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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/788-0.txt b/788-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..418c541 --- /dev/null +++ b/788-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4352 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Red One, by Jack London + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Red One + + +Author: Jack London + + + +Release Date: September 28, 2014 [eBook #788] +[This file was first posted on January 25, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED ONE*** + + +Transcribed from the 1919 Mills and Boon edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + THE RED ONE + + + * * * * * + + By + JACK LONDON + + Author of + “The Valley of the Moon,” “Jerry of the Islands,” + “Michael, Brother of Jerry,” etc., etc. + + * * * * * + + MILLS & BOON, LIMITED + 49 RUPERT STREET + LONDON, W.1. + + * * * * * + + _Published 1919_ + + * * * * * + + _Copyright in the United States of America by Jack London_. + + * * * * * + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +THE RED ONE 11 +THE HUSSY 57 +LIKE ARGUS OF THE ANCIENT TIMES 93 +THE PRINCESS 141 + + + + +THE RED ONE + + +THERE it was! The abrupt liberation of sound! As he timed it with his +watch, Bassett likened it to the trump of an archangel. Walls of cities, +he meditated, might well fall down before so vast and compelling a +summons. For the thousandth time vainly he tried to analyse the +tone-quality of that enormous peal that dominated the land far into the +strong-holds of the surrounding tribes. The mountain gorge which was its +source rang to the rising tide of it until it brimmed over and flooded +earth and sky and air. With the wantonness of a sick man’s fancy, he +likened it to the mighty cry of some Titan of the Elder World vexed with +misery or wrath. Higher and higher it arose, challenging and demanding +in such profounds of volume that it seemed intended for ears beyond the +narrow confines of the solar system. There was in it, too, the clamour +of protest in that there were no ears to hear and comprehend its +utterance. + +—Such the sick man’s fancy. Still he strove to analyse the sound. +Sonorous as thunder was it, mellow as a golden bell, thin and sweet as a +thrummed taut cord of silver—no; it was none of these, nor a blend of +these. There were no words nor semblances in his vocabulary and +experience with which to describe the totality of that sound. + +Time passed. Minutes merged into quarters of hours, and quarters of +hours into half-hours, and still the sound persisted, ever changing from +its initial vocal impulse yet never receiving fresh impulse—fading, +dimming, dying as enormously as it had sprung into being. It became a +confusion of troubled mutterings and babblings and colossal whisperings. +Slowly it withdrew, sob by sob, into whatever great bosom had birthed it, +until it whimpered deadly whispers of wrath and as equally seductive +whispers of delight, striving still to be heard, to convey some cosmic +secret, some understanding of infinite import and value. It dwindled to +a ghost of sound that had lost its menace and promise, and became a thing +that pulsed on in the sick man’s consciousness for minutes after it had +ceased. When he could hear it no longer, Bassett glanced at his watch. +An hour had elapsed ere that archangel’s trump had subsided into tonal +nothingness. + +Was this, then, _his_ dark tower?—Bassett pondered, remembering his +Browning and gazing at his skeleton-like and fever-wasted hands. And the +fancy made him smile—of Childe Roland bearing a slug-horn to his lips +with an arm as feeble as his was. Was it months, or years, he asked +himself, since he first heard that mysterious call on the beach at +Ringmanu? To save himself he could not tell. The long sickness had been +most long. In conscious count of time he knew of months, many of them; +but he had no way of estimating the long intervals of delirium and +stupor. And how fared Captain Bateman of the blackbirder _Nari_? he +wondered; and had Captain Bateman’s drunken mate died of delirium tremens +yet? + +From which vain speculations, Bassett turned idly to review all that had +occurred since that day on the beach of Ringmanu when he first heard the +sound and plunged into the jungle after it. Sagawa had protested. He +could see him yet, his queer little monkeyish face eloquent with fear, +his back burdened with specimen cases, in his hands Bassett’s butterfly +net and naturalist’s shot-gun, as he quavered, in Bêche-de-mer English: +“Me fella too much fright along bush. Bad fella boy, too much stop’m +along bush.” + +Bassett smiled sadly at the recollection. The little New Hanover boy had +been frightened, but had proved faithful, following him without hesitancy +into the bush in the quest after the source of the wonderful sound. No +fire-hollowed tree-trunk, that, throbbing war through the jungle depths, +had been Bassett’s conclusion. Erroneous had been his next conclusion, +namely, that the source or cause could not be more distant than an hour’s +walk, and that he would easily be back by mid-afternoon to be picked up +by the _Nari’s_ whale-boat. + +“That big fella noise no good, all the same devil-devil,” Sagawa had +adjudged. And Sagawa had been right. Had he not had his head hacked off +within the day? Bassett shuddered. Without doubt Sagawa had been eaten +as well by the “bad fella boys too much” that stopped along the bush. He +could see him, as he had last seen him, stripped of the shot-gun and all +the naturalist’s gear of his master, lying on the narrow trail where he +had been decapitated barely the moment before. Yes, within a minute the +thing had happened. Within a minute, looking back, Bassett had seen him +trudging patiently along under his burdens. Then Bassett’s own trouble +had come upon him. He looked at the cruelly healed stumps of the first +and second fingers of his left hand, then rubbed them softly into the +indentation in the back of his skull. Quick as had been the flash of the +long handled tomahawk, he had been quick enough to duck away his head and +partially to deflect the stroke with his up-flung hand. Two fingers and +a hasty scalp-wound had been the price he paid for his life. With one +barrel of his ten-gauge shot-gun he had blown the life out of the bushman +who had so nearly got him; with the other barrel he had peppered the +bushmen bending over Sagawa, and had the pleasure of knowing that the +major portion of the charge had gone into the one who leaped away with +Sagawa’s head. Everything had occurred in a flash. Only himself, the +slain bushman, and what remained of Sagawa, were in the narrow, wild-pig +run of a path. From the dark jungle on either side came no rustle of +movement or sound of life. And he had suffered distinct and dreadful +shock. For the first time in his life he had killed a human being, and +he knew nausea as he contemplated the mess of his handiwork. + +Then had begun the chase. He retreated up the pig-run before his +hunters, who were between him and the beach. How many there were, he +could not guess. There might have been one, or a hundred, for aught he +saw of them. That some of them took to the trees and travelled along +through the jungle roof he was certain; but at the most he never glimpsed +more than an occasional flitting of shadows. No bow-strings twanged +that he could hear; but every little while, whence discharged he knew +not, tiny arrows whispered past him or struck tree-boles and fluttered to +the ground beside him. They were bone-tipped and feather shafted, and +the feathers, torn from the breasts of humming-birds, iridesced like +jewels. + +Once—and now, after the long lapse of time, he chuckled gleefully at the +recollection—he had detected a shadow above him that came to instant rest +as he turned his gaze upward. He could make out nothing, but, deciding +to chance it, had fired at it a heavy charge of number five shot. +Squalling like an infuriated cat, the shadow crashed down through +tree-ferns and orchids and thudded upon the earth at his feet, and, still +squalling its rage and pain, had sunk its human teeth into the ankle of +his stout tramping boot. He, on the other hand, was not idle, and with +his free foot had done what reduced the squalling to silence. So inured +to savagery has Bassett since become, that he chuckled again with the +glee of the recollection. + +What a night had followed! Small wonder that he had accumulated such a +virulence and variety of fevers, he thought, as he recalled that +sleepless night of torment, when the throb of his wounds was as nothing +compared with the myriad stings of the mosquitoes. There had been no +escaping them, and he had not dared to light a fire. They had literally +pumped his body full of poison, so that, with the coming of day, eyes +swollen almost shut, he had stumbled blindly on, not caring much when his +head should be hacked off and his carcass started on the way of Sagawa’s +to the cooking fire. Twenty-four hours had made a wreck of him—of mind +as well as body. He had scarcely retained his wits at all, so maddened +was he by the tremendous inoculation of poison he had received. Several +times he fired his shot-gun with effect into the shadows that dogged him. +Stinging day insects and gnats added to his torment, while his bloody +wounds attracted hosts of loathsome flies that clung sluggishly to his +flesh and had to be brushed off and crushed off. + +Once, in that day, he heard again the wonderful sound, seemingly more +distant, but rising imperiously above the nearer war-drums in the bush. +Right there was where he had made his mistake. Thinking that he had +passed beyond it and that, therefore, it was between him and the beach of +Ringmanu, he had worked back toward it when in reality he was penetrating +deeper and deeper into the mysterious heart of the unexplored island. +That night, crawling in among the twisted roots of a banyan tree, he had +slept from exhaustion while the mosquitoes had had their will of him. + +Followed days and nights that were vague as nightmares in his memory. +One clear vision he remembered was of suddenly finding himself in the +midst of a bush village and watching the old men and children fleeing +into the jungle. All had fled but one. From close at hand and above +him, a whimpering as of some animal in pain and terror had startled him. +And looking up he had seen her—a girl, or young woman rather, suspended +by one arm in the cooking sun. Perhaps for days she had so hung. Her +swollen, protruding tongue spoke as much. Still alive, she gazed at him +with eyes of terror. Past help, he decided, as he noted the swellings of +her legs which advertised that the joints had been crushed and the great +bones broken. He resolved to shoot her, and there the vision terminated. +He could not remember whether he had or not, any more than could he +remember how he chanced to be in that village, or how he succeeded in +getting away from it. + +Many pictures, unrelated, came and went in Bassett’s mind as he reviewed +that period of his terrible wanderings. He remembered invading another +village of a dozen houses and driving all before him with his shot-gun +save, for one old man, too feeble to flee, who spat at him and whined and +snarled as he dug open a ground-oven and from amid the hot stones dragged +forth a roasted pig that steamed its essence deliciously through its +green-leaf wrappings. It was at this place that a wantonness of savagery +had seized upon him. Having feasted, ready to depart with a hind-quarter +of the pig in his hand, he deliberately fired the grass thatch of a house +with his burning glass. + +But seared deepest of all in Bassett’s brain, was the dank and noisome +jungle. It actually stank with evil, and it was always twilight. Rarely +did a shaft of sunlight penetrate its matted roof a hundred feet +overhead. And beneath that roof was an aerial ooze of vegetation, a +monstrous, parasitic dripping of decadent life-forms that rooted in death +and lived on death. And through all this he drifted, ever pursued by the +flitting shadows of the anthropophagi, themselves ghosts of evil that +dared not face him in battle but that knew that, soon or late, they would +feed on him. Bassett remembered that at the time, in lucid moments, he +had likened himself to a wounded bull pursued by plains’ coyotes too +cowardly to battle with him for the meat of him, yet certain of the +inevitable end of him when they would be full gorged. As the bull’s +horns and stamping hoofs kept off the coyotes, so his shot-gun kept off +these Solomon Islanders, these twilight shades of bushmen of the island +of Guadalcanal. + +Came the day of the grass lands. Abruptly, as if cloven by the sword of +God in the hand of God, the jungle terminated. The edge of it, +perpendicular and as black as the infamy of it, was a hundred feet up and +down. And, beginning at the edge of it, grew the grass—sweet, soft, +tender, pasture grass that would have delighted the eyes and beasts of +any husbandman and that extended, on and on, for leagues and leagues of +velvet verdure, to the backbone of the great island, the towering +mountain range flung up by some ancient earth-cataclysm, serrated and +gullied but not yet erased by the erosive tropic rains. But the grass! +He had crawled into it a dozen yards, buried his face in it, smelled it, +and broken down in a fit of involuntary weeping. + +And, while he wept, the wonderful sound had pealed forth—if by _peal_, he +had often thought since, an adequate description could be given of the +enunciation of so vast a sound melting sweet. Sweet it was, as no sound +ever heard. Vast it was, of so mighty a resonance that it might have +proceeded from some brazen-throated monster. And yet it called to him +across that leagues-wide savannah, and was like a benediction to his +long-suffering, pain racked spirit. + +He remembered how he lay there in the grass, wet-cheeked but no longer +sobbing, listening to the sound and wondering that he had been able to +hear it on the beach of Ringmanu. Some freak of air pressures and air +currents, he reflected, had made it possible for the sound to carry so +far. Such conditions might not happen again in a thousand days or ten +thousand days, but the one day it had happened had been the day he landed +from the _Nari_ for several hours’ collecting. Especially had he been in +quest of the famed jungle butterfly, a foot across from wing-tip to +wing-tip, as velvet-dusky of lack of colour as was the gloom of the roof, +of such lofty arboreal habits that it resorted only to the jungle roof +and could be brought down only by a dose of shot. It was for this +purpose that Sagawa had carried the ten-gauge shot-gun. + +Two days and nights he had spent crawling across that belt of grass land. +He had suffered much, but pursuit had ceased at the jungle-edge. And he +would have died of thirst had not a heavy thunderstorm revived him on the +second day. + +And then had come Balatta. In the first shade, where the savannah +yielded to the dense mountain jungle, he had collapsed to die. At first +she had squealed with delight at sight of his helplessness, and was for +beating his brain out with a stout forest branch. Perhaps it was his +very utter helplessness that had appealed to her, and perhaps it was her +human curiosity that made her refrain. At any rate, she had refrained, +for he opened his eyes again under the impending blow, and saw her +studying him intently. What especially struck her about him were his +blue eyes and white skin. Coolly she had squatted on her hams, spat on +his arm, and with her finger-tips scrubbed away the dirt of days and +nights of muck and jungle that sullied the pristine whiteness of his +skin. + +And everything about her had struck him especially, although there was +nothing conventional about her at all. He laughed weakly at the +recollection, for she had been as innocent of garb as Eve before the +fig-leaf adventure. Squat and lean at the same time, asymmetrically +limbed, string-muscled as if with lengths of cordage, dirt-caked from +infancy save for casual showers, she was as unbeautiful a prototype of +woman as he, with a scientist’s eye, had ever gazed upon. Her breasts +advertised at the one time her maturity and youth; and, if by nothing +else, her sex was advertised by the one article of finery with which she +was adorned, namely a pig’s tail, thrust though a hole in her left +ear-lobe. So lately had the tail been severed, that its raw end still +oozed blood that dried upon her shoulder like so much candle-droppings. +And her face! A twisted and wizened complex of apish features, +perforated by upturned, sky-open, Mongolian nostrils, by a mouth that +sagged from a huge upper-lip and faded precipitately into a retreating +chin, by peering querulous eyes that blinked as blink the eyes of +denizens of monkey-cages. + +Not even the water she brought him in a forest-leaf, and the ancient and +half-putrid chunk of roast pig, could redeem in the slightest the +grotesque hideousness of her. When he had eaten weakly for a space, he +closed his eyes in order not to see her, although again and again she +poked them open to peer at the blue of them. Then had come the sound. +Nearer, much nearer, he knew it to be; and he knew equally well, despite +the weary way he had come, that it was still many hours distant. The +effect of it on her had been startling. She cringed under it, with +averted face, moaning and chattering with fear. But after it had lived +its full life of an hour, he closed his eyes and fell asleep with Balatta +brushing the flies from him. + +When he awoke it was night, and she was gone. But he was aware of +renewed strength, and, by then too thoroughly inoculated by the mosquito +poison to suffer further inflammation, he closed his eyes and slept an +unbroken stretch till sun-up. A little later Balatta had returned, +bringing with her a half-dozen women who, unbeautiful as they were, were +patently not so unbeautiful as she. She evidenced by her conduct that +she considered him her find, her property, and the pride she took in +showing him off would have been ludicrous had his situation not been so +desperate. + +Later, after what had been to him a terrible journey of miles, when he +collapsed in front of the devil-devil house in the shadow of the +breadfruit tree, she had shown very lively ideas on the matter of +retaining possession of him. Ngurn, whom Bassett was to know afterward +as the devil-devil doctor, priest, or medicine man of the village, had +wanted his head. Others of the grinning and chattering monkey-men, all +as stark of clothes and bestial of appearance as Balatta, had wanted his +body for the roasting oven. At that time he had not understood their +language, if by _language_ might be dignified the uncouth sounds they +made to represent ideas. But Bassett had thoroughly understood the +matter of debate, especially when the men pressed and prodded and felt of +the flesh of him as if he were so much commodity in a butcher’s stall. + +Balatta had been losing the debate rapidly, when the accident happened. +One of the men, curiously examining Bassett’s shot-gun, managed to cock +and pull a trigger. The recoil of the butt into the pit of the man’s +stomach had not been the most sanguinary result, for the charge of shot, +at a distance of a yard, had blown the head of one of the debaters into +nothingness. + +Even Balatta joined the others in flight, and, ere they returned, his +senses already reeling from the oncoming fever-attack, Bassett had +regained possession of the gun. Whereupon, although his teeth chattered +with the ague and his swimming eyes could scarcely see, he held on to his +fading consciousness until he could intimidate the bushmen with the +simple magics of compass, watch, burning glass, and matches. At the +last, with due emphasis, of solemnity and awfulness, he had killed a +young pig with his shot-gun and promptly fainted. + +Bassett flexed his arm-muscles in quest of what possible strength might +reside in such weakness, and dragged himself slowly and totteringly to +his feet. He was shockingly emaciated; yet, during the various +convalescences of the many months of his long sickness, he had never +regained quite the same degree of strength as this time. What he feared +was another relapse such as he had already frequently experienced. +Without drugs, without even quinine, he had managed so far to live +through a combination of the most pernicious and most malignant of +malarial and black-water fevers. But could he continue to endure? Such +was his everlasting query. For, like the genuine scientist he was, he +would not be content to die until he had solved the secret of the sound. + +Supported by a staff, he staggered the few steps to the devil-devil house +where death and Ngurn reigned in gloom. Almost as infamously dark and +evil-stinking as the jungle was the devil-devil house—in Bassett’s +opinion. Yet therein was usually to be found his favourite crony and +gossip, Ngurn, always willing for a yarn or a discussion, the while he +sat in the ashes of death and in a slow smoke shrewdly revolved curing +human heads suspended from the rafters. For, through the months’ +interval of consciousness of his long sickness, Bassett had mastered the +psychological simplicities and lingual difficulties of the language of +the tribe of Ngurn and Balatta and Vngngn—the latter the addle-headed +young chief who was ruled by Ngurn, and who, whispered intrigue had it, +was the son of Ngurn. + +“Will the Red One speak to-day?” Bassett asked, by this time so +accustomed to the old man’s gruesome occupation as to take even an +interest in the progress of the smoke-curing. + +With the eye of an expert Ngurn examined the particular head he was at +work upon. + +“It will be ten days before I can say ‘finish,’” he said. “Never has any +man fixed heads like these.” + +Bassett smiled inwardly at the old fellow’s reluctance to talk with him +of the Red One. It had always been so. Never, by any chance, had Ngurn +or any other member of the weird tribe divulged the slightest hint of any +physical characteristic of the Red One. Physical the Red One must be, to +emit the wonderful sound, and though it was called the Red One, Bassett +could not be sure that red represented the colour of it. Red enough were +the deeds and powers of it, from what abstract clues he had gleaned. Not +alone, had Ngurn informed him, was the Red One more bestial powerful than +the neighbour tribal gods, ever athirst for the red blood of living human +sacrifices, but the neighbour gods themselves were sacrificed and +tormented before him. He was the god of a dozen allied villages similar +to this one, which was the central and commanding village of the +federation. By virtue of the Red One many alien villages had been +devastated and even wiped out, the prisoners sacrificed to the Red One. +This was true to-day, and it extended back into old history carried down +by word of mouth through the generations. When he, Ngurn, had been a +young man, the tribes beyond the grass lands had made a war raid. In the +counter raid, Ngurn and his fighting folk had made many prisoners. Of +children alone over five score living had been bled white before the Red +One, and many, many more men and women. + +The Thunderer was another of Ngurn’s names for the mysterious deity. +Also at times was he called The Loud Shouter, The God-Voiced, The +Bird-Throated, The One with the Throat Sweet as the Throat of the +Honey-Bird, The Sun Singer, and The Star-Born. + +Why The Star-Born? In vain Bassett interrogated Ngurn. According to +that old devil-devil doctor, the Red One had always been, just where he +was at present, for ever singing and thundering his will over men. But +Ngurn’s father, wrapped in decaying grass-matting and hanging even then +over their heads among the smoky rafters of the devil-devil house, had +held otherwise. That departed wise one had believed that the Red One +came from out of the starry night, else why—so his argument had run—had +the old and forgotten ones passed his name down as the Star-Born? +Bassett could not but recognize something cogent in such argument. But +Ngurn affirmed the long years of his long life, wherein he had gazed upon +many starry nights, yet never had he found a star on grass land or in +jungle depth—and he had looked for them. True, he had beheld shooting +stars (this in reply to Bassett’s contention); but likewise had he beheld +the phosphorescence of fungoid growths and rotten meat and fireflies on +dark nights, and the flames of wood-fires and of blazing candle-nuts; yet +what were flame and blaze and glow when they had flamed and blazed and +glowed? Answer: memories, memories only, of things which had ceased to +be, like memories of matings accomplished, of feasts forgotten, of +desires that were the ghosts of desires, flaring, flaming, burning, yet +unrealized in achievement of easement and satisfaction. Where was the +appetite of yesterday? the roasted flesh of the wild pig the hunter’s +arrow failed to slay? the maid, unwed and dead ere the young man knew +her? + +A memory was not a star, was Ngurn’s contention. How could a memory be a +star? Further, after all his long life he still observed the starry +night-sky unaltered. Never had he noted the absence of a single star +from its accustomed place. Besides, stars were fire, and the Red One was +not fire—which last involuntary betrayal told Bassett nothing. + +“Will the Red One speak to-morrow?” he queried. + +Ngurn shrugged his shoulders as who should say. + +“And the day after?