop out again!" says I.</p>
<p>"Aye, but, your honour," says he, "when was the Irishman born that had
any liking for the water? Sure, I always loved ye from the first day I
clapped these blessed eyes upon ye! 'I'll go aboard to take care of him,'
says I, 'for I feel like his own mother's son!'"</p>
<p>There was no time to argue with him. What with getting the launch away
neatly, and being mortal afraid to find myself any minute in the path
of the cruiser's search-light, I had too much to do to begin with a
hullabaloo—and for that matter the situation was not one to set a man
against companionship. There we were, the five of us, in a boat not built
for ocean seas, running like a good one away from the ship that should
have carried us to Europe and our homes. Let the search-light be clapped
upon us, and the gold would be aboard the British cruiser within an hour.
Or, in another case and a harder one, let the wind blow, and what then?
The gold weighed us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> down as it was, until even gentle seas splashed us
as we lifted to them. A hatful of wind would sink us; a shoreman would
have known that. I believed that it was the spin of a coin anyway; and
just as I was saying it the cruiser showed her light again, and a great
white arc fixed itself upon the distant steamer like a mighty river of
molten radiance flowing out upon a darkened sea.</p>
<p>"Look at that for a lantern now," says Mike the Irishman, cowering before
it. "'Twould see ye home from a waking, and no mistake about it. Just
douk your head, sir, if you please. 'Twould be as well not to be on
speaking terms with them when next ye meet."</p>
<p>I smiled at his notion that any amount of "douking" would save us from
the cruiser's light, but instinctively I crouched down with the others.
To me it seemed impossible that any freak of fortune could hide us from
the cruiser's observation. There we were in the still sea, a black speck,
no doubt, but one that a clever eye on a warship's bridge would never
fail to spy out. Our own steamer, the <i>Oceanus</i>, was running north as
fast as honest engines could drive her. She, too, appeared now to be just
a shimmer of dancing lights—the captain showed every lantern he had got
to divert the chase from the launch, and here he succeeded only too well.</p>
<p>Though it was all Lombard Street to a china orange that the cruiser
marked us, she held on obstinately after the bigger game. Perhaps she
believed that it was all a sham and that we had put off to make a fool
of her. I never learned; but I could scarcely believe my eyes when the
blinding light swept over them and still nothing happened. Were they all
daft aboard her? It was really incredible.</p>
<p>"The admiral's having his hair cut, I suppose," said Barlow the
quarter-master, who watched the affair with me from a seat aft. "He's
telling 'em to keep it short in the neck, sir—some day a dog will be
leading him at the end of a string. Well, I don't make no complaint about
that."</p>
<p>"Better not, my man," said I, "if you wish to see the <i>Oceanus</i> again."</p>
<p>"Oh, as to that, we're well enough off here, sir," he said, turning away
his eyes from me; "though if we never saw Captain Castle again, I reckon
we'd have meat and drink for the rest of our lives."</p>
<p>I looked at him sharply; he coughed and glanced down at the compass. This
was the first time I quite understood how well the hands were acquainted
with the cargo and its owners. The danger of the knowledge could not be
hidden from me. Even the nigger Sam, with his blinking green eyes, ate up
every word of our talk and smacked his lips over it.</p>
<p>"You buy barrel of rum and no mistake, sar," he chimed in, unasked. "You
change your Sunday shirt on Monday and blarm the expense. We all very
rich gentlemen, surely."</p>
<p>I turned it with a laugh, though I was well aware of the reservation
behind it. Happily, but for a bottle of brandy of my own, there was no
drink on the launch. I had a revolver in my pistol-pocket, and I said
that at the worst, which was then but a suspicion, I could keep both
the nigger and Peter in order. Mike the Irishman might go any way; but
Nicolson, the young engineer, could certainly be counted upon. To him I
said a word when two of the hands had been ordered to turn in. His answer
was reassuring, but more ambiguous than I liked.</p>
<p>"Oh," he said, "anything to help the Dutchmen. They'll miss this odd lot
if we lose it—and, of course, we're all honest, Lorimer. Don't you be
uneasy. I've no fancy for gilded firesides myself; besides," he added,
"if we took our oaths that we had to jettison it, who'd believe us?
Better go straight under the circumstances."</p>
<p>I replied that there were no circumstances possible to make common rogues
of us, and his cheery assent did much to deceive me. Counting upon him
entirely, I let the launch simply drift while he lay down for a couple of
hours' sleep, and afterwards I wrapped myself up in a blanket and managed
to get some rest. When I awoke it was broad daylight. An immensely round
sun fired the placid water with sheets of crimson splendour; the air
came heavy from the Equator; a burning, intolerable day seemed before
us. Restless and anxious already to be sure of our bearings, that the
<i>Oceanus</i> might find us at noon, I bustled up almost as soon as I was
awake; but the first thing I saw took my breath away, and I just stood
like a man in a wonder-world to watch it. There amidships, in the well
where the money was stored, Sam the nigger, Mike the Irishman, and
Nicolson the engineer were grouped about a box of golden ingots, and
so transported with the sight of them that they scarcely heard me. One
by one they had laid out those shimmering yellow bars, each a fortune
to such men; and they watched the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> sunlight glittering upon them, and
caressed them with gentle hands and feasted their eyes upon them. When
I appeared, no man budged from his place or seemed in any way abashed.
Evidently they were all agreed upon a purpose, and this Nicolson made
known to me.</p>
<p>"Yes," he said, coolly; "we're counting up the dollars, old chap—divide
on shore, you know—fair and square. Come, don't look blue. The Dutchman
won't miss them, and old Joey's made his own bargain. We can rig up a
tale between us and buy the crowd at Ascension—good joke, isn't it,
Lorimer?"</p>
<p>"Why, yes," said I; "but, as my port's not Ascension, I don't quite
see the point of it. Come, Nicolson, don't be a fool. Just put that
lid on and help me to go over the chart. We mustn't keep the captain
waiting—you know what he is."</p>
<p>Very lazily, I thought, he put the lid on the box of ingots, and,
laughing at the others, he came aft with me. When I took up the chart to
make a dead reckoning by the help of his own calculations during my watch
off, he laughed again in his peculiar way. "It's all right," he said;
"due west for Ascension, as you wished."</p>
<p>"Nicolson," I said, quietly, "you've been playing a fool's game; what
does it mean?"</p>
<p>He sat on the gunnel and looked me full in the face.</p>
<p>"Means that our port is Ascension," he said.</p>
<p>I kept my temper.</p>
<p>"Nicolson," I said, "do you wish me to think you a scoundrel?"</p>
<p>"Think what you like; there are four in this launch who don't mean Joey
Castle to touch these dollars again."</p>
<p>I turned away from him, wrestling with my temper.</p>
<p>"'Bout ship!" I cried. Barlow took no notice whatsoever. Then my hand
went to my pistol-pocket and I knew the worst. They had taken the
revolver while I slept. I was one against four, and the launch was
running over a calm sea to Ascension Isle and the discovery which
inevitably awaited us there.</p>
<p class="p2">III.</p>
<p>We steamed all that day upon a fair sea, but at sundown the truth came
out. We had not coal enough for another hour's run and were still a
hundred miles from Ascension. I watched the faces of the men when
Nicolson told them. They seemed to care nothing. The gold greed was upon
them; the ingots were piled up everywhere about the launch and the hands
hugged them as children, dearer than anything afloat or ashore. Nicolson
got curses for his pains and went below again.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_167.jpg" width="369" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE GOLD GREED WAS UPON THEM."</p></div>
</div>
<p>I watched the scene gloomily from the stern—it was beginning to dawn
upon me that no man would see land again; and when an hour and a half
had passed and the engines of the launch suddenly stopped I could not
call myself a pessimist. The hands themselves, awed by the mishap, began
to talk of sailing ships which would pick them up and of a story they
must have ready. Nicolson was to be the captain of a ship which had
stranded; Barlow was his mate. They did not name me; and, as the day<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> is
my witness, I believe they intended to murder me.</p>
<p>You may think that this sent a man to his supper with a good appetite.
Truth to tell, I lay down in my blanket at ten o'clock and never expected
to see the sun again. A shadow passing by me, a voice, a whisper, made
me start like a frightened hare. Once I found the nigger Sam bending
over me, and I jumped up, wet through with perspiration. Even a child
would have seen that these madmen, lost to all sense of reason, would
never take me ashore with them. Then when would they make an end of it?
Soon, I hoped, if it must be. The suspense was making an old man of me.
Every evil glance that was turned upon me seemed like a warning anew. I
believe to this hour that they would have shot me before dawn but for
the wind, the truest friend a man ever had in the hour of his need. Yes,
to the wind and the sea, twin brothers to a sailor, I owed my life. It
began to blow about seven bells in the first watch, and by dawn the waves
were running as they run on no other ocean but the Atlantic. Laden as
we were, deep down in the seas, our chances of weathering the gale may
be imagined. Had we still owned a fire the first wash over would have
snuffed it out. The good launch staggered at every blow, like a boxer
badly hit. I said that the gold must go—and not a man aboard who did not
know that I spoke the truth.</p>
<p>I have witnessed some strange scenes in my life—niggers running amuck
in St. Louis, French sailors among the drink in a panic, a liner sinking
with more than a hundred women aboard; but for honest madness about
money the scene on that launch defies my words. No sooner was it plain
that we should sink if we could not raise her in the water than the men
(but chiefly the Irishman and the nigger Sam) got the gold open again
and fell on it, blubbering and raving like children. Drink they had from
somewhere, that I was sure of—even Nicolson the engineer showed the
whites of his eyes when he staggered up to them; and what with their
terror of the sea, their greed of the gold, and the whisky they had
drunk, they might have been raving madmen let loose from Bedlam.</p>
<p>I said that the launch could not last another hour. The shrieking of the
wind, the monster green seas gathered up in walls of jade-like water, the
great hollows into which we went rushing like a switchback, cascades of
foam and spindrift, the scudding masses of cloud, they terrified these
wretched men, and would have appalled the heart of the strongest. If we
were to have any hope at all, the gold must go. Again I said it; and
fearful for my own life, yet caring nothing what they might do to me, I
stepped forward and addressed them.</p>
<p>"This is your share and share alike, is it?" I cried—"the little bit
that Joey Castle will not miss. Well, it's got to go overboard, my lads,
and pretty soon about it. Nicolson, you're no fool; Barlow, you know how
long the game can last. Do you want to live or die? It's come to that, as
you pretty well see."</p>
<p>They heard me in sullen silence. A big wave catching the launch amidships
heeled her so far over that I thought she would never recover. It threw
Nicolson off his feet; and as he fell and turned over my own revolver
dropped from his pocket. You need not ask me if I snatched it up. It was
in my hand and smoking before ten seconds had passed. And there was one
man less upon the launch.</p>
<p>So it came about. The great Irishman, standing ankle-deep in the gold,
leaped out upon me when the launch righted herself. What quite happened I
can scarcely tell you, but I know that I felt his colossal arms crushing
the life out of me and that I saw it was his hour or mine. Then a report
rang loud in my ears, and I was free once more; while the man tumbled
backward, clutching at the air; and the sea engulfed him, and there were
four in peril where five had been. From that moment the fear of God, I do
believe, fell upon the others. They neither spoke nor stirred for many
minutes together. The terrible wind howled its wildest—the heavens were
black as night. I said that the sea was with me, and, crying out to them
to save themselves, I began to drop the ingots overboard.</p>
<p>One by one, each a fortune to a poor man, we cast the gold bars into the
ocean. That which would have meant so much to us ashore meant nothing
here in the face of death and the storm. And yet I could not but think
of the pleasures this very dross (as it seemed there upon the high seas)
would give to many a home, to honest toilers and starving children in the
great cities I had known. Nevertheless, it must be swallowed by the green
water, lost for ever upon the bed of the Atlantic. And moment by moment
the launch rose higher and higher upon the mountainous seas, like a bird
that has been weighed down but now is free. I began to tell them that we
should make<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> Ascension Isle after all. I did not know that we should have
no need to make it.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_169.jpg" width="483" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE MAN TUMBLED BACKWARD, CLUTCHING AT THE AIR."</p></div>
</div>
<p>The last of the ingots had been cast overboard, the wind had begun to
fall, when the British cruiser picked us up. There was no need for
explanations. She had searched the <i>Oceanus</i> at dawn and seized her
treasure before Joey Castle could get what was left of it away. She knew
that we had ingots for our cargo, and she followed us westward. We went
aboard her to laugh at the chagrin of her commander and to show him our
empty well.</p>
<p>"What you seek is a thousand fathoms down," said I, a little bitterly;
"you don't need to ask me why."</p>
<p>"Mr. Lorimer," he cried, with a smile, "if all the gold in the world were
in the same place, what a pleasant place this old globe would be to live
on!"</p>
<p>I knew what he meant—but, after all, if men weren't cutting each other's
throats for gold they would be doing the same for shells or silver or
other rubbish, as any philosopher will tell you.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="Our_Grandmothers_Fashion-Plates" id="Our_Grandmothers_Fashion-Plates"></a><i>Our Grandmothers' Fashion-Plates.</i></h2>
<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">By Arabella Drysdale-Davis.</span></p>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 118px;">
<img src="images/170-drop-wh.png" width="118" height="120" alt="W" />
<span class="hidden">W</span></span><span class="smcap">hat</span> philosopher being propounded the query, "Which are the most popular
pictures in the world?" could reply other than "Fashion-plates"? Are
they not rapturously studied and admired weekly by millions of women?
Do they not elicit the furtive interest—not unmingled, perhaps, with
astonishment—of millions of men?</p>
<p>"Grotesque forecasts of ephemeral plumes and deciduous fig-leaves," as a
famous novelist, Kingsley, called fashion-plates, are only an invention
of less than a century and a quarter ago. A lady of the olden time,
who wished to learn the very latest mode in skirts, bodices, hats,
bonnets, or shoes, betook herself at certain seasons to her dressmaker,
where dressed <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">poupées</i> straight from Paris were on view. The making
and dressing of these dolls was quite a business in the French capital
before coloured fashion-plates came to oust them from favour in the
closing years of Louis XVI.'s reign. Prior to this period drawings
of fashionably-attired ladies had appeared from time to time in the
magazines and periodicals devoted to the interests of the fair sex—such
as the first in the present series, showing a lady in full dress for
1770—and these may have imparted to country cousins an idea of what was
being worn in the Faubourg St. Germain and Mayfair—but the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">beau monde</i>
never relied on these.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_170.jpg" width="400" height="556" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A Lady in Full Dress in Aug. 1770</p></div>
</div>
<p>It is probable that the earliest coloured examples were produced in
1784-85. In the latter year the <cite>Cabinet des Modes</cite> appeared in Paris,
consisting of twenty-four parts annually, three coloured designs with
each part. In England many years before we had had the <cite>Lady's Magazine</cite>,
which had devoted much space to dress, but seems to have just missed the
idea of fashion-plates, although its descriptions of current modes are
often most diverting. "Dress," it says, in its very first number, "is
like the sunshine introduced into the designs of Titian: it animates the
figures and gives them all their embellishment."</p>
<p>"The hoop or circumference of charms," we read in 1785, "is a most
essential part of contemporary costume. The magnificence of the
full-dress hoop carries with it a most noble and majestic appearance, and
I hope will never be given up or <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">hors de la mode</i> as long as England can
boast of such fine women as appear within the circle of a Drawing Room."</p>
<p>But the French Revolution burst into boudoirs and salons and "the hoop
or circumference of charms" disappeared, and in the next few years was
witnessed an entire change of style.</p>
<p>Here is a simple little afternoon dress for 1796: "The hair dressed
in light curls and ringlets; Armenian turban, made of white and York
flame-coloured satin, crossed in the front with two strings of pearls,
and the ends<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> trimmed with gold fringe; a white ostrich and a blue
esprit feather on the left side; Armenian robe of embroidered muslin,
the train with a broad hem; full short sleeves; trimming of blond round
the neck and at the top of the sleeves; tucker of blond; gold cord with
two large tassels round the waist, tied at the left side; two strings of
pearls, and a festoon gold chain with a medallion round the neck; diamond
earrings; white shoes and gloves."</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 278px;">
<img src="images/ill_171a.jpg" width="278" height="450" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>FASHIONS FOR 1785 (THE EARLIEST COLOURED PLATE).</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figright" style="width: 271px;">
<img src="images/ill_171b.jpg" width="271" height="450" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A RETURN TO SPARTAN SIMPLICITY, 1800.</p></div>
</div>
<p>In 1800 we read that the newest fashion is "a simple blue tunic, bound by
tassels at the waist." "Nothing is now so elegant as a straw hat: they
are worn either ornamented with the flower called convolvulus or coloured
like a shell." "Ribbons are worn either clouded or striped; the latter
are nankeen."</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 355px;">
<img src="images/ill_171c.jpg" width="355" height="450" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>LATEST PARIS MODES, 1802.</p></div>
</div>
<p>It is strange that, notwithstanding the horror which the conduct of the
French had excited throughout Europe, and especially in England, there
should be found any votaries of French fashions. It is even stranger
that, while French modes were still worn with us, in France there was a
general adoption, in 1802, of English fashions such as are shown herewith
for that year. "The head-dress for undress," we read, "is frequently only
a piece of muslin, sometimes enlivened with pearls. In full dress turbans
are principally worn."</p>
<p>Our next illustration forecasts the fashions for 1806. "Never was there
a period that exhibited a greater variety of female decorations than
the present; and it is as difficult to find a costume to condemn as to
describe one that has a decided preference." Nevertheless we find men's
large beaver hats already in vogue. What will ladies of 1904 think of
the following: "<span class="smcap">Morning Walking Dress</span>.—A plain muslin dress,
walking length,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> made high in front and forms a shirt collar, richly
embroidered; long sleeves, also embroidered round the wrists and at the
bottom of the dress; a pelisse opera coat without any seam in back,
composed of orange blossom tinged with brown, made of Angola cloth or
sarsnet, trimmed with rich Chincheally fur, tipped with gold. The pelisse
sets close to the form on one side, fastened on the right shoulder with a
brooch."</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 312px;">
<img src="images/ill_172a.jpg" width="312" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>EMPIRE GOWNS AND GEORGIAN BEAVER, 1806.</p></div>
</div>
<p>It seems odd that there was ever a time when there were public defenders
of false complexions for ladies; yet we find in <cite>La Belle Assemblée</cite> for
March, 1806, a writer pleading in favour of rouge, "which may be rendered
extremely innocent, and may be applied with such art as sometimes to
give an expression to the figure which it would never have without that
auxiliary. The colour of modesty has many charms; and in an age when
women blush so little ought we not to value this innocent artifice, which
is capable at least of exhibiting to us the picture of modesty? We ought
to be thankful to the sex which, in the absence of estimable virtue,
knows at least how to preserve its portrait."</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 390px;">
<img src="images/ill_172b.jpg" width="390" height="450" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A VIEW OF DIAPHANOUS DRAPERIES, 1809.</p></div>
</div>
<p>In this fashion-plate for 1809 we see a lady very coolly attired in a
white jaconot frock—somewhat scanty and diaphanous—and rejoicing in a
gorgeous parasol. Here is the exact description:—</p>
<p>"<span class="smcap">Promenade Costume.</span>—A white jaconot muslin high dress, with
long sleeves and collar of needlework; treble flounces of plaited muslin
round the bottom; wrist and collar confined with a silk cord and tassel.
The hair disposed in the Eastern style, with a fancy flower in front
or on one side. A Vittoria cloak, or Pyrennean mantle, of pomona-green
sarsnet, trimmed with Spanish fringe of a correspondent shade, and
confined in graceful folds on the left shoulder. A white lace veil thrown
over the head-dress. A large Eastern parasol, the colour of the mantle,
with deep Chinese awning. Roman shoe, or Spanish slipper, of pomona-green
kid, or jean. Gloves of primrose or amber-coloured kid."</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 239px;">
<img src="images/ill_172c.jpg" width="239" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>SOMEWHAT SCANTY ATTIRE, 1809.</p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p>
<p>One is perpetually surprised at the scantiness of the attire of
those days. It offers such a contrast to the rotundity of the hoop
or "circumference of fashion," or to the later crinoline. For 1809
bonnets have suddenly assumed gigantic dimensions—as in the picture
herewith—but the question amongst the fair sex doubtless was, Will they
last?</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 208px;">
<img src="images/ill_173.jpg" width="208" height="450" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A DAINTY LITTLE BONNET, 1809.</p></div>
</div>
<p>In turning over the thousands of fashion-plates of the first quarter
of the last century one is constantly confronted by designs bearing
such titles as "Costume for the Seaside," "Toilette for the Seaside,"
"Dress for the Seashore." Seaside in those days meant Margate, Weymouth,
and Scarborough; and we naturally expect to find trim little frocks,
accompanied by tight sailor hats, capable of withstanding the stiffest
breeze. But instead of this we find transparent, flowing gossamers and
top-lofty turbans, which would never weather the mildest gale.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 307px;">
<img src="images/ill_173a.jpg" width="307" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>AT FASHIONABLE MARGATE, 1810.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figright" style="width: 312px;">
<img src="images/ill_173b.jpg" width="312" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A BOND STREET PROMENADE, 1810.</p></div>
</div>
<p>About the same time we read: "As our families of rank are fast migrating
either to their country seats or some fashionable watering-place, and
as the Metropolis at this season offers little of novel elegance save
an occasional display at Vauxhall, we shall follow the varying goddess
to all her favourite haunts, and contemplate her fair votaries as
they ramble on the sea-shore, saunter on the lawns, or lounge at the
libraries, as they grace the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">déjeuné</i>, animate the social party, or
illume the theatre and ballroom."</p>
<p>Of our next illustration (1810) we may glean a notion from the following
extract from a contemporary fashion letter:—</p>
<p>"Mantles and coats of green vigonia or merino cloth of various shades,
from the sober hue of the Spanish fly to the more lively pea-green, have
succeeded to the purple, which, though a colour most pleasing in itself,
is now become too general to find a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> place in a select wardrobe. Scarlet
cloaks are no longer seen on genteel women, except as wraps for the
theatres; the satiated eye turns, overpowered by their universal glare,
to rest on more chaste and more refreshing shades. Mantles and pelisses
are now considered more elegant when trimmed with gold or silver lace, or
binding; or with black velvet, bound or laid flat, and which is sometimes
finished at its terminations with a narrow gold edging of flat braid.
Some are decorated with borders of coloured chenille."</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 263px;">
<img src="images/ill_174a.jpg" width="263" height="450" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>BALLOON SLEEVES, 1811.</p></div>
</div>
<p>Albeit every year sees the attire growing less scanty—even the fashions
for 1811 display more generous draperies; besides which the latter
are flanked and reinforced by huge muffs now coming into vogue and
recently made familiar to us in Mr. Barrie's play of "Quality Street."