—and the day after that?” Bassett persisted. + +“I would like to have the curing of your head,” Ngurn changed the +subject. “It is different from any other head. No devil-devil has a +head like it. Besides, I would cure it well. I would take months and +months. The moons would come and the moons would go, and the smoke would +be very slow, and I should myself gather the materials for the curing +smoke. The skin would not wrinkle. It would be as smooth as your skin +now.” + +He stood up, and from the dim rafters, grimed with the smoking of +countless heads, where day was no more than a gloom, took down a +matting-wrapped parcel and began to open it. + +“It is a head like yours,” he said, “but it is poorly cured.” + +Bassett had pricked up his ears at the suggestion that it was a white +man’s head; for he had long since come to accept that these +jungle-dwellers, in the midmost centre of the great island, had never had +intercourse with white men. Certainly he had found them without the +almost universal bêche-de-mer English of the west South Pacific. Nor had +they knowledge of tobacco, nor of gunpowder. Their few precious knives, +made from lengths of hoop-iron, and their few and more precious tomahawks +from cheap trade hatchets, he had surmised they had captured in war from +the bushmen of the jungle beyond the grass lands, and that they, in turn, +had similarly gained them from the salt-water men who fringed the coral +beaches of the shore and had contact with the occasional white men. + +“The folk in the out beyond do not know how to cure heads,” old Ngurn +explained, as he drew forth from the filthy matting and placed in +Bassett’s hands an indubitable white man’s head. + +Ancient it was beyond question; white it was as the blond hair attested. +He could have sworn it once belonged to an Englishman, and to an +Englishman of long before by token of the heavy gold circlets still +threaded in the withered ear-lobes. + +“Now your head . . . ” the devil-devil doctor began on his favourite +topic. + +“I’ll tell you what,” Bassett interrupted, struck by a new idea. “When I +die I’ll let you have my head to cure, if, first, you take me to look +upon the Red One.” + +“I will have your head anyway when you are dead,” Ngurn rejected the +proposition. He added, with the brutal frankness of the savage: +“Besides, you have not long to live. You are almost a dead man now. You +will grow less strong. In not many months I shall have you here turning +and turning in the smoke. It is pleasant, through the long afternoons, +to turn the head of one you have known as well as I know you. And I +shall talk to you and tell you the many secrets you want to know. Which +will not matter, for you will be dead.” + +“Ngurn,” Bassett threatened in sudden anger. “You know the Baby Thunder +in the Iron that is mine.” (This was in reference to his all-potent and +all-awful shotgun.) “I can kill you any time, and then you will not get +my head.” + +“Just the same, will Vngngn, or some one else of my folk get it,” Ngurn +complacently assured him. “And just the same will it in the end turn +devil-devil house in the smoke. The quicker you slay me with your Baby +Thunder, the quicker will your head turn in the smoke.” + +And Bassett knew he was beaten in the discussion. + +What was the Red One?—Bassett asked himself a thousand times in the +succeeding week, while he seemed to grow stronger. What was the source +of the wonderful sound? What was this Sun Singer, this Star-Born One, +this mysterious deity, as bestial-conducted as the black and kinky-headed +and monkey-like human beasts who worshipped it, and whose silver-sweet, +bull-mouthed singing and commanding he had heard at the taboo distance +for so long? + +Ngurn had he failed to bribe with the inevitable curing of his head when +he was dead. Vngngn, imbecile and chief that he was, was too imbecilic, +too much under the sway of Ngurn, to be considered. Remained Balatta, +who, from the time she found him and poked his blue eyes open to +recrudescence of her grotesque female hideousness, had continued his +adorer. Woman she was, and he had long known that the only way to win +from her treason of her tribe was through the woman’s heart of her. + +Bassett was a fastidious man. He had never recovered from the initial +horror caused by Balatta’s female awfulness. Back in England, even at +best the charm of woman, to him, had never been robust. Yet now, +resolutely, as only a man can do who is capable of martyring himself for +the cause of science, he proceeded to violate all the fineness and +delicacy of his nature by making love to the unthinkably disgusting +bushwoman. + +He shuddered, but with averted face hid his grimaces and swallowed his +gorge as he put his arm around her dirt-crusted shoulders and felt the +contact of her rancid oily and kinky hair with his neck and chin. But he +nearly screamed when she succumbed to that caress so at the very first of +the courtship and mowed and gibbered and squealed little, queer, pig-like +gurgly noises of delight. It was too much. And the next he did in the +singular courtship was to take her down to the stream and give her a +vigorous scrubbing. + +From then on he devoted himself to her like a true swain as frequently +and for as long at a time as his will could override his repugnance. But +marriage, which she ardently suggested, with due observance of tribal +custom, he balked at. Fortunately, taboo rule was strong in the tribe. +Thus, Ngurn could never touch bone, or flesh, or hide of crocodile. This +had been ordained at his birth. Vngngn was denied ever the touch of +woman. Such pollution, did it chance to occur, could be purged only by +the death of the offending female. It had happened once, since Bassett’s +arrival, when a girl of nine, running in play, stumbled and fell against +the sacred chief. And the girl-child was seen no more. In whispers, +Balatta told Bassett that she had been three days and nights in dying +before the Red One. As for Balatta, the breadfruit was taboo to her. +For which Bassett was thankful. The taboo might have been water. + +For himself, he fabricated a special taboo. Only could he marry, he +explained, when the Southern Cross rode highest in the sky. Knowing his +astronomy, he thus gained a reprieve of nearly nine months; and he was +confident that within that time he would either be dead or escaped to the +coast with full knowledge of the Red One and of the source of the Red +One’s wonderful voice. At first he had fancied the Red One to be some +colossal statue, like Memnon, rendered vocal under certain temperature +conditions of sunlight. But when, after a war raid, a batch of prisoners +was brought in and the sacrifice made at night, in the midst of rain, +when the sun could play no part, the Red One had been more vocal than +usual, Bassett discarded that hypothesis. + +In company with Balatta, sometimes with men and parties of women, the +freedom of the jungle was his for three quadrants of the compass. But +the fourth quadrant, which contained the Red One’s abiding place, was +taboo. He made more thorough love to Balatta—also saw to it that she +scrubbed herself more frequently. Eternal female she was, capable of any +treason for the sake of love. And, though the sight of her was +provocative of nausea and the contact of her provocative of despair, +although he could not escape her awfulness in his dream-haunted +nightmares of her, he nevertheless was aware of the cosmic verity of sex +that animated her and that made her own life of less value than the +happiness of her lover with whom she hoped to mate. Juliet or Balatta? +Where was the intrinsic difference? The soft and tender product of +ultra-civilization, or her bestial prototype of a hundred thousand years +before her?—there was no difference. + +Bassett was a scientist first, a humanist afterward. In the jungle-heart +of Guadalcanal he put the affair to the test, as in the laboratory he +would have put to the test any chemical reaction. He increased his +feigned ardour for the bushwoman, at the same time increasing the +imperiousness of his will of desire over her to be led to look upon the +Red One face to face. It was the old story, he recognized, that the +woman must pay, and it occurred when the two of them, one day, were +catching the unclassified and unnamed little black fish, an inch long, +half-eel and half-scaled, rotund with salmon-golden roe, that frequented +the fresh water, and that were esteemed, raw and whole, fresh or putrid, +a perfect delicacy. Prone in the muck of the decaying jungle-floor, +Balatta threw herself, clutching his ankles with her hands kissing his +feet and making slubbery noises that chilled his backbone up and down +again. She begged him to kill her rather than exact this ultimate +love-payment. She told him of the penalty of breaking the taboo of the +Red One—a week of torture, living, the details of which she yammered out +from her face in the mire until he realized that he was yet a tyro in +knowledge of the frightfulness the human was capable of wreaking on the +human. + +Yet did Bassett insist on having his man’s will satisfied, at the woman’s +risk, that he might solve the mystery of the Red One’s singing, though +she should die long and horribly and screaming. And Balatta, being mere +woman, yielded. She led him into the forbidden quadrant. An abrupt +mountain, shouldering in from the north to meet a similar intrusion from +the south, tormented the stream in which they had fished into a deep and +gloomy gorge. After a mile along the gorge, the way plunged sharply +upward until they crossed a saddle of raw limestone which attracted his +geologist’s eye. Still climbing, although he paused often from sheer +physical weakness, they scaled forest-clad heights until they emerged on +a naked mesa or tableland. Bassett recognized the stuff of its +composition as black volcanic sand, and knew that a pocket magnet could +have captured a full load of the sharply angular grains he trod upon. + +And then holding Balatta by the hand and leading her onward, he came to +it—a tremendous pit, obviously artificial, in the heart of the plateau. +Old history, the South Seas Sailing Directions, scores of remembered data +and connotations swift and furious, surged through his brain. It was +Mendana who had discovered the islands and named them Solomon’s, +believing that he had found that monarch’s fabled mines. They had +laughed at the old navigator’s child-like credulity; and yet here stood +himself, Bassett, on the rim of an excavation for all the world like the +diamond pits of South Africa. + +But no diamond this that he gazed down upon. Rather was it a pearl, with +the depth of iridescence of a pearl; but of a size all pearls of earth +and time, welded into one, could not have totalled; and of a colour +undreamed of in any pearl, or of anything else, for that matter, for it +was the colour of the Red One. And the Red One himself Bassett knew it +to be on the instant. A perfect sphere, full two hundred feet in +diameter, the top of it was a hundred feet below the level of the rim. +He likened the colour quality of it to lacquer. Indeed, he took it to be +some sort of lacquer, applied by man, but a lacquer too marvellously +clever to have been manufactured by the bush-folk. Brighter than bright +cherry-red, its richness of colour was as if it were red builded upon +red. It glowed and iridesced in the sunlight as if gleaming up from +underlay under underlay of red. + +In vain Balatta strove to dissuade him from descending. She threw +herself in the dirt; but, when he continued down the trail that spiralled +the pit-wall, she followed, cringing and whimpering her terror. That the +red sphere had been dug out as a precious thing, was patent. Considering +the paucity of members of the federated twelve villages and their +primitive tools and methods, Bassett knew that the toil of a myriad +generations could scarcely have made that enormous excavation. + +He found the pit bottom carpeted with human bones, among which, battered +and defaced, lay village gods of wood and stone. Some, covered with +obscene totemic figures and designs, were carved from solid tree trunks +forty or fifty feet in length. He noted the absence of the shark and +turtle gods, so common among the shore villages, and was amazed at the +constant recurrence of the helmet motive. What did these jungle savages +of the dark heart of Guadalcanal know of helmets? Had Mendana’s +men-at-arms worn helmets and penetrated here centuries before? And if +not, then whence had the bush-folk caught the motive? + +Advancing over the litter of gods and bones, Balatta whimpering at his +heels, Bassett entered the shadow of the Red One and passed on under its +gigantic overhang until he touched it with his finger-tips. No lacquer +that. Nor was the surface smooth as it should have been in the case of +lacquer. On the contrary, it was corrugated and pitted, with here and +there patches that showed signs of heat and fusing. Also, the substance +of it was metal, though unlike any metal, or combination of metals, he +had ever known. As for the colour itself, he decided it to be no +application. It was the intrinsic colour of the metal itself. + +He moved his finger-tips, which up to that had merely rested, along the +surface, and felt the whole gigantic sphere quicken and live and respond. +It was incredible! So light a touch on so vast a mass! Yet did it +quiver under the finger-tip caress in rhythmic vibrations that became +whisperings and rustlings and mutterings of sound—but of sound so +different; so elusively thin that it was shimmeringly sibilant; so mellow +that it was maddening sweet, piping like an elfin horn, which last was +just what Bassett decided would be like a peal from some bell of the gods +reaching earthward from across space. + +He looked at Balatta with swift questioning; but the voice of the Red One +he had evoked had flung her face downward and moaning among the bones. +He returned to contemplation of the prodigy. Hollow it was, and of no +metal known on earth, was his conclusion. It was right-named by the ones +of old-time as the Star-Born. Only from the stars could it have come, +and no thing of chance was it. It was a creation of artifice and mind. +Such perfection of form, such hollowness that it certainly possessed, +could not be the result of mere fortuitousness. A child of +intelligences, remote and unguessable, working corporally in metals, it +indubitably was. He stared at it in amaze, his brain a racing wild-fire +of hypotheses to account for this far-journeyer who had adventured the +night of space, threaded the stars, and now rose before him and above +him, exhumed by patient anthropophagi, pitted and lacquered by its fiery +bath in two atmospheres. + +But was the colour a lacquer of heat upon some familiar metal? Or was it +an intrinsic quality of the metal itself? He thrust in the blue-point of +his pocket-knife to test the constitution of the stuff. Instantly the +entire sphere burst into a mighty whispering, sharp with protest, almost +twanging goldenly, if a whisper could possibly be considered to twang, +rising higher, sinking deeper, the two extremes of the registry of sound +threatening to complete the circle and coalesce into the bull-mouthed +thundering he had so often heard beyond the taboo distance. + +Forgetful of safety, of his own life itself, entranced by the wonder of +the unthinkable and unguessable thing, he raised his knife to strike +heavily from a long stroke, but was prevented by Balatta. She upreared +on her own knees in an agony of terror, clasping his knees and +supplicating him to desist. In the intensity of her desire to impress +him, she put her forearm between her teeth and sank them to the bone. + +He scarcely observed her act, although he yielded automatically to his +gentler instincts and withheld the knife-hack. To him, human life had +dwarfed to microscopic proportions before this colossal portent of higher +life from within the distances of the sidereal universe. As had she been +a dog, he kicked the ugly little bushwoman to her feet and compelled her +to start with him on an encirclement of the base. Part way around, he +encountered horrors. Even, among the others, did he recognize the +sun-shrivelled remnant of the nine-years girl who had accidentally broken +Chief Vngngn’s personality taboo. And, among what was left of these that +had passed, he encountered what was left of one who had not yet passed. +Truly had the bush-folk named themselves into the name of the Red One, +seeing in him their own image which they strove to placate and please +with such red offerings. + +Farther around, always treading the bones and images of humans and gods +that constituted the floor of this ancient charnel-house of sacrifice, he +came upon the device by which the Red One was made to send his call +singing thunderingly across the jungle-belts and grass-lands to the far +beach of Ringmanu. Simple and primitive was it as was the Red One’s +consummate artifice. A great king-post, half a hundred feet in length, +seasoned by centuries of superstitious care, carven into dynasties of +gods, each superimposed, each helmeted, each seated in the open mouth of +a crocodile, was slung by ropes, twisted of climbing vegetable parasites, +from the apex of a tripod of three great forest trunks, themselves carved +into grinning and grotesque adumbrations of man’s modern concepts of art +and god. From the striker king-post, were suspended ropes of climbers to +which men could apply their strength and direction. Like a battering +ram, this king-post could be driven end-onward against the mighty +red-iridescent sphere. + +Here was where Ngurn officiated and functioned religiously for himself +and the twelve tribes under him. Bassett laughed aloud, almost with +madness, at the thought of this wonderful messenger, winged with +intelligence across space, to fall into a bushman stronghold and be +worshipped by ape-like, man-eating and head-hunting savages. It was as +if God’s World had fallen into the muck mire of the abyss underlying the +bottom of hell; as if Jehovah’s Commandments had been presented on carved +stone to the monkeys of the monkey cage at the Zoo; as if the Sermon on +the Mount had been preached in a roaring bedlam of lunatics. + + * * * * * + +The slow weeks passed. The nights, by election, Bassett spent on the +ashen floor of the devil-devil house, beneath the ever-swinging, +slow-curing heads. His reason for this was that it was taboo to the +lesser sex of woman, and therefore, a refuge for him from Balatta, who +grew more persecutingly and perilously loverly as the Southern Cross rode +higher in the sky and marked the imminence of her nuptials. His days +Bassett spent in a hammock swung under the shade of the great breadfruit +tree before the devil-devil house. There were breaks in this programme, +when, in the comas of his devastating fever-attacks, he lay for days and +nights in the house of heads. Ever he struggled to combat the fever, to +live, to continue to live, to grow strong and