Accompanied, as they occasionally were, by huge beaver hats, these
Gargantuan muffs—which must surely have required the pelts of more than
one fox to produce, if not of an entire bear—demanded all the attention
from their fair wearers, as well as from the gallants of the day. The
next illustration shows a carriage dress, conveniently short, for 1811.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 314px;">
<img src="images/ill_174b.jpg" width="314" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A SIMPLE CARRIAGE DRESS, 1811.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 328px;">
<img src="images/ill_174d.jpg" width="328" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>GIGANTIC MUFFS À LA MODE, 1811.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 342px;">
<img src="images/ill_174c.jpg" width="342" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>VARIEGATED STYLES OF COIFFURE, 1816.</p></div>
</div>
<p>Coal-scuttle bonnets are likewise growing in favour, as may be seen
by the picture at the top of this page. Still more interesting is the
style of coiffure of the period. Nothing more fantastic, we venture to
say, ever came out of the brain of the most imaginative coiffeur. We
especially call the attention of those readers who inveigh against the
over-elaboration of twentieth-century head-dressing to the rear view of
the bottom right-hand elegant cranium. It resembles nothing more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> closely
than a bouquet of turnips, carrots, and other homely vegetables.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 268px;">
<img src="images/ill_175a.jpg" width="268" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A CHARMING BACK VIEW, 1820.</p></div>
</div>
<p>When we approach the "twenties" we are fain to perceive more gravity in
the fashions of the day. Indeed, nothing could well be more grave—we
might even say more awkward—than the back view of the (doubtless)
charming lady of the above illustration. It certainly does not suggest
the lightness and lissom grace of the earlier designs. What a great
change the fashions have undergone since 1809 may be seen by the plate
for 1829.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 311px;">
<img src="images/ill_175b.jpg" width="311" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A VIEW IN HYDE PARK, 1829.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;">
<img src="images/ill_175c.jpg" width="550" height="348" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>CHILDREN À LA MODE, 1829.</p></div>
</div>
<p>Here we doubtless confront just such a pair of fashionable ladies as
are described in the pages of Dickens, Bulwer, and Disraeli, with
their Liliputian ruffs—which fortunately did not become a permanent
fashion—their leg-of-mutton sleeves, and quintuple rows of lace
"insertion." We are fain to speculate upon the countenance of one of
these pre-Victorian young ladies,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> for it is wholly obscured by a
magnificently-plumed "blush-concealer," as the coal-scuttle bonnets were
facetiously called.</p>
<p>In order that our fair readers may have a peep at the dress of the
juvenile portion of the community in that same year, we give a spirited
drawing from a French fashion journal. The costume may perhaps hardly
commend itself to the children of 1904, but it doubtless appeared quite
appropriate to the mammas of the time, as well as to the artist. As to
the artists of these fashion-plates, it must be remembered that they were
usually struggling young painters and draughtsmen, who were glad to get
work of this kind, and many of them afterwards became famous. Both Doré
and Meisonier drew fashions for the magazines and <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">Cabinets des Modes</i> of
their day. Moreover, our own Hablot K. Browne ("Phiz") was responsible
for many such, the accompanying plate for 1837 being attributed to him;
while there is no doubt of John Leech's authorship of the fashion-plate
for 1851, which we also reproduce.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_176a.jpg" width="290" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>FASHION-PLATE FOR 1837. ATTRIBUTED TO "PHIZ."</p></div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_176b.jpg" width="450" height="524" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>FASHION PLATE FOR 1851. DRAWN BY JOHN LEECH.</p></div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_176c.jpg" width="550" height="376" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>LADIES' FASHIONS, 1854 (THE BLOOMER PERIOD).</p></div>
</div>
<p>Before we approach the "sixties," with their extraordinary revival of
the hoop or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> crinoline fashion, we must remark on the extraordinary
fashion-plate promulgated for the year 1854. What would the ladies say
to such a tyrannical dictate of fashion to-day? It is inconceivable now;
but many a fair dame and damsel seeing it in that year must inwardly
have quaked with terror at the prospect of facing her beloved Adolphus
in Bloomerian garb. Happily, the prophets proved false for once, and the
fashion passed away, just as a year or two ago the threatened crinoline
scare passed away with us. Crinoline had to run its course although not
before it had been guilty of many enormities, as will be seen by the
appended plate. The ladies' heads herein appear but as the apexes of
pyramids; and the singular cut of the bodices and the rotundity of the
young ladies' skirts appear to us, in this age, ludicrous.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_177.jpg" width="471" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>CRINOLINE AT ITS ZENITH. 1865.</p></div>
</div>
<p>On the whole, it may be our vanity and self-sufficiency, or it may be our
superior taste; but to us it seems (and we trust the reader, on comparing
these fashion-plates of our grandmothers with the last of our series that
for 1904—will agree with us) that however our past generations dressed,
and whatever Worth and Paquin have in store for the future, our English
girl of the present has decidedly the best of the sartorial bargain.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_177a.jpg" width="500" height="429" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>SOMEWHAT NEATER THAN OUR GRANDMOTHERS (LADIES' FASHIONS
FOR 1904).</p>
<p>(By courtesy of Messrs. Weldons, Ltd.)</p></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="A_Willing_Scape-Goat" id="A_Willing_Scape-Goat"></a><i>A Willing Scape-Goat.</i></h2>
<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">By S. B. Robinson.</span></p>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 122px;">
<img class="drop-capi" src="images/178-drop-j.png" width="122" height="120" alt="J" />
<span class="hiddena">J</span></span><span class="smcap">ack</span> Selden only half suppressed an exclamation of angry despair by a
simulated fit of coughing, as he read at breakfast the solitary letter
that had fallen to his share from the mail-bag. It was not pleasant
reading: it was a thinly-veiled command to pay, within three days, a card
and betting debt to the tune of two hundred pounds.</p>
<p>He raised his face, from which the colour had fled, and glanced furtively
round at the other occupants of the table, as he crushed the letter into
his pocket.</p>
<p>His father, Dr. Selden, a tall, grey, ascetic-looking man—blind for
some years through a disease of the optic nerve—had not noticed the
exclamation; neither had Madge Westbrook, his <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">fiancée</i>, a handsome girl,
who chanced to be too deeply occupied with her duties of hostess, in
the absence of Miss Selden, the doctor's sister. Cyril Wayne, a fair,
resolute-looking young fellow of Jack's age, the doctor's amanuensis, was
the only one of the trio who had perceived the trouble.</p>
<p>Jack dropped his eyes guiltily, and made a show of continuing his meal
while he mentally reviewed the situation. It seemed to be a desperate
one, and he cursed his fate. He could expect no assistance from his
father. A college career that had resulted in nothing but heavy debts was
too fresh in his memory for that. Jack had been told by his exasperated
parent that never again would he receive assistance beyond his ample
allowance; and, further, that the bulk of the property would go to Madge,
the doctor's niece. Jack could only, in a sense, become his father's heir
by marrying his cousin when she came of age.</p>
<p>At the time this arrangement had been made Madge had acquiesced to her
share in it without any effort and, indeed, without much thought. It
pleased her uncle, and that had been enough to decide her. As for Jack,
he would have preferred a free hand; but since he was not to have it
he consoled himself with the thought that Madge was a very presentable
encumbrance.</p>
<p>But the arrival of Cyril Wayne at Highbank—the country residence which
the doctor had occupied since his blindness—had opened a new chapter
in Madge's uneventful life. The new-comer, intelligent, accomplished,
masterful, made a startling contrast to the weak-willed, illiterate Jack,
who was intellectually lost when he ventured outside the precincts of the
stable.</p>
<p>The result of the companionship into which Madge and Cyril insensibly
drifted was as inevitable as the course of time. There was no one to
warn them of the danger. The doctor could not see it; Miss Selden was
too deeply engrossed in her charities, and Jack in his own affairs.
There came a moment then when the pair found out for themselves how
imperceptible is the boundary sometimes that separates friendship and
love. Madge discovered with horror that her thoughtless promise was
repugnant to her, and Cyril that he was in love with another man's
betrothed! The pleasant intercourse was broken from that moment, without
a word of explanation on either side.</p>
<p>With Cyril Wayne this discovery could only have one result: he
immediately commenced his preparations for leaving Highbank, sore in
heart and self-respect.</p>
<p>This morning at breakfast Jack's stifled exclamation had warned him
that some mischief was afoot, and he was anxious to know what it was.
What concerned Jack concerned Madge, alas! When the meal was concluded,
instead of at once following the doctor to his study he stepped through
the open French window on to the terrace, where the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">enfant prodigue</i> had
already preceded him.</p>
<p>He was standing at the stone balustrade reperusing his letter. When he
heard Cyril's footsteps on the flags behind him he started, crushed the
paper in his hand, and turned round.</p>
<p>"Jack, I want to speak to you for a few moments," said Cyril, as he
advanced.</p>
<p>"What's up?" asked Jack, shortly. He thrust the letter into his pocket
and took out his pipe.</p>
<p>"Well——" Cyril hesitated a moment to ransack his brain for some
reasonable pretext; then it occurred to him that it was nearly a
certainty his listener's trouble was a pecuniary one. To feign a like
predicament for himself might evoke Jack's confidence.</p>
<p>"Well," said he, "I want you to lend me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> twenty-five pounds. I'm hard
pressed for it at this moment."</p>
<p>Madge had approached the window to speak to Jack. She caught Cyril
Wayne's remark, and, drawing back at once, turned away unperceived by
both of the young men.</p>
<p>Jack fell an easy prey to the trap that had been laid for him. He gazed
at Cyril in astonishment and let the match he had lighted die out in his
hand.</p>
<div class="figleft">
<img src="images/ill_179.jpg" width="500" height="557" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"HE GAZED AT CYRIL IN ASTONISHMENT."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Lend you twenty-five pounds? Great Scot!" he exclaimed.</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Twenty-five pounds! You've come to the wrong shop this time, old man!"
Then he suddenly lowered his voice and bent his head forward, anxiously.
"Can you tell me where I can get just eight times that amount?" he asked.
"I want it badly."</p>
<p>"Oh! So that is the reason for the letter you received just now?"</p>
<p>Jack nodded his head and flushed.</p>
<p>"Two hundred pounds!" exclaimed Cyril, aghast. "Let me hear the whole
business," he continued. "I can't lend you the money, but I may be able
to suggest something."</p>
<p>It was the same old story of betting and cards. Cyril had heard it all
before, in the same stumbling phraseology of contrition. "And the brute
gives me only three days—three days, or he will write to the governor,"
concluded Jack, turning suddenly savage.</p>
<p>"Then forestall him," replied Cyril, "for as far as I can see there is no
remedy but to ask your father to help you out of the mire once more."</p>
<p>"Ask the governor? You can just bet I sha'n't do that," said Jack,
sullenly. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stared hard at
the ground.</p>
<p>"Then, no money-lenders," replied Cyril. "It will only make bad worse.
Come!" He caught Jack by the arm. "Make a clean breast of it to your
father. He has much more than the sum you require in the house at
present, and you may not find him so difficult as you imagine."</p>
<p>Jack started. More money than he required for his wants in the house! So
near him! Oh, if he only had it! He shook his arm free with impatience.</p>
<p>"No, no, I sha'n't do that," said he.</p>
<p>"Very well," said Cyril. "But you will do nothing without consulting me?
Is that understood?"</p>
<p>Jack nodded his head and, turning quickly, stared blindly across the
fields that sloped and stretched from the terrace. He didn't see them.
His brain was working just then as it had never worked before. Cyril's
words about the money had raised a sudden storm of temptation in him
which seemed to carry him out of himself. He must try to think—to decide.</p>
<p>At midnight Cyril turned in, but could not sleep; his thoughts were too
busily occupied with Madge, Jack, and the present uncertainty of his own
future. He had heard the clock in the little sitting-room adjoining chime
every hour from midnight to three. Then a strange thing happened. As he
lay broad awake in the dark, a slender pencil of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> yellow light stole
across the carpet from his door. Jack's room was next to his. He heard no
sound in the corridor, though he sat up in his bed and listened intently.
The pencil of light remained stationary a few moments, then wavered, and
finally, sweeping slowly round the room, disappeared.</p>
<p>Something prompted Cyril to rise and investigate. Putting on his
dressing-gown and slippers, he noiselessly crossed his room and looked
out. The feeble yellow light was dancing on the ceiling of the corridor,
but the bearer of it, unseen, was already descending the broad oak
staircase.</p>
<p>Cyril hurried quietly along the corridor and, looking over the
balustrade, saw Jack. He was at the foot of the stairs, and about to
enter the lower corridor.</p>
<p>Cyril remained where he was in the darkness a few moments, when the light
began to reappear and a cool breath of air swept up the stair.</p>
<p>Jack must have opened the French window which gave access to the garden.
He now approached the foot of the stair with stealthy tread; but, instead
of mounting it, he passed on in the direction of the other wing.</p>
<p>Cyril felt instinctively that something was wrong, and descending the
stairs he followed in Jack's wake. Turning the corner of the corridor he
was just in time to see the young man insert a key in the lock of the
study door, and then enter.</p>
<p>By the time Cyril had arrived Jack had placed his candle on the
writing-table and was stooping, with his back to the door, in front of
his lather's safe, which he had just opened.</p>
<p>This safe was of peculiar construction. For the convenience of the doctor
it opened by means of the simple pressure of a small button in the
wainscot. But the room in itself was a safe, for the door was of steel
with a powerful lock, and the one window was heavily shuttered within and
barred without.</p>
<p>All unconscious of a watcher, Jack was cautiously engaged in
disconnecting the wires switched on to an alarm in the doctor's room
above, when Cyril, unable to contain his feelings any longer, stepped
forward.</p>
<div class="figright">
<img src="images/ill_180.jpg" width="460" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"JACK WAS CAUTIOUSLY ENGAGED IN DISCONNECTING THE WIRES."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Jack!" he exclaimed, sternly, "what is the meaning of this?"</p>
<p>Jack bounded to his feet in horror. His hand fell nervelessly from the
stud he had been manipulating, and, catching in one of the drawers, drew
it partially open. It was sufficient to actuate the mechanism. A faint
whirr in the room above responded to the movement of the drawer; and at
the same time the study door, as if impelled by an invisible hand, swung
quickly to and closed with a faint click.</p>
<p>The two young men were prisoners. There was no means of egress except
by the door, and that could only be opened now from the outside. The
doctor's burglar trap had fulfilled its purpose admirably.</p>
<p>For the space of two or three moments the pair stood motionless facing
each other, Jack had gripped the back of the doctor's study chair and
was staring with haggard eyes at the door. Then suddenly, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
half-frenzied exclamation, he threw himself at it and tore desperately
with his fingers at its smooth, hard surface. It was of no use. He fell
back with a groan of despair and, dropping heavily into a chair, covered
his face with his hands.</p>
<p>"Good Heaven! My father!—Madge! What will they think of me?" said he,
hoarsely, as he passed his hand over his damp forehead. "Oh, I must have
been mad—mad!"</p>
<p>Cyril Wayne looked down at the wretched Jack, half pitying, half
despising him. Was this crouching, would-be thief to become Madge's
husband? What a match! Was it not for the best that the innocent girl
should be undeceived before it was too late? But the cruelty of it! He
shrank involuntarily from the idea of witnessing the death-blow that
was to be dealt at her affection. He pictured to himself a misery, an
anguish, a hundred-fold greater than this cowering wretch was capable of
feeling. Oh, it was impossible!</p>
<p>"Jack!" said he, stooping suddenly and shaking the abject figure by the
shoulder. "Look up, man! Do you hear?"</p>
<p>Jack lifted his head and stared at Cyril stupidly.</p>
<p>"Just collect your wits and listen to me," said Cyril, imperiously,
as he fixed Jack's gaze with his own. "If you get out of this scrape
scot-free—you understand?"—Jack nodded hungrily—"will you swear never
to touch a card or back a horse again?"</p>
<p>"Get out of it? Oh, Wayne—Cyril, old man, how? How?" implored Jack, with
trembling lips, half rising from his seat.</p>
<p>Cyril pushed him back impatiently. "That is not the answer I want," said
he. He repeated his question. "Do you swear?" he asked. "Quick! Quick,
man! I can hear footsteps. A moment more and it won't matter what you
say."</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, I swear, I swear!" repeated Jack, fervently, as he gulped down
something that had risen in his throat.</p>
<p>"Very good!" Cyril's grasp closed like a steel vice on his shoulder.
"Jack Selden," continued the young man, sternly, "what I am going to do
I shall do for Madge's—your cousin's—sake; but if you fail to keep
that oath you have just made, do you know that you will be the meanest,
pitifullest hound that ever walked God's earth? If you <em>do</em> fail—" he
paused, "well, never cross my path, that's all. Now rouse up. Look like
yourself, man; they are here."</p>
<p>It was true. There was a sound of slippered feet outside the study door.
Jack rose from his chair and stood behind it, his face drawn, his eyes
roving. He felt sick with the fear clutching at his heart.</p>
<p>"Not a word from you," whispered Cyril, rapidly; "leave everything to me."</p>
<p>There was the sharp click of a pistol-trigger outside; a pause; and then
the study door was flung wide open. In the corridor stood the doctor and
Madge alone. The latter was holding a candle above her head in her left
hand; with her right she pointed a revolver.</p>
<div class="figright">
<img src="images/ill_181.jpg" width="550" height="425" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"IN THE CORRIDOR STOOD THE DOCTOR AND MADGE ALONE."</p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p>
<p>"You may give up. There is no escape. If you move you will be shot down
without mercy," said the doctor, rapidly. "How many, Madge?"' he added,
in a lower tone.</p>
<p>Madge had with great difficulty checked the exclamation that had risen
to her lips as her glance fell on Cyril and Jack. Both arms dropped to
her side. What did this mean? Her startled, questioning glance dwelt on
each of the young men alternately, but no explanation came. They stood
before her like two statues. Jack hung his head; he could not even face
his father's sightless eyes. Cyril looked at her, silent, calm, and
speechless.</p>
<p>"How many, Madge?" repeated the doctor, impatiently.</p>
<p>"Two," she gasped, with a great effort.</p>
<p>"Do you recognise them?"</p>
<p>There was a momentary pause. Jack trembled so violently that his grasp
shook the chair he held. He felt that his fate hung on Madge's lips, and
his torture was exquisite. Cyril did not blench.</p>
<p>Again Madge swept the faces of the two young men with her keen,
questioning glance. Still no attempt at explanation! Oh, this obstinate
silence! Jack's shrinking figure, Cyril's cool hardihood, were convincing
proofs of guilt. Know them! Know <em>them</em>! The cowardly thieves! She
coloured hotly; her eyes flashed, and her lips curled with the intensest
scorn.</p>
<p>"No, I do not," she replied.</p>
<p>With a sudden and unexpected movement the doctor closed the door with a
crash. He rubbed his hands excitedly.</p>
<p>"We have them, Madge; we have them safe, the scoundrels," said he. "Like
rats in a trap! Now to get Wayne and Jack, at once, to secure them."</p>
<p>There was a choking sob at his side. Madge had turned and laid her
forehead against the wall; the hot tears were coursing down her cheeks.
The doctor heard her, and reaching forward caught a hand that was hanging
limply down.</p>
<p>"Why, why, my dear!" said he, with sudden compunction, as he felt Madge's
fingers trembling in his grasp. "It was too bad of me to put you to such
a trial. I ought to have waited for Wayne and Jack. I didn't stop to
think. Your nerves are shaken, and no wonder. There! there!"</p>
<p>No wonder, indeed! They went upstairs side by side, Madge scarcely
hearing, and still less heeding, the doctor's flow of exculpation.</p>
<p>When they reached the doctor's room the old man wished Madge to rest
there while he went to call his son and secretary and alarm the house
generally. But to this proposal Madge objected with astonishing energy.
She herself would go and no one else. She was quite recovered now and did
not feel the slightest fear. Would he promise her to remain quietly in
his room until she returned with the others?</p>
<p>The doctor reluctantly yielded his consent, and then Madge slipped from
the room with a wildly beating heart. Instead, however, of turning along
the corridor towards the rooms occupied by Cyril, Wayne and Jack, she
swiftly descended the stairs, and reaching the study door flung it wide
open.</p>
<p>"Come!" said she, addressing Jack—she did not look at Cyril—"your
father sent me to your room to call you—to your <em>room</em>!" She paused a
moment, and then continued, with flashing eyes and a bitter emphasis:
"Oh, deceive him still, if you can! If you can keep him from learning to
what you have fallen, do so! You need expect no opposition from me—for
his sake, but never, never, dare to speak to me again!"</p>
<p>"Jack is not to blame in the least," said Cyril, quietly. "I am the
culprit; he is as innocent as you are, Miss Westbrook."</p>
<p>Madge started and blanched; that coolly-worded confession seemed to stab
her like a knife. Then like lightning there flashed across her brain the
request she had overheard for a loan of twenty-five pounds. Oh, this was
all so horrible—so incomprehensible! Jack had lifted his head as Cyril
spoke, but had quickly let it fall again.</p>
<p>"Jack followed me, only to watch me," continued Cyril, in the same even
tones. "He was caught by the closing of the door when I opened the
drawer—you know how it works—that is all as far as he is concerned. I
throw myself on your mercy, Miss Westbrook. I offer no useless excuses.
If I dared ask a favour of you I would say, keep my secret—at least
until I am free of Highbank."</p>
<p>Madge paused a moment, overwhelmed; then she turned on him with
passionate scorn. "Oh, how you have deceived us! Then all the time you
have been here you were only a thief—a common thief, at heart. Oh!"—she
waved her hand with a gesture of horror—"you acted well as a pretender,
a masquerader, a specious, lying counterfeit of honesty." She turned to
her cousin: "Jack! Jack! speak!"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p>
<p>"For Heaven's sake, Madge, don't go on so. I—I can't stand it, I tell
you," exclaimed Jack, violently. "I—I——"</p>
<div class="figleft">
<img src="images/ill_183.jpg" width="500" height="551" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"SHE TURNED ON HIM WITH PASSIONATE SCORN."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Hush! hush! There is no need to say anything further," broke in Cyril,
hastily. "Miss Westbrook will keep silence, I am sure. I only ask for a
few hours' grace."</p>
<p>Madge swept out of the study without another word. Cyril pushed the
reluctant Jack and then followed him. At the doctor's door Madge left
them and, her heart broken with passion, sought her room. The old man
had been awaiting the arrival of the young men in a fever of impatience.
The first excitement consequent on the capture of the burglars having
subsided somewhat, he had had time to reflect. It had occurred to him
then that the thieves must have effected their entrance by the study
door; they could scarcely have done so by the window. In this case they
had, he thought, probably entered by means of a skeleton key and had
escaped in the same manner.</p>
<p>It was a pitiful, distasteful farce to Cyril, but it had to be acted
through to the finale. The birds had flown, of course, and equally of
course by the French window found open in the corridor.</p>
<p>Search parties were sent out, and Cyril wondered with a pang what could
be Madge's feelings as the flickering lights wandered to and fro in the
garden on their wild-goose chase.</p>
<p>The next day Madge did not leave her room, and Cyril Wayne, feeling that
he was the cause, hastened his departure. One more lie, he bitterly told
himself, and his career of deception was concluded. It was an intense
relief, sore as his heart might be, to get away as far as possible from
Highbank. He had spent there the happiest and the most painful hours of
his existence.</p>
<p class="p1a">In less than a fortnight after Cyril's departure Jack Selden was
watching, with a feeling of considerable satisfaction, from the deck of
a "liner," the English coast-line fading in the distance. His debts had
been paid and a hardly-won consent obtained to try the experiment of
sheep-farming in Australia. His father, aunt and Madge had accompanied
him to Tilbury Docks; and Jack was wondering vaguely, as he puffed his
cigar and the summer night gathered round, what Madge was at that precise
moment thinking of him.</p>
<p>Before leaving he had written a letter for Madge, which she would have
received on her return to the hotel from the docks. In it Jack had done
full justice to Cyril Wayne. He had concealed nothing relating to the
crime which he had so nearly committed, and which Cyril, to shield him,
had so quixotically taken upon his own shoulders. In conclusion he had
begged Madge to keep his secret from his father, and to consider that as
far as he, Jack, was concerned she was free.</p>
<p>Madge had found Jack's letter on her dressing-table, and had read its
frank out-pouring with quickened pulse, flushed cheeks, and sparkling
eyes. What a dull, crushing weight it had suddenly lifted from her heart!
She did not attempt to analyze her feelings, but the crime seemed nearly
trivial now that she knew it was Jack's. And then an uncontrollable
desire seized her to make amends<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> to Cyril. Jack had evidently
anticipated this; for, with wonderful thoughtfulness, he had supplied
the address, and Madge recognised with a thrill that it was not distant
more than five minutes' walk from the spot where she was at that moment
standing.</p>
<p>Should she write to Cyril or should she go to him? A moment's thought
decided that question. The cruel words she had used could only be
withdrawn personally; so, without bestowing a moment's reflection on
the proprieties, she crushed Jack's precious epistle in her hand and,
hurrying down the stairs, left the hotel.</p>
<p>It was with a beating heart that she presently found herself at the house
where Cyril was living. He was acting as <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">locum tenens</i> for a friend who
was enjoying his holiday abroad. The servant, thinking she was a late
patient, ushered her into a little waiting-room, and from there, a few
moments later, into the consulting-room. Cyril, who was standing at the
window, turned and started in astonishment as he recognised her.</p>
<p>"What! Miss Westbrook!" he exclaimed, as he hurried forward. "The
doctor——?"</p>
<p>Madge held out her hand impulsively.</p>
<p>"No," said she; and then, without further preamble, she plunged
tumultuously into the reason that had brought her there.</p>
<p>"I have come to beg your pardon. Oh, you must forgive me for what—what
I said. I'm so sorry—oh, so sorry; but I couldn't help it. Please read
this before you say anything."</p>
<p>She thrust Jack's letter into Cyril's hand. The young man took it,
glanced at the super-scription, and flushed.</p>
<p>"Ah! so Jack has betrayed me!" said he, as he commenced to read. "And you
are not angry at my deception?" He looked into her eager, appealing face.
"It is I who must ask forgiveness, but——"</p>
<p>"But you hurt me very much indeed," broke in Madge. "You should not have
done it; no, you should not. I said things—I misjudged you, because
you—oh, you had disappointed me—wounded me so much." Her eyes grew
humid and her last words faltered and fell almost to a whisper.</p>
<p>"I—I thought the end justified the means," stammered Cyril. He scarcely
knew what to say. He turned to the letter again.</p>
<p>There followed a momentary silence while Cyril read on. Suddenly his
heart bounded wildly, and the writing swam before his eyes as he came to
Jack's declaration of freedom. He dropped the letter and turned to her.</p>
<p>"Miss Westbrook—Madge—tell me—you must! Did you love him?"</p>
<p>"I—I had promised," she whispered, with drooping eyelids.</p>
<p>"Promised! Promised! Only promised? I always thought you loved him,"
exclaimed Cyril.</p>
<p>Madge did not reply, but the colour surged sudden and warm into her
half-averted cheek.</p>
<p>"My dear! my dear!" said he, passionately, as he caught both her hands
in his. "It was I that loved you after all—not Jack. I deceived you for
your sake, not for his. What could I do? Could I see you suffer? I have
loved you from the first, but I never thought to tell you this. Is it
useless for me to do so now? Madge, dear, is it? Is it?"</p>
<p>There was no reply, but as he drew her unresisting form towards him he
read his answer in her uplifted, happy eyes.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_184.jpg" width="353" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"HE CAUGHT BOTH HER HANDS IN HIS."</p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 544px;"><a name="Illustration_Childhood_in_Pictures" id="Illustration_Childhood_in_Pictures"></a>
<img src="images/ill_185.jpg" width="544" height="500" alt="Childhood in Pictures by S K Ludovic" />
</div>
<div class="figright">
<img src="images/ill_185a.jpg" width="500" height="367" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"ASLEEP."</p>
<p><cite>From the Painting by F. Charderon.</cite></p>
<p>By permission of Braun, Clément, & Co.</p></div>
</div>
<p>Childhood's joys and childhood's sorrows, its beauty, and even its little
frailties—in fact, everything connected with the dawn of life, has its
own especial charm. It is, perhaps, not given to all of us to detect
with a sympathetic eye the picturesque in a very naughty young person,
who hits at every moment on a fresh idea to make his fellow-creatures
uncomfortable: nor is the spectacle of children in their best-loved state
of dirty happiness too pleasing to the average observer. But the artist's
eye sees things differently. Happily so; his imaginative brain sees the
humour of the little self-assertions, and the pathetic side of the joy of
living even in the gutter. Yet, after all is said, it remains, of course,
a certain truth that there are many aspects of child-life which can only
in reality be fully understood by mothers.</p>
<p>The subject of our first picture—"Asleep," by the French painter, F.
Charderon—is a little masterpiece of its kind. There may be prettier
children than this one, but the natural and unconscious grace of the
little warm and rosy body is infinitely charming.</p>
<p>Charming, too, is the face in the medallion in the heading of this
article—the face of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> child-angel, which seems to watch over the figure
of the human child asleep below. It is taken from a painting by Bernardo
Strozzi.</p>
<div class="figleft">
<img src="images/ill_186.jpg" width="550" height="416" alt="" />
</div>
<div class="figleft">
<img src="images/ill_186a.jpg" width="359" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"FLOWER OF THE HEATH."</p>
<p><cite>From the Painting by Schwentzen.</cite></p>
<p>By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.</p></div>
</div>
<p>The picture reproduced above, entitled "Flower of the Heath," by the
German painter, Schwentzen, is another delightful study. It is that
of a child wandering alone over a flowery plain—or not quite alone,
for she is accompanied by a shaggy terrier, who carries in his mouth a
basket, from which protrudes a bottle. That bottle, as often happens with
accessories of a picture which may seem quite unimportant at first sight,
is not there for nothing. It tells, or at least elucidates, the story of
the picture. The little girl has been the bearer of her father's dinner,
and is returning through the flowering heather, filling her apron with
blossoms as she goes. The whole picture—sunny landscape, flowers, dog,
and child—is full of delicate power and subtle charm.</p>
<p>The three child-heads in the medallions above given must not be passed
without a word of notice. The upper one is by Gainsborough, and a more
winsome and delightful little face it is impossible to imagine. That
on the right is from the same picture—the two children being named
respectively Habbenal and Ganderetta. The head in the medallion on
the left-hand side is from the portrait of James, the young Earl of
Salisbury, by Kneller.</p>
<p>We come now to a picture full of pathetic meaning—"Tired Gleaners"—by
our well-known English painter, Mr. Fred Morgan. They look so poor and
sad, these pretty little girls, who have at the very outset of life
already known so much of its hardship. The elder one has a mother's
instinct of kindly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> care for the weaker little sister; her face expresses
the self-forgetting resignation of a life filled with love for others.
The little one, more beautiful than the elder sister, is one of those
beings who are in all stations of life predestined to be loved and
cared for. A whole touching life-story is in these two children's
faces—beautiful but sad.</p>
<div class="figright">
<img src="images/ill_187.jpg" width="429" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"TIRED GLEANERS." </p>
<p><cite>From the Painting by Fred Morgan.</cite> </p>
<p>By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co. </p></div>
<div class="larger-file">
[<a href="images/ill_187a.jpg">See larger version</a>]
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p>
<p>The examples which have been selected to fill the medallions given in
this article comprise illustrations of children's heads contained in
some of the most celebrated pictures in the world. It is impossible in a
limited space to give an adequate idea of the beauty and charm with which
the old masters have immortalized childhood—or perhaps it would be more
accurate to say babyhood, since the great majority are representations
of the Child with the Madonna, and, though varying in age from a few
weeks upwards, the infant is seldom shown as older than a year or two
at most. These studies of what may, in a double sense, be called the
divinity of childhood differ widely according to the nationality of
the painter. As we shall see presently, in some of the examples given
in these pages farther on, we can enumerate among the artists of this
country certain painters, such as Gainsborough and Reynolds, who as
delineators of child-life and character are not easily excelled. There
are those, however, who would say that in this respect the Italian
masters have never been surpassed. Raphael's child-head of Christ from
the painting entitled the "Madonna Aldobrandini," which is reproduced
in the first medallion above, will through all ages illustrate, perhaps
without a rival, the mission of the eternally beautiful—the dignity of
innocence, the holiness of love. Bernardo Strozzi, later than Raphael,
painted a human child in the arms of the Holy Virgin. It is reproduced
in the right-hand medallion above. The childish charm and smile are most
alluring. Here we find an allegory of Christianity; but it is not, like
the child's head in Raphael's "Madonna Aldobrandini," an allegory of the
divinity.</p>
<div class="figleft">
<img src="images/ill_188.jpg" width="467" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"HIDE-AND-SEEK."</p>
<p><cite>By Fred Morgan.</cite></p>
<p>By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.</p></div>
<div class="larger-file">
[<a href="images/ill_188aa.jpg">See larger version</a>]
</div>
</div>
<p>Here is another of Mr. Fred Morgan's studies of child-life—a study
notable for its expression of unreflecting and unconscious happiness. To
be five years old and to play hide-and-seek among the blossoms, to feel
them closing you in entirely, so that you can only just peep through
and see with joy the others pass your hiding-place, to hold back the
flowery branches and save with the other hand the little frock from the
thorns—what pleasure! And there, right over head, is baby heard crowing;
she comes nearer and nearer, held high above the flowers and thorns by
her strong elder sister. She is sure to catch you! Can one ever feel in
after years such delight, excitement, and suspense?</p>
<p>In the picture entitled "For Mother's Birthday," by Louise Jopling, a
large-eyed little maiden is seen carrying so huge a jar of flowers that
she can scarcely hold it. The painter of this picture must be a lover
of children; only those who are sensitive to the charm of children can
observe their characteristics with so much acuteness. The little girl is
so prim and tidy, her best frock and hair-ribbon have been put on with
such care, the suppressed excitement and the consciousness of the great
importance of the event are so well expressed in her closed mouth, in
the fixed gaze of the eyes, that we feel that the painter has caught the
fleeting moment to perfection. The next instant that spell of solemnity
will be broken, when her mother will have received her birthday present
and will have taken her in her arms and kissed her: and the child's
expression, as she goes dancing back to the nursery, no longer with
the measured steps with which she left it, will be, though not less
child-like, the opposite in kind.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 381px;">
<img src="images/ill_188a.jpg" width="381" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"FOR MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY."</p>
<p><cite>By Louise Jopling. From a Photo. by H. Dixon.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 451px;">
<img src="images/ill_189.jpg" width="451" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p><cite>From the Painting by</cite>] "DILIGENCE." [<cite>A. Dieffenbach.</cite></p>
<p>By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 388px;">
<img src="images/ill_189a.jpg" width="388" height="580" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD."</p>
<p><cite>From the Painting by Hiddeman.</cite></p>
<p>By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.</p></div>
</div>
<p>Let us turn again to the realm of fancy, to fairyland, where we all
once wandered. Who of us has not feared and trembled for Little Red
Riding-Hood; who has not cordially detested the wolf, and wished to warn
her against his wiles? The mixture of trust in the wolf and of doubt in
her own judgment has in our picture been charmingly expressed by the
painter. This is one of those pictures which have the merit of containing
an idea which throws a new light on the story which it illustrates. Every
child who has read the adventures of Little Red Riding-Hood has wondered
why she felt no fear at the first appearance of the wolf. It was because
he had the wit, as the picture clearly shows, to disguise his nature and,
with all his cunning, to show nothing but his natural likeness to a big
and friendly dog, in which it is quite easy for a child to trust, as in a
playfellow rather than an enemy.</p>
<p>In the picture, "Diligence," by Dieffenbach, there is perhaps no idea
except what appears at first glance. Whether the child is really absorbed
in her lessons, or whether the title is ironical and she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> is in fact
dreaming over a fairy tale while the school-books repose in the basket,
does not much matter; the reader may take his choice. The picture is
most probably one of those which are painted solely for delight in their
subject. Is not the whole thing perfectly charming?</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 352px;">
<img src="images/ill_190.jpg" width="352" height="450" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"AN UNEXPECTED MEETING."</p>
<p><cite>From the Painting by Paul Peel.</cite></p>
<p>By permission of Braun, Clément, & Co.</p></div>
</div>
<p>On this page we have two pictures which present as marked a contrast as
may easily be conceived. "An Unexpected Meeting," by Paul Peel, depicting
the sturdy little fellow with the irresistible air of manliness greeting
the frog as a boon-companion, is as natural a study of boy-life as is
that of the little girl of the characteristics of the opposite sex.
"Little Caprice" stands before us in scanty attire which is not the
beginning of her morning toilet, but is merely the result of her caprice.
But what does it all mean? If she knew that, or you, or I, it would be
no longer what it is—an inexplicable freak of the child's mind. She has
been left unobserved for a moment whilst playing in a corner and found
it amusing to take off her clothes, till she came to the critical point,
which the painter has seized with so much humour and truth to life.
Suddenly it strikes her that it is not very amusing to be without one's
clothes, but she does not wish to put her things on by herself, partly
for the simple reason that she does not know how to do it, and also
because she does not know whether she really wishes to be dressed again.
Oh, misery! oh, aggravation! she wants to do neither one thing nor the
other. In fact, she does not know exactly what she wants—a state of mind
which, when she grows to womanhood, will doubtless very often be repeated.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 501px;">
<img src="images/ill_190a.jpg" width="501" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"LITTLE CAPRICE."</p>
<p><cite>From the Painting by Elisa Koch.</cite></p>
<p>By permission of Braun, Clément, & Co.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="larger-file">
[<a href="images/ill_190b.jpg">See larger version</a>]
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/ill_191a.jpg" width="400" height="519" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p class="right"><cite>From the Painting
by Meyer von Bremen.</cite></p>
<p class="right">By permission of the<br />
Berlin Photographic Co.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 451px;">
<img src="images/ill_191b.jpg" width="451" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"A KISS FIRST." <span style="margin-left: 6em;">"IN DANGER."</span></p>
<p><cite>From the Painting by Meyer von Bremen.</cite></p>
<p>By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co</p></div>
<div class="larger-file">
[<a href="images/ill_191c.jpg">See larger version</a>]
</div>
</div>
<p>"A Kiss First" is the name of a delightful picture by Meyer von
Bremen. The boy stands in the full knowledge of his strength and manly
superiority before the fountain and prevents the little girl from filling
her jug. His eyes are sparkling with the conviction that he has her
in his power. And she? She is but a woman in miniature. Let those who
flatter themselves that they understand women decide whether he will get
his kiss or not.</p>
<p>The next picture is most realistic and amusing, and there can hardly be
two opinions as to its obvious meaning—or, rather, its double meaning.
The painter has entered the house for a moment to chat with the pretty
girl—so <em>he</em> is "in danger." In the meantime, the children coming home
from school stop on their way to see the picture—and <em>that</em> is in
danger also. The young genius gets hold of the brush and adds, with a
few strokes, a little more colour to the landscape. The little sister
kneeling by his side encourages the artistic performance, while the elder
one probably passes judgment on the perspective.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 405px;">
<img src="images/ill_192.jpg" width="405" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"BUTTERFLIES."</p>
<p><cite>From the Painting by Kate Perugini.</cite></p>
<p>By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.</p></div>
<div class="larger-file">
[<a href="images/ill_192aa.jpg">See larger version</a>]
</div>
</div>
<p>In looking at the beautiful child on the swing in the picture entitled
"Butterflies," by Kate Perugini, one at first receives the impression
that the painter wanted to give us a "thing of beauty," without any
other suggestion of childish amusement but the swing. Indeed, the title
might well have been "Three Butterflies," for the child in the graceful
dress, patterned as richly as the insects' wings, is as much a butterfly
as the other two. But there is a further idea in the picture than that.
Look once more. The little toe is aiming to touch the butterfly whilst
it passes; the intent expression on the childish face shows that all her
attention is concentrated on this one achievement. This is a very subtle
illustration of the fact that children seldom enjoy a planless physical
movement. Their little minds are constantly working for their own small
aims and so developing for bigger ones.</p>
<p>Of the pictures in the medallions on this page, that on the left is from
Sir Joshua Reynolds's painting entitled "The Angelic Child." It requires
no saying that Sir Joshua's studies of children are among the most
charming that ever came from the brush of a painter. The upper right-hand
medallion is from Bartolozzi's picture called "Merit," while the
remaining one is a painting named "A Boy with an Anchor," by the Italian
artist, Cipriani.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_192a.jpg" width="550" height="142" alt="" />
</div>
<hr class="chapter" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 514px;">
<img src="images/ill_193.jpg" width="514" height="500" alt="DIALSTONE LANE by W W Jacobs" />
</div>
<p class="center">Copyright, 1904, by W. W. Jacobs, in the United States of America.</p>
<p class="p2">CHAPTER III.</p>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 121px;">
<img class="drop-capi" src="images/193-drop-m.png" width="121" height="120" alt="M" />
<span class="hidden">M</span></span><span class="smcap">r.</span> Chalk, with his mind full of the story he had just heard, walked
homewards like a man in a dream. The air was fragrant with spring and
the scent of lilac revived memories almost forgotten. It took him back
forty years, and showed him a small boy treading the same road, passing
the same houses. Nothing had changed so much as the small boy himself;
nothing had been so unlike the life he had pictured as the life he had
led. Even the blamelessness of the latter yielded no comfort; it savoured
of a lack of spirit.</p>
<p>His mind was still busy with the past when he reached home. Mrs. Chalk, a
woman of imposing appearance, who sat by the window at needlework, looked
up sharply at his entrance. Before she spoke he had a dim idea that she
was excited about something.</p>
<p>"I've got her," she said, triumphantly.</p>
<p>"Oh!" said Mr. Chalk.</p>
<p>"She didn't want to come at first," said Mrs. Chalk: "she'd half promised
to go to Mrs. Morris. Mrs. Morris had heard of her through Harris, the
grocer, and he only knew she was out of a place by accident. He——"</p>
<p>Her words fell on deaf ears. Mr. Chalk, gazing through the window, heard
without comprehending a long account of the capture of a new housemaid,
which, slightly altered as to name and place, would have passed muster
as an exciting contest between a skilful angler and a particularly sulky
salmon. Mrs. Chalk, noticing his inattention at last, pulled up sharply.</p>
<p>"You're not listening!" she cried.</p>
<p>"Yes, I am; go on, my dear," said Mr. Chalk.</p>
<p>"What did I say she left her last place for, then?" demanded the lady.</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk started. He had been conscious of his wife's voice, and that
was all. "You said you were not surprised at her leaving," he replied,
slowly; "the only wonder to you was that a decent girl should have stayed
there so long."</p>
<p>Mrs. Chalk started and bit her lip, "Yes," she said, slowly. "Ye—es. Go
on; anything else?"</p>
<p>"You said the house wanted cleaning from top to bottom," said the
painstaking Mr. Chalk.</p>
<p>"Go on," said his wife, in a smothered voice. "What else did I say?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p>
<p>"Said you pitied the husband," continued Mr. Chalk, thoughtfully.</p>
<p>Mrs. Chalk rose suddenly and stood over him. Mr. Chalk tried desperately
to collect his faculties.</p>
<p>"How dare you?" she gasped. "I've never said such things in my life.
Never. And I said that she left because Mr. Wilson, her master, was dead
and the family had gone to London. I've never been near the house; so how
could I say such things?"</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk remained silent.</p>
<p>"What made you <em>think</em> of such things?" persisted Mrs. Chalk.</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk shook his head; no satisfactory reply was possible. "My
thoughts were far away," he said, at last.</p>
<p>His wife bridled and said, "Oh, indeed!" Mr. Chalk's mother, dead some
ten years before, had taken a strange pride—possibly as a protest
against her only son's appearance—in hinting darkly at a stormy and
chequered past. Pressed for details she became more mysterious still,
and, saying that "she knew what she knew," declined to be deprived of the
knowledge under any consideration. She also informed her daughter-in-law
that "what the eye don't see the heart don't grieve," and that it was
better to "let bygones be bygones," usually winding up with the advice to
the younger woman to keep her eye on Mr. Chalk without letting him see it.</p>
<p>"Peckham Rye is a long way off, certainly," added the indignant Mrs.
Chalk, after a pause. "It's a pity you haven't got something better to
think of, at your time of life, too."</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk flushed. Peckham Rye was one of the nuisances bequeathed by his
mother.</p>
<p>"I was thinking of the sea," he said, loftily.</p>
<p>Mrs. Chalk pounced. "Oh, Yarmouth," she said, with withering scorn.</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk flushed deeper than before. "I wasn't thinking of such things,"
he declared.</p>
<p>"What things?" said his wife, swiftly.</p>
<p>"The—the things you're alluding to," said the harassed Mr. Chalk.</p>
<p>"Ah!" said his wife, with a toss of her head. "Why you should get red in
the face and confused when I say that Peckham Rye and Yarmouth are a long
way off is best known to yourself. It's very funny that the moment either
of these places is mentioned you get uncomfortable. People might read a
geography-book out loud in my presence and it wouldn't affect me."</p>
<p>She swept out of the room, and Mr. Chalk's thoughts, excited by the magic
word geography, went back to the island again. The half-forgotten dreams
of his youth appeared to be materializing. Sleepy Binchester ended for
him at Dialstone Lane, and once inside the captain's room the enchanted
world beyond the seas was spread before his eager gaze. The captain,
amused at first at his enthusiasm, began to get weary of the subject of
the island, and so far the visitor had begged in vain for a glimpse of
the map.</p>
<p>His enthusiasm became contagious. Prudence, entering one evening in the
middle of a conversation, heard sufficient to induce her to ask for more,
and the captain, not without some reluctance and several promptings from
Mr. Chalk when he showed signs of omitting vital points, related the
story. Edward Tredgold heard it, and, judging by the frequency of his
visits, was almost as interested as Mr. Chalk.</p>
<p>"I can't see that there could be any harm in just looking at the map,"
said Mr. Chalk, one evening. "You could keep your thumb on any part you
wanted to."</p>
<p>"Then we should know where to dig," urged Mr. Tredgold. "Properly managed
there ought to be a fortune in your innocence, Chalk."</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk eyed him fixedly. "Seeing that the latitude and longitude and
all the directions are written on the <em>back</em>," he observed, with cold
dignity, "I don't see the force of your remarks."</p>
<p>"Well, in that case, why not show it to Mr. Chalk, uncle?" said Prudence,
charitably.</p>
<p>Captain Bowers began to show signs of annoyance. "Well, my dear——," he
began, slowly.</p>
<p>"Then Miss Drewitt could see it too," said Mr. Tredgold, blandly.</p>
<p>Miss Drewitt reddened with indignation, "I could see it any time I
wished," she said, sharply.</p>
<p>"Well, wish now," entreated Mr. Tredgold. "As a matter of fact, I'm dying
with curiosity myself. Bring it out and make it crackle, captain; it's a
bank-note for half a million."</p>
<p>The captain shook his head and a slight frown marred his usually amiable
features. He got up and, turning his back on them, filled his pipe from a
jar on the mantelpiece.</p>
<p>"You never will see it, Chalk," said Edward Tredgold, in tones of much
conviction. "I'll bet you two to one in golden sovereigns that you'll
sink into your honoured family vault with your justifiable curiosity
still<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> unsatisfied. And I shouldn't wonder if your perturbed spirit walks
the captain's bedroom afterwards."</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 412px;">
<img src="images/ill_195.jpg" width="412" height="450" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"HE RANSACKED AN OLD LUMBER-ROOM."</p></div>
</div>
<p>Miss Drewitt looked up and eyed the speaker with scornful comprehension.