stronger against the day +when he would be strong enough to dare the grass-lands and the belted +jungle beyond, and win to the beach, and to some labour-recruiting, +black-birding ketch or schooner, and on to civilization and the men of +civilization, to whom he could give news of the message from other worlds +that lay, darkly worshipped by beastmen, in the black heart of +Guadalcanal’s midmost centre. + +On the other nights, lying late under the breadfruit tree, Bassett spent +long hours watching the slow setting of the western stars beyond the +black wall of jungle where it had been thrust back by the clearing for +the village. Possessed of more than a cursory knowledge of astronomy, he +took a sick man’s pleasure in speculating as to the dwellers on the +unseen worlds of those incredibly remote suns, to haunt whose houses of +light, life came forth, a shy visitant, from the rayless crypts of +matter. He could no more apprehend limits to time than bounds to space. +No subversive radium speculations had shaken his steady scientific faith +in the conservation of energy and the indestructibility of matter. +Always and forever must there have been stars. And surely, in that +cosmic ferment, all must be comparatively alike, comparatively of the +same substance, or substances, save for the freaks of the ferment. All +must obey, or compose, the same laws that ran without infraction through +the entire experience of man. Therefore, he argued and agreed, must +worlds and life be appanages to all the suns as they were appanages to +the particular of his own solar system. + +Even as he lay here, under the breadfruit tree, an intelligence that +stared across the starry gulfs, so must all the universe be exposed to +the ceaseless scrutiny of innumerable eyes, like his, though grantedly +different, with behind them, by the same token, intelligences that +questioned and sought the meaning and the construction of the whole. So +reasoning, he felt his soul go forth in kinship with that august company, +that multitude whose gaze was forever upon the arras of infinity. + +Who were they, what were they, those far distant and superior ones who +had bridged the sky with their gigantic, red-iridescent, heaven-singing +message? Surely, and long since, had they, too, trod the path on which +man had so recently, by the calendar of the cosmos, set his feet. And to +be able to send a message across the pit of space, surely they had +reached those heights to which man, in tears and travail and bloody +sweat, in darkness and confusion of many counsels, was so slowly +struggling. And what were they on their heights? Had they won +Brotherhood? Or had they learned that the law of love imposed the +penalty of weakness and decay? Was strife, life? Was the rule of all +the universe the pitiless rule of natural selection? And, and most +immediately and poignantly, were their far conclusions, their long-won +wisdoms, shut even then in the huge, metallic heart of the Red One, +waiting for the first earth-man to read? Of one thing he was certain: No +drop of red dew shaken from the lion-mane of some sun in torment, was the +sounding sphere. It was of design, not chance, and it contained the +speech and wisdom of the stars. + +What engines and elements and mastered forces, what lore and mysteries +and destiny-controls, might be there! Undoubtedly, since so much could +be enclosed in so little a thing as the foundation stone of a public +building, this enormous sphere should contain vast histories, profounds +of research achieved beyond man’s wildest guesses, laws and formulæ that, +easily mastered, would make man’s life on earth, individual and +collective, spring up from its present mire to inconceivable heights of +purity and power. It was Time’s greatest gift to blindfold, insatiable, +and sky-aspiring man. And to him, Bassett, had been vouchsafed the +lordly fortune to be the first to receive this message from man’s +interstellar kin! + +No white man, much less no outland man of the other bush-tribes, had +gazed upon the Red One and lived. Such the law expounded by Ngurn to +Bassett. There was such a thing as blood brotherhood. Bassett, in +return, had often argued in the past. But Ngurn had stated solemnly no. +Even the blood brotherhood was outside the favour of the Red One. Only a +man born within the tribe could look upon the Red One and live. But now, +his guilty secret known only to Balatta, whose fear of immolation before +the Red One fast-sealed her lips, the situation was different. What he +had to do was to recover from the abominable fevers that weakened him, +and gain to civilization. Then would he lead an expedition back, and, +although the entire population of Guadalcanal he destroyed, extract from +the heart of the Red One the message of the world from other worlds. + +But Bassett’s relapses grew more frequent, his brief convalescences less +and less vigorous, his periods of coma longer, until he came to know, +beyond the last promptings of the optimism inherent in so tremendous a +constitution as his own, that he would never live to cross the grass +lands, perforate the perilous coast jungle, and reach the sea. He faded +as the Southern Cross rose higher in the sky, till even Balatta knew that +he would be dead ere the nuptial date determined by his taboo. Ngurn +made pilgrimage personally and gathered the smoke materials for the +curing of Bassett’s head, and to him made proud announcement and +exhibition of the artistic perfectness of his intention when Bassett +should be dead. As for himself, Bassett was not shocked. Too long and +too deeply had life ebbed down in him to bite him with fear of its +impending extinction. He continued to persist, alternating periods of +unconsciousness with periods of semi-consciousness, dreamy and unreal, in +which he idly wondered whether he had ever truly beheld the Red One or +whether it was a nightmare fancy of delirium. + +Came the day when all mists and cob-webs dissolved, when he found his +brain clear as a bell, and took just appraisement of his body’s weakness. +Neither hand nor foot could he lift. So little control of his body did +he have, that he was scarcely aware of possessing one. Lightly indeed +his flesh sat upon his soul, and his soul, in its briefness of clarity, +knew by its very clarity that the black of cessation was near. He knew +the end was close; knew that in all truth he had with his eyes beheld the +Red One, the messenger between the worlds; knew that he would never live +to carry that message to the world—that message, for aught to the +contrary, which might already have waited man’s hearing in the heart of +Guadalcanal for ten thousand years. And Bassett stirred with resolve, +calling Ngurn to him, out under the shade of the breadfruit tree, and +with the old devil-devil doctor discussing the terms and arrangements of +his last life effort, his final adventure in the quick of the flesh. + +“I know the law, O Ngurn,” he concluded the matter. “Whoso is not of the +folk may not look upon the Red One and live. I shall not live anyway. +Your young men shall carry me before the face of the Red One, and I shall +look upon him, and hear his voice, and thereupon die, under your hand, O +Ngurn. Thus will the three things be satisfied: the law, my desire, and +your quicker possession of my head for which all your preparations wait.” + +To which Ngurn consented, adding: + +“It is better so. A sick man who cannot get well is foolish to live on +for so little a while. Also is it better for the living that he should +go. You have been much in the way of late. Not but what it was good for +me to talk to such a wise one. But for moons of days we have held little +talk. Instead, you have taken up room in the house of heads, making +noises like a dying pig, or talking much and loudly in your own language +which I do not understand. This has been a confusion to me, for I like +to think on the great things of the light and dark as I turn the heads in +the smoke. Your much noise has thus been a disturbance to the +long-learning and hatching of the final wisdom that will be mine before I +die. As for you, upon whom the dark has already brooded, it is well that +you die now. And I promise you, in the long days to come when I turn +your head in the smoke, no man of the tribe shall come in to disturb us. +And I will tell you many secrets, for I am an old man and very wise, and +I shall be adding wisdom to wisdom as I turn your head in the smoke.” + +So a litter was made, and, borne on the shoulders of half a dozen of the +men, Bassett departed on the last little adventure that was to cap the +total adventure, for him, of living. With a body of which he was +scarcely aware, for even the pain had been exhausted out of it, and with +a bright clear brain that accommodated him to a quiet ecstasy of sheer +lucidness of thought, he lay back on the lurching litter and watched the +fading of the passing world, beholding for the last time the breadfruit +tree before the devil-devil house, the dim day beneath the matted jungle +roof, the gloomy gorge between the shouldering mountains, the saddle of +raw limestone, and the mesa of black volcanic sand. + +Down the spiral path of the pit they bore him, encircling the sheening, +glowing Red One that seemed ever imminent to iridesce from colour and +light into sweet singing and thunder. And over bones and logs of +immolated men and gods they bore him, past the horrors of other immolated +ones that yet lived, to the three-king-post tripod and the huge king-post +striker. + +Here Bassett, helped by Ngurn and Balatta, weakly sat up, swaying weakly +from the hips, and with clear, unfaltering, all-seeing eyes gazed upon +the Red One. + +“Once, O Ngurn,” he said, not taking his eyes from the sheening, +vibrating surface whereon and wherein all the shades of cherry-red played +unceasingly, ever a-quiver to change into sound, to become silken +rustlings, silvery whisperings, golden thrummings of cords, velvet +pipings of elfland, mellow distances of thunderings. + +“I wait,” Ngurn prompted after a long pause, the long-handled tomahawk +unassumingly ready in his hand. + +“Once, O Ngurn,” Bassett repeated, “let the Red One speak so that I may +see it speak as well as hear it. Then strike, thus, when I raise my +hand; for, when I raise my hand, I shall drop my head forward and make +place for the stroke at the base of my neck. But, O Ngurn, I, who am +about to pass out of the light of day for ever, would like to pass with +the wonder-voice of the Red One singing greatly in my ears.” + +“And I promise you that never will a head be so well cured as yours,” +Ngurn assured him, at the same time signalling the tribesmen to man the +propelling ropes suspended from the king-post striker. “Your head shall +be my greatest piece of work in the curing of heads.” + +Bassett smiled quietly to the old one’s conceit, as the great carved log, +drawn back through two-score feet of space, was released. The next +moment he was lost in ecstasy at the abrupt and thunderous liberation of +sound. But such thunder! Mellow it was with preciousness of all +sounding metals. Archangels spoke in it; it was magnificently beautiful +before all other sounds; it was invested with the intelligence of +supermen of planets of other suns; it was the voice of God, seducing and +commanding to be heard. And—the everlasting miracle of that interstellar +metal! Bassett, with his own eyes, saw colour and colours transform into +sound till the whole visible surface of the vast sphere was a-crawl and +titillant and vaporous with what he could not tell was colour or was +sound. In that moment the interstices of matter were his, and the +interfusings and intermating transfusings of matter and force. + +Time passed. At the last Bassett was brought back from his ecstasy by an +impatient movement of Ngurn. He had quite forgotten the old devil-devil +one. A quick flash of fancy brought a husky chuckle into Bassett’s +throat. His shot-gun lay beside him in the litter. All he had to do, +muzzle to head, was to press the trigger and blow his head into +nothingness. + +But why cheat him? was Bassett’s next thought. Head-hunting, cannibal +beast of a human that was as much ape as human, nevertheless Old Ngurn +had, according to his lights, played squarer than square. Ngurn was in +himself a forerunner of ethics and contract, of consideration, and +gentleness in man. No, Bassett decided; it would be a ghastly pity and +an act of dishonour to cheat the old fellow at the last. His head was +Ngurn’s, and Ngurn’s head to cure it would be. + +And Bassett, raising his hand in signal, bending forward his head as +agreed so as to expose cleanly the articulation to his taut spinal cord, +forgot Balatta, who was merely a woman, a woman merely and only and +undesired. He knew, without seeing, when the razor-edged hatchet rose in +the air behind him. And for that instant, ere the end, there fell upon +Bassett the shadows of the Unknown, a sense of impending marvel of the +rending of walls before the imaginable. Almost, when he knew the blow +had started and just ere the edge of steel bit the flesh and nerves it +seemed that he gazed upon the serene face of the Medusa, Truth—And, +simultaneous with the bite of the steel on the onrush of the dark, in a +flashing instant of fancy, he saw the vision of his head turning slowly, +always turning, in the devil-devil house beside the breadfruit tree. + + THE END + +Waikiki, Honolulu, + _May_ 22, 1916. + + + + +THE HUSSY + + +THERE are some stories that have to be true—the sort that cannot be +fabricated by a ready fiction-reckoner. And by the same token there are +some men with stories to tell who cannot be doubted. Such a man was +Julian Jones. Although I doubt if the average reader of this will +believe the story Julian Jones told me. Nevertheless I believe it. So +thoroughly am I convinced of its verity that I am willing, nay, eager, to +invest capital in the enterprise and embark personally on the adventure +to a far land. + +It was in the Australian Building at the Panama Pacific Exposition that I +met him. I was standing before an exhibit of facsimiles of the record +nuggets which had been discovered in the goldfields of the Antipodes. +Knobbed, misshapen and massive, it was as difficult to believe that they +were not real gold as it was to believe the accompanying statistics of +their weights and values. + +“That’s what those kangaroo-hunters call a nugget,” boomed over my +shoulder directly at the largest of the specimens. + +I turned and looked up into the dim blue eyes of Julian Jones. I looked +up, for he stood something like six feet four inches in height. His +hair, a wispy, sandy yellow, seemed as dimmed and faded as his eyes. It +may have been the sun which had washed out his colouring; at least his +face bore the evidence of a prodigious and ardent sun-burn which had long +since faded to yellow. As his eyes turned from the exhibit and focussed +on mine I noted a queer look in them as of one who vainly tries to recall +some fact of supreme importance. + +“What’s the matter with it as a nugget?” I demanded. + +The remote, indwelling expression went out of his eyes as he boomed + +“Why, its size.” + +“It does seem large,” I admitted. “But there’s no doubt it’s authentic. +The Australian Government would scarcely dare—” + +“Large!” he interrupted, with a sniff and a sneer. + +“Largest ever discovered—” I started on. + +“Ever discovered!” His dim eyes smouldered hotly as he proceeded. “Do +you think that every lump of gold ever discovered has got into the +newspapers and encyclopedias?” + +“Well,” I replied judicially, “if there’s one that hasn’t, I don’t see +how we’re to know about it. If a really big nugget, or nugget-finder, +elects to blush unseen—” + +“But it didn’t,” he broke in quickly. “I saw it with my own eyes, and, +besides, I’m too tanned to blush anyway. I’m a railroad man and I’ve +been in the tropics a lot. Why, I used to be the colour of mahogany—real +old mahogany, and have been taken for a blue-eyed Spaniard more than +once—” + +It was my turn to interrupt, and I did. + +“Was that nugget bigger than those in there, Mr.—er—?” + +“Jones, Julian Jones is my name.” + +He dug into an inner pocket and produced an envelope addressed to such a +person, care of General Delivery, San Francisco; and I, in turn, +presented him with my card. + +“Pleased to know you, sir,” he said, extending his hand, his voice +booming as if accustomed to loud noises or wide spaces. “Of course I’ve +heard of you, seen your picture in the papers, and all that, and, though +I say it that shouldn’t, I want to say that I didn’t care a rap about +those articles you wrote on Mexico. You’re wrong, all wrong. You make +the mistake of all Gringos in thinking a Mexican is a white man. He +ain’t. None of them ain’t—Greasers, Spiggoties, Latin-Americans and all +the rest of the cattle. Why, sir, they don’t think like we think, or +reason, or act. Even their multiplication table is different. You think +seven times seven is forty-nine; but not them. They work it out +different. And white isn’t white to them, either. Let me give you an +example. Buying coffee retail for house-keeping in one-pound or +ten-pound lots—” + +“How big was that nugget you referred to?” I queried firmly. “As big as +the biggest of those?” + +“Bigger,” he said quietly. “Bigger than the whole blamed exhibit of them +put together, and then some.” He paused and regarded me with a steadfast +gaze. “I don’t see no reason why I shouldn’t go into the matter with +you. You’ve got a reputation a man ought to be able to trust, and I’ve +read you’ve done some tall skylarking yourself in out-of-the-way places. +I’ve been browsing around with an eye open for some one to go in with me +on the proposition.” + +“You can trust me,” I said. + +And here I am, blazing out into print with the whole story just as he +told it to me as we sat on a bench by the lagoon before the Palace of +Fine Arts with the cries of the sea gulls in our ears. Well, he should +have kept his appointment with me. But I anticipate. + +As we started to leave the building and hunt for a seat, a small woman, +possibly thirty years of age, with a washed-out complexion of the +farmer’s wife sort, darted up to him in a bird-like way, for all the +world like the darting veering gulls over our heads and fastened herself +to his arm with the accuracy and dispatch and inevitableness of a piece +of machinery. + +“There you go!” she shrilled. “A-trottin’ right off and never givin’ me +a thought.” + +I was formally introduced to her. It was patent that she had never heard +of me, and she surveyed me bleakly with shrewd black eyes, set close +together and as beady and restless as a bird’s. + +“You ain’t goin’ to tell him about that hussy?” she complained. + +“Well, now, Sarah, this is business, you see,” he argued plaintively. +“I’ve been lookin’ for a likely man this long while, and now that he’s +shown up it seems to me I got a right to give him the hang of what +happened.” + +The small woman made no reply, but set her thin lips in a needle-like +line. She gazed straight before her at the Tower of Jewels with so +austere an expression that no glint of refracted sunlight could soften +it. We proceeded slowly to the lagoon, managed to obtain an unoccupied +seat, and sat down with mutual sighs of relief as we released our weights +from our tortured sightseeing feet. + +“One does get so mortal weary,” asserted the small woman, almost +defiantly. + +Two swans waddled up from the mirroring water and investigated us. When +their suspicions of our niggardliness or lack of peanuts had been +confirmed, Jones half-turned his back on his life-partner and gave me his +story. + +“Ever been in Ecuador? Then take my advice—and don’t. Though I take +that back, for you and me might be hitting it for there together if you +can rustle up the faith in me and the backbone in yourself for the trip. +Well, anyway, it ain’t so many years ago that I came ambling in there on +a rusty, foul-bottomed, tramp collier from Australia, forty-three days +from land to land. Seven knots was her speed when everything favoured, +and we’d had a two weeks’ gale to the north’ard of New Zealand, and broke +our engines down for two days off Pitcairn Island. + +“I was no sailor on her. I’m a locomotive engineer. But I’d made +friends with the skipper at Newcastle an’ come along as his guest for as +far as Guayaquil. You see, I’d heard wages was ’way up on the American +railroad runnin’ from that place over the Andes to Quito. Now +Guayaquil—” + +“Is a fever-hole,” I interpolated. + +Julian Jones nodded. + +“Thomas Nast died there of it within a month after he landed.—He was our +great American cartoonist,” I added. + +“Don’t know him,” Julian Jones said shortly. “But I do know he wasn’t +the first to pass out by a long shot. Why, look you the way I found it. +The pilot grounds is sixty miles down the river. ‘How’s the fever?’ said +I to the pilot who came aboard in the early morning. ‘See that Hamburg +barque,’ said he, pointing to a sizable ship at anchor. ‘Captain and +fourteen men dead of it already, and the cook and two men dying right +now, and they’re the last left of her.’ + +“And by jinks he told the truth. And right then they were dying forty a +day in Guayaquil of Yellow Jack. But that was nothing, as I was to find +out. Bubonic plague and small-pox were raging, while dysentery and +pneumonia were reducing the population, and the railroad was raging worst +of all. I mean that. For them that insisted in riding on it, it was +more dangerous than all the other diseases put together. + +“When we dropped anchor off Guayaquil half a dozen skippers from other +steamers came on board to warn our skipper not to let any of his crew or +officers go ashore except the ones he wanted to lose. A launch came off +for me from Duran, which is on the other side of the river and is the +terminal of the railroad. And it brought off a man that soared up the +gangway three jumps at a time he was that eager to get aboard. When he +hit the deck he hadn’t time to speak to any of us. He just leaned out +over the rail and shook his fist at Duran and shouted: ‘I beat you to it! +I beat you to it!’ + +“‘Who’d you beat to it, friend?’ I asked. ‘The railroad,’ he said, as he +unbuckled the straps and took off a big ’44 Colt’s automatic from where +he wore it handy on his left side under his coat, ‘I staved as long as I +agreed—three months—and it didn’t get me. I was a conductor.’ + +“And that was the railroad I was to work for. All of which was nothing +to what he told me in the next few minutes. The road ran from sea level +at Duran up to twelve thousand feet on Chimborazo and down to ten +thousand at Quito on the other side the range. And it was so dangerous +that the trains didn’t run nights. The through passengers had to get off +and sleep in the towns at night while the train waited for daylight. And +each train carried a guard of Ecuadoriano soldiers which was the most +dangerous of all. They were supposed to protect the train crews, but +whenever trouble started they unlimbered their rifles and joined the mob. +You see, whenever a train wreck occurred, the first cry of the spiggoties +was ‘Kill the Gringos!’ They always did that, and proceeded to kill the +train crew and whatever chance Gringo passengers that’d escaped being +killed in the accident. Which is their kind of arithmetic, which I told +you a while back as being different from ours. + +“Shucks! Before the day was out I was to find out for myself that that +ex-conductor wasn’t lying. It was over at Duran. I was to take my run +on the first division out to Quito, for which place I was to start next +morning—only one through train running every twenty-four hours. It was +the afternoon of my first day, along about four o’clock, when the boilers +of the _Governor Hancock_ exploded and she sank in sixty feet of water +alongside the dock. She was the big ferry boat that carried the railroad +passengers across the river to Guayaquil. It was a bad accident, but it +was the cause of worse that followed. By half-past four, big trainloads +began to arrive. It was a feast day and they’d run an excursion up +country but of Guayaquil, and this was the crowd coming back. + +“And the crowd—there was five thousand of them—wanted to get ferried +across, and the ferry was at the bottom of the river, which wasn’t our +fault. But by the Spiggoty arithmetic, it was. ‘Kill the Gringos!’ +shouts one of them. And right there the beans were spilled. Most of us +got away by the skin of our teeth. I raced on the heels of the Master +Mechanic, carrying one of his babies for him, for the locomotives that +was just pulling out. You see, way down there away from everywhere they +just got to save their locomotives in times of trouble, because, without +them, a railroad can’t be run. Half a dozen American wives and as many +children were crouching on the cab floors along with the rest of us when +we pulled out; and the Ecuadoriano soldiers, who should have been +protecting our lives and property, turned loose with their rifles and +must have given us all of a thousand rounds before we got out of range. + +“We camped up country and didn’t come back to clean up until next day. +It was some cleaning. Every flat-car, box-car, coach, asthmatic switch +engine, and even hand-car that mob of Spiggoties had shoved off the dock +into sixty feet of water on top of the _Governor Hancock_. They’d burnt +the round house, set fire to the coal bunkers, and made a scandal of the +repair shops. Oh, yes, and there were three of our fellows they’d got +that we had to bury mighty quick. It’s hot weather all the time down +there.” + +Julian Jones came to a full pause and over his shoulder studied the +straight-before-her gaze and forbidding expression of his wife’s face. + +“I ain’t forgotten the nugget,” he assured me. + +“Nor the hussy,” the little woman snapped, apparently at the mud-hens +paddling on the surface of the lagoon. + +“I’ve been travelling toward the nugget right along—” + +“There was never no reason for you to stay in that dangerous country,” +his wife snapped in on him. + +“Now, Sarah,” he appealed. “I was working for you right along.” And to +me he explained: “The risk was big, but so was the pay. Some months I +earned as high as five hundred gold. And here was Sarah waiting for me +back in Nebraska—” + +“An’ us engaged two years,” she complained to the Tower of Jewels. + +“—What of the strike, and me being blacklisted, and getting typhoid down +in Australia, and everything,” he went on. “And luck was with me on that +railroad. Why, I saw fellows fresh from the States pass out, some of +them not a week on their first run. If the diseases and the railroad +didn’t get them, then it was the Spiggoties got them. But it just wasn’t +my fate, even that time I rode my engine down to the bottom of a +forty-foot washout. I lost my fireman; and the conductor and the +Superintendent of Rolling Stock (who happened to be running down to Duran +to meet his bride) had their heads knifed off by the Spiggoties and +paraded around on poles. But I lay snug as a bug under a couple of feet +of tender coal, and they thought I’d headed for tall timber—lay there a +day and a night till the excitement cooled down. Yes, I was lucky. The +worst that happened to me was I caught a cold once, and another time had +a carbuncle. But the other fellows! They died like flies, what of +Yellow Jack, pneumonia, the Spiggoties, and the railroad. The trouble +was I didn’t have much chance to pal with them. No sooner’d I get some +intimate with one of them he’d up and die—all but a fireman named +Andrews, and he went loco for keeps. + +“I made good on my job from the first, and lived in Quito in a ’dobe +house with whacking big Spanish tiles on the roof that I’d rented. And I +never had much trouble with the Spiggoties, what of letting them sneak +free rides in the tender or on the cowcatcher. Me throw them off? +Never! I took notice, when Jack Harris put off a bunch of them, that I +attended his funeral _muy pronto_—” + +“Speak English,” the little woman beside him snapped. + +“Sarah just can’t bear to tolerate me speaking Spanish,” he apologized. +“It gets so on her nerves that I promised not to. Well, as I was saying, +the goose hung high and everything was going hunky-dory, and I was piling +up my wages to come north to Nebraska and marry Sarah, when I run on to +Vahna—” + +“The hussy!” Sarah hissed. + +“Now, Sarah,” her towering giant of a husband begged, “I just got to +mention her or I can’t tell about the nugget.—It was one night when I was +taking a locomotive—no train—down to Amato, about thirty miles from +Quito. Seth Manners was my fireman. I was breaking him in to engineer +for himself, and I was letting him run the locomotive while I sat up in +his seat meditating about Sarah here. I’d just got a letter from her, +begging as usual for me to come home and hinting as usual about the +dangers of an unmarried man like me running around loose in a country +full of senoritas and fandangos. Lord! If she could only a-seen them. +Positive frights, that’s what they are, their faces painted white as +corpses and their lips red as—as some of the train wrecks I’ve helped +clean up. + +“It was a lovely April night, not a breath of wind, and a tremendous big +moon shining right over the top of Chimborazo.—Some mountain that. The +railroad skirted it twelve thousand feet above sea level, and the top of +it ten thousand feet higher than that. + +“Mebbe I was drowsing, with Seth running the engine; but he slammed on +the brakes so sudden hard that I darn near went through the cab window. + +“‘What the—’ I started to yell, and ‘Holy hell,’ Seth says, as both of us +looked at what was on the track. And I agreed with Seth entirely in his +remark. It was an Indian girl—and take it from me, Indians ain’t +Spiggoties by any manner of means. Seth had managed to fetch a stop +within twenty feet of her, and us bowling down hill at that! But the +girl. She—” + +I saw the form of Mrs. Julian Jones stiffen, although she kept her gaze +fixed balefully upon two mud-hens that were prowling along the lagoon +shallows below us. “The hussy!” she hissed, once and implacably. Jones +had stopped at the sound, but went on immediately. + +“She was a tall girl, slim and slender, you know the kind, with black +hair, remarkably long hanging, down loose behind her, as she stood there +no more afraid than nothing, her arms spread out to stop the engine. She +was wearing a slimpsy sort of garment wrapped around her that wasn’t +cloth but ocelot skins, soft and dappled, and silky. It was all she had +on—” + +“The hussy!” breathed Mrs. Jones. + +But Mr. Jones went on, making believe that he was unaware of the +interruption. + +“‘Hell of a way to stop a locomotive,’ I complained at Seth, as I climbed +down on to the right of way. I walked past our engine and up to the +girl, and what do you think? Her eyes were shut tight. She was +trembling that violent that you would see it by the moonlight. And she +was barefoot, too. + +“‘What’s the row?’ I said, none too gentle. She gave a start, seemed to +come out of her trance, and opened her eyes. Say! They were big and +black and beautiful. Believe me, she was some looker—” + +“The hussy!” At which hiss the two mud-hens veered away a few feet. But +Jones was getting himself in hand, and didn’t even blink. + +“‘What are you stopping this locomotive for?’ I demanded in Spanish. +Nary an answer. She stared at me, then at the snorting engine and then +burst into tears, which you’ll admit is uncommon behaviour for an Indian +woman. + +“‘If you try to get rides that way,’ I slung at her in Spiggoty Spanish +(which they tell me is some different from regular Spanish), ‘you’ll be +taking one smeared all over our cowcatcher and headlight, and it’ll be up +to my fireman to scrape you off.’ + +“My Spiggoty Spanish wasn’t much to brag on, but I could see she +understood, though she only shook her head and wouldn’t speak. But great +Moses, she was some looker—” + +I glanced apprehensively at Mrs. Jones, who must have caught me out of +the tail of her eye, for she muttered: “If she hadn’t been do you think +he’d a-taken her into his house to live?” + +“Now hold on, Sarah,” he protested. “That ain’t fair. Besides, I’m +telling this.—Next thing, Seth yells at me, ‘Goin’ to stay here all +night?’ + +“‘Come on,’ I said to the girl, ‘and climb on board. But next time you +want a ride don’t flag a locomotive between stations.’ She followed +along; but when I got to the step and turned to give her a lift-up, she +wasn’t there. I went forward again. Not a sign of her. Above and below +was sheer cliff, and the track stretched ahead a hundred yards clear and +empty. And then I spotted her, crouched down right against the +cowcatcher, that close I’d almost stepped on her. If we’d started up, +we’d have run over her in a second. It was all so nonsensical, I never +could make out her actions. Maybe she was trying to suicide. I grabbed +her by the wrist and jerked her none too gentle to her feet. And she +came along all right. Women do know when a man means business.” + +I glanced from this Goliath to his little, bird-eyed spouse, and wondered +if he had ever tried to mean business with her. + +“Seth kicked at first, but I boosted her into the cab and made her sit up +beside me—” + +“And I suppose Seth was busy running the engine,” Mrs. Jones observed. + +“I was breaking him in, wasn’t I?” Mr. Jones protested. “So we made the +run into Amato. She’d never opened her mouth once, and no sooner’d the +engine stopped than she’d jumped to the ground and was gone. Just like +that. Not a thank you kindly. Nothing. + +“But next morning when we came to pull out for Quito with a dozen flat +cars loaded with rails, there she was in the cab waiting for us; and in +the daylight I could see how much better a looker she was than the night +before. + +“‘Huh! she’s adopted you,’ Seth grins. And it looked like it. She just +stood there and looked at me—at us—like a loving hound dog that you love, +that you’ve caught with a string of sausages inside of him, and that just +knows you ain’t going to lift a hand to him. ‘Go chase yourself!’ I told +her _pronto_.” (Mrs. Jones her proximity noticeable with a wince at the +Spanish word.) “You see, Sarah, I’d no use for her, even at the start.” + +Mrs. Jones stiffened. Her lips moved soundlessly, but I knew to what +syllables. + +“And what made it hardest was Seth jeering at me. ‘You can’t shake her +that way,’ he said. ‘You saved her life—’ ‘I didn’t,’ I said sharply; +‘it was you.’ ‘But she thinks you did, which is the same thing,’ he came +back at me. ‘And now she belongs to you. Custom of the country, as you +ought to know.’” + +“Heathenish,” said Mrs. Jones, and though her steady gaze was set upon +the Tower of Jewels I knew she was making no reference to its +architecture. + +“‘She’s come to do light housekeeping for you,’ Seth grinned. I let him +rave, though afterwards I kept him throwing in the coal too fast to work +his mouth very much. Why, say, when I got to the spot where I picked her +up, and stopped the train for her to get off, she just flopped down on +her knees, got a hammerlock with her arms around my knees, and cried all +over my shoes. What was I to do?” + +With no perceptible movement that I was aware of, Mrs. Jones advertised +her certitude of knowledge of what _she_ would have done. + +“And the moment we pulled into Quito, she did what she’d done +before—vanished. Sarah never believes me when I say how relieved I felt +to be quit of her. But it was not to be. I got to my ’dobe house and +managed a cracking fine dinner my cook had ready for me. She was mostly +Spiggoty and half Indian, and her name was Paloma.—Now, Sarah, haven’t I +told you she was older’n a grandmother, and looked more like a buzzard +than a dove? Why, I couldn’t bear to eat with her around where I could +look at her. But she did make things comfortable, and she was some +economical when it came to marketing. + +“That afternoon, after a big long siesta, what’d I find in the kitchen, +just as much at home as if she belonged there, but that blamed Indian +girl. And old Paloma was squatting at the girl’s feet and rubbing the +girl’s knees and legs like for rheumatism, which I knew the girl didn’t +have from the way I’d sized up the walk of her, and keeping time to the +rubbing with a funny sort of gibberish chant. And I let loose right +there and then. As Sarah knows, I never could a-bear women around the +house—young, unmarried women, I mean. But it was no go! Old Paloma +sided with the girl, and said if the girl went she went, too. Also, she +called me more kinds of a fool than the English language has +accommodation for. You’d like the Spanish lingo, Sarah, for expressing +yourself in such ways, and you’d have liked old Paloma, too. She was a +good woman, though she didn’t have any teeth and her face could kill a +strong man’s appetite in the cradle. + +“I gave in. I had to. Except for the excuse that she needed Vahna’s +help around the house (which she didn’t at all), old Paloma never said +why she stuck up for the girl. Anyway, Vahna was a quiet thing, never in +the way. And she never gadded. Just sat in-doors jabbering with Paloma +and helping with the chores. But I wasn’t long in getting on to that she +was afraid of something. She would look up, that anxious it hurt, +whenever anybody called, like some of the boys to have a gas or a game of +pedro. I tried to worm it out of Paloma what was worrying the girl, but +all the old woman did was to look solemn and shake her head like all the +devils in hell was liable to precipitate a visit on us. + +“And then one day Vahna had a visitor. I’d just come in from a run and +was passing the time of day with her—I had to be polite, even if she had +butted in on me and come to live in my house for keeps—when I saw a queer +expression come into her eyes. In the doorway stood an Indian boy. He +looked like her, but was younger and slimmer. She took him into the +kitchen and they must have had a great palaver, for he didn’t leave until +after dark. Inside the week he came back, but I missed him. When I got +home, Paloma put a fat nugget of gold into my hand, which Vahna had sent +him for. The blamed thing weighed all of two pounds and was worth more +than five hundred dollars. She explained that Vahna wanted me to take it +to pay for her keep. And I had to take it to keep peace in the house. + +“Then, after a long time, came another visitor. We were sitting before +the fire—” + +“Him and the hussy,” quoth Mrs. Jones. + +“And Paloma,” he added quickly. + +“Him and his cook and his light housekeeper sitting by the fire,” she +amended. + +“Oh, I admit Vahna did like me a whole heap,” he asserted recklessly, +then modified with a pang of caution: “A heap more than was good for her, +seeing that I had no inclination her way. + +“Well, as I was saying, she had another visitor. He was a lean, tall, +white-headed old Indian, with a beak on him like an eagle. He walked +right in without knocking. Vahna gave a little cry that was half like a +yelp and half like a gasp, and flumped down on her knees before me, +pleading to me with deer’s eyes and to him with the eyes of a deer about +to be killed that don’t want to be killed. Then, for a minute that +seemed as long as a life-time, she and the old fellow glared at each +other. Paloma was the first to talk, in his own lingo, for he talked +back to her. But great Moses, if he wasn’t the high and mighty one! +Paloma’s old knees were shaking, and she cringed to him like a hound dog. +And all this in my own house! I’d have thrown him out on his neck, only +he was so old. + +“If the things he said to Vahna were as terrible as the way he looked! +Say! He just spit words at her! But Paloma kept whimpering and butting +in, till something she said got across, because his face relaxed. He +condescended to give me the once over and fired some question at Vahna. +She hung her head, and looked foolish, and blushed, and then replied with +a single word and a shake of the head. And with that he just naturally +turned on his heel and beat it. I guess she’d said ‘No.’ + +“For some time after that Vahna used to fluster up whenever she saw me. +Then she took to the kitchen for a spell. But after a long time she +began hanging around the big room again. She was still mighty shy, but +she’d keep on following me about with those big eyes of hers—” + +“The hussy!” I heard plainly. But Julian Jones and I were pretty well +used to it by this time. + +“I don’t mind saying that I was getting some interested myself—oh, not in +the way Sarah never lets up letting me know she thinks. That two-pound +nugget was what had me going. If Vahna’d put me wise to where it came +from, I could say good-bye to railroading and hit the high places for +Nebraska and Sarah. + +“And then the beans were spilled . . . by accident. Come a letter from +Wisconsin. My Aunt Eliza ’d died and up and left me her big farm. I let +out a whoop when I read it; but I could have canned my joy, for I was +jobbed out of it by the courts and lawyers afterward—not a cent to me, +and I’m still paying ’m in instalments. + +“But I didn’t know, then; and I prepared to pull back to God’s country. +Paloma got sore, and Vahna got the weeps. ‘Don’t go! Don’t go!’ That +was her song. But I gave notice on my job, and wrote a letter to Sarah +here—didn’t I, Sarah? + +“That night, sitting by the fire like at a funeral, Vahna really loosened +up for the first time. + +“‘Don’t go,’ she says to me, with old Paloma nodding agreement with her. +‘I’ll show you where my brother got the nugget, if you don’t go.’ ‘Too +late,’ said I. And I told her why. + +“And told her about me waiting for you back in Nebraska,” Mrs. Jones +observed in cold, passionless tones. + +“Now, Sarah, why should I hurt a poor Indian girl’s feelings? Of course +I didn’t. + +“Well, she and Paloma talked Indian some more, and then Vahna says: ‘If +you stay, I’ll show you the biggest nugget that is the father of all +other nuggets.’ ‘How big?’ I asked. ‘As big as me?’ She laughed. +‘Bigger than you,’ she says, ‘much, much bigger.’ ‘They don’t grow that +way,’ I said. But she said she’d seen it and Paloma backed her up. Why, +to listen to them you’d have thought there was millions in that one +nugget. Paloma ’d never seen it herself, but she’d heard about it. A +secret of the tribe which she couldn’t share, being only half Indian +herself.” + +Julian Jones paused and heaved a sigh. + +“And they kept on insisting until I fell for—” + +“The hussy,” said Mrs. Jones, pert as a bird, at the ready instant. + +“‘No; for the nugget. What of Aunt Eliza’s farm I was rich enough to +quit railroading, but not rich enough to turn my back on big money—and I +just couldn’t help believing them two women. Gee! I could be another +Vanderbilt, or J. P. Morgan. That’s the way I thought; and I started in +to pump Vahna. But she wouldn’t give down. ‘You come along with me,’ +she says. ‘We can be back here in a couple of weeks with all the gold +the both of us can carry.’ ‘We’ll take a burro, or a pack-train of +burros,’ was my suggestion. But nothing doing. And Paloma agreed with +her. It was too dangerous. The Indians would catch us. + +“The two of us pulled out when the nights were moonlight. We travelled +only at night, and laid up in the days. Vahna wouldn’t let me light a +fire, and I missed my coffee something fierce. We got up in the real +high mountains of the main Andes, where the snow on one pass gave us some +trouble; but the girl knew the trails, and, though we didn’t waste any +time, we were a full week getting there. I know the general trend of our +travel, because I carried a pocket compass; and the general trend is all +I need to get there again, because of that peak. There’s no mistaking +it. There ain’t another peak like it in the world. Now, I’m not telling +you its particular shape, but when you and I head out for it from Quito +I’ll take you straight to it. + +“It’s no easy thing to climb, and the person doesn’t live that can climb +it at night. We had to take the daylight to it, and didn’t reach the top +till after sunset. Why, I could take hours and hours telling you about +that last climb, which I won’t. The top was flat as a billiard table, +about a quarter of an acre in size, and was almost clean of snow. Vahna +told me that the great winds that usually blew, kept the snow off of it. + +“We were winded, and I got mountain sickness so bad that I had to stretch +out for a spell. Then, when the moon come up, I took a prowl around. It +didn’t take long, and I didn’t catch a sight or a smell of anything that +looked like gold. And when I asked Vahna, she only laughed and clapped +her hands. Meantime my mountain sickness tuned up something fierce, and +I sat down on a big rock to wait for it to ease down. + +“‘Come on, now,’ I said, when I felt better. ‘Stop your fooling and tell +me where that nugget is.’ ‘It’s nearer to you right now than I’ll ever +get,’ she answered, her big eyes going sudden wistful. ‘All you Gringos +are alike. Gold is the love of your heart, and women don’t count much.’ + +“I didn’t say anything. That was no time to tell her about Sarah here. +But Vahna seemed to shake off her depressed feelings, and began to laugh +and tease again. ‘How do you like it?’ she asked. ‘Like what?’ ‘The +nugget you’re sitting on.’ + +“I jumped up as though it was a red-hot stove. And all it was was a +rock. I felt nay heart sink. Either she had gone clean loco or this was +her idea of a joke. Wrong on both counts. She gave me the hatchet and +told me to take a hack at the boulder, which I did, again and again, for +yellow spots sprang up from under every blow. By the great Moses! it was +gold! The whole blamed boulder!” + +Jones rose suddenly to his full height and flung out his long arms, his +face turned to the southern skies. The movement shot panic into the +heart of a swan that had drawn nearer with amiably predatory designs. +Its consequent abrupt retreat collided it with a stout old lady, who +squealed and dropped her bag of peanuts. Jones sat down and resumed. + +“Gold, I tell you, solid gold and that pure and soft that I chopped chips +out of it. It had been coated with some sort of rain-proof paint or +lacquer made out of asphalt or something. No wonder I’d taken it for a +rock. It was ten feet long, all of five feet through, and tapering to +both ends like an egg. Here. Take a look at this.” + +From his pocket he drew and opened a leather case, from which he took an +object wrapped in tissue-paper. Unwrapping it, he dropped into my hand a +chip of pure soft gold, the size of a ten-dollar gold-piece. I could +make out the greyish substance on one side with which it had been +painted. + +“I chopped that from one end of the thing,” Jones went on, replacing the +chip in its paper and leather case. “And lucky I put it in my pocket. +For right at my back came one loud word—more like a croak than a word, in +my way of thinking. And there was that lean old fellow with the eagle +beak that had dropped in on us one night. And there was about thirty +Indians with him—all slim young fellows. + +“Vahna’d flopped down and begun whimpering, but I told her, ‘Get up and +make friends with them for me.’ ‘No, no,’ she cried. ‘This is death. +Good-bye, _amigo_—’” + +Here Mrs. Jones winced, and her husband abruptly checked the particular +flow of his narrative. + +“‘Then get up and fight along with me,’ I said to her. And she did. She +was some hellion, there on the top of the world, clawing and scratching +tooth and nail—a regular she cat. And I wasn’t idle, though all I had +was that hatchet and my long arms. But they were too many for me, and +there was no place for me to put my back against a wall. When I come to, +minutes after they’d cracked me on the head—here, feel this.” + +Removing his hat, Julian Jones guided my finger tips through his thatch +of sandy hair until they sank into an indentation. It was fully three +inches long, and went into the bone itself of the skull. + +“When I come to, there was Vahna spread-eagled on top of the nugget, and +the old fellow with a beak jabbering away solemnly as if going through +some sort of religious exercises. In his hand he had a stone knife—you +know, a thin, sharp sliver of some obsidian-like stuff same as they make +arrow-heads out of. I couldn’t lift a hand, being held down, and being +too weak besides. And—well, anyway, that stone knife did for her, and me +they didn’t even do the honour of killing there on top their sacred peak. +They chucked me off of it like so much carrion. + +“And the buzzards didn’t get me either. I can see the moonlight yet, +shining on all those peaks of snow, as I went down. Why, sir, it was a +five-hundred-foot fall, only I didn’t make it. I went into a big +snow-drift in a crevice. And when I come to (hours after I know, for it +was full day when I next saw the sun), I found myself in a regular +snow-cave or tunnel caused by the water from the melting snow running +along the ledge. In fact, the stone above actually overhung just beyond +where I first landed. A few feet more to the side, either way, and I’d +almost be going yet. It was a straight miracle, that’s what it was. + +“But I paid for it. It was two years and over before I knew what +happened. All I knew was that I was Julian Jones and that I’d been +blacklisted in the big strike, and that I was married to Sarah here. I +mean that. I didn’t know anything in between, and when Sarah tried to +talk about it, it gave me pains in the head. I mean my head was queer, +and I knew it was queer. + +“And then, sitting on the porch of her father’s farmhouse back in +Nebraska one moonlight evening, Sarah came out and put that gold chip +into my hand. Seems she’d just found it in the torn lining of the trunk +I’d brought back from Ecuador—I who for two years didn’t even know I’d +been to Ecuador, or Australia, or anything! Well, I just sat there +looking at the chip in the moonlight, and turning it over and over and +figuring what it was and where it’d come from, when all of a sudden there +was a snap inside my head as if something had broken, and then I could +see Vahna spread-eagled on that big nugget and the old fellow with the +beak waving the stone knife, and . . . and everything. That is, +everything that had happened from the time I first left Nebraska to when +I crawled to the daylight out of the snow after they had chucked me off +the mountain-top. But everything that’d happened after that I’d clean +forgotten. When Sarah said I was her husband, I wouldn’t listen to her. +Took all her family and the preacher that’d married us to convince me. + +“Later on I wrote to Seth Manners. The railroad hadn’t killed him yet, +and he pieced out a lot for me. I’ll show you his letters. I’ve got +them at the hotel. One day, he said, making his regular run, I crawled +out on to the track. I didn’t stand upright, I just crawled. He took me +for a calf, or a big dog, at first. I wasn’t anything human, he said, +and I didn’t know him or anything. As near as I can make out, it was ten +days after the mountain-top to the time Seth picked me up. What I ate I +don’t know. Maybe I didn’t eat. Then it was doctors at Quito, and +Paloma nursing me (she must have packed that gold chip in my trunk), +until they found out I was a man without a mind, and the railroad sent me +back to Nebraska. At any rate, that’s what Seth writes me. Of myself, I +don’t know. But Sarah here knows. She corresponded with the railroad +before they shipped me and all that.” + +Mrs. Jones nodded affirmation of his words, sighed and evidenced +unmistakable signs of eagerness to go. + +“I ain’t been able to work since,” her husband continued. “And I ain’t +been able to figure out how to get back that big nugget. Sarah’s got +money of her own, and she won’t let go a penny—” + +“He won’t get down to _that_ country no more!” she broke forth. + +“But, Sarah, Vahna’s dead—you know that,” Julian Jones protested. + +“I don’t know anything about anything,” she answered decisively, “except +that _that_ country is no place for a married man.” + +Her lips snapped together, and she fixed an unseeing stare across to +where the afternoon sun was beginning to glow into sunset. I gazed for a +moment at her face, white, plump, tiny, and implacable, and gave her up. + +“How do you account for such a mass of gold being there?” I queried of +Julian Jones. “A solid-gold meteor that fell out of the sky?” + +“Not for a moment.” He shook his head. “ It was carried there by the +Indians.” + +“Up a mountain like that—and such enormous weight and size!” I objected. + +“Just as easy,” he smiled. “I used to be stumped by that proposition +myself, after I got my memory back. Now how in Sam Hill—’ I used to +begin, and then spend hours figuring at it. And then when I got the +answer I felt downright idiotic, it was that easy.” He paused, then +announced: “They didn’t.” + +“But you just—said they did.” + +“They did and they didn’t,” was his enigmatic reply. “Of course they +never carried that monster nugget up there. What they did was to carry +up its contents.” + +He waited until he saw enlightenment dawn in my face. + +“And then of course melted all the gold, or welded it, or smelted it, all +into one piece. You know the first Spaniards down there, under a leader +named Pizarro, were a gang of robbers and cut-throats. They went through +the country like the hoof-and-mouth disease, and killed the Indians off +like cattle. You see, the Indians had lots of gold. Well, what the +Spaniards didn’t get, the surviving Indians hid away in that one big +chunk on top the mountain, and it’s been waiting there ever since for +me—and for you, if you want to go in on it.” + +And here, by the Lagoon of the Palace of Fine Arts, ended my acquaintance +with Julian Jones. On my agreeing to finance the adventure, he promised +to call on me at my hotel next morning with the letters of Seth Manners +and the railroad, and conclude arrangements. But he did not call. That +evening I telephoned his hotel and was informed by the clerk that Mr. +Julian Jones and wife had departed in the early afternoon, with their +baggage. + +Can Mrs. Jones have rushed him back and hidden him away in Nebraska? I +remember that as we said good-bye, there was that in her smile that +recalled the vulpine complacency of Mona Lisa, the Wise. + + THE END + +Kohala, Hawaii, + _May_ 5, 1916. + + + + +LIKE ARGUS OF THE ANCIENT TIMES + + +IT was the summer of 1897, and there was trouble in the Tarwater family. +Grandfather Tarwater, after remaining properly subdued and crushed for a +quiet decade, had broken out again. This time it was the Klondike fever. +His first and one unvarying symptom of such attacks was song. One chant +only he raised, though he remembered no more than the first stanza and +but three lines of that. And the family knew his feet were itching and +his brain was tingling with the old madness, when he lifted his +hoarse-cracked voice, now falsetto-cracked, in: + + Like Argus of the ancient times, + We leave this modern Greece, + Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum, + To shear the Golden Fleece. + +Ten years earlier he had lifted the chant, sung to the air of the +“Doxology,” when afflicted with the fever to go gold-mining in Patagonia. +The multitudinous family had sat upon him, but had had a hard time doing +it. When all else had failed to shake his resolution, they had applied +lawyers to him, with the threat of getting out guardianship papers and of +confining him in the state asylum for the insane—which was reasonable for +a man who had, a quarter of a century before, speculated away all but ten +meagre acres of a California principality, and who had displayed no +better business acumen ever since. + +The application of lawyers to John Tarwater was like the application of a +mustard plaster. For, in his judgment, they were the gentry, more than +any other, who had skinned him out of the broad Tarwater acres. So, at +the time of his Patagonian fever, the very thought of so drastic a remedy +was sufficient to cure him. He quickly demonstrated he was not crazy by +shaking the fever from him and agreeing not to go to Patagonia. + +Next, he demonstrated how crazy he really was, by deeding over to his +family, unsolicited, the ten acres on Tarwater Flat, the house, barn, +outbuildings, and water-rights. Also did he turn over the eight hundred +dollars in bank that was the long-saved salvage of his wrecked fortune. +But for this the family found no cause for committal to the asylum, since +such committal would necessarily invalidate what he had done. + +“Grandfather is sure peeved,” said Mary, his oldest daughter, herself a +grandmother, when her father quit smoking. + +All he had retained for himself was a span of old horses, a mountain +buckboard, and his one room in the crowded house. Further, having +affirmed that he would be beholden to none of them, he got the contract +to carry the United States mail, twice a week, from Kelterville up over +Tarwater Mountain to Old Almaden—which was a sporadically worked +quick-silver mine in the upland cattle country. With his old horses it +took all his time to make the two weekly round trips. And for ten years, +rain or shine, he had never missed a trip. Nor had he failed once to pay +his week’s board into Mary’s hand. This board he had insisted on, in the +convalescence from his Patagonian fever, and he had paid it strictly, +though he had given up tobacco in order to be able to do it. + +“Huh!” he confided to the ruined water wheel of the old Tarwater Mill, +which he had built from the standing timber and which had ground wheat +for the first settlers. “Huh! They’ll never put me in the poor farm so +long as I support myself. And without a penny to my name it ain’t likely +any lawyer fellows’ll come snoopin’ around after me.” + +And yet, precisely because of these highly rational acts, it was held +that John Tarwater was mildly crazy! + +The first time he had lifted the chant of “Like Argus of the Ancient +Times,” had been in 1849, when, twenty-two years’ of age, violently +attacked by the Californian fever, he had sold two hundred and forty +Michigan acres, forty of it cleared, for the price of four yoke of oxen, +and a wagon, and had started across the Plains. + +“And we turned off at Fort Hall, where the Oregon emigration went +north’ard, and swung south for Californy,” was his way of concluding the +narrative of that arduous journey. “And Bill Ping and me used to rope +grizzlies out of the underbrush of Cache Slough in the Sacramento +Valley.” + +Years of freighting and mining had followed, and, with a stake gleaned +from the Merced placers, he satisfied the land-hunger of his race and +time by settling in Sonoma County. + +During the ten years of carrying the mail across Tarwater Township, up +Tarwater Valley, and over Tarwater Mountain, most all of which land had +once been his, he had spent his time dreaming of winning back that land +before he died. And now, his huge gaunt form more erect than it had been +for years, with a glinting of blue fires in his small and close-set eyes, +he was lifting his ancient chant again. + +“There he goes now—listen to him,” said William Tarwater. + +“Nobody at home,” laughed Harris Topping, day labourer, husband of Annie +Tarwater, and father of her nine children. + +The kitchen door opened to admit the old man, returning from feeding his +horses. The song had ceased from his lips; but Mary was irritable from a +burnt hand and a grandchild whose stomach refused to digest properly +diluted cows’ milk. + +“Now there ain’t no use you carryin’ on that way, father,” she tackled +him. “The time’s past for you to cut and run for a place like the +Klondike, and singing won’t buy you nothing.” + +“Just the same,” he answered quietly. “I bet I could go to that Klondike +place and pick up enough gold to buy back the Tarwater lands.” + +“Old fool!” Annie contributed. + +“You couldn’t buy them back for less’n three hundred thousand and then +some,” was William’s effort at squelching him. + +“Then I could pick up three hundred thousand, and then some, if I was +only there,” the old man retorted placidly. + +“Thank God you can’t walk there, or you’d be startin’, I know,” Mary +cried. “Ocean travel costs money.” + +“I used to have money,” her father said humbly. + +“Well, you ain’t got any now—so forget it,” William advised. “Them times +is past, like roping bear with Bill Ping. There ain’t no more bear.” + +“Just the same—” + +But Mary cut him off. Seizing the day’s paper from the kitchen table, +she flourished it savagely under her aged progenitor’s nose. + +“What do those Klondikers say? There it is in cold print. Only the +young and robust can stand the Klondike. It’s worse than the north pole. +And they’ve left their dead a-plenty there themselves. Look at their +pictures. You’re forty years older ’n the oldest of them.” + +John Tarwater did look, but his eyes strayed to other photographs on the +highly sensational front page. + +“And look at the photys of them nuggets they brought down,” he said. “I +know gold. Didn’t I gopher twenty thousand outa the Merced? And +wouldn’t it a-ben a hundred thousand if that cloudburst hadn’t busted my +wing-dam? Now if I was only in the Klondike—” + +“Crazy as a loon,” William sneered in open aside to the rest. + +“A nice way to talk to your father,” Old Man Tarwater censured mildly. +“My father’d have walloped the tar out of me with a single-tree if I’d +spoke to him that way.” + +“But you _are_ crazy, father—” William began. + +“Reckon you’re right, son. And that’s where my father wasn’t crazy. +He’d a-done it.” + +“The old man’s been reading some of them magazine articles about men who +succeeded after forty,” Annie jibed. + +“And why not, daughter?” he asked. “And why can’t a man succeed after +he’s seventy? I was only seventy this year. And mebbe I could succeed +if only I could get to the Klondike—” + +“Which you ain’t going to get to,” Mary shut him off. + +“Oh, well, then,” he sighed, “seein’s I ain’t, I might just as well go to +bed.” + +He stood up, tall, gaunt, great-boned and gnarled, a splendid ruin of a +man. His ragged hair and whiskers were not grey but snowy white, as were +the tufts of hair that stood out on the backs of his huge bony fingers. +He moved toward the door, opened it, sighed, and paused with a backward +look. + +“Just the same,” he murmured plaintively, “the bottoms of my feet is +itching something terrible.” + +Long before the family stirred next morning, his horses fed and harnessed +by lantern light, breakfast cooked and eaten by lamp fight, Old Man +Tarwater was off and away down Tarwater Valley on the road to +Kelterville. Two things were unusual about this usual trip which he had +made a thousand and forty times since taking the mail contract. He did +not drive to Kelterville, but turned off on the main road south to Santa +Rosa. Even more remarkable than this was the paper-wrapped parcel +between his feet. It contained his one decent black suit, which Mary had +been long reluctant to see him wear any more, not because it was shabby, +but because, as he guessed what was at the back of her mind, it was +decent enough to bury him in. + +And at Santa Rosa, in a second-hand clothes shop, he sold the suit +outright for two dollars and a half. From the same obliging shopman he +received four dollars for the wedding ring of his long-dead wife. The +span of horses and the wagon he disposed of for seventy-five dollars, +although twenty-five was all he received down in cash. Chancing to meet +Alton Granger on the street, to whom never before had he mentioned the +ten dollars loaned him in ’74, he reminded Alton Granger of the little +affair, and was promptly paid. Also, of all unbelievable men to be in +funds, he so found the town drunkard for whom he had bought many a drink +in the old and palmy days. And from him John Tarwater borrowed a dollar. +Finally, he took the afternoon train to San Francisco. + +A dozen days later, carrying a half-empty canvas sack of blankets and old +clothes, he landed on the beach of Dyea in the thick of the great +Klondike Rush. The beach was screaming bedlam. Ten thousand tons of +outfit lay heaped and scattered, and twice ten thousand men struggled +with it and clamoured about it. Freight, by Indian-back, over Chilcoot +to Lake Linderman, had jumped from sixteen to thirty cents a pound, which +latter was a rate of six hundred dollars a ton. And the sub-arctic +winter gloomed near at hand. All knew it, and all knew that of the +twenty thousand of them very few would get across the passes, leaving the +rest to winter and wait for the late spring thaw. + +Such the beach old John Tarwater stepped upon; and straight across the +beach and up the trail toward Chilcoot he headed, cackling his ancient +chant, a very Grandfather Argus himself, with no outfit worry in the +world, for he did not possess any outfit. That night he slept on the +flats, five miles above Dyea, at the head of canoe navigation. Here the +Dyea River became a rushing mountain torrent, plunging out of a dark +canyon from the glaciers that fed it far above. + +And here, early next morning, he beheld a little man weighing no more +than a hundred, staggering along a foot-log under all of a hundred pounds +of flour strapped on his back. Also, he beheld the little man stumble +off the log and fall face-downward in a quiet eddy where the water was +two feet deep and proceed quietly to drown. It was no desire of his to +take death so easily, but the flour on his back weighed as much as he and +would not let him up. + +“Thank you, old man,” he said to Tarwater, when the latter had dragged +him up into the air and ashore. + +While he unlaced his shoes and ran the water out, they had further talk. +Next, he fished out a ten-dollar gold-piece and offered it to his +rescuer. + +Old Tarwater shook his head and shivered, for the ice-water had wet him +to his knees. + +“But I reckon I wouldn’t object to settin’ down to a friendly meal with +you.” + +“Ain’t had breakfast?” the little man, who was past forty and who had +said his name was Anson, queried with a glance frankly curious. + +“Nary bite,” John Tarwater answered. + +“Where’s your outfit? Ahead?” + +“Nary outfit.” + +“Expect to buy your grub on the Inside?” + +“Nary a dollar to buy it with, friend. Which ain’t so important as a +warm bite of breakfast right now.” + +In Anson’s camp, a quarter of a mile on, Tarwater found a slender, +red-whiskered young man of thirty cursing over a fire of wet willow wood. +Introduced as Charles, he transferred his scowl and wrath to Tarwater, +who, genially oblivious, devoted himself to the fire, took advantage of +the chill morning breeze to create a draught which the other had left +stupidly blocked by stones, and soon developed less smoke and more flame. +The third member of the party, Bill Wilson, or Big Bill as they called +him, came in with a hundred-and-forty-pound pack; and what Tarwater +esteemed to be a very rotten breakfast was dished out by Charles. The +mush was half cooked and mostly burnt, the bacon was charred carbon, and +the coffee was unspeakable. + +Immediately the meal was wolfed down the three partners took their empty +pack-straps and headed down trail to where the remainder of their outfit +lay at the last camp a mile away. And old Tarwater became busy. He +washed the dishes, foraged dry wood, mended a broken pack-strap, put an +edge on the butcher-knife and camp-axe, and repacked the picks and +shovels into a more carryable parcel. + +What had impressed him during the brief breakfast was the sort of awe in +which Anson and Big Bill stood of Charles. Once, during the morning, +while Anson took a breathing spell after bringing in another +hundred-pound pack, Tarwater delicately hinted his impression. + +“You see, it’s this way,” Anson said. “We’ve divided our leadership. +We’ve got specialities. Now I’m a carpenter. When we get to Lake +Linderman, and the trees are chopped and whipsawed into planks, I’ll boss +the building of the boat. Big Bill is a logger and miner. So he’ll boss +getting out the logs and all mining operations. Most of our outfit’s +ahead. We went broke paying the Indians to pack that much of it to the +top of Chilcoot. Our last partner is up there with it, moving it along +by himself down the other side. His name’s Liverpool, and he’s a sailor. +So, when the boat’s built, he’s the boss of the outfit to navigate the +lakes and rapids to Klondike. + +“And Charles—this Mr. Crayton—what might his speciality be?” Tarwater +asked. + +“He’s the business man. When it comes to business and organization he’s +boss.” + +“Hum,” Tarwater pondered. “Very lucky to get such a bunch of +specialities into one outfit.” + +“More than luck,” Anson agreed. “It was all accident, too. Each of us +started alone. We met on the steamer coming up from San Francisco, and +formed the party.