"Take the bet, Mr. Chalk," she said, slowly.</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk turned in hopeful amaze; then he leaned over and shook hands
solemnly with Mr. Tredgold. "I'll take the bet," he said.</p>
<p>"Uncle will show it to you to please me," announced Prudence, in a clear
voice. "Won't you, uncle?"</p>
<p>The captain turned and took the matches from the table. "Certainly, my
dear, if I can find it," he said, in a hesitating fashion. "But I'm
afraid I've mislaid it. I haven't seen it since I unpacked."</p>
<p>"<em>Mislaid it!</em>" ejaculated the startled Mr. Chalk. "Good heavens! Suppose
somebody should find it? What about your word to Don Silvio then?"</p>
<p>"I've got it somewhere," said the captain, brusquely; "I'll have a hunt
for it. All the same, I don't know that it's quite fair to interfere in a
bet."</p>
<p>Miss Drewitt waved the objection away, remarking that people who made
bets must risk losing their money.</p>
<p>"I'll begin to save up," said Mr. Tredgold, with a lightness which was
not lost upon Miss Drewitt. "The captain has got to find it before you
can see it, Chalk."</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk, with a satisfied smile, said that when the captain promised a
thing it was as good as done.</p>
<p>For the next few days he waited patiently, and, ransacking an old
lumber-room, divided his time pretty equally between a volume of "Captain
Cook's Voyages" that he found there and "Famous Shipwrecks." By this
means and the exercise of great self-control he ceased from troubling
Dialstone Lane for a week. Even then it was Edward Tredgold who took him
there. The latter was in high spirits, and in explanation informed the
company, with a cheerful smile, that he had saved five and ninepence, and
was forming habits which bade fair to make him a rich man in time.</p>
<p>"Don't you be in too much of a hurry to find that map, captain," he said.</p>
<p>"It's found," said Miss Drewitt, with a little note of triumph in her
voice.</p>
<p>"Found it this morning," said Captain Bowers.</p>
<p>He crossed over to an oak bureau which stood in the corner by the
fireplace, and taking a paper from a pigeon-hole slowly unfolded it and
spread it on the table before the delighted Mr. Chalk. Miss Drewitt and
Edward Tredgold advanced to the table and eyed it curiously.</p>
<p>The map, which was drawn in lead-pencil, was on a piece of ruled paper,
yellow with age and cracked in the folds. The island was in shape a rough
oval, the coast-line being broken by small bays and headlands. Mr. Chalk
eyed it with all the fervour usually bestowed on a holy relic, and,
breathlessly reading off such terms as "Cape<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> Silvio," "Bowers Bay," and
"Mount Lonesome," gazed with breathless interest at the discourser.</p>
<p>"And is that the grave?" he inquired, in a trembling voice, pointing to a
mark in the north-east corner.</p>
<p>The captain removed it with his fingernail. "No," he said, briefly. "For
full details see the other side."</p>
<p>For one moment Mr. Chalk hoped; then his face fell as Captain Bowers,
displaying for a fraction of a second the writing on the other side, took
up the map and, replacing it in the bureau, turned the key in the lock
and with a low laugh resumed his seat. Miss Drewitt, glancing over at
Edward Tredgold, saw that he looked very thoughtful.</p>
<p>"You've lost your bet," she said, pointedly.</p>
<p>"I know," was the reply.</p>
<p>His gaiety had vanished and he looked so dejected that Miss Drewitt was
reminded of the ruined gambler in a celebrated picture. She tried to
quiet her conscience by hoping that it would be a lesson to him. As she
watched, Mr. Tredgold dived into his left trouser-pocket and counted out
some coins, mostly brown. To these he added a few small pieces of silver
gleaned from his waistcoat, and then after a few seconds' moody thought
found a few more in the other trouser-pocket.</p>
<p>"Eleven and tenpence," he said, mechanically.</p>
<p>"Any time," said Mr. Chalk, regarding him with awkward surprise. "Any
time."</p>
<p>"Give him an I O U," said Captain Bowers, fidgeting.</p>
<p>"Yes, any time," repeated Mr. Chalk; "I'm in no hurry."</p>
<p>"No; I'd sooner pay now and get it over," said the other, still fumbling
in his pockets. "As Miss Drewitt says, people who make bets must be
prepared to lose; I thought I had more than this."</p>
<p>There was an embarrassing silence, during which Miss Drewitt, who
had turned very red, felt strangely uncomfortable. She felt more
uncomfortable still when Mr. Tredgold, discovering a bank-note and a
little collection of gold coins in another pocket, artlessly expressed
his joy at the discovery. The simple-minded captain and Mr. Chalk both
experienced a sense of relief; Miss Drewitt sat and simmered in helpless
indignation.</p>
<p>"You're careless in money matters, my lad," said the captain, reprovingly.</p>
<p>"I couldn't understand him making all that fuss over a couple o' pounds,"
said Mr. Chalk, looking round. "He's very free, as a rule; too free."</p>
<p>Mr. Tredgold, sitting grave and silent, made no reply to these charges,
and the girl was the only one to notice a faint twitching at the corners
of his mouth. She saw it distinctly, despite the fact that her clear,
grey eyes were fixed dreamily on a spot some distance above his head.</p>
<p>She sat in her room upstairs after the visitors had gone, thinking it
over. The light was fading fast, and as she sat at the open window the
remembrance of Mr. Tredgold's conduct helped to mar one of the most
perfect evenings she had ever known.</p>
<p>Downstairs the captain was also thinking. Dialstone Lane was in shadow,
and already one or two lamps were lit behind drawn blinds. A little
chatter of voices at the end of the lane floated in at the open window,
mellowed by distance. His pipe was out, and he rose to search in the
gloom for a match, when another murmur of voices reached his ears from
the kitchen. He stood still and listened intently. To put matters beyond
all doubt, the shrill laugh of a girl was plainly audible. The captain's
face hardened, and, crossing to the fireplace, he rang the bell.</p>
<p>"Yessir," said Joseph, as he appeared and closed the door carefully
behind him.</p>
<p>"What are you talking to yourself in that absurd manner for?" inquired
the captain, with great dignity.</p>
<p>"Me, sir?" said Mr. Tasker, feebly.</p>
<p>"Yes, you," repeated the captain, noticing with surprise that the door
was slowly opening.</p>
<p>Mr. Tasker gazed at him in a troubled fashion, but made no reply.</p>
<p>"I won't have it," said the captain, sternly, with a side glance at the
door. "If you want to talk to yourself go outside and do it. I never
heard such a laugh. What did you do it for? It was like an old woman with
a bad cold."</p>
<p>He smiled grimly in the darkness, and then started slightly as a cough,
a hostile, challenging cough, sounded from the kitchen. Before he could
speak the cough ceased and a thin voice broke carelessly into song.</p>
<p>"<span class="smcap">What!</span>" roared the captain, in well-feigned astonishment. "Do
you mean to tell me you've got somebody in my pantry? Go and get me those
rules and regulations."</p>
<p>Mr. Tasker backed out, and the captain smiled again as he heard a
whispered discussion. Then a voice clear and distinct took command. "I'll
take 'em in myself, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> tell you," it said. "I'll rules and regulations
him."</p>
<p>The smile faded from the captain's face, and he gazed in perplexity at
the door as a strange young woman bounced into the room.</p>
<p>"Here's your rules and regulations," said the intruder, in a somewhat
shrewish voice. "You'd better light the lamp if you want to see 'em;
though the spelling ain't so noticeable in the dark."</p>
<p>The impressiveness of the captain's gaze was wasted in the darkness. For
a moment he hesitated, and then, with the dignity of a man whose spelling
has nothing to conceal, struck a match and lit the lamp. The lamp
lighted, he lowered the blind, and then seating himself by the window
turned with a majestic air to a thin slip of a girl with tow-coloured
hair, who stood by the door.</p>
<p>"Who are you?" he demanded, gruffly.</p>
<p>"My name's Vickers," said the young lady. "Selina Vickers. I heard all
what you've been saying to my Joseph, but, thank goodness, I can take my
own part. I don't want nobody to fight my battles for me. If you've got
anything to say about my voice you can say it to my face."</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_197.jpg" width="279" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"SELINA VICKERS."</p></div>
</div>
<p>Captain Bowers sat back and regarded her with impressive dignity. Miss
Vickers met his gaze calmly and, with a pair of unwinking green eyes,
stared him down.</p>
<p>"What were you doing in my pantry?" demanded the captain, at last.</p>
<p>"I was in your <em>kitchen</em>" replied Miss Vickers, with scornful emphasis on
the last word, "to see my young man."</p>
<p>"Well, I can't have you there," said the captain, with a mildness that
surprised himself. "One of my rules——"</p>
<p>Miss Vickers interposed. "I've read 'em all over and over again," she
said, impatiently.</p>
<p>"If it occurs again," said the other, "I shall have to speak to Joseph
very seriously about it."</p>
<p>"Talk to me," said Miss Vickers, sharply; "that's what I come in for. I
can talk to you better than what Joseph can, I know. What harm do you
think I was doing your old kitchen? Don't you try and interfere between
me and my Joseph, because I won't have it. You're not married yourself,
and you don't want other people to be. How do you suppose the world would
get on if everybody was like you?"</p>
<p>Captain Bowers regarded her in open-eyed perplexity. The door leading
to the garden had just closed behind the valiant Joseph, and he stared
with growing uneasiness at the slight figure of Miss Vickers as it stood
poised for further oratorical efforts. Before he could speak she gave her
lips a rapid lick and started again.</p>
<p>"You're one of those people that don't like to see others happy, that's
what you are," she said, rapidly. "I wasn't hurting your kitchen, and as
to talking and laughing there—what do you think my tongue was given to
me for? Show? P'r'aps if you'd been doing a day's hard work you'd——"</p>
<p>"Look here, my girl——" began the captain, desperately.</p>
<p>"Don't you my girl me, please," interrupted Miss Vickers. "I'm not your
girl, thank goodness. If I was you'd be a bit different, I can tell you.
If you had any girls you'd know better than to try and come between them
and their young men. Besides, they wouldn't let you. When a girl's got a
young man——"</p>
<p>The captain rose and went through the form of ringing the bell. Miss
Vickers watched him calmly.</p>
<p>"I thought I'd just have it out with you for once and for all," she
continued. "I told Joseph that I'd no doubt your bark was worse than your
bite. And what he can see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> to be afraid of in you I can't think. Nervous
disposition, I s'pose. Good evening."</p>
<p>She gave her head a little toss and, returning to the pantry, closed the
door after her. Captain Bowers, still somewhat dazed, returned to his
chair and, gazing at the "Rules," which still lay on the table, grinned
feebly in his beard.</p>
<p class="p2">CHAPTER IV.</p>
<p>To keep such a romance to himself was beyond the powers of Mr. Chalk.
The captain had made no conditions as to secrecy, and he therefore
considered himself free to indulge in hints to his two greatest friends,
which caused those gentlemen to entertain some doubts as to his sanity.
Mr. Robert Stobell, whose work as a contractor had left a permanent and
unmistakable mark upon Binchester, became imbued with a hazy idea that
Mr. Chalk had invented a new process of making large diamonds. Mr. Jasper
Tredgold, on the other hand, arrived at the conclusion that a highly
respectable burglar was offering for some reason to share his loot with
him. A conversation between Messrs. Stobell and Tredgold in the High
Street only made matters more complicated.</p>
<p>"Chalk always was fond of making mysteries of things," complained Mr.
Tredgold.</p>
<p>Mr. Stobell, whose habit was taciturn and ruminative, fixed his dull
brown eyes on the ground and thought it over. "I believe it's all my eye
and Betty Martin," he said, at length, quoting a saying which had been
used in his family as an expression of disbelief since the time of his
great-grandmother.</p>
<p>"He comes in to see me when I'm hard at work and drops hints," pursued
his friend. "When I stop to pick 'em up, out he goes. Yesterday he came
in and asked me what I thought of a man who wouldn't break his word for
half a million. Half a million, mind you! I just asked him who it was,
and out he went again. He pops in and out of my office like a figure on a
cuckoo-clock."</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_198.jpg" width="500" height="533" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"HE POPS IN AND OUT OF MY OFFICE LIKE A FIGURE ON A
CUCKOO-CLOCK."</p></div>
</div>
<p>Mr. Stobell relapsed into thought again, but no gleam of expression
disturbed the lines of his heavy face; Mr. Tredgold, whose sharp, alert
features bred more confidence in his own clients than those of other
people, waited impatiently.</p>
<p>"He knows something that we don't," said Mr. Stobell, at last; "that's
what it is."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p>
<p>Mr. Tredgold, who was too used to his friend's mental processes to
quarrel with them, assented.</p>
<p>"He's coming round to smoke a pipe with me to-morrow night," he said,
briskly, as he turned to cross the road to his office. "You come too,
and we'll get it out of him. If Chalk can keep a secret he has altered,
that's all I can say."</p>
<p>His estimate of Mr. Chalk proved correct. With Mr. Tredgold acting as
cross-examining counsel and Mr. Stobell enacting the part of a partial
and overbearing judge, Mr. Chalk, after a display of fortitude which
surprised himself almost as much as it irritated his friends, parted with
his news and sat smiling with gratification at their growing excitement.</p>
<p>"Half a million, and he won't go for it?" ejaculated Mr. Tredgold. "The
man must be mad."</p>
<p>"No; he passed his word and he won't break it," said Mr. Chalk. "The
captain's word is his bond, and I honour him for it. I can quite
understand it."</p>
<p>Mr. Tredgold shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Mr. Stobell, that
gentleman, after due deliberation, gave an assenting nod.</p>
<p>"He can't get at it, that's the long and short of it," said Mr. Tredgold,
after a pause. "He had to leave it behind when he was rescued, or else
risk losing it by telling the men who rescued him about it, and he's had
no opportunity since. It wants money to take a ship out there and get it,
and he doesn't see his way quite clear. He'll have it fast enough when he
gets a chance. If not, why did he make that map?"</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk shook his head, and remarked mysteriously that the captain had
his reasons. Mr. Tredgold relapsed into silence, and for some time the
only sound audible came from a briar-pipe which Mr. Stobell ought to have
thrown away some years before.</p>
<p>"Have you given up that idea of a yachting cruise of yours, Chalk?"
demanded Mr. Tredgold, turning on him suddenly.</p>
<p>"No," was the reply. "I was talking about it to Captain Bowers only the
other day. That's how I got to hear of the treasure."</p>
<p>Mr. Tredgold started and gave a significant glance at Mr. Stobell. In
return he got a wink which that gentleman kept for moments of mental
confusion.</p>
<p>"What did the captain tell you for?" pursued Mr. Tredgold, returning to
Mr. Chalk. "He wanted you to make an offer. He hasn't got the money for
such an expedition; you have. The yarn about passing his word was so that
you shouldn't open your mouth too wide. You were to do the persuading,
and then he could make his own terms. Do you see? Why, it's as plain as A
B C."</p>
<p>"Plain as the alphabet," said Mr. Stobell, almost chidingly.</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk gasped and looked from one to the other.</p>
<p>"I should like to have a chat with the captain about it," continued Mr.
Tredgold, slowly and impressively. "I'm a business man and I could put it
on a business footing. It's a big risk, of course; all those things are
... but if we went shares ... if <em>we</em> found the money——"</p>
<p>He broke off and, filling his pipe slowly, gazed in deep thought at the
wall. His friends waited expectantly.</p>
<p>"Combine business with pleasure," resumed Mr. Tredgold, lighting his
pipe; "sea air ... change ... blow away the cobwebs ... experience for
Edward to be left alone. What do you think, Stobell?" he added, turning
suddenly.</p>
<p>Mr. Stobell gripped the arms of his chair in his huge hands and drew his
bulky figure to a more upright position.</p>
<p>"What do you mean by combining business with pleasure?" he said, eyeing
him with dull suspicion.</p>
<p>"Chalk is set on a trip for the love of it," explained Mr. Tredgold.</p>
<p>"If we take on the contract, he ought to pay a bigger share, then," said
the other, firmly.</p>
<p>"Perhaps he will," said Tredgold, hastily.</p>
<p>Mr. Stobell pondered again and, slightly raising one hand, indicated that
he was in the throes of another idea and did not wish to be disturbed.</p>
<p>"You said it would be experience for Edward to be left alone," he said,
accusingly.</p>
<p>"I did," was the reply.</p>
<p>"You ought to pay more, too, then," declared the contractor, "because
it's serving of your ends as well."</p>
<p>"We can't split straws," exclaimed Tredgold, impatiently. "If the captain
consents we three will find the money and divide our portion, whatever it
is, equally."</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk, who had been in the clouds during this discussion, came back
to earth again. "<em>If</em> he consents," he said, sadly; "but he won't."</p>
<p>"Well, he can only refuse," said Mr. Tredgold; "and, anyway, we'll have
the first refusal. Things like that soon get about. What do you say to a
stroll? I can think better while I'm walking."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p>
<p>His friends assenting, they put on their hats and sallied forth. That
they should stroll in the direction of Dialstone Lane surprised neither
of them. Mr. Tredgold leading, they went round by the church, and that
gentleman paused so long to admire the architecture that Mr. Stobell got
restless.</p>
<p>"You've seen it before, Tredgold," he said, shortly.</p>
<p>"It's a fine old building," said the other. "Binchester ought to be proud
of it. Why, here we are at Captain Bowers's!"</p>
<p>"The house has been next to the church for a couple o' hundred years,"
retorted his friend.</p>
<p>"Let's go in," said Mr. Tredgold. "Strike while the iron's hot. At any
rate," he concluded, as Mr. Chalk voiced feeble objections, "we can see
how the land lies."</p>
<p>He knocked at the door and then, stepping aside, left Mr. Chalk to lead
the way in. Captain Bowers, who was sitting with Prudence, looked up at
their entrance, and putting down his newspaper extended a hearty welcome.</p>
<p>"Chalk didn't like to pass without looking in," said Mr. Tredgold, "and I
haven't seen you for some time. You know Stobell?"</p>
<p>The captain nodded, and Mr. Chalk, pale with excitement, accepted his
accustomed pipe from the hands of Miss Drewitt and sat nervously awaiting
events. Mr. Tasker set out the whisky, and, Miss Drewitt avowing a
fondness for smoke in other people, a comfortable haze soon filled the
room. Mr. Tredgold, with a significant glance at Mr. Chalk, said that it
reminded him of a sea-fog.</p>
<p>It only reminded Mr. Chalk, however, of a smoky chimney from which he
had once suffered, and he at once entered into minute details. The theme
was an inspiriting one, and before Mr. Tredgold could hark back to the
sea again Mr. Stobell was discoursing, almost eloquently for him, upon
drains. From drains to the shortcomings of the district council they
progressed by natural and easy stages, and it was not until Miss Drewitt
had withdrawn to the clearer atmosphere above that a sudden ominous
silence ensued, which Mr. Chalk saw clearly he was expected to break.</p>
<p>"I—I've been telling them some of your adventures," he said,
desperately, as he glanced at the captain; "they're both interested in
such things."</p>
<p>The latter gave a slight start and glanced shrewdly at his visitors.
"Aye, aye," he said, composedly.</p>
<p>"Very interesting, some of them," murmured Mr. Tredgold. "I suppose
you'll have another voyage or two before you've done? One, at any rate."</p>
<p>"No," said the captain, "I've had my share of the sea; other men may have
a turn now. There's nothing to take me out again—nothing."</p>
<p>Mr. Tredgold coughed and murmured something about breaking off old habits
too suddenly.</p>
<p>"It's a fine career," sighed Mr. Chalk.</p>
<p>"A manly life," said Mr. Tredgold, emphatically.</p>
<p>"It's like every other profession, it has two sides to it," said the
captain.</p>
<p>"It is not so well paid as it should be," said the wily Tredgold, "but I
suppose one gets chances of making money in outside ways sometimes."</p>
<p>The captain assented, and told of a steward of his who had made a small
fortune by selling Japanese curios to people who didn't understand them.</p>
<p>The conversation was interesting, but extremely distasteful to a business
man intent upon business. Mr. Stobell took his pipe out of his mouth and
cleared his throat. "Why, you might build a hospital with it," he burst
out, impatiently.</p>
<p>"Build a hospital!" repeated the astonished captain, as Mr. Chalk bent
suddenly to do up his shoe-lace.</p>
<p>"Think of the orphans you could be a father to!" added Mr. Stobell,
making the most of an unwonted fit of altruism.</p>
<p>The captain looked inquiringly at Mr. Tredgold.</p>
<p>"And widows," said Mr. Stobell, and, putting his pipe in his mouth as a
sign that he had finished his remarks, gazed stolidly at the company.</p>
<p>"Stobell must be referring to a story Chalk told us of some precious
stones you buried, I think," said Mr. Tredgold, reddening. "Aren't you,
Stobell?"</p>
<p>"Of course I am," said his friend. "You know that."</p>
<p>Captain Bowers glanced at Mr. Chalk, but that gentleman was still busy
with his shoe-lace, only looking up when Mr. Tredgold, taking the bull
by the horns, made the captain a plain, straightforward offer to fit
out and give him the command of an expedition to recover the treasure.
In a speech which included the benevolent Mr. Stobell's hospitals,
widows, and orphans, he pointed out a score of reasons why the captain
should consent, and wound up with a glowing picture of Miss Drewitt as
the heiress of the wealthiest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> man in Binchester. The captain heard him
patiently to an end and then shook his head.</p>
<p>"I passed my word," he said, stiffly.</p>
<p>Mr. Stobell took his pipe out of his mouth again to offer a little
encouragement. "Tredgold has broke his word before now," he observed;
"he's got quite a name for it."</p>
<p>"But you would go out if it were not for that?" inquired Tredgold,
turning a deaf ear to this remark.</p>
<p>"Naturally," said the captain, smiling; "but, then, you see I did."</p>
<p>Mr. Tredgold drummed with his fingers on the arms of his chair, and after
a little hesitation asked as a great favour to be permitted to see the
map. As an estate agent, he said, he took a professional interest in
plans of all kinds.</p>
<p>Captain Bowers rose, and in the midst of an expectant silence took the
map from the bureau, and placing it on the table kept it down with his
fist. The others drew near and inspected it.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_201.jpg" width="500" height="459" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE OTHERS DREW NEAR AND INSPECTED IT."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Nobody but Captain Bowers has ever seen the other side," said Mr. Chalk,
impressively.</p>
<p>"Except my niece," interposed the captain. "She wanted to see it, and I
trust her as I would trust myself. She thinks the same as I do about it."</p>
<p>His stubby forefinger travelled slowly round the coast-line until, coming
to the extreme south-west corner, it stopped, and a mischievous smile
creased his beard.</p>
<p>"It's buried here," he observed. "All you've got to do is to find the
island and dig in that spot."</p>
<p>Mr. Chalk laughed and shook his head as at a choice piece of waggishness.</p>
<p>"Suppose," said Mr. Tredgold, slowly—"suppose anybody found it without
your connivance, would you take your share?"</p>
<p>"Let 'em find it first," said the captain.</p>
<p>"Yes, but would you?" inquired Mr. Chalk.</p>
<p>Captain Bowers took up the map and returned it to its place in the
bureau. "You go and find it," he said, with a genial smile.</p>
<p>"You give us permission?" demanded Tredgold.</p>
<p>"Certainly," grinned the captain. "I give you permission to go and dig
over all the islands in the Pacific; there's a goodish number of them,
and it's a fairly common shape."</p>
<p>"It seems to me it's nobody's property,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> said Tredgold, slowly. "That
is to say, it's anybody's that finds it. It isn't your property, Captain
Bowers? You lay no claim to it?"</p>
<p>"No, no," said the captain. "It's nothing to do with me. You go and find
it," he repeated, with enjoyment.</p>
<p>Mr. Tredgold laughed too, and his eye travelled mechanically towards the
bureau. "If we do," he said, cordially, "you shall have your share."</p>
<p>The captain thanked him and, taking up the bottle, refilled their
glasses. Then, catching the dull, brooding eye of Mr. Stobell as that
plain-spoken man sat in a brown study trying to separate the serious from
the jocular, he drank success to their search. He was about to give vent
to further pleasantries when he was stopped by the mysterious behaviour
of Mr. Chalk, who, first laying a finger on his lip to ensure silence,
frowned severely and nodded at the door leading to the kitchen.</p>
<p>The other three looked in the direction indicated. The door stood half
open, and the silhouette of a young woman in a large hat put the upper
panels in shadow. The captain rose and, with a vigorous thrust of his
foot, closed the door with a bang.</p>
<p>"Eavesdropping," said Mr. Chalk, in a tense whisper.</p>
<p>"There'll be a rival expedition," said the captain, falling in with his
mood. "I've already warned that young woman off once. You'd better start
to-night."</p>
<p>He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the company pleasantly. Somewhat
to Mr. Chalk's disappointment Mr. Tredgold began to discuss agriculture,
and they were still on that theme when they rose to depart some time
later. Tredgold and Chalk bade the captain a cordial good-night; but
Stobell, a creature of primitive impulses, found it difficult to shake
hands with him. On the way home he expressed an ardent desire to tell the
captain what men of sense thought of him.</p>
<p>The captain lit another pipe after they had gone, and for some time sat
smoking and thinking over the events of the evening. Then Mr. Tasker's
second infringement of discipline occurred to him, and, stretching out
his hand, he rang the bell.</p>
<p>"Has that young woman gone?" he inquired, cautiously, as Mr. Tasker
appeared.</p>
<p>"Yessir," was the reply.</p>
<p>"What about your articles?" demanded the captain, with sudden loudness.
"What do you mean by it?"</p>
<p>Mr. Tasker eyed him forlornly. "It ain't my fault," he said, at last. "I
don't want her."</p>
<p>"Eh?" said the other, sternly. "Don't talk nonsense. What do you have her
here for, then?"</p>
<p>"Because I can't help myself," said Mr. Tasker, desperately; "that's why.
She's took a fancy to me, and, that being so, it would take more than you
and me to keep 'er away."</p>
<p>"Rubbish," said his master.</p>
<p>Mr. Tasker smiled wanly. "That's my reward for being steady," he said,
with some bitterness; "that's what comes of having a good name in the
place. I get Selina Vickers after me."</p>
<p>"You—you must have asked her to come here in the first place," said the
astonished captain.</p>
<p>"<em>Ask</em> her?" repeated Mr. Tasker, with respectful scorn. "<em>Ask</em> her? She
don't want no asking."</p>
<p>"What does she come for, then?" inquired the other.</p>
<p>"Me," said Mr. Tasker, brokenly. "I never dreamt o' such a thing. I was
going 'er way one night—about three weeks ago, it was—and I walked
with her as far as her road—Mint Street. Somehow it got put about that
we were walking out. A week afterwards she saw me in Harris's, the
grocer's, and waited outside for me till I come out and walked 'ome with
me. After she came in the other night I found we was keeping company.
To-night—to-night she got a ring out o' me, and now we're engaged."</p>
<p>"What on earth did you give her the ring for if you don't want her?"
inquired the captain, eyeing him with genuine concern.</p>
<p>"Ah, it seems easy, sir," said the unfortunate; "but you don't know
Selina. She bought the ring and said I was to pay it off a shilling a
week. She took the first shilling to-night."</p>
<p>His master sat back and regarded him in amazement.</p>
<p>"You don't know Selina, sir," repeated Mr. Tasker, in reply to this
manifestation. "She always gets her own way. Her father ain't 'it 'er
mother not since Selina was seventeen. He dursent. The last time Selina
went for him tooth and nail; smashed all the plates off the dresser
throwing 'em at him, and ended by chasing of him up the road in his
shirt-sleeves."</p>
<p>The captain grunted.</p>
<p>"That was two years ago," continued Mr. Tasker; "and his spirit's quite
broke. He 'as to give all his money except a shilling a week<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> to his
wife, and he's not allowed to go into pubs. If he does it's no good,
because they won't serve 'im. If they do Selina goes in next morning and
gives them a piece of 'er mind. She don't care who's there or what she
says, and the consequence is Mr. Vickers can't get served in Binchester
for love or money. That'll show you what she is."</p>
<p>"Well, tell her I won't have her here," said the captain, rising.
"Good-night."</p>
<p>"I've told her over and over again, sir," was the reply, "and all she
says is she's not afraid of you, nor six like you."</p>
<p>The captain fell back silent, and Mr. Tasker, pausing in a respectful
attitude, watched him wistfully. The captain's brows were bent in
thought, and Mr. Tasker, reminding himself that crews had trembled at his
nod and that all were silent when he spoke, felt a flutter of hope.</p>
<p>"Well," said the captain, sharply, as he turned and caught sight of him,
"what are you waiting there for?"</p>
<p>Mr. Tasker drifted towards the door which led upstairs.</p>
<p>"I—I thought you were thinking of something we could do to prevent her
coming, sir," he said, slowly. "It's hard on me, because as a matter of
fact——"</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_203.jpg" width="500" height="555" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"ALL SHE SAYS IS SHE'S NOT AFRAID OF YOU, NOR SIX LIKE YOU."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Well?" said the captain.</p>
<p>"I—I've 'ad my eye on another young lady for some time," concluded Mr.
Tasker.</p>
<p>He was standing on the bottom stair as he spoke, with his hand on the
latch. Under the baleful stare with which the indignant captain favoured
him, he closed it softly and mounted heavily to bed.</p>
<p class="center">(<i>To be continued.</i>)</p>
<hr class="chapter" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a name="Illustration_Afghan_Beast_Fables" id="Illustration_Afghan_Beast_Fables"></a>
<img src="images/ill_204.jpg" width="500" height="304" alt="Afghan Beast Fables" />
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Illustrated By J. A. Shepherd.</span></p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 124px;">
<img class="drop-capi" src="images/204-drop-l.png" width="124" height="120" alt="L" />
<span class="hiddena">L</span></span><span class="smcap">ike</span> other peoples the world over, the Afghans use the beast fable to
point morals and illustrate rules of conduct. Perhaps the moral is not
invariably such as commends itself to Western standards, and the methods
applauded are sometimes not such as would make for popularity in more
civilized circles. But what would you? The characteristics of a race
colour its literature, and the more homely the literature the clearer the
colouring. Hence the Afghan beast fable more frequently than not reflects
the respectful admiration accorded the successful exercise of craft and
cunning, for which self-helpful qualities the dwellers on the other side
of the North-Western Frontier of India are famed.</p>
<p>Soldiers who are acquainted with Afghan usages in warfare will appreciate
the truth of the maxim which furnishes the text for the story of the
Camel-rider, the Snake, and the Fox. A man riding on his camel happened
to pass a place where a jungle fire was raging, and a snake, calling
from the midst of the flames, begged his aid. The man, ignoring the
snake's enmity to the human race and considering only his present danger,
consented to save him: he lowered his saddle-bag to the ground, and the
snake, having coiled himself up in it, was carried by his rescuer to a
place of safety. Then the man opened his bag and bade the snake go, with
an admonition to behave better towards mankind for the future. The snake
made answer, "Until I have stung thee and this camel of thine I will not
depart!"</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_204a.jpg" width="343" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"UNTIL I HAVE STUNG THEE AND THIS CAMEL OF THINE I WILL
NOT DEPART."</p></div>
</div>
<p>The man, hurt by this black ingratitude, drew the snake's attention
to the service he had just rendered. The snake admitted his debt, but
pointed out that his rescuer had acted injudiciously, in view of the
hereditary enmity existing between snakes and men. The two proceeded to
argue the point in commendably temperate spirit, the snake laying stress
on the circumstance that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> mankind "always return evil for good"; and the
man, denying it, eventually agreed that if the snake could find a witness
to the truth of his assertion he would submit to be stung.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_205.jpg" width="500" height="422" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"'IT IS STRANGE THAT THOU IN MY VERY PRESENCE TALKEST OF
"I" AND "MINE,"' SAID THE TIGER."</p></div>
</div>
<p>The witness was found in the person of an elderly cow-buffalo. Examined
by the snake, she succinctly reviewed her career, and gave it as her
opinion that man's creed was to return evil for good, inasmuch as her
owner, when she ceased to give milk, turned her out to graze till she
should be fat enough to kill. Upon this testimony the snake claimed
fulfilment of the bargain. The man, however, urged that two witnesses
were necessary, and, the snake consenting, a tree was called upon for
his opinion. The tree, in a few well-chosen sentences, recalled the fact
that for years he had granted shade to all men who sought his protection
in the heat of day; but, he complained, when they had rested they always
looked him over and, if they happened to have tools, lopped off a branch
to make a spade-handle or axe-haft. They went even further, reckoning
up the use they could make of their protector from the scorching sun if
they reduced him to planks. In short, the tree was distinctly of the
cow-buffalo's way of thinking. The camel-man, sorely perplexed, was
wondering how he could gain time when a fox came by and asked, in his
sarcastic way, "What kindness hast thou shown this snake, that he desires
to do thee harm?"</p>
<p>Having heard the story the fox refused to believe it; the bag was small,
and he was sure so large a snake could not get into it. Of course, the
snake had no alternative but to show that he could; so the fox obligingly
held the bag open for him, and when he was fairly entrapped handed him
over to the man to kill. "A wise man should not be gulled by the cries
for mercy of his foes; otherwise he will fall into misfortune," is the
suggestive moral. It does not say much for Afghan principle, does it?</p>
<p>The fox, as ever, serves the Afghan fabulist for the personification
of cunning and ingenuity. The tale of the Tiger, the Wolf, and the Fox
exhibits the last-named in the character of the discreet and sagacious
courtier. These three animals one day went hunting together, and having
killed a wild hill-goat, a deer, and a hare, took them home to the
tiger's den to eat. Having settled themselves comfortably, the tiger
requested the wolf to divide the game as he thought fit; whereupon the
wolf allotted the hill-goat as the biggest to the tiger, the deer to
himself, and the hare to the fox. "It is strange that thou in my very
presence talkest of 'I' and 'mine,'" said the tiger. "Who and what art
thou, and what opinion hast thou of me?" and raising his paw he struck
the wolf dead on the spot. Then he turned to the fox and requested him
to divide the spoil. The fox instantly replied that the hill-goat would
do for his Majesty's breakfast, the deer would serve for his Majesty's
dinner at noon, and, of course, the hare must be reserved for his
Majesty's supper. "And from whom," said the tiger, with well-feigned
curiosity, "didst thou learn this mode of distribution and this sagacity?"</p>
<p>The fox replied that he was one who took warning from the fate of others.
The tiger (who could not have been very hungry) expounded his own idea
of justice, which was that the sagacious fox should have the whole bag
of game while the tiger got more for himself; "and after this I will do
whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> thou tellest me." A significant hint that physical strength
does wisely to profit by the craft of the weaker. A fable closely
resembling this, but in which, of course, the lion takes the part here
played by the tiger, is current among some North African tribes.</p>
<p>One of the cleverest tales is that of the Merchant and his Parrot, which
illustrates the great Afghan maxim that you can procure by craft what
you can procure by no other means. A certain merchant, says the fable,
was about to make a journey south into India. Before setting out he
assembled his family and requested each member to name the gift he or
she would like brought home. Last of all he asked the parrot, who was a
native of Hindustan, what he could do for him in that country. The parrot
at once begged him to visit a certain forest, where some more parrots
would probably be found. "Give them my compliments and tell them that
such and such a parrot, who is a friend of theirs, is confined in a cage
in your house and says, 'This is a strange friendship, that I should be
in bondage while you, quite unconcerned for my fate, flit hither and
thither.' Now, whatever reply they give," said the parrot, "deliver it to
me." The merchant punctually fulfilled his promise. He found the forest
and the parrots and gave his parrot's message; and having done so was
distressed to observe that one of the birds was so profoundly affected
that, after a spasm of trembling and fluttering, he fell lifeless to the
ground.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_206.jpg" width="500" height="381" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"AFTER A SPASM OF TREMBLING AND FLUTTERING, HE FELL
LIFELESS TO THE GROUND."</p></div>
</div>
<p>On his return home, after he had distributed the presents he had brought
among his family, his parrot inquired whether he had not something to
say to him. The merchant, fearful of grieving the bird, fenced with the
question, but when the parrot grew huffy and told him he need not speak
if he did not choose he relented, and with many expressions of regret
told the fatal consequences of delivering the message. When the parrot
heard of the death of his friend he, too, was seized with flutterings and
shiverings, and then and there fell dead from his perch. The merchant
shed tears over him and, after great lamentation, threw the body out of
the cage. No sooner did the parrot touch the ground, however, than he
came to life again and flew on to the top of the house; and the merchant,
staring in amazement, asked for explanations. The parrot thereupon
explained that his friend had sent this message: "Pretend to be dead and
thou wilt get free."</p>
<p>"Now I, of course, understood his meaning from what thou saidst," added
the parrot, "so I gained my freedom. I now ask thee, as I have eaten
thy salt"—mark the punctilious courtesy of parrots educated in Afghan
homes—"to forgive me. Good-bye."</p>
<p>"I forgive thee," said the crestfallen merchant. "God preserve thee." And
the parrot went his way, saying, "Peace be with thee."</p>
<p>As we might expect of an animal so feared and hated, the tiger never
figures in fable as heroic, but always as a stupid, blustering bully, to
be outwitted by any creature, however weak, who has a little cunning.
The tale of the Tiger and the Jackal is a good example. A tiger who,
exercising a liberty of choice unknown to natural history, had engaged
a female monkey as his companion and housekeeper, went out one day on
business, enjoining the monkey to stay at home and let nobody enter the
house.</p>
<p>By-and-by there came a jackal with his wife and family, house-hunting.
Mr. Jackal, impressed at first sight with the eligibility of the tiger's
premises, forthwith entered and took possession, ignoring the protests
and warnings of the monkey housekeeper.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> Mrs. Jackal would have had her
husband leave, but he refused; and while they argued the tiger was heard
approaching. The monkey hastened to meet him and tell what had happened;
but the tiger could not bring himself to believe that a jackal would be
so reckless and insolent as to take possession of his house. "It must be
some other horrid creature," he said. And though the monkey protested
that she knew a jackal when she saw one, the tiger could not credit her
story. Meantime the jackal had arranged his plans. When the tiger drew
near his house he heard the little jackals crying and Mrs. Jackal say to
her husband, "They want tiger's meat," and Mr. Jackal's reply: "It was
only yesterday I killed an enormous tiger. Has the meat been finished
already? Nonsense!"</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 410px;">
<img src="images/ill_207.jpg" width="410" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"ONCE MORE THE TIGER VENTURED NEAR ENOUGH TO HEAR THE
YOUNG JACKALS CRYING."</p></div>
</div>
<p>Mrs. Jackal explained that her children wanted fresh meat, and Mr.
Jackal then told the cubs to wait a little. "A great big tiger will come
presently, and I will kill him, and you shall have fresh meat."</p>
<p>When the tiger overheard this he was terrified and ran away, but the
monkey, following him, contrived to allay his fears, explaining that the
jackals were fooling him, and persuaded him to come back. Once more the
tiger ventured near enough to hear the young jackals crying, but this
time he also hears their father say to them, soothingly:—</p>
<p>"That monkey, who is a great friend of mine, has told me that she would,
without fail, bring me a tiger to-day."</p>
<p>Whereupon the tiger, only pausing to strike the unfortunate monkey dead,
fled without once looking behind him.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 458px;">
<img src="images/ill_207a.jpg" width="458" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE TIGER FLED WITHOUT ONCE LOOKING BEHIND HIM."</p></div>
</div>
<p>Another tale shows the tiger victimized by the cunning of the hare.
In this fable the tiger discovers quite remarkable skill in debate;
he discourses eloquently on the dignity of labour to justify his
depredations in the jungle, and only after prolonged discussion with the
beasts does he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> consent to their proposal that he shall stay at home
and they provide him with a daily victim. For a time all goes smoothly;
then the hare's turn comes and she objects, saying, "How long is this
oppression to last?" The other beasts cry out upon her for wishing to
break the agreement, and are only half satisfied when the hare hints that
she has a plan for making an end of the tiger. They wish to know what
it is; but the hare in reply quotes a saying which, by the way, sheds
significant light on the insecurity of travellers' lives and property
in Afghanistan. "Three matters," she reminds them, "are best concealed:
first, one's money; second, the time one intends to start on a journey;
third, the road one intends to take."</p>
<p>In a word, she keeps her own counsel and starts so late for the tiger's
den that that animal grows hungry and—there is a good deal of human
nature in tigers—very angry at the delay of his dinner. When the hare,
apparently in a great hurry, arrived the tiger abused her vehemently, and
with difficulty is induced to hear her explanation. She and a friend, she
says, were on their way to him when they met another tiger who seized
them; she warned their captor that they were set apart for the service
of their own king, but the strange tiger threatened to tear their king
to pieces. At length, said the hare, she persuaded the strange tiger to
grant her respite that she might come and explain matters; and she had
been granted this favour, leaving her friend in his clutches.</p>
<p>"Do not expect any more victims," she concluded. "The road hither is
closed by that tiger. If thou desirest thy daily food, go at once and
clear the road."</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 340px;">
<img src="images/ill_208.jpg" width="340" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE TIGER BESIDE HIMSELF WITH RAGE."</p></div>
</div>
<p>At this the tiger, beside himself with rage, jumps up, calling on the
hare to come and show where his rival is, and the hare obediently
follows, until they come in sight of a well by the road. There she lags
behind; she is frightened to death. Cannot the tiger see how pale she
is? Nothing will induce her to go near that well, for therein is hiding
the other tiger, who holds her friend captive. The tiger insists that
she shall come and point out the other tiger. Well, the hare will do
so on condition that his Majesty holds her in his arms. He does so,
and, peeping into the water, sees their reflection in the water below;
whereupon he sets the hare down, and springing into the well to fall upon
his enemy is drowned.</p>
<p>A story that seems familiar is that of the friendship of the frog and the
rat. These two conceived so deep a regard for one another that they were
miserable apart: the rat, more particularly, bewailed the facts that she
only saw the frog once a day, and that he, being in the stream, could not
hear her when she called. The frog, whose attachment appears not wholly
to have obscured his native good sense, pointed out that "if friends see
each other occasionally only their affection is the greater," to which
argument, albeit undeniable, the rat objected that in their case some
means of establishing closer communication were indispensable.</p>
<p>The frog gave way, and the two agreed to tie the ends of a string to a
leg of each, so that when one wanted to see the other all he or she need
do was to pull the string. Other frogs came around and pointed out the
obvious objections to supplementing the bonds of their affection with
string, but neither would listen.</p>
<p>"It is all right," they said; "if we die together, so much the better";
and so they tied themselves as they had arranged. And one day came a
kite, who pounced upon the rat, who could not escape because he tripped
in the string; and the kite, carrying away the rat, carried away the frog
at the other end of the string. And the dying moments of the frog were
embittered by hearing the villagers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> applaud the cleverness of a kite who
could catch frogs; whereas he knew the kite had done nothing clever, but
that he himself had done something very foolish.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_209.jpg" width="500" height="396" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"IF WE DIE TOGETHER, SO MUCH THE BETTER."</p></div>
</div>
<p>Another tale exhibits the helpless old tiger dependent for his daily
fare on the cunning of his humble follower the fox, and insists upon the
stupidity of the ass. The tiger was so old and decrepit that he could
not hunt for himself, and he appealed to an elderly vixen, who was also
hungry, to lure an ox or some other beast within his reach. The vixen
willingly assents, and searching the country finds an ass feeding. Him
she accosts with respectful sympathy, asking why he grazes on such poor
pasture. The ass, who, by the way, is deplorably long-winded, replies by
giving the vixen a lecture on the propriety of contentment with one's lot.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 360px;">
<img src="images/ill_209a.jpg" width="360" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"HE APPEALED TO AN ELDERLY VIXEN."</p></div>
</div>
<p>The vixen listens patiently and replies, Eastern fashion, with a brief
parable, whose moral is that those who can help themselves to the good
things of life should do so. The vixen's parable reminds the ass of
another rather like it, but very much longer and pointing a different
moral; he relates it with circumstance and detail. After much argument
the vixen loses patience, and upbraiding the ass for his want of
enterprise describes in graphic language the attractions of certain
pasture known to her; and the ass, his hopes getting the better of his
discretion, follows, till they come within eye range of the tiger.</p>
<p>The tiger, being very hungry, cannot wait till the ass comes within
reach; he rushes out prematurely and frightens the ass away. This
precipitation on the tiger's part gives rise to unpleasantness. The
vixen, naturally enough, is furiously angry at the way her scheme has
been upset after all the trouble<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> she has had with the argumentative
ass, and she speaks her mind freely to the tiger. He apologizes, and the
vixen consents to try and bring the prey within reach again. In fine, she
out-argues the foolish ass and eventually brings him to her patron.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 387px;">
<img src="images/ill_210.jpg" width="387" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"SHE SPEAKS HER MIND FREELY TO THE TIGER."</p></div>
</div>
<p>The story of the Cock and Hawk furnishes a caution against talking about
things we don't understand. These two were great friends and spent much
time together. One day the hawk, in didactic mood, took the cock to task
for the shameful ingratitude of his race; men fed fowls on all kinds of
luxuries, and cared for them carefully, and yet never did fowl see a
man approach but it ran away. Now the hawk, on the other hand, repaid
captivity and cruelties with the utmost gratitude, catching and killing
game to order. When the cock heard his friend's views he was so amused
that he nearly dropped with laughing. The hawk, rather stiffly, inquires
what he has said that the cock should be so overcome with amusement; and,
being reminded that men only feed fowls in order to kill and eat them,
confesses that this most important detail had never struck him.</p>
<p>It is curious to observe that all the Afghan beast fables are
distinguished by the same quality of sardonic humour, but they have this
great merit, that they never fail to drive home the moral.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_210a.jpg" width="500" height="404" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"HE WAS SO AMUSED THAT HE NEARLY DROPPED."</p></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="Wonders_of_the_World" id="Wonders_of_the_World"></a><i>Wonders of the World.</i></h2>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_211.jpg" width="500" height="324" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A GENERAL VIEW OF THE SALTO MONOCYCLE TRACK.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo. by Rochlitz.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p class="p3">LXIX.—A NEW "LOOPING THE LOOP."</p>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 118px;">
<img class="drop-capi" src="images/211-drop-the.png" width="118" height="120" alt="T" />
<span class="hiddena">T</span></span><span class="smcap">here</span> seems to be no finality in the art of invention, whether it be
in commerce, technology, science, art, or even in connection with the
variety-stage. In the last-named case the struggle for supremacy is
exceedingly keen, and requires, more than in other professions, untiring
perseverance, courage, and intelligence if one wishes to obtain a place
on the "roll of fame."</p>
<p>In the theatre or in the music-hall the public only see the glittering
outside appearance, and applaud the attractive items of an artist
without thinking of how much work and trouble it has cost him to be able
to execute his performance without apparent effort and with extreme
perfection. Such a sensational performance will soon be seen in a
Berlin circus—a new kind of "Looping the Loop"—"The ride on the Salto
Monocycle Track," as the audacious artist calls it, and with whom we are
going to make our readers acquainted.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_211a.jpg" width="500" height="490" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>MR. ECLAIR FASTENED BY THE WAIST, ANKLES, AND HEAD INSIDE
THE WHEEL WHICH LOOPS THE LOOP.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo. by Rochlitz.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>This sensational act consists in the artist being rolled in a wheel,
measuring six and a half feet in diameter and eighteen inches wide, along
a track in the form of a loop. Our first two illustrations give a clearer
idea than can be given in words.</p>
<p>Mr. Eclair—the artist's name—has had his track made by Mr. A. Klose,
Schiffbauerdamm, and practised in the so-called training-wheel for
the past<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> fifteen weeks before he undertook his first journey. In
this training-wheel he accustomed himself to the revolutions of the
wheel. This was all the more necessary, as he found on practising that,
in consequence of the rapid revolutions, the small veins and other
blood-vessels in the neck and head became swollen—so much so that a
journey in the "loop" without previous experience would certainly, in his
opinion, have been fatal.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 376px;">
<img src="images/ill_212.jpg" width="376" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>PRACTISING IN THE TRAINING-WHEEL.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo. by Rochlitz.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>After the perfect construction of the track had been ascertained by
thorough tests—amongst which heavy waggon-wheels were caused to be
rolled along the track—Mr. Eclair at length took his first ride. It
was a ride for life or death. Nobody could foresee what the result
would be. Luck favoured the venturesome artist, and his success was
acclaimed with joy and satisfaction by all the interested beholders, so
smoothly and faultlessly did the performance end. Such was the birth of
a new sensational circus feat! And a second ride which Mr. Eclair soon
afterwards took turned out equally successful.</p>
<p>The track slopes from a platform about fifteen yards high down into the
"loop." It must be understood that this is not a real loop, such as, for
example, Mündner uses, but is so constructed that the fearless rider
rushes in his wheel down the slope, entering the ring by a trap-door,
so that the wheel rolls round it. This heavy wheel, which weighs five
hundredweight, flies up the track with a terrific momentum, and, in
consequence of its centrifugal force, presses against the track with a
force of seventeen times its own weight.</p>
<p>When the wheel has passed the highest point of the loop it flies down the
other side, and leaves the loop again by another trap-door which has in
the meantime been opened. The downward movement, being still very rapid
at the point of exit, is then retarded by means of outlet-rails which
adjust themselves exactly to the wheel, and the mad ride ends at length
in a net.</p>
<p>The track has a total length of about sixty-five yards, inclusive of
loop and exit. The loop is about twenty-four feet high. The wheel rolls
in a mould-shaped groove. The slightest mistake in the construction
of the track, which is an extremely ingenious one, would result in an
unsuccessful performance and a dangerous, if not deadly, fall. Especially
ingenious is the mechanism of the trap-doors at the entrance and exit.