—Well, I got to be goin’. Charles is liable to get +kicking because I ain’t packin’ my share’ just the same, you can’t expect +a hundred-pound man to pack as much as a hundred-and-sixty-pounder.” + +“Stick around and cook us something for dinner,” Charles, on his next +load in and noting the effects of the old man’s handiness, told Tarwater. + +And Tarwater cooked a dinner that was a dinner, washed the dishes, had +real pork and beans for supper, and bread baked in a frying-pan that was +so delectable that the three partners nearly foundered themselves on it. +Supper dishes washed, he cut shavings and kindling for a quick and +certain breakfast fire, showed Anson a trick with foot-gear that was +invaluable to any hiker, sang his “Like Argus of the Ancient Times,” and +told them of the great emigration across the Plains in Forty-nine. + +“My goodness, the first cheerful and hearty-like camp since we hit the +beach,” Big Bill remarked as he knocked out his pipe and began pulling +off his shoes for bed. + +“Kind of made things easy, boys, eh?” Tarwater queried genially. + +All nodded. “Well, then, I got a proposition, boys. You can take it or +leave it, but just listen kindly to it. You’re in a hurry to get in +before the freeze-up. Half the time is wasted over the cooking by one of +you that he might be puttin’ in packin’ outfit. If I do the cookin’ for +you, you all’ll get on that much faster. Also, the cookin’ ’ll be +better, and that’ll make you pack better. And I can pack quite a bit +myself in between times, quite a bit, yes, sir, quite a bit.” + +Big Bill and Anson were just beginning to nod their heads in agreement, +when Charles stopped them. + +“What do you expect of us in return?” he demanded of the old man. + +“Oh, I leave it up to the boys.” + +“That ain’t business,” Charles reprimanded sharply. “You made the +proposition. Now finish it.” + +“Well, it’s this way—” + +“You expect us to feed you all winter, eh?” Charles interrupted. + +“No, siree, I don’t. All I reckon is a passage to Klondike in your boat +would be mighty square of you.” + +“You haven’t an ounce of grub, old man. You’ll starve to death when you +get there.” + +“I’ve been feedin’ some long time pretty successful,” Old Tarwater +replied, a whimsical light in his eyes. “I’m seventy, and ain’t starved +to death never yet.” + +“Will you sign a paper to the effect that you shift for yourself as soon +as you get to Dawson?” the business one demanded. + +“Oh, sure,” was the response. + +Again Charles checked his two partners’ expressions of satisfaction with +the arrangement. + +“One other thing, old man. We’re a party of four, and we all have a vote +on questions like this. Young Liverpool is ahead with the main outfit. +He’s got a say so, and he isn’t here to say it.” + +“What kind of a party might he be?” Tarwater inquired. + +“He’s a rough-neck sailor, and he’s got a quick, bad temper.” + +“Some turbulent,” Anson contributed. + +“And the way he can cuss is simply God-awful,” Big Bill testified. + +“But he’s square,” Big Bill added. + +Anson nodded heartily to this appraisal. + +“Well, boys,” Tarwater summed up, “I set out for Californy and I got +there. And I’m going to get to Klondike. Ain’t a thing can stop me, +ain’t a thing. I’m going to get three hundred thousand outa the ground, +too. Ain’t a thing can stop me, ain’t a thing, because I just naturally +need the money. I don’t mind a bad temper so long’s the boy is square. +I’ll take my chance, an’ I’ll work along with you till we catch up with +him. Then, if he says no to the proposition, I reckon I’ll lose. But +somehow I just can’t see ’m sayin’ no, because that’d mean too close up +to freeze-up and too late for me to find another chance like this. And, +as I’m sure going to get to Klondike, it’s just plumb impossible for him +to say no.” + +Old John Tarwater became a striking figure on a trail unusually replete +with striking figures. With thousands of men, each back-tripping half a +ton of outfit, retracing every mile of the trail twenty times, all came +to know him and to hail him as “Father Christmas.” And, as he worked, +ever he raised his chant with his age-falsetto voice. None of the three +men he had joined could complain about his work. True, his joints were +stiff—he admitted to a trifle of rheumatism. He moved slowly, and seemed +to creak and crackle when he moved; but he kept on moving. Last into the +blankets at night, he was first out in the morning, so that the other +three had hot coffee before their one before-breakfast pack. And, +between breakfast and dinner and between dinner and supper, he always +managed to back-trip for several packs himself. Sixty pounds was the +limit of his burden, however. He could manage seventy-five, but he could +not keep it up. Once, he tried ninety, but collapsed on the trail and +was seriously shaky for a couple of days afterward. + +Work! On a trail where hard-working men learned for the first time what +work was, no man worked harder in proportion to his strength than Old +Tarwater. Driven desperately on by the near-thrust of winter, and lured +madly on by the dream of gold, they worked to their last ounce of +strength and fell by the way. Others, when failure made certain, blew +out their brains. Some went mad, and still others, under the irk of the +man-destroying strain, broke partnerships and dissolved life-time +friendships with fellows just as good as themselves and just as strained +and mad. + +Work! Old Tarwater could shame them all, despite his creaking and +crackling and the nasty hacking cough he had developed. Early and late, +on trail or in camp beside the trail he was ever in evidence, ever busy +at something, ever responsive to the hail of “Father Christmas.” Weary +back-trippers would rest their packs on a log or rock alongside of where +he rested his, and would say: “Sing us that song of yourn, dad, about +Forty-Nine.” And, when he had wheezingly complied, they would arise +under their loads, remark that it was real heartening, and hit the +forward trail again. + +“If ever a man worked his passage and earned it,” Big Bill confided to +his two partners, “that man’s our old Skeezicks.” + +“You bet,” Anson confirmed. “He’s a valuable addition to the party, and +I, for one, ain’t at all disagreeable to the notion of making him a +regular partner—” + +“None of that!” Charles Crayton cut in. “When we get to Dawson we’re +quit of him—that’s the agreement. We’d only have to bury him if we let +him stay on with us. Besides, there’s going to be a famine, and every +ounce of grub’ll count. Remember, we’re feeding him out of our own +supply all the way in. And if we run short in the pinch next year, +you’ll know the reason. Steamboats can’t get up grub to Dawson till the +middle of June, and that’s nine months away.” + +“Well, you put as much money and outfit in as the rest of us,” Big Bill +conceded, “and you’ve a say according.” + +“And I’m going to have my say,” Charles asserted with increasing +irritability. “And it’s lucky for you with your fool sentiments that +you’ve got somebody to think ahead for you, else you’d all starve to +death. I tell you that famine’s coming. I’ve been studying the +situation. Flour will be two dollars a pound, or ten, and no sellers. +You mark my words.” + +Across the rubble-covered flats, up the dark canyon to Sheep Camp, past +the over-hanging and ever-threatening glaciers to the Scales, and from +the Scales up the steep pitches of ice-scoured rock where packers climbed +with hands and feet, Old Tarwater camp-cooked and packed and sang. He +blew across Chilcoot Pass, above timberline, in the first swirl of autumn +snow. Those below, without firewood, on the bitter rim of Crater Lake, +heard from the driving obscurity above them a weird voice chanting: + + “Like Argus of the ancient times, + We leave this modern Greece, + Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum, + To shear the Golden Fleece.” + +And out of the snow flurries they saw appear a tall, gaunt form, with +whiskers of flying white that blended with the storm, bending under a +sixty-pound pack of camp dunnage. + +“Father Christmas!” was the hail. And then: “Three rousing cheers for +Father Christmas!” + +Two miles beyond Crater Lake lay Happy Camp—so named because here was +found the uppermost fringe of the timber line, where men might warm +themselves by fire again. Scarcely could it be called timber, for it was +a dwarf rock-spruce that never raised its loftiest branches higher than a +foot above the moss, and that twisted and grovelled like a pig-vegetable +under the moss. Here, on the trail leading into Happy Camp, in the first +sunshine of half a dozen days, Old Tarwater rested his pack against a +huge boulder and caught his breath. Around this boulder the trail +passed, laden men toiling slowly forward and men with empty pack-straps +limping rapidly back for fresh loads. Twice Old Tarwater essayed to rise +and go on, and each time, warned by his shakiness, sank back to recover +more strength. From around the boulder he heard voices in greeting, +recognized Charles Crayton’s voice, and realized that at last they had +met up with Young Liverpool. Quickly, Charles plunged into business, and +Tarwater heard with great distinctness every word of Charles’ +unflattering description of him and the proposition to give him passage +to Dawson. + +“A dam fool proposition,” was Liverpool’s judgment, when Charles had +concluded. “An old granddad of seventy! If he’s on his last legs, why +in hell did you hook up with him? If there’s going to be a famine, and +it looks like it, we need every ounce of grub for ourselves. We only +out-fitted for four, not five.” + +“It’s all right,” Tarwater heard Charles assuring the other. “Don’t get +excited. The old codger agreed to leave the final decision to you when +we caught up with you. All you’ve got to do is put your foot down and +say no.” + +“You mean it’s up to me to turn the old one down, after your encouraging +him and taking advantage of his work clear from Dyea here?” + +“It’s a hard trail, Liverpool, and only the men that are hard will get +through,” Charles strove to palliate. + +“And I’m to do the dirty work?” Liverpool complained, while Tarwater’s +heart sank. + +“That’s just about the size of it,” Charles said. “You’ve got the +deciding.” + +Then old Tarwater’s heart uprose again as the air was rent by a cyclone +of profanity, from the midst of which crackled sentences like:—“Dirty +skunks! . . . See you in hell first! . . . My mind’s made up! . . . +Hell’s fire and corruption! . . . The old codger goes down the Yukon with +us, stack on that, my hearty! . . . Hard? You don’t know what hard is +unless I show you! . . . I’ll bust the whole outfit to hell and gone if +any of you try to side-track him! . . . Just try to side-track him, that +is all, and you’ll think the Day of Judgment and all God’s blastingness +has hit the camp in one chunk!” + +Such was the invigoratingness of Liverpool’s flow of speech that, quite +without consciousness of effort, the old man arose easily under his load +and strode on toward Happy Camp. + +From Happy Camp to Long Lake, from Long Lake to Deep Lake, and from Deep +Lake up over the enormous hog-back and down to Linderman, the man-killing +race against winter kept on. Men broke their hearts and backs and wept +beside the trail in sheer exhaustion. But winter never faltered. The +fall gales blew, and amid bitter soaking rains and ever-increasing snow +flurries, Tarwater and the party to which he was attached piled the last +of their outfit on the beach. + +There was no rest. Across the lake, a mile above a roaring torrent, they +located a patch of spruce and built their saw-pit. Here, by hand, with +an inadequate whipsaw, they sawed the spruce-trunks into lumber. They +worked night and day. Thrice, on the night-shift, underneath in the +saw-pit, Old Tarwater fainted. By day he cooked as well, and, in the +betweenwhiles, helped Anson in the building of the boat beside the +torrent as the green planks came down. + +The days grew shorter. The wind shifted into the north and blew unending +gales. In the mornings the weary men crawled from their blankets and in +their socks thawed out their frozen shoes by the fire Tarwater always had +burning for them. Ever arose the increasing tale of famine on the +Inside. The last grub steamboats up from Bering Sea were stalled by low +water at the beginning of the Yukon Flats hundreds of miles north of +Dawson. In fact, they lay at the old Hudson Bay Company’s post at Fort +Yukon inside the Arctic Circle. Flour in Dawson was up to two dollars a +pound, but no one would sell. Bonanza and Eldorado Kings, with money to +burn, were leaving for the Outside because they could buy no grub. +Miners’ Committees were confiscating all grub and putting the population +on strict rations. A man who held out an ounce of grub was shot like a +dog. A score had been so executed already. + +And, under a strain which had broken so many younger men, Old Tarwater +began to break. His cough had become terrible, and had not his exhausted +comrades slept like the dead, he would have kept them awake nights. +Also, he began to take chills, so that he dressed up to go to bed. When +he had finished so dressing, not a rag of garment remained in his clothes +bag. All he possessed was on his back and swathed around his gaunt old +form. + +“Gee!” said Big Bill. “If he puts all he’s got on now, when it ain’t +lower than twenty above, what’ll he do later on when it goes down to +fifty and sixty below?” + +They lined the rough-made boat down the mountain torrent, nearly losing +it a dozen times, and rowed across the south end of Lake Linderman in the +thick of a fall blizzard. Next morning they planned to load and start, +squarely into the teeth of the north, on their perilous traverse of half +a thousand miles of lakes and rapids and box canyons. But before he went +to bed that night, Young Liverpool was out over the camp. He returned to +find his whole party asleep. Rousing Tarwater, he talked with him in low +tones. + +“Listen, dad,” he said.—“You’ve got a passage in our boat, and if ever a +man earned a passage you have. But you know yourself you’re pretty well +along in years, and your health right now ain’t exciting. If you go on +with us you’ll croak surer’n hell.—Now wait till I finish, dad. The +price for a passage has jumped to five hundred dollars. I’ve been +throwing my feet and I’ve hustled a passenger. He’s an official of the +Alaska Commercial and just has to get in. He’s bid up to six hundred to +go with me in our boat. Now the passage is yours. You sell it to him, +poke the six hundred into your jeans, and pull South for California while +the goin’s good. You can be in Dyea in two days, and in California in a +week more. What d’ye say?” + +Tarwater coughed and shivered for a space, ere he could get freedom of +breath for speech. + +“Son,” he said, “I just want to tell you one thing. I drove my four yoke +of oxen across the Plains in Forty-nine and lost nary a one. I drove +them plumb to Californy, and I freighted with them afterward out of +Sutter’s Fort to American Bar. Now I’m going to Klondike. Ain’t nothing +can stop me, ain’t nothing at all. I’m going to ride that boat, with you +at the steering sweep, clean to Klondike, and I’m going to shake three +hundred thousand out of the moss-roots. That being so, it’s contrary to +reason and common sense for me to sell out my passage. But I thank you +kindly, son, I thank you kindly.” + +The young sailor shot out his hand impulsively and gripped the old man’s. + +“By God, dad!” he cried. “You’re sure going to go then. You’re the real +stuff.” He looked with undisguised contempt across the sleepers to where +Charles Crayton snored in his red beard. “They don’t seem to make your +kind any more, dad.” + +Into the north they fought their way, although old-timers, coming out, +shook their heads and prophesied they would be frozen in on the lakes. +That the freeze-up might come any day was patent, and delays of safety +were no longer considered. For this reason, Liverpool decided to shoot +the rapid stream connecting Linderman to Lake Bennett with the fully +loaded boat. It was the custom to line the empty boats down and to +portage the cargoes across. Even then many empty boats had been wrecked. +But the time was past for such precaution. + +“Climb out, dad,” Liverpool commanded as he prepared to swing from the +bank and enter the rapids. + +Old Tarwater shook his white head. + +“I’m sticking to the outfit,” he declared. “It’s the only way to get +through. You see, son, I’m going to Klondike. If I stick by the boat, +then the boat just naturally goes to Klondike, too. If I get out, then +most likely you’ll lose the boat.” + +“Well, there’s no use in overloading,” Charles announced, springing +abruptly out on the bank as the boat cast off. + +“Next time you wait for my orders!” Liverpool shouted ashore as the +current gripped the boat. “And there won’t be any more walking around +rapids and losing time waiting to pick you up!” + +What took them ten minutes by river, took Charles half an hour by land, +and while they waited for him at the head of Lake Bennett they passed the +time of day with several dilapidated old-timers on their way out. The +famine news was graver than ever. The North-west Mounted Police, +stationed at the foot of Lake Marsh where the gold-rushers entered +Canadian territory, were refusing to let a man past who did not carry +with him seven hundred pounds of grub. In Dawson City a thousand men, +with dog-teams, were waiting the freeze-up to come out over the ice. The +trading companies could not fill their grub-contracts, and partners were +cutting the cards to see which should go and which should stay and work +the claims. + +“That settles it,” Charles announced, when he learned of the action of +the mounted police on the boundary. “Old Man, you might as well start +back now.” + +“Climb aboard!” Liverpool commanded. “We’re going to Klondike, and old +dad is going along.” + +A shift of gale to the south gave them a fair wind down Lake Bennett, +before which they ran under a huge sail made by Liverpool. The heavy +weight of outfit gave such ballast that he cracked on as a daring sailor +should when moments counted. A shift of four points into the south-west, +coming just at the right time as they entered upon Caribou Crossing, +drove them down that connecting link to lakes Tagish and Marsh. In +stormy sunset and twilight—they made the dangerous crossing of Great +Windy Arm, wherein they beheld two other boat-loads of gold-rushers +capsize and drown. + +Charles was for beaching for the night, but Liverpool held on, steering +down Tagish by the sound of the surf on the shoals and by the occasional +shore-fires that advertised wrecked or timid argonauts. At four in the +morning, he aroused Charles. Old Tarwater, shiveringly awake, heard +Liverpool order Crayton aft beside him at the steering-sweep, and also +heard the one-sided conversation. + +“Just listen, friend Charles, and keep your own mouth shut,” Liverpool +began. “I want you to get one thing into your head and keep it there: +_old dad’s going by the police_. _Understand_? _He’s going by_. When +they examine our outfit, old dad’s got a fifth share in it, savvee? +That’ll put us all ’way under what we ought to have, but we can bluff it +through. Now get this, and get it hard: _there ain’t going to be any +fall-down on this bluff_—” + +“If you think I’d give away on the old codger—” Charles began +indignantly. + +“You thought that,” Liverpool checked him, “because I never mentioned any +such thing. Now—get me and get me hard: I don’t care what you’ve been +thinking. It’s what you’re going to think. We’ll make the police post +some time this afternoon, and we’ve got to get ready to pull the bluff +without a hitch, and a word to the wise is plenty.” + +“If you think I’ve got it in my mind—” Charles began again. + +“Look here,” Liverpool shut him off. “I don’t know what’s in your mind. +I don’t want to know. I want you to know what’s in my mind. If there’s +any slip-up, if old dad gets turned back by the police, I’m going to pick +out the first quiet bit of landscape and take you ashore on it. And then +I’m going to beat you up to the Queen’s taste. Get me, and get me hard. +It ain’t going to be any half-way beating, but a real, two-legged, +two-fisted, he-man beating. I don’t expect I’ll kill you, but I’ll come +damn near to half-killing you.” + +“But what can I do?” Charles almost whimpered. + +“Just one thing,” was Liverpool’s final word. “You just pray. You pray +so hard that old dad gets by the police that he does get by. That’s all. +Go back to your blankets.” + +Before they gained Lake Le Barge, the land was sheeted with snow that +would not melt for half a year. Nor could they lay their boat at will +against the bank, for the rim-ice was already forming. Inside the mouth +of the river, just ere it entered Lake Le Barge, they found a hundred +storm-bound boats of the argonauts. Out of the north, across the full +sweep of the great lake, blew an unending snow gale. Three mornings they +put out and fought it and the cresting seas it drove that turned to ice +as they fell in-board. While the others broke their hearts at the oars, +Old Tarwater managed to keep up just sufficient circulation to survive by +chopping ice and throwing it overboard. + +Each day for three days, beaten to helplessness, they turned tail on the +battle and ran back into the sheltering river. By the fourth day, the +hundred boats had increased to three hundred, and the two thousand +argonauts on board knew that the great gale heralded the freeze-up of Le +Barge. Beyond, the rapid rivers would continue to run for days, but +unless they got beyond, and immediately, they were doomed to be frozen in +for six months to come. + +“This day we go through,” Liverpool announced. “We turn back for +nothing. And those of us that dies at the oars will live again and go on +pulling.” + +And they went through, winning half the length of the lake by nightfall +and pulling on through all the night hours as the wind went down, falling +asleep at the oars and being rapped awake by Liverpool, toiling on +through an age-long nightmare while the stars came out and the surface of +the lake turned to the unruffledness of a sheet of paper and froze +skin-ice that tinkled like broken glass as their oar-blades shattered it. + +As day broke clear and cold, they entered the river, with behind them a +sea of ice. Liverpool examined his aged passenger and found him helpless +and almost gone. When he rounded the boat to against the rim-ice to +build a fire and warm up Tarwater inside and out, Charles protested +against such loss of time. + +“This ain’t business, so don’t you come horning in,” Liverpool informed +him. “I’m running the boat trip. So you just climb out and chop +firewood, and plenty of it. I’ll take care of dad. You, Anson, make a +fire on the bank. And you, Bill, set up the Yukon stove in the boat. +Old dad ain’t as young as the rest of us, and for the rest of this voyage +he’s going to have a fire on board to sit by.” + +All of which came to pass; and the boat, in the grip of the current, like +a river steamer with smoke rising from the two joints of stove-pipe, +grounded on shoals, hung up on split currents, and charged rapids and +canyons, as it drove deeper into the Northland winter. The Big and +Little Salmon rivers were throwing mush-ice into the main river as they +passed, and, below the riffles, anchor-ice arose from the river bottom +and coated the surface with crystal scum. Night and day the rim-ice +grew, till, in quiet places, it extended out a hundred yards from shore. +And Old Tarwater, with all his clothes on, sat by the stove and kept the +fire going. Night and day, not daring to stop for fear of the imminent +freeze-up, they dared to run, an increasing mushiness of ice running with +them. + +“What ho, old hearty?” Liverpool would call out at times. + +“Cheer O,” Old Tarwater had learned to respond. + +“What can I ever do for you, son, in payment?” Tarwater, stoking the +fire, would sometimes ask Liverpool, beating now one released hand and +now the other as he fought for circulation where he steered in the +freezing stern-sheets. + +“Just break out that regular song of yours, old Forty-Niner,” was the +invariable reply. + +And Tarwater would lift his voice in the cackling chant, as he lifted it +at the end, when the boat swung in through driving cake-ice and moored to +the Dawson City bank, and all waterfront Dawson pricked its ears to hear +the triumphant pæan: + + Like Argus of the ancient times, + We leave this modern Greece, + Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum, + To shear the Golden Fleece, + +Charles did it, but he did it so discreetly that none of his party, least +of all the sailor, ever learned of it. He saw two great open barges +being filled up with men, and, on inquiry, learned that these were +grubless ones being rounded up and sent down the Yukon by the Committee +of Safety. The barges were to be towed by the last little steamboat in +Dawson, and the hope was that Fort Yukon, where lay the stranded +steamboats, would be gained before the river froze. At any rate, no +matter what happened to them, Dawson would be relieved of their +grub-consuming presence. So to the Committee of Safety Charles went, +privily to drop a flea in its ear concerning Tarwater’s grubless, +moneyless, and aged condition. Tarwater was one of the last gathered in, +and when Young Liverpool returned to the boat, from the bank he saw the +barges in a run of cake-ice, disappearing around the bend below +Moose-hide Mountain. + +Running in cake-ice all the way, and several times escaping jams in the +Yukon Flats, the barges made their hundreds of miles of progress farther +into the north and froze up cheek by jowl with the grub-fleet. Here, +inside the Arctic Circle, Old Tarwater settled down to pass the long +winter. Several hours’ work a day, chopping firewood for the steamboat +companies, sufficed to keep him in food. For the rest of the time there +was nothing to do but hibernate in his log cabin. + +Warmth, rest, and plenty to eat, cured his hacking cough and put him in +as good physical condition as was possible for his advanced years. But, +even before Christmas, the lack of fresh vegetables caused scurvy to +break out, and disappointed adventurer after disappointed adventurer took +to his bunk in abject surrender to this culminating misfortune. Not so +Tarwater. Even before the first symptoms appeared on him, he was putting +into practice his one prescription, namely, exercise. From the junk of +the old trading post he resurrected a number of rusty traps, and from one +of the steamboat captains he borrowed a rifle. + +Thus equipped, he ceased from wood-chopping, and began to make more than +a mere living. Nor was he downhearted when the scurvy broke out on his +own body. Ever he ran his trap-lines and sang his ancient chant. Nor +could the pessimist shake his surety of the three hundred thousand of +Alaskan gold he as going to shake out of the moss-roots. + +“But this ain’t gold-country,” they told him. + +“Gold is where you find it, son, as I should know who was mining before +you was born, ’way back in Forty-Nine,” was his reply. “What was Bonanza +Creek but a moose-pasture? No miner’d look at it; yet they washed +five-hundred-dollar pans and took out fifty million dollars. Eldorado +was just as bad. For all you know, right under this here cabin, or right +over the next hill, is millions just waiting for a lucky one like me to +come and shake it out.” + +At the end of January came his disaster. Some powerful animal that he +decided was a bob-cat, managing to get caught in one of his smaller +traps, dragged it away. A heavy snow-fall put a stop midway to his +pursuit, losing the trail for him and losing himself. There were but +several hours of daylight each day between the twenty hours of +intervening darkness, and his efforts in the grey light and continually +falling snow succeeded only in losing him more thoroughly. Fortunately, +when winter snow falls in the Northland the thermometer invariably rises; +so, instead of the customary forty and fifty and even sixty degrees below +zero, the temperature remained fifteen below. Also, he was warmly clad +and had a full matchbox. Further to mitigate his predicament, on the +fifth day he killed a wounded moose that weighed over half a ton. Making +his camp beside it on a spruce-bottom, he was prepared to last out the +winter, unless a searching party found him or his scurvy grew worse. + +But at the end of two weeks there had been no sign of search, while his +scurvy had undeniably grown worse. Against his fire, banked from outer +cold by a shelter-wall of spruce-boughs, he crouched long hours in sleep +and long hours in waking. But the waking hours grew less, becoming +semi-waking or half-dreaming hours as the process of hibernation worked +their way with him. Slowly the sparkle point of consciousness and +identity that was John Tarwater sank, deeper and deeper, into the +profounds of his being that had been compounded ere man was man, and +while he was becoming man, when he, first of all animals, regarded +himself with an introspective eye and laid the beginnings of morality in +foundations of nightmare peopled by the monsters of his own +ethic-thwarted desires. + +Like a man in fever, waking to intervals of consciousness, so Old +Tarwater awoke, cooked his moose-meat, and fed the fire; but more and +more time he spent in his torpor, unaware of what was day-dream and what +was sleep-dream in the content of his unconsciousness. And here, in the +unforgetable crypts of man’s unwritten history, unthinkable and +unrealizable, like passages of nightmare or impossible adventures of +lunacy, he encountered the monsters created of man’s first morality that +ever since have vexed him into the spinning of fantasies to elude them or +do battle with them. + +In short, weighted by his seventy years, in the vast and silent +loneliness of the North, Old Tarwater, as in the delirium of drug or +anæsthetic, recovered within himself, the infantile mind of the child-man +of the early world. It was in the dusk of Death’s fluttery wings that +Tarwater thus crouched, and, like his remote forebear, the child-man, +went to myth-making, and sun-heroizing, himself hero-maker and the hero +in quest of the immemorable treasure difficult of attainment. + +Either must he attain the treasure—for so ran the inexorable logic of the +shadow-land of the unconscious—or else sink into the all-devouring sea, +the blackness eater of the light that swallowed to extinction the sun +each night . . . the sun that arose ever in rebirth next morning in the +east, and that had become to man man’s first symbol of immortality +through rebirth. All this, in the deeps of his unconsciousness (the +shadowy western land of descending light), was the near dusk of Death +down into which he slowly ebbed. + +But how to escape this monster of the dark that from within him slowly +swallowed him? Too deep-sunk was he to dream of escape or feel the prod +of desire to escape. For him reality had ceased. Nor from within the +darkened chamber of himself could reality recrudesce. His years were too +heavy upon him, the debility of disease and the lethargy and torpor of +the silence and the cold were too profound. Only from without could +reality impact upon him and reawake within him an awareness of reality. +Otherwise he would ooze down through the shadow-realm of the unconscious +into the all-darkness of extinction. + +But it came, the smash of reality from without, crashing upon his ear +drums in a loud, explosive snort. For twenty days, in a temperature that +had never risen above fifty below, no breath of wind had blown movement, +no slightest sound had broken the silence. Like the smoker on the opium +couch refocusing his eyes from the spacious walls of dream to the narrow +confines of the mean little room, so Old Tarwater stared vague-eyed +before him across his dying fire, at a huge moose that stared at him in +startlement, dragging a wounded leg, manifesting all signs of extreme +exhaustion; it, too, had been straying blindly in the shadow-land, and +had wakened to reality only just ere it stepped into Tarwater’s fire. + +He feebly slipped the large fur mitten lined with thickness of wool from +his right hand. Upon trial he found the trigger finger too numb for +movement. Carefully, slowly, through long minutes, he worked the bare +hand inside his blankets, up under his fur _parka_, through the chest +openings of his shirts, and into the slightly warm hollow of his left +arm-pit. Long minutes passed ere the finger could move, when, with equal +slowness of caution, he gathered his rifle to his shoulder and drew bead +upon the great animal across the fire. + +At the shot, of the two shadow-wanderers, the one reeled downward to the +dark and the other reeled upward to the light, swaying drunkenly on his +scurvy-ravaged legs, shivering with nervousness and cold, rubbing +swimming eyes with shaking fingers, and staring at the real world all +about him that had returned to him with such sickening suddenness. He +shook himself together, and realized that for long, how long he did not +know, he had bedded in the arms of Death. He spat, with definite +intention, heard the spittle crackle in the frost, and judged it must be +below and far below sixty below. In truth, that day at Fort Yukon, the +spirit thermometer registered seventy-five degrees below zero, which, +since freezing-point is thirty-two above, was equivalent to one hundred +and seven degrees of frost. + +Slowly Tarwater’s brain reasoned to action. Here, in the vast alone, +dwelt Death. Here had come two wounded moose. With the clearing of the +sky after the great cold came on, he had located his bearings, and he +knew that both wounded moose had trailed to him from the east. +Therefore, in the east, were men—whites or Indians he could not tell, but +at any rate men who might stand by him in his need and help moor him to +reality above the sea of dark. + +He moved slowly, but he moved in reality, girding himself with rifle, +ammunition, matches, and a pack of twenty pounds of moose-meat. Then, an +Argus rejuvenated, albeit lame of both legs and tottery, he turned his +back on the perilous west and limped into the sun-arising, re-birthing +east. . . . + +Days later—how many days later he was never to know—dreaming dreams and +seeing visions, cackling his old gold-chant of Forty-Nine, like one +drowning and swimming feebly to keep his consciousness above the +engulfing dark, he came out upon the snow-slope to a canyon and saw below +smoke rising and men who ceased from work to gaze at him. He tottered +down the hill to them, still singing; and when he ceased from lack of +breath they called him variously: Santa Claus, Old Christmas, Whiskers, +the Last of the Mohicans, and Father Christmas. And when he stood among +them he stood very still, without speech, while great tears welled out of +his eyes. He cried silently, a long time, till, as if suddenly +bethinking himself, he sat down in the snow with much creaking and +crackling of his joints, and from this low vantage point toppled sidewise +and fainted calmly and easily away. + +In less than a week Old Tarwater was up and limping about the housework +of the cabin, cooking and dish-washing for the five men of the creek. +Genuine sourdoughs (pioneers) they were, tough and hard-bitten, who had +been buried so deeply inside the Circle that they did not know there was +a Klondike Strike. The news he brought them was their first word of it. +They lived on an almost straight-meat diet of moose, caribou, and smoked +salmon, eked out with wild berries and somewhat succulent wild roots they +had stocked up with in the summer. They had forgotten the taste of +coffee, made fire with a burning glass, carried live fire-sticks with +them wherever they travelled, and in their pipes smoked dry leaves that +bit the tongue and were pungent to the nostrils. + +Three years before, they had prospected from the head-reaches of the +Koyokuk northward and clear across to the mouth of the Mackenzie on the +Arctic Ocean. Here, on the whaleships, they had beheld their last white +men and equipped themselves with the last white man’s grub, consisting +principally of salt and smoking tobacco. Striking south and west on the +long traverse to the junction of the Yukon and Porcupine at Fort Yukon, +they had found gold on this creek and remained over to work the ground. + +They hailed the advent of Tarwater with joy, never tired of listening to +his tales of Forty-Nine, and rechristened him Old Hero. Also, with tea +made from spruce needles, with concoctions brewed from the inner willow +bark, and with sour and bitter roots and bulbs from the ground, they +dosed his scurvy out of him, so that he ceased limping and began to lay +on flesh over his bony framework. Further, they saw no reason at all why +he should not gather a rich treasure of gold from the ground. + +“Don’t know about all of three hundred thousand,” they told him one +morning, at breakfast, ere they departed to their work, “but how’d a +hundred thousand do, Old Hero? That’s what we figure a claim is worth, +the ground being badly spotted, and we’ve already staked your location +notices.” + +“Well, boys,” Old Tarwater answered, “and thanking you kindly, all I can +say is that a hundred thousand will do nicely, and very nicely, for a +starter. Of course, I ain’t goin’ to stop till I get the full three +hundred thousand. That’s what I come into the country for.” + +They laughed and applauded his ambition and reckoned they’d have to hunt +a richer creek for him. And Old Hero reckoned that as the spring came on +and he grew spryer, he’d have to get out and do a little snooping around +himself. + +“For all anybody knows,” he said, pointing to a hillside across the creek +bottom, “the moss under the snow there may be plumb rooted in nugget +gold.” + +He said no more, but as the sun rose higher and the days grew longer and +warmer, he gazed often across the creek at the definite bench-formation +half way up the hill. And, one day, when the thaw was in full swing, he +crossed the stream and climbed to the bench. Exposed patches of ground +had already thawed an inch deep. On one such patch he stopped, gathered +a bunch of moss in his big gnarled hands, and ripped it out by the roots. +The sun smouldered on dully glistening yellow. He shook the handful of +moss, and coarse nuggets, like gravel, fell to the ground. It was the +Golden Fleece ready for the shearing. + +Not entirely unremembered in Alaskan annals is the summer stampede of +1898 from Fort Yukon to the bench diggings of Tarwater Hill. And when +Tarwater sold his holdings to the Bowdie interests for a sheer +half-million and faced for California, he rode a mule over a new-cut +trail, with convenient road houses along the way, clear to the steamboat +landing at Fort Yukon. + +At the first meal on the ocean-going steamship out of St. Michaels, a +waiter, greyish-haired, pain-ravaged of face, scurvy-twisted of body, +served him. Old Tarwater was compelled to look him over twice in order +to make certain he was Charles Crayton. + +“Got it bad, eh, son?” Tarwater queried. + +“Just my luck,” the other complained, after recognition and greeting. +“Only one of the party that the scurvy attacked. I’ve been through hell. +The other three are all at work and healthy, getting grub-stake to +prospect up White River this winter. Anson’s earning twenty-five a day +at carpentering, Liverpool getting twenty logging for the saw-mill, and +Big Bill’s getting forty a day as chief sawyer. I tried my best, and if +it hadn’t been for scurvy . . .” + +“Sure, son, you done your best, which ain’t much, you being naturally +irritable and hard from too much business. Now I’ll tell you what. You +ain’t fit to work crippled up this way. I’ll pay your passage with the +captain in kind remembrance of the voyage you gave me, and you can lay up +and take it easy the rest of the trip. And what are your circumstances +when you land at San Francisco?” + +Charles Crayton shrugged his shoulders. + +“Tell you what,” Tarwater continued. “There’s work on the ranch for you +till you can start business again.” + +“I could manage your business for you—” Charles began eagerly. + +“No, siree,” Tarwater declared emphatically. “But there’s always +post-holes to dig, and cordwood to chop, and the climate’s fine . . . ” + +Tarwater arrived home a true prodigal grandfather for whom the fatted +calf was killed and ready. But first, ere he sat down at table, he must +stroll out and around. And sons and daughters of his flesh and of the +law needs must go with him fulsomely eating out of the gnarled old hand +that had half a million to disburse. He led the way, and no opinion he +slyly uttered was preposterous or impossible enough to draw dissent from +his following. Pausing by the ruined water wheel which he had built from +the standing timber, his face beamed as he gazed across the stretches of +Tarwater Valley, and on and up the far heights to the summit of Tarwater +Mountain—now all his again. + +A thought came to him that made him avert his face and blow his nose in +order to hide the twinkle in his eyes. Still attended by the entire +family, he strolled on to the dilapidated barn. He picked up an +age-weathered single-tree from the ground. + +“William,” he said. “Remember that little conversation we had just +before I started to Klondike? Sure, William, you remember. You told me +I was crazy. And I said my father’d have walloped the tar out of me with +a single-tree if I’d spoke to him that way.” + +“Aw, but that was only foolin’,” William temporized. + +William was a grizzled man of forty-five, and his wife and grown sons +stood in the group, curiously watching Grandfather Tarwater take off his +coat and hand it to Mary to hold. + +“William—come here,” he commanded imperatively. + +No matter how reluctantly, William came. + +“Just a taste, William, son, of what my father give me often enough,” Old +Tarwater crooned, as he laid on his son’s back and shoulders with the +single-tree. “Observe, I ain’t hitting you on the head. My father had a +gosh-wollickin’ temper and never drew the line at heads when he went +after tar.