These are in charge of the artist's colleague, and form the most
important part of the track, as any failure in this part would end in
dire catastrophe.</p>
<p class="p1">LXX.—A BONFIRE OF GAMBLING APPARATUS.</p>
<p>The Anti-Gambling Leagues of British cities have their counterpart in the
various Law and Order Societies of American municipalities, and their
labours are much the same. Just as the societies in England attempt to
protect the poor and middle-class people from the encroachments of vice
by initiating prosecutions against wrong-doers, so do these Law and Order
Societies fight in the interests of the American public. They go to
excesses sometimes, it is true, but their labours have a positive value
for good. In England they keep an eye upon the book-maker in the street,
upon the sporting tipster with his betting circulars and notices, and
upon gambling in general. They prosecute where prosecution is needed, and
carry on in Parliament a fight for virtue.</p>
<p>Never, however, have they prepared a fire for the benefit of their
supporters such as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> Law and Order Society of Philadelphia got up last
May. It is, perhaps, not wholly correct to say that when the Philadelphia
Society seized and burned over thirteen hundred gambling machines in
a public place it did so merely for the benefit of its followers, but
that was practically the case, and among those who saw this unique
conflagration there were none more interested than the crusaders against
vice. It was an actual destruction of valuable property, but not a
wanton one, and when the fire was over the charred metal and molten
tin represented a sum of not less than one hundred and thirty thousand
dollars. We doubt if England has ever had the privilege of witnessing
such a sight, for the vested right of the Briton is too sacred to permit
of his property being done away with in such brilliant manner.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_213.jpg" width="550" height="265" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>WAGGONS UNLOADING GAMBLING MACHINES TO FORM THE BONFIRE.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>The reason for the fire was the abnormal growth in Philadelphia of the
penny-in-the-slot gambling machine, owing to its fascination for the
young and its asserted protection by careless or corrupt municipal
government. The machines—some of them very elaborate, costing from three
hundred to six hundred dollars each—were nothing but "money-machines,"
automatic gamblers of the most hardened sort. If the player dropped any
sum, from five cents to twenty-five cents, into the slot, he stood a
chance to win about ten times as much as he put in, and the prospect of
such a huge percentage upon a small investment fascinated poor people and
boys and girls alike. One boy was known to have lost as much as three
hundred and fifty dollars in a week through this form of gambling, having
resorted to theft in order to obtain the wherewithal to gamble.</p>
<p>"For four years," writes Mr. D. Clarence Gibboney, the secretary of
the Law and Order Society of Philadelphia, "our city was cursed with
thousands of these conscienceless gambling devices. The authorities
protected them, and our citizens were almost helpless. Fathers and
mothers stood by, unable to do much more than make a feeble protest,
while their sons and daughters were turned into gamblers.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 396px;">
<img src="images/ill_213a.jpg" width="396" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>THE FIRE IN FULL BLAZE.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>"This society took hold of the situation and, in face of very determined
opposition, arrested many of the owners and keepers of the machines in
1902, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> in December burned a hundred and ninety-six machines, valued
at about twenty thousand dollars. The police, however, supported the
gambling people, and it was not until after January 1st, 1903, that we
were able to wipe the entire business out of the city.</p>
<p>"A new mayor was elected, and he immediately forced the police to aid
us. The police seized five hundred machines and we, through our own
constables, seized over eight hundred others between January 1st and May
10th, 1903. On May 19th the entire lot was burned, the police and the Law
and Order Society joining in the work of destruction. Not a machine that
we know of exists in this city to-day."</p>
<p class="p1">LXXI.—A BANQUET IN A WATER-PIPE.</p>
<p>In the middle of October last a banquet was served to the League of
Iowa Municipalities, at Waterloo, Iowa, which, so far as we know, has
no duplicate in the history of gastronomy. It was in every way the
most successful gathering of the sort that ever took place in this
enterprising city of the West, and the novelty of the affair drew public
notice from near and far.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_214.jpg" width="500" height="326" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A FLOODED STREET IN WATERLOO, IOWA, WHERE THE GREAT DRAIN
WAS CONSTRUCTED.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>The table was spread in a sewer constructed by the city to carry off the
surplus water which at different periods of heavy rains had threatened
the existence of the place with damaging floods. The name by which this
work of engineering is known—the Dry Run Sewer—recalls to many the
story of an innocent little stream running through the principal business
and residence section of the city, a stream which in its driest day would
attract little attention from a passer-by. Unfortunately, however, for
the inhabitants the Dry Run has frequently become very wet. Within the
past seven years, on three different occasions it has flooded the entire
western portion of the city, causing a property loss of many thousands
and endangering the lives of the inhabitants. In 1902 it was flooded
twice within twenty days. It rose on July 3rd at the rate of ten feet
within five minutes, and on July 23rd ambitiously repeated the same
perilous feat.</p>
<p>The citizens of Waterloo, at the head of whom stood Mr. P. J. Martin,
the mayor, now concluded that this recurring danger should be met by
heroic measures, and a flood-sewer, twelve feet by twelve feet in width
and height, and three thousand four hundred feet long, was planned
at a cost of about one hundred thousand dollars. To many the project
appeared impossible of completion, owing to the peculiar situation of Dry
Run, but the difficulties in the way did not daunt the Iowa engineers.
Hundreds of men were put upon the work of excavation and construction,
under the charge of contractor William Horrabin, of Iowa City, and the
giant structure rapidly took the permanent form which we see in our
photographs. Our illustration of the entrance to the sewer unfortunately
does not suggest the size of it, but when we say that a man could walk
through this sewer easily carrying another upright on his head, we may
fairly suggest the height of the arch. Some thirteen thousand barrels
of cement and over thirty-two million pounds of sand and rock were used
in the construction, and nearly one million cubic feet of dirt were
excavated. The side walls of the sewer are vertical for six feet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> and
the base is at present about fifteen feet below the level of the street.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_215.jpg" width="500" height="444" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A SECTION OF THE DRAIN-PIPE.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>With the completion of the largest work of the kind ever undertaken by an
Iowa municipality, satisfaction took the place of unrest in the feelings
of the citizens. The manufacturers were able to leave their places of
business without fear of catastrophe behind them, and the residents could
now go to bed at night without dread of a flood-warning from the fire
bell. In fact, the relief was so widespread that it was deemed fitting
by the mayor and aldermen that the completion of the sewer should be
signalized by a great banquet, to which the mayors and representative
citizens of other towns should be invited.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_215a.jpg" width="500" height="450" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>THE TABLE LAID FOR THE BANQUET INSIDE THE DRAIN-PIPE.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p>
<p>The happy thought now occurred to the <cite>Waterloo Times and Tribune</cite> of
holding this banquet, not in an hotel, but in the sewer itself, and the
project was carried out with enthusiasm. This meant, of course, unusual
effort on the part of those in charge, but all obstacles were easily
surmounted, and on the night of October 16th that part of the city which,
little more than a year before, had been the bed of a raging torrent
was turned by engineering and culinary magic into a banqueting-hall of
security and light. The tables were laid along the floor of the sewer
over four hundred feet of its length, and on both sides of this table,
with plenty of room in which to move, sat the best-known citizens of the
State. Simple but pretty decorations hung in festoons from the archway
and on the side walls gleamed rows of electric lights. Mayor Martin acted
as toast-master, and the programme of toasts lasted an hour and a half.
As if to suggest a danger happily past the rain was falling outside, but
no fear of flood troubled the gathering. The banquet was as successful
as the construction of the sewer itself, and those who were privileged
on this memorable occasion to partake of Dry Run punch drank it with a
special gusto. This little joke of the caterer was duly appreciated. The
dessert was as happily chosen, for it ended with Roquefort and "water
crackers."</p>
<p class="p1">LXXII.—AN ANTI-COLLISION TRAIN.</p>
<p>Even in this age of wonders no one would have expected to experience
a railway collision without the usual horrors of a smash-up, yet that
is the feature of one of the latest wonders of inventive genius. An
electrical engineer of New York, Mr. P. K. Stern, has just come forward
with such a contrivance.</p>
<p>His system is remarkable chiefly for the daring conception which it
expresses and for the exceptional skill shown in devising mechanism
absolutely safe in its operation.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_216.jpg" width="550" height="266" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A CAR PASSING OVER ANOTHER ON THE ANTI-COLLISION RAILWAY.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>A single track is used, on which railway-cars are caused to travel.
Two cars are rushing towards each other at a speed of twenty-five
miles an hour, so that a collision would, under ordinary conditions,
be inevitable, when suddenly one of the cars runs, not into, but over
the top of the other and lands on the track on the other side, where it
continues in perfect safety to its destination. The underneath car has
proceeded as if nothing had happened.</p>
<p>The cars, although they run upon wheels, are really travelling bridges,
with overhanging compartments for the accommodation of passengers.
Over the framed structure of the cars thus constituted an arched track
is carried, securely fastened to the car and serving the purpose of
providing a road-bed for the colliding car. This superimposed track
is built in accordance with well-understood principles of bridge
construction.</p>
<p>The passengers find accommodation in the cars arranged along each side of
the travelling structure. The cars run at a speed of about ten to fifteen
miles an hour, and are caused to collide at about eight miles an hour,
which is quite sufficient for amusement purposes. The principle upon
which these cars are constructed renders it impossible for one to crush
the other while going over it.</p>
<p>In this device the speed of the cars is immaterial. One car may be moving
very slowly—such as is the case sometimes in crowded streets—and the
overtaking car, when meeting with obstructions, though it may be in close
proximity, can go straight ahead just as though nothing had happened. In
fact, automobiles and carts can go over the cars just as though they were
mounting a gradual incline or small hill.</p>
<p>In cases of street locomotion there is a fender effect for the safety of
people crossing the streets, which picks the person up and lands him down
on the other side unhurt.</p>
<p>A great deal might be done with a system of this character, and Mr.
Stern's next work will be a careful study on the lines of carrying
freight, as he believes that a single line of railway may be duplexed in
this manner, and thus enable more business to be carried on than by the
ordinary railroad having two tracks.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;">
<img src="images/ill_217.jpg" width="550" height="222" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A GENERAL VIEW OF LHASSA FROM THE EAST.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<h2><a name="The_Forbidden_City_of_Lhassa" id="The_Forbidden_City_of_Lhassa"></a><i>The Forbidden City of Lhassa.</i></h2>
<p class="p1"><span class="smcap">By G. T. Tsybikov.</span></p>
<blockquote>
<p>[As soon as the brief telegraphic announcement of M. Tsybikov's remarkable journey reached England
we took steps to secure the earliest account in an English magazine of this expedition. At the present
moment its value is enhanced by the fact that a British mission is being dispatched into the mysterious
land of Tibet. The account of "The Forbidden City of Lhassa" which follows is the first that has been
written by a visitor to Lhassa since the French missionary Huc spent a few months there in 1845. It
has been translated and edited for <span class="smcap">The Strand Magazine</span> by David B. Macgowan, by permission
of the Russian Imperial Geographical Society.]</p></blockquote>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 121px;">
<img class="drop-capi" src="images/217-drop-mg.png" width="121" height="120" alt="M" />
<span class="hidden">M.</span></span> G. T. Tsybikov is by birth a Russian Bouriat from the Trans-Baikal
territory. He learned his own, the Mongolian, and the Tibetan languages
in infancy and boyhood, and completed his education in the St. Petersburg
schools for Oriental languages. He was sent to Tibet by the Russian
Imperial Geographical Society, and his success in reaching the Tibetan
capital and in remaining there or in its vicinity for more than a year
was due in large measure to the careful planning of his journey by the
experienced officers of this society. He carried a high-class camera of
special construction and returned with a number of excellent photographs,
some of which are reproduced with this article.</p>
<p>The explorer left Lhassa on September 10th, 1901, but was detained on his
return journey and did not reach the hospitable Russian consulate at Urga
until the middle of last year.</p>
<p>The following is his narrative:—</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>On May 7th, 1900, a caravan of about seventy Mongolian and Amdo Lamas
left the Amdo monastery of Goumboum for Lhassa. I had joined it as
a simple pilgrim. We rode and carried our belongings on about two
hundred horses and mules obtained in Amdo, and lived in seventeen
tents. After a journey of twenty-two days across the uninhabited North
Tibetan table-land, we pitched camp on the banks of the San-chou, on
the northern side of the Boumza Ridge. Here we, for the first time, met
with inhabitants of Central Tibet. Our road was, in fact, blocked by the
first of a series of military posts maintained to stop the advance of
foreigners and to notify the Government of their presence. It was near
here that the great Russian explorer, P. M. Przhevalsky, was compelled to
turn back upon his third journey into Central Asia. The soldiers of the
post at once came to our camp and, observing that ours was an ordinary
pilgrim caravan, resumed their usual occupations, which were mainly
barter on a small scale and keeping a sharp look-out for any unconsidered
trifles which were not tied down.</p>
<p>After four short marches we reached the Nak-chou monastery. Here reside
the two governors of the local nomadic tribes—one, called the "Khanbo,"
being a priest, and the other, called the "Nansal," being a layman.
They rule the natives, collect taxes, control the post-stations, and
investigate suspicious travellers. I fell into the latter class, thanks
to the head of our caravan, who reported that there were Bouriats among
the Mongolians.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> Although it had been recently decided that Bouriats
were to be admitted into the country, the "Khanbo" squeezed five "lans"
of silver out of me, which sum removed me from the category of suspects
and opened the road to Lhassa, where we arrived on August 16th, after a
journey of three months from Goumboum.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;">
<img src="images/ill_218.jpg" width="550" height="235" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>LHASSA FROM THE NORTH.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>Lhassa, or Lhadàn as it is sometimes called, means the "land of the
gods," or "full of gods." It was founded in the seventh century
<span class="smcap">A.D.</span> by the Khan Srontszan-Gambo, who, it is related, had among
his wives a Nepaulese and a Chinese princess, and they brought with them
statues of Buddha Sakya Muni. For these statues temples were built in
Lhassa, and the Khan settled on the hill where now stands the palace of
the Dalai-Lama—the supreme ruler of Tibet both in spiritual and worldly
affairs. The city is situated in a broad plain, bordered on one side by
the Wi-chou and on the other by the high mountains on its right bank. Not
counting Bodalà, the residence of the Dalai-Lama, it is almost circular
in form, with a diameter of about one English mile. However, numerous
parks to the south and west, the proximity of Bodalà and two other
palaces, have caused its girth to be stated as about twenty-five miles.
As a matter of fact, the circular road around the city is not more than
eight miles long. The devout are in the habit of making the circuit,
prostrating themselves continually. A zealous pilgrim can complete the
journey in two days, making three thousand prostrations a day. They
travel, in fact, on their stomachs, drawing up their legs as far as
possible, and pushing themselves forward a body's length at a time,
standing erect, however, between the movements and falling flat again.
Sometimes the pilgrims protect their hands with boards, though these are
not the most fervent devotees. Thus they traverse not only the circuit
of the city, but often pass three times and even seven times round it.
The last feat takes about a fortnight, and requires forty-two thousand
prostrations!</p>
<p>The Tibetans are very fond of parks and forests, and their capital
presents a beautiful appearance from a distance, particularly in spring
and autumn, when the golden roofs of the two principal temples and the
white walls of many-storied houses gleam and glisten among the tree-tops.
The enchantment of the view from afar disappears abruptly when one enters
the crooked and extremely narrow streets, which during the rainy season
are transformed into muddy pools, in which one sees here and there the
corpse of a yak or other pack animal.</p>
<p>The plain in which the city lies is subject to inundations both from the
river and from mountain streams. Dykes and canals have been constructed
both inside and outside the city for protection from overflows. The
houses of the common people are built of stone plates or of unbaked
bricks, one-storied usually, except in the cities, where two and three
storied houses prevail. The window openings are either bare or are
protected merely with muslin or calico in summer, and with paper in
winter. Fire-places are provided only in the kitchen, and are heated only
for the preparation of food.</p>
<p>In the centre of the city stands the temple in which the great statue
of Buddha is placed. This temple is a rectangular structure about one
hundred and forty feet square. It is three<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> stories high and has four
gilded roofs in Chinese style, with gates and a door opening to the west.
The temple contains a number of gloomy chambers lighted with candles,
in all of which there are various statues of Buddhas. The chief object
of veneration is placed beneath a costly baldachin in the middle room.
It is the great statue of Buddha Sakya Muni, just mentioned. It is of
bronze, and is distinguished from ordinary images of the Indian sage
by its ornaments of hammered gold on head and breast, encrusted with
precious stones, mainly turquoises. The face of the statue is decorated
with burnished gold, put on in the form of a powder. Golden lamps fed
with animal fat, placed on long, bench-like tables, burn before it
continually. These lamps are the gifts of worshippers.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 550px;">
<img src="images/ill_219.jpg" width="550" height="348" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>THE ANCIENT PALACE OF THE TIBETAN KINGS.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>Almost equal honour is bestowed upon two other statues in the same
temple, that of Avalokiteshvar, who is supposed to be reincarnated in
the Dalai-Lamas, and the statue of Bal-Lhamo, the patroness of women.
Libations of barley-wine, called the "golden drink," are constantly
being poured out before this statue and barley grains are liberally
strewn on the ground, supplying inexhaustible food to the multitude of
mice which thrive here undisturbed, as they are accounted sacred. They
have comfortable nests in the drapery of the statue. The bodies of these
mice, when accidentally killed, are regarded as very useful to ladies who
are expecting babies, and are exported thousands of miles to Mongolia
and Amdo. However, mice in other houses in Lhassa do not share their
privileged position, being, as in other countries, the prey of cats.</p>
<p>The ancient palace of the Tibetan kings, shown in the photograph given
above, is carefully preserved as a monument of great interest in the
history of the city. It was the residence of the last King of Tibet,
before the Dalai-Lama received the temporal as well as the spiritual
power. It is the only building in Lhassa which is not allowed to be
white-washed.</p>
<p>Above all the buildings of the city rises Bodalà, the palace of the
Dalai-Lama, about a thousand yards to the west, and built on a rocky
eminence. Although commenced earlier, it was rebuilt and extended, with
the addition of the central part, called the "red palace," during the
lifetime, or shortly after the death, of the celebrated fifth Dalai-Lama,
Agvan Lovsan-chzhiamtso. The palace was evidently built mainly for
purposes of defence, being, in fact, the survivor of those ancient
castles with whose ruins Tibet is richly strewn, and whose sad fate was
largely the work of this very Bodalà.</p>
<p>The palace is about fourteen hundred feet long and nine to ten stories
high. The front and sides are surrounded by a wall, while the rear
is protected by the mountain. In the construction of this palace the
Tibetans exhausted all their architectural skill, and it contains much
of the wealth and all that Tibet possesses of artistic value, notably
the golden epitaph of the fifth Dalai-Lama. The valuables and the
Dalai-Lama's apartments are in the central part of the palace, which is
called the "red palace," but is really painted brown. In other parts
of the palace live various officials, employés, and followers of the
Dalai-Lama, including a chapter of five hundred monks. Among the duties
of the latter are the recital of prayers for the happiness and long life
of the Dalai-Lama.</p>
<p>The mint, the courts of justice, and the prison are situated in a
courtyard under the hillside, and a little farther on is the only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>
medical school in Tibet, the "Manba Datsan." It has sixty teachers,
supported by the Dalai-Lama. Westward and lower down the hill from the
palace and the medical school are the temples of Chinese Buddhists, while
two other palaces, one of which is the summer palace of the Dalai-Lama,
are situated only a little farther. Lhassa itself contains two faculties
for instruction in the mystical cults, embracing together twelve hundred
men.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_220.jpg" width="550" height="231" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>MOUNT MAR-BO-RI, AND BODALÀ, THE PALACE OF THE DALAI-LAMA.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>Lhassa is a city of women. The entire population, excluding priests, can
scarcely exceed ten thousand persons, and at least two-thirds of these
are women. The city might seem more populous owing to the proximity of
two great monasteries and to the great ingress, at particular times, of
the rural inhabitants and of pilgrims from Lamaitic countries. It is the
most important commercial centre of the country, being the intermediary
between India and Western Tibet and between China and Eastern Tibet.
The market is situated around the great temple, and the lower floors of
houses, as well as all free spaces on the streets and public squares, are
occupied by shops and booths. The clerks in the shops, excepting those
kept by Kashmir and Nepaul merchants, are nearly all women.</p>
<p>Not only Lhassa, but Tibet itself can be described as the land of women
and women's rights. This is due to the vast number of celibate priests.
The results of this institution to a large part of the female population
are complete independence both in business and in personal conduct. In
family life both polygamy and polyandry are met with. The marriage of
several brothers with one wife, or of several sisters with one husband,
is regarded as the ideal condition.</p>
<p>In no country in the world, perhaps, do women play a greater part in
business than in Tibet. I can recall no occupation that is carried on
in the country in which women are not actively engaged, and they often
conduct great undertakings quite independently of men.</p>
<p>The choice of a new Dalai-Lama is put into practice in the following
picturesque manner: The names of three candidates, determined upon in
a previously agreed manner, are written on separate tickets and then
put into a golden urn. The urn is set in front of the great statue of
Buddha, and religious services designed to disclose the identity of the
"reincarnate"<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> are held by deputies from the monasteries. The urn is
then taken to Bodalà and set down before a small board inscribed with the
name of the Emperor, and in the presence of the highest officials, and
of deputies from the principal monasteries, the Manchurian Amban—the
representative of the Emperor—removes one of the tickets by means of
a pair of chop-sticks. The choice so made is confirmed by an Imperial
rescript, and the happy, or unhappy, boy is transferred to the palace.
From this moment he receives the veneration and the honours due to his
station. From his earliest years he is taught reading and writing by a
special master selected from among the most illustrious Lamas. After this
he is given a purely theological education. For purposes of practical
disputation all the theological faculties of the principal monasteries
send one of their members. Upon the completion of the prescribed course
of study he receives the highest theological degree in the same saints
are supposed to have become reincarnated.]<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> manner as other Lamas do, but
naturally makes a more lavish distribution of money to the monasteries.
As a matter of course his generosity is rewarded by a correspondingly
careful selection of questions on the part of the examiners.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_221.jpg" width="550" height="299" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>BODALÀ FROM THE NORTH-WEST.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>The present Dalai-Lama has now, at the age of twenty-one or twenty-two,
attained his majority. Since 1806 there have been five new Dalai-Lamas.
Six or seven years ago the present holder of the title entered upon
a struggle with his regent, the most illustrious of the Tibetan
"reincarnates," and issued from it victorious, thereby escaping the
fate of his four predecessors, who died comparatively young, most of
them having been put to death by their regents, or the rivals of the
latter. The present Dalai-Lama accused his regent of having performed
conjurations against his life, confiscated the regent's large estate,
and placed him under strict domiciliary arrest. The regent was found
dead one fine morning. The Dalai-Lama is evidently an energetic and
well-intentioned man. One of his first acts after seizing the reins of
authority was the abolition of the death penalty.</p>
<p>The supreme administration is in the hands of a council under the
presidency of the Dalai-Lama, known as the "Devashoun." The four
principal members are appointed by the Chinese Emperor. Justice is
sold, and in general all Government business is carried on by means
of bribery. Criminal inquiries are pursued by means of whipping and
other tortures, the most cruel of which is probably cauterization with
blazing sealing-wax. The penalties are flogging, imprisonment, exile into
slavery, blinding, amputation of the fingers, and perpetual fetters or
stocks.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_221a.jpg" width="550" height="290" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>BODALÀ FROM THE NORTH.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>Four thousand soldiers are maintained at the cost of the State. Their
armament consists of swords, muzzle-loading firearms, and bows and
arrows. A helmet decorated with feathers is worn and a small shield
is carried, and some wear a cuirass also. The discipline is poor. The
soldiers live in their villages, and assemble only periodically for drill
in archery and in the use of firearms. The army is divided into cavalry
and infantry. The Central Tibetan is averse to war and military service.
One often sees a soldier on the way to the drill-ground placidly spinning
wool or sewing on a boot-sole, or perhaps employing the time which would
otherwise be wasted in telling a rosary or turning a prayer-cylinder. The
nomadic clans of Eastern Tibet, who are prone to raiding their peaceful
neighbours, strive as a rule to avoid bloodshed, employing intimidation
oftener than force. The slightest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> determined opposition sends them back
home.</p>
<p>The Tibetans have lately been taking a more and more pronounced fancy for
English goods, and Indian rupees have begun to compete with the native
coin. Among the articles exported to India are yak tails, sheep's wool,
borax, salt, silver and gold, yaks, and horses and asses from Western
China.</p>
<p>Both men and women wear local cloth in various colours. The clothing of
the poor is usually white, because white is the cheapest. Soldiers wear
dark blue, the well-to-do classes prefer red, and the princes and higher
officials are privileged to wear yellow. The people are vain and fond of
display. They wear jewellery of gold, silver, corals, diamonds, rubies,
pearls, turquoises, and other stones.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_222.jpg" width="550" height="300" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A NEAR VIEW OF THE DALAI-LAMA'S PALACE.</p>
<p><cite>From a Photo.</cite></p></div>
</div>
<p>The principal article of food is flour of roasted barley. It is mixed
with tea or barley-wine. The most common vegetable is the radish. The
favourite dish of all classes is a porridge of barley-flour mixed with
finely-chopped radishes. The best variety of this porridge is prepared
with a bouillon of pounded bones, which can be had only by the rich.
Tibetans love raw or underdone meat. Yak-meat, mutton, and pork are more
highly esteemed than beef. The flesh of asses and horses is not eaten.
Fish is eaten by the poor, fowl not at all, chickens being kept only for
the sake of eggs. Butter is used principally as fuel for holy lamps. Sour
milk, treated in a special way, is highly esteemed as a drink and is
the common poetic symbol of pure white. Both men and women drink great
quantities of barley-wine, which is but slightly intoxicating and is
very cheap. The men smoke leaf tobacco in pipes, the monks crush it into
snuff. Tobacco is dear, and it is usually mixed for smoking with leaves
of another plant.</p>
<p>The Tibetan is very impressionable and superstitious, and he goes to
the Lamas, or oracles, after every event in his life and demands the
explanation of it. In case of sickness he puts more faith in a grain
of barley blessed by a Lama than in medicine; or he prefers, if able,
to send for a Lama to read whole litanies in his presence. However, he
is also disposed to be merry, and proves it by singing and dancing on
holidays and during carousals.</p>
<p>The Tibetan's requirements are limited. The local coin was worth ten
cents during my stay in Tibet. Nevertheless, one of these coins is the
highest wage known, that of a Lama for a whole day's prayers. The best
spinner in the rural districts receives seven cents a day; the ordinary
labourer, whether man or woman, two or three cents. Domestic servants
scarcely ever get any money, receiving only food and clothing.</p>
<p>Beggary thrives in Lhassa, this being the sole recourse of criminals who
have been blinded, or have lost their hands, or been bound to perpetual
fetters or stocks. In fact, begging is regarded with no shame, even when
practised by the comparatively well-to-do, especially priests.</p>
<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>The "reincarnates" are persons in whom the souls of former
saints are supposed to have become reincarnated.</p></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<a name="The_Phoenix_and_the_Carpet" id="The_Phoenix_and_the_Carpet"></a>
<img src="images/ill_223.jpg" width="446" height="450" alt="The Phoenix and the Carpet" />
</div>
<p class="center">Copyright, 1904, by George Newnes, Limited.</p>
<p class="p3">VIII.—THE CATS, THE COW, AND THE BURGLAR.</p>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 120px;">
<img class="drop-capi" src="images/222-drop-the.png" width="120" height="120" alt="T" />
<span class="hiddena">T</span></span><span class="smcap">he</span> nursery was full of Persian cats and musk-rats that had been brought
there by the Wishing Carpet. The cats were mewing and the musk rats were
squeaking so that you could hardly hear yourself speak. In the kitchen
were the four children, one candle, a concealed Phoenix, and a very
visible policeman.</p>
<p>"Now, then, look here," said the policeman, very loudly, and he pointed
his lantern at each child in turn; "what's the meaning of this here
yelling and caterwauling? I tell you you've got a cat here, and someone's
a-illtreating of it. What do you mean by it, eh?"</p>
<p>It was five to one, counting the Phoenix, but the policeman, who was
one, was of unusually fine size, and the five, including the Phoenix,
were small. The mews and the squeaks grew softer, and in the comparative
silence Cyril said:—</p>
<p>"It's true. There are a few cats here. But we've not hurt them. It's
quite the opposite. We've just fed them."</p>
<p>"It don't sound like it," said the policeman, grimly.</p>
<p>"If you understood anything except people who steal and do murders and
stealings and naughty things like that I'd tell you all about it," said
Robert, "but I'm certain you don't. You're not meant to shove your oar
into people's private cat-keepings. You're only supposed to interfere
when people shout 'Murder!' and 'Stop thief!' in the street. So there!"</p>
<p>The policeman assured them that he should see about that, and at this
point the Phoenix, who had been making itself small on the pot-shelf
under the dresser, among the saucepan-lids and the fish-kettle, walked
on tip-toed claws in a noiseless and modest manner, and left the room
unnoticed by anyone.</p>
<p>"Oh, don't be so horrid!" Anthea was saying, gently and earnestly. "We
<em>love</em> cats—dear, pussy-soft things. We wouldn't hurt them for worlds.
Would we, Pussy?"</p>
<p>And Jane answered that of course they wouldn't.</p>
<p>And still the policeman seemed unmoved by their eloquence.</p>
<p>"Now, look here," he said, "I'm a going to see what's in that room beyond
there—and——"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p>
<p>His voice was drowned in a wild burst of mewing and squeaking.</p>
<p>And as soon as it died down all four children began to explain at once,
and though the squeaking and mewing were not at their very loudest, yet
there was quite enough of both to make it very hard for the policeman to
understand a single word of any of the four wholly different explanations
now poured out to him.</p>
<p>"Stow it!" he said, at last. "I'm a-going into the next room in the
execution of my duty. I'm a-going to use my eyes—my ears are gone off
their chumps, what with you and them cats."</p>
<p>And he pushed Robert aside and strode through the door.</p>
<p>"Don't say I didn't warn you," said Robert.</p>
<p>"It's tigers, <em>really</em>," said Jane. "Father said so. I wouldn't go in if
I were you."</p>
<p>But the policeman was quite stony; nothing anyone said seemed to make any
difference to him. Some policemen are like this, I believe. He strode
down the passage, and in another moment he would have been in the room
with all the cats and all the rats (musk), but at that very instant a
thin, sharp voice screamed from the street outside:—</p>
<p>"Murder! Murder! Stop thief!"</p>
<p>The policeman stopped, with one regulation boot heavily poised in the air.</p>
<p>"Eh?" he said.</p>
<p>And again the shrieks sounded shrilly and piercingly from the dark street
outside.</p>
<p>"Come on," said Robert. "Come and look after cats while somebody's being
killed outside." For Robert had an inside feeling that told him quite
plainly <em>who</em> it was that was screaming.</p>
<p>"You young rip!" said the policeman. "I'll settle up with you bimeby."</p>
<p>And he rushed out; and the children heard his boots going weightily
along the pavement, and the screams also going along rather ahead of the
policeman, and both the murder-screams and the policeman's boots faded
away in the remote distance.</p>
<p>Then Robert smacked his knickerbockers loudly with his palm, and said:—</p>
<p>"Good old Phœnix! I should know its golden voice anywhere."</p>
<p>And then everyone understood how cleverly the Phœnix had caught at
what Robert had said about the real work of a policeman being to look
after murderers and thieves, and not after cats, and all hearts were
filled with admiring affection.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 293px;">
<img src="images/ill_224.jpg" width="293" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THE POLICEMAN STOPPED, WITH ONE REGULATION BOOT POISED IN
THE AIR."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"But he'll come back," said Anthea, mournfully, "as soon as he finds the
murderer is only a bright vision of a dream, and there isn't one at all
really."</p>
<p>"No, he won't," said the soft voice of the clever Phœnix, as he flew
in. "<em>He does not know where your house is.</em> I heard him own as much to a
fellow-mercenary. Oh! what a night we are having! Lock the door, and let
us rid ourselves of this intolerable smell of the perfume peculiar to the
musk-rat and to the house of the trimmers of beards. If you'll excuse me
I will go to bed. I am worn out."</p>
<p>It was Cyril who wrote the paper that told the carpet to take away the
rats and bring milk, because there seemed to be no doubt in any breast
that, however Persian cats may be, they must like milk.</p>
<p>"Let's hope it won't be musk-milk," said Anthea, in gloom, as she pinned
the paper face-downwards on the carpet. "Is there such a thing as a
musk-cow?" she added, anxiously, as the carpet shrivelled and vanished.
"I do hope not. Perhaps, really, it <em>would</em> have been wiser to let<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> the
carpet take the cats away. It's getting quite late, and we can't keep
them all night."</p>
<p>"Oh, can't we?" was the bitter rejoinder of Robert, who had been
fastening the side door. "You might have consulted me," he went on. "I'm
not such an idiot as some people."</p>
<p>"Why, whatever——"</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_225.jpg" width="500" height="536" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"ROBERT AND CYRIL HELD THE COW BY THE HORNS."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Don't you see? We've jolly well <em>got</em> to keep the cats all night—oh,
get down, you furry beasts!—because we've had three wishes out of the
old carpet now, and we can't get any more till to-morrow."</p>
<p>The liveliness of Persian mews alone prevented the occurrence of a dismal
silence.</p>
<p>Anthea spoke first. "Never mind," she said. "Do you know, I really do
think they're quieting down a bit. Perhaps they heard us say milk."</p>
<p>"They can't understand English," said Jane. "You forget they're Persian
cats, Panther."</p>
<p>"Well," said Anthea, rather sharply, for she was tired and anxious, "who
told you milk wasn't Persian for milk? Lots of English words are just the
same in French—at least, I know 'miaw' is, and croquet, and <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">fiancé</i>.
Oh, pussies, do be quiet! Let's stroke them as hard as we can with both
hands, and perhaps they'll stop."</p>
<p>So everyone stroked grey fur till their hands were tired, and as soon
as a cat had been stroked enough to make it stop mewing it was pushed
gently away, and another mewing mouser was approached by the hands of the
strokers. And the noise was really more than half purr when the carpet
suddenly appeared in its proper place, and on it, instead of rows of
milk-cans or even of milk-jugs, there was a <em>cow</em>. Not a Persian cow,
either; nor, most fortunately, a musk-cow, if there is such a thing, but
a smooth, sleek, dun-coloured Jersey cow, who blinked large, soft eyes at
the gaslight and mooed in an amiable, if rather inquiring, manner.</p>
<p>Anthea had always been afraid of cows. But now she tried to be brave.</p>
<p>"Anyway, it can't run after me," she said to herself. "There isn't room
for it even to begin to run."</p>
<p>The cow was perfectly placid. She behaved like a strayed duchess till
someone brought a saucer for the milk and someone else tried to milk
the cow into it. Milking is very difficult. You may think it is easy,
but it is not. All the children were by this time strung up to a pitch
of heroism that would have been impossible to them in their ordinary
condition. Robert and Cyril held the cow by the horns, and when she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>
quite sure that their end of the cow was secure Jane consented to stand
by, ready to hold the cow by the tail, should occasion arise. Anthea,
holding the saucer, now advanced towards the cow. She remembered to
have heard that cows, when milked by strangers, are susceptible to the
soothing influence of the human voice. So, clutching her saucer very
tight, she sought for words to whose soothing influence the cow might be
susceptible. And her memory, troubled by the events of the night, which
seemed to go on and on for ever and ever, refused to help her with any
form of words suitable to address a Jersey cow in.</p>
<p>"Poor pussy, then. Lie down, then, good dog, lie down," was all she could
think of to say, and she said it. And nobody laughed—the situation, full
of grey, mewing cats, was too serious for that.</p>
<p>Then Anthea, with a beating heart, tried to milk the cow. Next moment the
cow had knocked the saucer out of her hand and trampled on it with one
foot, while with the other three she had walked on a foot each of Robert,
Cyril, and Jane.</p>
<p>Jane burst into tears.</p>
<p>"Oh, how much too horrid everything is!" she cried. "Come away. Let's go
to bed and leave the horrid cats with the hateful cow. Perhaps somebody
will eat somebody else. And serve them right."</p>
<p>They did not go to bed, but had a shivering council in the drawing-room,
which smelt of soot—and, indeed, a heap of this lay in the fender. There
had been no fire in the room since mother went away, and all the chairs
and tables were in the wrong places, and the chrysanthemums were dead,
and the water in their pots nearly dried up.</p>
<p>Anthea wrapped the embroidered, woolly sofa-blanket round Jane and
herself, while Robert and Cyril had a struggle, silent and brief, but
fierce, for the larger share of the fur hearthrug.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_226.jpg" width="500" height="263" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"ROBERT AND CYRIL HAD A STRUGGLE FOR THE LARGER SHARE OF
THE FUR HEARTHRUG."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"It is most truly awful," said Anthea. "And I <em>am</em> so tired. Let's let
the cats loose."</p>
<p>"And the cow, perhaps?" said Cyril. "The police would find us at once.
That cow would stand at the gate and mew—I mean moo—to come in. And
so would the cats. No; I see quite well what we've got to do. We must
put them in baskets and leave them on people's doorsteps, like orphan
foundlings."</p>
<p>"We've got three baskets, counting mother's work one," said Jane,
brightening.</p>
<p>"And there are nearly two hundred cats," said Anthea, "besides the cow,
and it would have to be a different-sized basket for her. And then I
don't know how you'd carry it, and you'd never find a doorstep big enough
to put it on, except the church one, and——"</p>
<p>"Oh, well," said Cyril, "if you simply <em>make</em> difficulties——"</p>
<p>"I'm with you," said Robert. "Don't fuss about the cow, Panther. It's
simply <em>got</em> to stay the night, and I'm sure I've read that the cow is
a remunerating creature, and that means it will sit still and think for
hours. The carpet can take it away in the morning. And as for baskets,
we'll do them up in dusters or pillow-cases, or bath-towels. Come on,
Squirrel. You girls can be out of it, if you like."</p>
<p>His tone was full of contempt, but Jane and Anthea were too tired and
desperate to care; even being "out of it," which at other times they
could not have borne, now seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> quite a comfort. They snuggled down in
the sofa-blanket and Cyril threw the fur hearthrug over them.</p>
<p>"Ah," he said, "that's all women are fit for—to keep safe and warm while
the men do the work and run dangers and risks and things."</p>
<p>"I'm not," said Anthea; "you know I'm not."</p>
<p>But Cyril was gone.</p>
<p>It was warm under the blanket and the hearthrug, and Jane snuggled up
close to her sister, and Anthea cuddled Jane closely and kindly, and in
a sort of dream they heard the rise of a wave of mewing as Robert opened
the door of the nursery. They heard the booted search for baskets in the
back kitchen. They heard the side door open and close, and they knew that
each brother had gone out with at least one cat. Anthea's last thought
was that it would take at least all night to get rid of one hundred and
ninety-nine cats by twos. There would be eighty-nine journeys of two cats
each, and one cat over. "I almost think we might keep the one cat over,"
said Anthea; "I don't seem to care for cats just now, but I dare say I
shall again some day." And she fell asleep. Jane also was sleeping.</p>
<p>It was Jane who awoke with a start to find Anthea still asleep. As in the
act of awakening she kicked her sister, she wondered idly why they should
have gone to bed in their boots, but the next moment she remembered where
they were.</p>
<p>There was a sound of muffled, shuffled feet on the stairs. Like the
heroine of the classic poem, Jane "thought it was the boys," and, as she
now felt quite wide awake and not nearly so tired as before, she crept
gently from Anthea's side and followed the footsteps. They went down
into the basement. The cats, which seemed to have fallen into the sleep
of exhaustion, awoke at the sound of the approaching footsteps and mewed
piteously. Jane was at the foot of the stairs before she saw that it was
not her brothers whose coming had roused her and the cats, but a burglar.
She knew he was a burglar at once, because he wore a fur cap and a red
and black charity-check comforter, and he had no business where he was.</p>
<p>If you had been stood in Jane's shoes you would no doubt have run away
in them, appealing to the police and neighbours with horrid screams. But
Jane knew better. She had read a great many nice stories about burglars,
as well as some affecting pieces of poetry, and she knew that no burglar
will ever hurt a little girl if he meets one when burgling. Indeed, in
all the cases Jane had read of his burglarishness was almost at once
forgotten in the interest he felt in the little girl's artless prattle.
So if Jane hesitated for a moment before addressing the burglar it was
only because she could not at once think of any remark sufficiently
prattling and artless to make a beginning. In the stories and the
affecting poetry the child could never speak plainly, though it always
looked old enough to in the pictures. And Jane could not make up her mind
to lisp and "talk baby," even to a burglar. And while she hesitated he
softly opened the nursery door and went in.</p>
<p>Jane followed—just in time to see him sit down flat on the floor,
scattering cats as a stone thrown into a pool splashes water.</p>
<p>She closed the door softly and stood there, still wondering whether she
<em>could</em> bring herself to say: "What's 'oo doing here, Mithter Wobber?"
and whether any other kind of talk would do.</p>
<p>Then she heard the burglar draw a long breath, and he spoke:—</p>
<p>"It's a judgment," he said. "Oh, 'ere's a thing to 'appen to a chap! Cats
an' cats an' cats. Let alone the cow. If she ain't the moral of the old
man's Daisy! She's a dream out of when I was a lad; I don't mind 'er so
much. 'Ere, Daisy, Daisy!"</p>
<p>The cow turned and looked at him.</p>
<p>"<em>She's</em> all right," he went on; "sort of company, too. But them
cats—oh, take 'em away, take 'em away! Oh, take 'em away!"</p>
<p>"Burglar," said Jane, close behind him, and he started convulsively and
turned on her a blank face whose pale lips trembled—"I can't take those
cats away."</p>
<p>"Lor'!" exclaimed the man; "if 'ere ain't another on 'em. Are you real,
miss, or something I'll wake up from presently?"</p>
<p>"I am quite real," said Jane, relieved to find that a lisp was not needed
to make the burglar understand her. "And so," she added, "are the cats."</p>
<p>"Then send for the police, send for the police, and I'll go quiet. If you
ain't no realler than them cats I'm done. Send for the police. I'll go
quiet. One thing, there'd not be room for 'arf them cats in no cell as
ever <em>I</em> see."</p>
<p>He ran his fingers through his hair, which was short, and his eyes
wandered wildly round the roomful of cats.</p>
<p>"Burglar," said Jane, kindly and softly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> "if you didn't like cats, what
did you come here for?"</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 431px;">
<img src="images/ill_228.jpg" width="431" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"'IT'S A JUDGMENT,' HE SAID. 'OH, 'ERE'S A THING TO 'APPEN
TO A CHAP!'"</p></div>
</div>
<p>"Send for the police," was the unfortunate criminal's only reply. "I'd
rather you would—honest, I'd rather."</p>
<p>"I daren't," said Jane; "and, besides, I've no one to send. I hate the
police. I wish he'd never been born."</p>
<p>"You've a feeling 'art, miss," said the burglar. "But them cats is really
a little bit too thick."</p>
<p>"Look here," said Jane. "I won't call the police. And I am quite a real
little girl, though I talk older than the kind you have met before when
you've been doing your burglings. And they <em>are</em> real cats—and they want
real milk—and—didn't you say the cow was like somebody's Daisy that you
used to know? Well, then, perhaps you know how to milk cows?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps I does," was the burglar's cautious rejoinder.</p>
<p>"Then," said Jane, "if you will <em>only</em> milk ours, you don't know how we
shall always love you."</p>
<p>The burglar replied that loving was all very well.</p>
<p>"If those cats only had a good, long, wet, thirsty drink of milk," Jane
went on, with eager persuasion, "they'll lie down and go to sleep as
likely as not, and then the police won't come back. But if they go on
mewing like this he will, and then I don't know what'll become of us or
you either."</p>
<p>This argument seemed to decide the criminal. Jane fetched the wash-bowl
from the sink and he prepared to milk the cow. At this instant boots were
heard on the stairs.</p>
<p>"It's all up," said the man, desperately. "This 'ere's a plant. <em>'Ere's</em>
the police." He made as if to open the window and leap from it.</p>
<p>"It's all right, I tell you," whispered Jane, in anguish. "I'll say
you're a friend of mine, or the good clergyman called in, or my uncle, or
<em>anything</em>—only do, do, do milk the cow. Oh, <em>don't</em> go—oh—oh, thank
goodness, it's only the boys!"</p>
<p>It was; and their entrance had awakened Anthea, who, with her brothers,
now crowded through the doorway. The man looked about him as a rat looks
round a trap.</p>
<p>"This is a friend of mine," said Jane. "He's just called in, and he's
going to milk the cow for us. <em>Isn't</em> it good and kind of him?"</p>
<p>She winked at the others, and though they did not understand they played
up loyally.</p>
<p>"How do?" said Cyril. "Very glad to meet you. Don't let us interrupt the
milking."</p>
<p>The burglar began to milk the cow, and the others went to get things to
put the milk in, for it was now spurting and foaming in the wash-bowl,
and the cats had ceased from mewing and were crowding round the cow, with
expressions of hope and anticipation on their whiskered faces.</p>
<p>"We can't get rid of any more cats," said Cyril, as he and his sisters
piled a tray high with saucers and soup-plates and platters and
pie-dishes; "the police nearly got us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> as it was. Not the same one—a
much stronger sort. He thought it really was a foundling orphan we'd got.
If it hadn't been for me throwing the two bags of cat slap in his eye
and hauling Robert over a railing, and lying like mice under a laurel
bush—well, it's jolly lucky I'm a good shot, that's all. He pranced off
when he'd got the cat-bags off his face—thought we'd bolted. And here we
are."</p>
<p>The gentle sameishness of the milk swishing into the hand-bowl seemed to
have soothed the burglar very much. He went on milking in a sort of happy
dream, while the children got a cup and ladled the warm milk out into the
pie-dishes and plates, and platters and saucers, and set them down to the
music of Persian purrs and lappings.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/ill_229.jpg" width="412" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"HE WENT ON MILKING IN A SORT OF HAPPY DREAM."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"It makes me think of old times," said the burglar, smearing his ragged
coat-cuff across his eyes; "about the apples in the orchard at home, and
the rats at threshing time, and the rabbits and the ferrets, and how
pretty it was seeing the pigs killed."</p>
<p>Finding him in this softened mood, Jane said:—</p>
<p>"I wish you'd tell us how you came to choose our house for your
burglaring to-night. I'm awfully glad you did. You <em>have</em> been so kind. I
don't know what we should have done without you," she added, hastily. "We
all love you ever so. Do tell us."</p>
<p>The others added their affectionate entreaties, and at last the burglar
said:—</p>
<p>"Well, it's my first job, and I didn't expect to be made so welcome, and
that's the truth, young gents and ladies. And I don't know but what it
won't be my last. For this 'ere cow, she reminds me of my father, and I
know 'ow 'e'd 'ave 'ided me if I'd laid 'ands on a 'apenny as wasn't my
own."</p>
<p>"Look here," said Cyril, "these cats are very valuable—very, indeed. And
we will give them all to you if only you will take them away."</p>
<p>"I see they're a breedy lot," replied the burglar; "but I don't want no
bother with the coppers. Did you come by them honest, now—straight?"</p>
<p>"They are all our very own," said Anthea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> "We wanted them; but the
confidement——"</p>
<p>"Consignment," whispered Cyril.</p>
<p>"——was larger than we wanted, and they're an awful bother. If you got
your barrow and some sacks or baskets we would be awfully pleased. My
father says Persian cats are worth pounds and pounds each."</p>
<p>"Well," said the burglar, and he was certainly moved by her remarks, "I
see you're in a hole; I've got a pal—I'll fetch him along, and if he
thinks they'd fetch anything above their skins, I don't mind doin' you a
kindness."</p>
<p>Then he went, and Cyril and Robert sent the girls to bed and sat up to
wait for his return. It soon seemed absurd to await him in a state of
wakefulness, but his stealthy tap on the window awoke them readily enough
when he returned. And he did return, with the pal and the barrow and the
sacks. The pal approved of the cats, now dormant in Persian repletion,
and they were bundled into the sacks and taken away on the barrow, mewing
indeed, but with mews too sleepy to attract public attention.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 389px;">
<img src="images/ill_230.jpg" width="389" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>"THEY WERE BUNDLED INTO THE SACKS."</p></div>
</div>
<p>"I'm a fence, that's what I am," said the burglar, gloomily; "I never
thought I'd come down to this and all acause er my kind 'art."</p>
<p>Cyril knew that a fence is a receiver of stolen goods, and he replied,
briskly:—</p>
<p>"I give you my word the cats aren't stolen. What do you make the time?"</p>
<p>"I ain't got the time on me," said the pal; "but it was just about
chucking-out time as I come by the Bull and Gate. I shouldn't wonder if
it was nigh upon one now."</p>
<p>When the cats had been removed and the boys and the burglar had parted
with warm expressions of friendship there remained only the cow.</p>
<p>"She must stay all night," said Robert. "Cook'll have a fit when she sees
her."</p>
<p>"All night?" said Cyril. "Why, it's to-morrow morning if it's one. We can
have another wish!"</p>
<p>So the carpet was urged, in a hastily-written note, to remove the cow to
wherever she belonged and to return to its proper place on the nursery
floor. And the cow could not be got to move on to the carpet. So Robert
got the clothes-line out of the back kitchen and tied one end very firmly
to the cow's horns and the other end to a bunched-up corner of the
carpet, and said, "Fire away!"</p>
<p>And carpet and cow vanished together, and the boys went to bed tired out,
and only too thankful that the evening at last was over.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p>
<p>Next morning the carpet lay calmly in its place, but one corner was very
badly torn. It was the corner that the cow had been tied on to.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="What_Is_a_Good_Advertisement" id="What_Is_a_Good_Advertisement"></a><i>What Is a Good Advertisement?</i></h2>
<p><span class="drop-capi" style="width: 122px;">
<img class="drop-capi" src="images/231-drop-what.png" width="122" height="120" alt="W" />
<span class="hidden">W</span></span><span class="smcap">hat</span> is a good advertisement? The question was recently asked of the
readers of <cite>Tit-Bits</cite>, who were desired to select the best twelve
advertisements which appeared in this magazine during six months—the
competitor selecting the greatest number of advertisements which
corresponded to the choice of the majority being rewarded with a
substantial prize. The grounds on which the competitors based their
opinions were probably, consciously or unconsciously, very much alike in
most instances. It is interesting to consider what these grounds were. We
reproduce on this and following pages reduced facsimiles of the twelve
winning advertisements, which will serve to illustrate the several points
which go to make up a good advertisement.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 330px;">
<img src="images/ill_231a.jpg" width="330" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>THIS ADVERTISEMENT SECURED THE FIRST PLACE ON THE VOTING
LIST.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figright" style="width: 328px;">
<img src="images/ill_231b.jpg" width="328" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>THIS SECURED THE SECOND PLACE.</p></div>
</div>
<p>We, as advertisers, are so convinced of the excellence of the
"Tit-Bits" Great Competition as a method of gauging the public taste in
advertisements, that we have decided to add</p>
<p>Moreover, the question is of interest to a greater number of persons than
may appear at first sight. To every advertiser, of course—that is, to
every man who has anything to sell, from the big firms who spend colossal
sums in making known the merits of their productions down to the smallest
village tradesman who puts his "ad" into the local paper—the question
of how to make the most efficient use of the means at his disposal is of
the greatest moment. But the general public, who have no occasion to use
advertisements for the purpose of business, have also a direct interest
in the question, for the simple reason that striking advertisements are
entertaining to read, while commonplace advertisements are dull. From
the same point of view the proprietors of periodical publications are
concerned,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> for it is clearly to their advantage to interest the readers
of their advertisements rather than to bore them.</p>
<p>An advertisement has three things to accomplish before it can be called
good. First, it must attract attention; secondly, it must arouse
interest; and thirdly, it must leave an impression on the brain—the
message must have struck home. It may in some cases make you want a
particular article, but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred its seed
lies dormant until the moment arrives for you to make your purchase; and
then, if the advertisement has done its work as a good advertisement
should do, your brain couples the article with a certain name, and that
particular brand stands a very big chance of finding you a purchaser.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 313px;">
<img src="images/ill_232a.jpg" width="313" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>THIRD.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 329px;">
<img src="images/ill_232b.jpg" width="329" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>FOURTH.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figright" style="width: 320px;">
<img src="images/ill_232c.jpg" width="320" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>FIFTH.</p></div>
</div>
<p>To catch the eye is the first essential of a good advertisement; the
first sense to which it appeals is that of sight. The object of the
skilful advertiser is to make the space he occupies—whether a page or
a portion of a page—the most conspicuous in the publication. Turn for
a moment to any page of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> advertisements you please, open and shut it
quickly, and you will generally find that there is one advertisement
which has immediately attracted your eye. Let two persons try at the same
time, and on comparing notes it will generally be found that the same
advertisement has been spotted by both. That one possesses the first
essential of a good advertisement more conspicuously than its fellows.</p>
<p>Try again, and this time run through the pages rapidly, so that every
leaf of the journal falls quickly from your thumb. There are certain to
be one or two pages which will stand out conspicuously and leave their
impression on your eye beyond all the rest, and you will turn back to see
what it is all about.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 337px;">
<img src="images/ill_233a.jpg" width="337" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>SIXTH.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 335px;">
<img src="images/ill_233b.jpg" width="335" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>SEVENTH.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figright" style="width: 323px;">
<img src="images/ill_233c.jpg" width="323" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>EIGHTH.</p></div>
</div>
<p>The cunning advertiser has thus obtained his audience—it is now his aim
to keep it, Here he has to introduce some connecting link to hold the
attention until his message has been duly delivered. Where the original
design has nothing particular about it to hold the attention, there is
no better method than the insertion of some catch sentence,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> generally a
question, which you are compelled to read, and, of course, to investigate
further.</p>
<p>It may be said that the language of a good advertisement should resemble
that of a telegram—straight to the point; the information is to be given
in the most concise, clear, and complete form possible, confined to the
main feature or features of the article advertised, so as to convince
the prospective buyer of the excellence of the goods in a short, logical
manner, and to do this so that fact and not fiction is apparent to the
reader.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 322px;">
<img src="images/ill_234a.jpg" width="322" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>NINTH.</p></div>
</div>
<p>In drawing up an advertisement there are many ways of incurring failure,
and one very sure method is the abuse of one's rivals. An advertisement
which is meant to be taken too seriously is rarely a success. Let the
reader's eye catch any of the hackneyed phrases, "Beware of Imitations,"
"Thousands of Testimonials," "Is the Best," and such like, and it will
immediately pass on to something else. Such well-worn and unconvincing
statements excite in him no interest, but rather a feeling of distrust.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 323px;">
<img src="images/ill_234b.jpg" width="323" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>TENTH.</p></div>
</div>
<p>It has been said that a magazine advertisement has three things to
accomplish before it can be called good, but in judging the quality of
the complete article two more things should be added, of less importance,
and really subdivisions of the striking home of the message.</p>
<p>The points one might apportion for each feature might be as follows:—</p>
<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="points">
<tr><td class="tdl"> </td><td class="tdl">Points.</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">1. Power to attract attention</td><td class="tdc">40</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">2. Power to hold attention</td><td class="tdc">20</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">3. Prominence of the article advertised </td><td class="tdc">20</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">4. Brevity of necessary information</td><td class="tdc">10</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl">5. Composition</td><td class="tdc">10</td></tr>
</table></div>
<p>And now, how do we stand in comparison with other nations in this matter
of effective advertising? It is universally admitted that advertisement
is the soul of business. How, then, does the business man of this country
compare with the business man of America. Some of our great advertising
firms certainly display no very marked inferiority, but as a rule it
is unfortunately true that to glance through the announcements in an
American magazine is to be brought face to face with the enormously
superior ability in design of the American over the Englishman. Here you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span>
have, as it were, your finger on the pulse of a country's commerce; you
can feel the vigorous beats, or the languid and anæmic current. And the
main reason is just this: that the American never loses sight of the fact
that the first three essentials in attracting and keeping attention are
novelty, novelty, novelty. Their skill in attracting attention in new
ways is always a matter of admiration.</p>
<p>The question altogether is one of far more importance than it may seem on
first consideration; it is hardly too much to say that the prosperity of
a nation's trade depends upon its ability in attractive advertising.</p>
<p>Advertisement is an art of its own, and if you are going to advertise to
any considerable extent and do it yourself, either your business must
suffer to allow you time to do your advertising well, or your advertising
must suffer so that you may properly attend to your business.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 312px;">
<img src="images/ill_235a.jpg" width="312" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>ELEVENTH.</p></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 315px;">
<img src="images/ill_235b.jpg" width="315" height="500" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>TWELFTH.</p></div>
</div>
<p>Of course, it is the advertising that suffers. If you do it yourself,
sooner or later it becomes a worry, and when a reminder arrives that your
copy is due very likely your instructions will be to repeat the last, or
possibly, if you have a minute or two to spare, you will sit down and
grind out a lot of nonsense which no one cares to read. If you wish to
make any genuine effort properly to employ the most important factor in
commerce, get someone who understands the art to do it for you; engage a
good man, and do not expect to get the same for five pounds as you would
for ten pounds.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="Curiosities" id="Curiosities"></a><i>Curiosities.</i></h2>
<p class="center">Copyright, 1904, By George Newnes, Ltd.</p>
<p class="center">[<i>We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section, and to pay
for such as are accepted.</i>]</p>
<p class="p1">"HUMAN NOTES."</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_236a.jpg" width="500" height="253" alt="" />
</div>
<p>"I beg to send you a photograph of some little boys in this parish
who were taking part in a Band of Hope entertainment. The item on the
programme was called 'Human Notes,' and the little songsters, each
taking the note he represented, sang a peal of bells and extracts from
nursery rhymes. I thought the idea might be useful for other places. The
framework is easily made and costs little, and was most heartily received
wherever tried."—Miss Statham, River Vicarage, Dover. Photo. by Mr. Ray
Sherman.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 287px;">
<img src="images/ill_236b.jpg" width="287" height="500" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="p1">HOW A SHOT BIRD REALLY FALLS.</p>
<p>"Painters of sporting subjects have often portrayed, from memory
necessarily, a bird in the act of being shot, either immediately before
or after the event. Here, at last, is an actual photograph of a wild
duck at the moment of receiving its <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">coup de grâce</i>. It was in a lonely,
low-lying bay on the West Coast of Ireland. Ducks were homing in fair
numbers overhead on their way to the large lakes lying inland, when,
telling my photographic friend to get well behind me and snap away as
fast as he could, I advanced a few paces and also merrily snapped away.
Upon developing the series at home that night we found that between us
our snaps had resulted in our obtaining the photograph here reproduced.
It shows clearly that a duck—well shot—falls like a plumb to the earth,
head foremost, and may serve to correct some of the imaginary pictures of
similar incidents."—Mr. Dudley M. Stone, 8, Chichele Road, Cricklewood,
N.W.</p>
<p class="p1">A FLOATING CHAPEL.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_236c.jpg" width="500" height="377" alt="" />
</div>
<p>"I took this photograph during the recent heavy floods in Wales. A
mission-room had been washed away during the night, and it was an
uncommon sight seeing a party of men 'towing' the edifice back to a place
of safety. It struck me as being a unique incident, so I forward it on to
you."—Mrs. E. L. F. Mansergh, 59, Madeley Road, Ealing, W.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 398px;">
<img src="images/ill_237a.jpg" width="398" height="500" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="p1">HOUSE-MOVING EXTRAORDINARY.</p>
<p>"This extraordinary photograph was taken a short time ago in Pittsburg,
Pa., of a house which is being moved up a hill, the former site being
bought by a railway company. It is a fifteen or twenty-roomed house,
built of brick, the hill is one hundred and fifty feet high, and the cost
of moving the house between £6,000 and £7,000."—Mr. D. Munro, 21, Sydney
Road, West Ealing, W.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_237b.jpg" width="500" height="514" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="p1">A STONE INSIDE A TREE.</p>
<p>This is a photograph of a piece of oak with a stone in the centre, two
inches square, found by Mr. A. Steven, sawyer, St. Mary's Isle Estate,
Kirkcudbright. The stone was situated three feet from the ground and
three inches in from the bark. Nothing could be discerned of it from the
outside.—The photo. is by Mr. A. Kello Henderson, chemist, Kirkcudbright.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 213px;">
<img src="images/ill_237c.jpg" width="213" height="300" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="p1">WILL READERS HELP?</p>
<p>"Can anyone give a clue to this 'Curiosity'? It is a dark-green silk
ribbon eight inches by one and a half inches, the accompanying letters,
figures, and key being beautifully embroidered in silver thread. The dots
between the upper letters are small metal discs secured by a tiny metal
bead sewn on with yellow silk. The wards of the key are sewn in black
silk. The embroidery is backed with canvas and interlined with seemingly
soft paper. I found it some years ago in a parcel of doll's finery
given to my little daughter by a friend who could throw no light upon
it. This badge has been the cause of much guesswork, speculation, and
earnest inquiry and search."—Mrs. Anne W. Newton, Ballybeg, Ballinglen,
Rathdrum, Ireland.</p>
<p class="p1">THE BITER BIT.</p>
<p>"The fox in the photograph was discovered quite dead in this curious
position on the morning of November 17th, 1903, by Mr. H. Sparling,
dairyman, Tadcaster. The wooden erection is a poultry house, and the
hole from which the fox is hanging is, when the door is shut for the
night, the only possible means of entering or leaving the same. Reynard
had evidently entered by this aperture, for inside were discovered three
fowls he had killed. (These are shown at the foot of the photograph.)
In leaving by the same means he stuck fast, the hole narrowing to quite
a point at the bottom, and the more he struggled the faster he had got,
till at last he could struggle no longer, and death intervened, probably
from exhaustion."—Mr. John H. Hull, chemist, Tadcaster.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 336px;">
<img src="images/ill_237d.jpg" width="336" height="500" alt="" />
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 490px;">
<img src="images/ill_238a.jpg" width="490" height="500" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="p1">A PRIMITIVE RAILWAY-STATION.</p>
<p>"I send you a photo. taken by Mrs. Hind, of Stoke-on-Trent. The photo.
shows a railway-station on the Eskdale and Ravenglass line, which
consists of a flat-bottomed boat turned up on its side, with a seat
inside for passengers. I think it likely this is the most primitive and
unique station in the United Kingdom. I may add that the guard is also
station-master, ticket-collector, and porter at the different stations
along the line, of which there are six or seven."—Mr. M. Hind, Felsham
Rectory, Bury St. Edmunds.</p>
<p class="p1">THE PRANKS OF A CYCLONE.</p>
<p>"This strangely-placed house is one of the pranks played by a cyclone
that almost destroyed the little town of St. Charles, Minn., U.S.A., on
October 6th, 1903. The building was carried from the hill, which may be
seen in the left-hand corner of the photo., for the distance of half a
mile. At the time the storm picked it up it was occupied by Mrs. Edward
Drew and two children, who escaped uninjured. The house itself was
practically undamaged, though left in the topsy-turvy condition shown
here."—Mr. Geo. E. Luxton, 3,220, Third Avenue, Minn.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_238b.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="p1">THE DREAM-PAINTING AT CAVE DAVAAR.</p>
<p>"Cave Davaar, or the Picture Cave, as it is sometimes called, near
Campbelltown, Argyllshire, is noted as being the repository of a mural
painting of the Crucifixion of our Lord. When the painting was first
discovered its author and the manner of its creation were a mystery.
Shortly, the story of the picture and its romance is as follows: Upon
a smooth mural surface of the rock which forms the inner wall of the
interior of the cave, and in a position adjusted to the light which
penetrates the cavern, visitors see a life-size representation of Christ
on the Cross, measuring seven feet from head to foot, the cross itself
being fifteen feet in height. It appears that Mr. McKinnon, a native
of Campbelltown, and now of Nantwich, was, it is believed, originally
a ship's carpenter by trade, with a strong artistic taste, which was
afterwards afforded proper training through the patronage and assistance
of the Argyll family. One night, about twelve years ago, he had a dream.
He saw, in his dream, on the inner wall of the Cave Davaar a vivid
picture of the Crucifixion, and so strikingly real and soul-stirring was
the vision that it continually haunted him in his waking hours. He could
not rest, and, as he himself said, 'I took my brushes and materials and
went to the cave. I found the smooth surface I had seen in my dream, and
set to work and painted. I stopped in the cave for twenty-four hours
until I had completed my task, and when I had finished I had painted
just the picture I had seen in my dream.'"—Mr. S. J. Oakley, H.M.S.
<i>Northampton</i>, Special Service.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 389px;">
<img src="images/ill_238c.jpg" width="389" height="500" alt="" />
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 312px;">
<img src="images/ill_239a.jpg" width="312" height="500" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="p1">A TERRIBLE FALL.</p>
<p>"I send you a snap-shot, taken by me, of a man falling ninety feet!
The high-diver (forming part of a street carnival show) climbed up his
ninety-foot ladder set up in the main street of Washington, N.C., half an
hour before he was to make his daring leap into four feet of water. As
he tested the ladder to see if all was in readiness one of the guy-ropes
broke, and, to the horror of the crowd below, man and ladder came
crashing down to the pavement. With rare presence of mind the athlete
turned when he felt the ladder start and slid down for his life, thus
lessening the fall by almost half. Strange to say he was not killed,
but his legs were badly broken."—Miss Mary Brickell Hoyt, Candler Post
Office, Buncombe Co., North Carolina.</p>
<p class="p1">AN ENORMOUS ICICLE.</p>
<p>We have published a great many photographs, at different times, of
strange and beautiful effects wrought by frost, but the annexed is so
striking and peculiar that we have no hesitation in adding it to the
number. In the words of the sender: "My photograph is of an enormous
icicle, or one might call it a land iceberg on a small scale. The ice was
formed during a recent frost by the overflow of a spring which runs from
a pipe about eighteen feet from the ground into the branches of a tree.
In the full sunlight it was a very pretty and novel sight."—Mr. Chas. W.
Chilton, 17, West Gate, Sleaford, Lines.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 352px;">
<img src="images/ill_239b.jpg" width="352" height="500" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="p1">WHEN IS A PLATE NOT A PLATE?</p>
<p>"The accompanying photographs are of a kitchen dinner-plate, which, as
I discovered by chance, consists of two distinct pieces held together
merely by their peculiar conformation. There is enough spring in
the outer piece to enable the parts to be separated, which has been
repeatedly done; but when they are reunited the whole will easily pass
for a slightly cracked plate. From the colour of the fracture it is
evident that the plate was in use in its present condition for at least
some weeks."—Mr. S. B. Whanker, 62, Acre Lane, Brixton, S.W.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/ill_239c.jpg" width="450" height="387" alt="" />
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figleft" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_240a.jpg" width="500" height="415" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="p1">AN OYSTER IN THE KETTLE.</p>
<p>"Here is the photo. of an oyster-shell which has been in a tea-kettle for
seven years. When I put it in it weighed about one and a half ounces,
and was not more than three thirty-seconds of an inch thick in any part.
Now it is three-quarters of an inch thick and weighs eleven ounces. It
had lain out in the garden for a long time and lost all the crust, which
accounted for it being so thin at first. No one has ever been able to
say what it is, although many have seen it in the glass case in the
shop."—Mr. R. G. Foster, Post Office Drug Stores, High Street, Burford,
Oxon.</p>
<p class="p1">A GEOGRAPHICAL POST-CARD.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_240b.jpg" width="500" height="318" alt="" />
</div>
<p>"This curious post-card was delivered to me in Richmond thirty-eight
hours after being posted in Lausanne. No other clue was given as to the
intended destination than that afforded by the physical peculiarities
of the 'map' itself—the address on the side of the card being written
during transmission. The full address as shown on the 'map' is as
follows, and is that of yours faithfully: 'To Edward H. W. Wingfield
King, Esq., 5, Spring Terrace, Richmond-on-Thames, Angleterre.'" This is,
perhaps, the most curious post-card of the many which we have published,
and which does the Post Office the most credit.</p>
<p class="p1">ELECTRIC LAMPS AND PLANT LIFE.</p>
<p>"At the present time, when the effect upon the rainfall of the kingdom
of multiplying electrical agencies is being discussed, it is interesting
to note the results which follow upon the use of electric lamps in the
public thoroughfares of our towns. There is to be seen at Southend-on-Sea
a remarkable instance of the influence which the electric street lamps
have upon the duration of leaves. In Cliff Town Parade those trees
contiguous to the lamps were still well covered on December the 1st ult.
on the side nearest the light, when the next tree, only a few yards
distant, was entirely denuded of leaves. Our photograph gives the first
tree in the parade with a good show of leaves on its front half, but the
back of the same tree, which has been shaded from the lamp, has entirely
shed its leaves. The next few trees are also quite bare of leaves, and
looking down the row one sees that only those trees opposite the lamps
bear any sign of verdure."—Mr. W. J. Cooper, 162, Stanstead Road, Forest
Mill, S.E.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/ill_240c.jpg" width="500" height="288" alt="" />
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="transnote">
<p class="p1">Transcriber notes:</p>
<p>Fixed various punctuation.</p>
<p>P.149. 'phesaant' changed to 'pheasant'.</p>
</div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 47642 ***</div>
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