—Don’t jerk your elbows back that way! You’re likely to get a +crack on one by accident. And just tell me one thing, William, son: is +there nary notion in your head that I’m crazy?” + +“No!” William yelped out in pain, as he danced about. “You ain’t crazy, +father of course you ain’t crazy!” + +“You said it,” Old Tarwater remarked sententiously, tossing the +single-tree aside and starting to struggle into his coat. “Now let’s all +go in and eat.” + + THE END. + +Glen Ellen, California, + _September_ 14, 1916. + + + + +THE PRINCESS + + +A FIRE burned cheerfully in the jungle camp, and beside the fire lolled a +cheerful-seeming though horrible-appearing man. This was a hobo jungle, +pitched in a thin strip of woods that lay between a railroad embankment +and the bank of a river. But no hobo was the man. So deep-sunk was he +in the social abyss that a proper hobo would not sit by the same fire +with him. A gay-cat, who is an ignorant new-comer on the “Road,” might +sit with such as he, but only long enough to learn better. Even low down +bindle-stiffs and stew-bums, after a once-over, would have passed this +man by. A genuine hobo, a couple of punks, or a bunch of tender-yeared +road-kids might have gone through his rags for any stray pennies or +nickels and kicked him out into the darkness. Even an alki-stiff would +have reckoned himself immeasurably superior. + +For this man was that hybrid of tramp-land, an alki-stiff that has +degenerated into a stew-bum, with so little self-respect that he will +never “boil-up,” and with so little pride that he will eat out of a +garbage can. He was truly horrible-appearing. He might have been sixty +years of age; he might have been ninety. His garments might have been +discarded by a rag-picker. Beside him, an unrolled bundle showed itself +as consisting of a ragged overcoat and containing an empty and +smoke-blackened tomato can, an empty and battered condensed milk can, +some dog-meat partly wrapped in brown paper and evidently begged from +some butcher-shop, a carrot that had been run over in the street by a +wagon-wheel, three greenish-cankered and decayed potatoes, and a +sugar-bun with a mouthful bitten from it and rescued from the gutter, as +was made patent by the gutter-filth that still encrusted it. + +A prodigious growth of whiskers, greyish-dirty and untrimmed for years, +sprouted from his face. This hirsute growth should have been white, but +the season was summer and it had not been exposed to a rain-shower for +some time. What was visible of the face looked as if at some period it +had stopped a hand-grenade. The nose was so variously malformed in its +healed brokenness that there was no bridge, while one nostril, the size +of a pea, opened downward, and the other, the size of a robin’s egg, +tilted upward to the sky. One eye, of normal size, dim-brown and misty, +bulged to the verge of popping out, and as if from senility wept +copiously and continuously. The other eye, scarcely larger than a +squirrel’s and as uncannily bright, twisted up obliquely into the hairy +scar of a bone-crushed eyebrow. And he had but one arm. + +Yet was he cheerful. On his face, in mild degree, was depicted sensuous +pleasure as he lethargically scratched his ribs with his one hand. He +pawed over his food-scraps, debated, then drew a twelve-ounce druggist +bottle from his inside coat-pocket. The bottle was full of a colourless +liquid, the contemplation of which made his little eye burn brighter and +quickened his movements. Picking up the tomato can, he arose, went down +the short path to the river, and returned with the can filled with +not-nice river water. In the condensed milk can he mixed one part of +water with two parts of fluid from the bottle. This colourless fluid was +druggist’s alcohol, and as such is known in tramp-land as “alki.” + +Slow footsteps, coming down the side of the railroad embankment, alarmed +him ere he could drink. Placing the can carefully upon the ground +between his legs, he covered it with his hat and waited anxiously +whatever impended. + +Out of the darkness emerged a man as filthy ragged as he. The new-comer, +who might have been fifty, and might have been sixty, was grotesquely +fat. He bulged everywhere. He was composed of bulges. His bulbous nose +was the size and shape of a turnip. His eyelids bulged and his blue eyes +bulged in competition with them. In many places the seams of his +garments had parted across the bulges of body. His calves grew into his +feet, for the broken elastic sides of his Congress gaiters were swelled +full with the fat of him. One arm only he sported, from the shoulder of +which was suspended a small and tattered bundle with the mud caked dry on +the outer covering from the last place he had pitched his doss. He +advanced with tentative caution, made sure of the harmlessness of the man +beside the fire, and joined him. + +“Hello, grandpa,” the new-comer greeted, then paused to stare at the +other’s flaring, sky-open nostril. “Say, Whiskers, how’d ye keep the +night dew out of that nose o’ yourn?” + +Whiskers growled an incoherence deep in his throat and spat into the fire +in token that he was not pleased by the question. + +“For the love of Mike,” the fat man chuckled, “if you got caught out in a +rainstorm without an umbrella you’d sure drown, wouldn’t you?” + +“Can it, Fatty, can it,” Whiskers muttered wearily. “They ain’t nothin’ +new in that line of chatter. Even the bulls hand it out to me.” + +“But you can still drink, I hope”; Fatty at the same time mollified and +invited, with his one hand deftly pulling the slip-knots that fastened +his bundle. + +From within the bundle he brought to light a twelve-ounce bottle of alki. +Footsteps coming down the embankment alarmed him, and he hid the bottle +under his hat on the ground between his legs. + +But the next comer proved to be not merely one of their own ilk, but +likewise to have only one arm. So forbidding of aspect was he that +greetings consisted of no more than grunts. Huge-boned, tall, gaunt to +cadaverousness, his face a dirty death’s head, he was as repellent a +nightmare of old age as ever Doré imagined. His toothless, thin-lipped +mouth was a cruel and bitter slash under a great curved nose that almost +met the chin and that was like a buzzard’s beak. His one hand, lean and +crooked, was a talon. The beady grey eyes, unblinking and unwavering, +were bitter as death, as bleak as absolute zero and as merciless. His +presence was a chill, and Whiskers and Fatty instinctively drew together +for protection against the unguessed threat of him. Watching his chance, +privily, Whiskers snuggled a chunk of rock several pounds in weigh close +to his hand if need for action should arise. Fatty duplicated the +performance. + +Then both sat licking their lips, guiltily embarrassed, while the +unblinking eyes of the terrible one bored into them, now into one, now +into another, and then down at the rock-chunks of their preparedness. + +“Huh!” sneered the terrible one, with such dreadfulness of menace as to +cause Whiskers and Fatty involuntarily to close their hands down on their +cave-man’s weapons. + +“Huh!” the other repeated, reaching his one talon into his side coat +pocket with swift definiteness. “A hell of a chance you two cheap bums +’d have with me.” + +The talon emerged, clutching ready for action a six-pound iron quoit. + +“We ain’t lookin’ for trouble, Slim,” Fatty quavered. + +“Who in hell are you to call me ‘Slim’?” came the snarling answer. + +“Me? I’m just Fatty, an’ seein’ ’s I never seen you before—” + +“An’ I suppose that’s Whiskers, there, with the gay an’ festive lamp +tan-going into his eyebrow an’ the God-forgive-us nose joy-riding all +over his mug?” + +“It’ll do, it’ll do,” Whiskers muttered uncomfortably. “One monica’s as +good as another, I find, at my time of life. And everybody hands it out +to me anyway. And I need an umbrella when it rains to keep from getting +drowned, an’ all the rest of it.” + +“I ain’t used to company—don’t like it,” Slim growled. “So if you guys +want to stick around, mind your step, that’s all, mind your step.” + +He fished from his pocket a cigar stump, self-evidently shot from the +gutter, and prepared to put it in his mouth to chew. Then he changed his +mind, glared at his companions savagely, and unrolled his bundle. +Appeared in his hand a druggist’s bottle of alki. + +“Well,” he snarled, “I suppose I gotta give you cheap skates a drink when +I ain’t got more’n enough for a good petrification for myself.” + +Almost a softening flicker of light was imminent in his withered face as +he beheld the others proudly lift their hats and exhibit their own +supplies. + +“Here’s some water for the mixin’s,” Whiskers said, proffering his +tomato-can of river slush. “Stockyards just above,” he added +apologetically. “But they say—” + +“Huh!” Slim snapped short, mixing the drink. “I’ve drunk worse’n +stockyards in my time.” + +Yet when all was ready, cans of alki in their solitary hands, the three +things that had once been men hesitated, as if of old habit, and next +betrayed shame as if at self-exposure. + +Whiskers was the first to brazen it. + +“I’ve sat in at many a finer drinking,” he bragged. + +“With the pewter,” Slim sneered. + +“With the silver,” Whiskers corrected. + +Slim turned a scorching eye-interrogation on Fatty. + +Fatty nodded. + +“Beneath the salt,” said Slim. + +“Above it,” came Fatty’s correction. “I was born above it, and I’ve +never travelled second class. First or steerage, but no intermediate in +mine.” + +“Yourself?” Whiskers queried of Slim. + +“In broken glass to the Queen, God bless her,” Slim answered, solemnly, +without snarl or sneer. + +“In the pantry?” Fatty insinuated. + +Simultaneously Slim reached for his quoit, and Whiskers and Fatty for +their rocks. + +“Now don’t let’s get feverish,” Fatty said, dropping his own weapon. “We +aren’t scum. We’re gentlemen. Let’s drink like gentlemen.” + +“Let it be a real drinking,” Whiskers approved. + +“Let’s get petrified,” Slim agreed. “Many a distillery’s flowed under +the bridge since we were gentlemen; but let’s forget the long road we’ve +travelled since, and hit our doss in the good old fashion in which every +gentleman went to bed when we were young.” + +“My father done it—did it,” Fatty concurred and corrected, as old +recollections exploded long-sealed brain-cells of connotation and correct +usage. + +The other two nodded a descent from similar fathers, and elevated their +tin cans of alcohol. + + * * * * * + +By the time each had finished his own bottle and from his rags fished +forth a second one, their brains were well-mellowed and a-glow, although +they had not got around to telling their real names. But their English +had improved. They spoke it correctly, while the argo of tramp-land +ceased from their lips. + +“It’s my constitution,” Whiskers was explaining. “Very few men could go +through what I have and live to tell the tale. And I never took any care +of myself. If what the moralists and the physiologists say were true, +I’d have been dead long ago. And it’s the same with you two. Look at +us, at our advanced years, carousing as the young ones don’t dare, +sleeping out in the open on the ground, never sheltered from frost nor +rain nor storm, never afraid of pneumonia or rheumatism that would put +half the young ones on their backs in hospital.” + +He broke off to mix another drink, and Fatty took up the tale. + +“And we’ve had our fun,” he boasted, “and speaking of sweethearts and +all,” he cribbed from Kipling, “‘We’ve rogued and we’ve ranged—’” + +“‘In our time,’” Slim completed the crib for him. + +“I should say so, I should say so,” Fatty confirmed. “And been loved by +princesses—at least I have.” + +“Go on and tell us about it,” Whiskers urged. “The night’s young, and +why shouldn’t we remember back to the roofs of kings?” + +Nothing loth, Fatty cleared his throat for the recital and cast about in +his mind for the best way to begin. + +“It must be known that I came of good family. Percival Delaney, let us +say, yes, let us say Percival Delaney, was not unknown at Oxford once +upon a time—not for scholarship, I am frank to admit; but the gay young +dogs of that day, if any be yet alive, would remember him—” + +“My people came over with the Conqueror,” Whiskers interrupted, extending +his hand to Fatty’s in acknowledgment of the introduction. + +“What name?” Fatty queried. “I did not seem quite to catch it.” + +“Delarouse, Chauncey Delarouse. The name will serve as well as any.” + +Both completed the handshake and glanced to Slim. + +“Oh, well, while we’re about it . . . ” Fatty urged. + +“Bruce Cadogan Cavendish,” Slim growled morosely. “Go on, Percival, with +your princesses and the roofs of kings.” + +“Oh, I was a rare young devil,” Percival obliged, “after I played ducks +and drakes at home and sported out over the world. And I was some figure +of a man before I lost my shape—polo, steeple-chasing, boxing. I won +medals at buckjumping in Australia, and I held more than several swimming +records from the quarter of a mile up. Women turned their heads to look +when I went by. The women! God bless them!” + +And Fatty, alias Percival Delaney, a grotesque of manhood, put his bulgy +hand to his puffed lips and kissed audibly into the starry vault of the +sky. + +“And the Princess!” he resumed, with another kiss to the stars. “She was +as fine a figure of a woman as I was a man, as high-spirited and +courageous, as reckless and dare-devilish. Lord, Lord, in the water she +was a mermaid, a sea-goddess. And when it came to blood, beside her I +was parvenu. Her royal line traced back into the mists of antiquity. + +“She was not a daughter of a fair-skinned folk. Tawny golden was she, +with golden-brown eyes, and her hair that fell to her knees was +blue-black and straight, with just the curly tendrilly tendency that +gives to woman’s hair its charm. Oh, there were no kinks in it, any more +than were there kinks in the hair of her entire genealogy. For she was +Polynesian, glowing, golden, lovely and lovable, royal Polynesian.” + +Again he paused to kiss his hand to the memory of her, and Slim, alias +Bruce Cadogan Cavendish, took advantage to interject: + +“Huh! Maybe you didn’t shine in scholarship, but at least you gleaned a +vocabulary out of Oxford.” + +“And in the South Seas garnered a better vocabulary from the lexicon of +Love,” Percival was quick on the uptake. + +“It was the island of Talofa,” he went on, “meaning love, the Isle of +Love, and it was her island. Her father, the king, an old man, sat on +his mats with paralysed knees and drank squareface gin all day and most +of the night, out of grief, sheer grief. She, my princess, was the only +issue, her brother having been lost in their double canoe in a hurricane +while coming up from a voyage to Samoa. And among the Polynesians the +royal women have equal right with the men to rule. In fact, they trace +their genealogies always by the female line.” + +To this both Chauncey Delarouse and Bruce Cadogan Cavendish nodded prompt +affirmation. + +“Ah,” said Percival, “I perceive you both know the South Seas, wherefore, +without undue expenditure of verbiage on my part, I am assured that you +will appreciate the charm of my princess, the Princess Tui-nui of Talofa, +the Princess of the Isle of Love.” + +He kissed his hand to her, sipped from his condensed milk can a man-size +drink of druggist’s alcohol, and to her again kissed her hand. + +“But she was coy, and ever she fluttered near to me but never near +enough. When my arm went out to her to girdle her, presto, she was not +there. I knew, as never before, nor since, the thousand dear and +delightful anguishes of love frustrated but ever resilient and beckoned +on by the very goddess of love.” + +“Some vocabulary,” Bruce Cadogan Cavendish muttered in aside to Chauncey +Delarouse. But Percival Delaney was not to be deterred. He kissed his +pudgy hand aloft into the night and held warmly on. + +“No fond agonies of rapture deferred that were not lavished upon me by my +dear Princess, herself ever a luring delight of promise flitting just +beyond my reach. Every sweet lover’s inferno unguessed of by Dante she +led me through. Ah! Those swooning tropic nights, under our palm trees, +the distant surf a langourous murmur as from some vast sea shell of +mystery, when she, my Princess, all but melted to my yearning, and with +her laughter, that was as silver strings by buds and blossoms smitten, +all but made lunacy of my lover’s ardency. + +“It was by my wrestling with the champions of Talofa that I first +interested her. It was by my prowess at swimming that I awoke her. And +it was by a certain swimming deed that I won from her more than +coquettish smiles and shy timidities of feigned retreat. + +“We were squidding that day, out on the reef—you know how, undoubtedly, +diving down the face of the wall of the reef, five fathoms, ten fathoms, +any depth within reason, and shoving our squid-sticks into the likely +holes and crannies of the coral where squid might be lairing. With the +squid-stick, bluntly sharp at both ends, perhaps a foot long, and held +crosswise in the hand, the trick was to gouge any lazying squid until he +closed his tentacles around fist, stick and arm.—Then you had him, and +came to the surface with him, and hit him in the head which is in the +centre of him, and peeled him off into the waiting canoe. . . . And to +think I used to do that!” + +Percival Delaney paused a moment, a glimmer of awe on his rotund face, as +he contemplated the mighty picture of his youth. + +“Why, I’ve pulled out a squid with tentacles eight feet long, and done it +under fifty feet of water. I could stay down four minutes. I’ve gone +down, with a coral-rock to sink me, in a hundred and ten feet to clear a +fouled anchor. And I could back-dive with a once-over and go in +feet-first from eighty feet above the surface—” + +“Quit it, delete it, cease it,” Chauncey Delarouse admonished testily. +“Tell of the Princess. That’s what makes old blood leap again. Almost +can I see her. Was she wonderful?” + +Percival Delaney kissed unutterable affirmation. + +“I have said she was a mermaid. She was. I know she swam thirty-six +hours before being rescued, after her schooner was capsized in a +double-squall. I have seen her do ninety feet and bring up pearl shell +in each hand. She was wonderful. As a woman she was ravishing, sublime. +I have said she was a sea-goddess. She was. Oh, for a Phidias or a +Praxiteles to have made the wonder of her body immortal! + +“And that day, out for squid on the reef, I was almost sick for her. +Mad—I know I was mad for her. We would step over the side from the big +canoe, and swim down, side by side, into the delicious depths of cool and +colour, and she would look at me, as we swam, and with her eyes tantalize +me to further madness. And at last, down, far down, I lost myself and +reached for her. She eluded me like the mermaid she was, and I saw the +laughter on her face as she fled. She fled deeper, and I knew I had her +for I was between her and the surface; but in the muck coral sand of the +bottom she made a churning with her squid stick. It was the old trick to +escape a shark. And she worked it on me, rolling the water so that I +could not see her. And when I came up, she was there ahead of me, +clinging to the side of the canoe and laughing. + +“Almost I would not be denied. But not for nothing was she a princess. +She rested her hand on my arm and compelled me to listen. We should play +a game, she said, enter into a competition for which should get the more +squid, the biggest squid, and the smallest squid. Since the wagers were +kisses, you can well imagine I went down on the first next dive with soul +aflame. + +“I got no squid. Never again in all my life have I dived for squid. +Perhaps we were five fathoms down and exploring the face of the reefwall +for lurking places of our prey, when it happened. I had found a likely +lair and just proved it empty, when I felt or sensed the nearness of +something inimical. I turned. There it was, alongside of me, and no +mere fish-shark. Fully a dozen feet in length, with the unmistakable +phosphorescent cat’s eye gleaming like a drowning star, I knew it for +what it was, a tiger shark. + +“Not ten feet to the right, probing a coral fissure with her squid stick, +was the Princess, and the tiger shark was heading directly for her. My +totality of thought was precipitated to consciousness in a single +all-embracing flash. The man-eater must be deflected from her, and what +was I, except a mad lover who would gladly fight and die, or more gladly +fight and live, for his beloved? Remember, she was the woman wonderful, +and I was aflame for her. + +“Knowing fully the peril of my act, I thrust the blunt-sharp end of my +squid-stick into the side of the shark, much as one would attract a +passing acquaintance with a thumb-nudge in the ribs. And the man-eater +turned on me. You know the South Seas, and you know that the tiger +shark, like the bald-face grizzly of Alaska, never gives trail. The +combat, fathoms deep under the sea, was on—if by combat may be named such +a one-sided struggle. + +“The Princess unaware, caught her squid and rose to the surface. The +man-eater rushed me. I fended him off with both hands on his nose above +his thousand-toothed open mouth, so that he backed me against the sharp +coral. The scars are there to this day. Whenever I tried to rise, he +rushed me, and I could not remain down there indefinitely without air. +Whenever he rushed me, I fended him off with my hands on his nose. And I +would have escaped unharmed, except for the slip of my right hand. Into +his mouth it went to the elbow. His jaws closed, just below the elbow. +You know how a shark’s teeth are. Once in they cannot be released. They +must go through to complete the bite, but they cannot go through heavy +bone. So, from just below the elbow he stripped the bone clean to the +articulation of the wrist-joint, where his teeth met and my good right +hand became his for an appetizer. + +“But while he was doing this, I drove the thumb of my left hand, to the +hilt into his eye-orifice and popped out his eye. This did not stop him. +The meat had maddened him. He pursued the gushing stump of my wrist. +Half a dozen times I fended with my intact arm. Then he got the poor +mangled arm again, closed down, and stripped the meat off the bone from +the shoulder down to the elbow-joint, where his teeth met and he was free +of his second mouthful of me. But, at the same time, with my good arm, I +thumbed out his remaining eye.” + +Percival Delaney shrugged his shoulders, ere he resumed. + +“From above, those in the canoe had beheld the entire happening and were +loud in praise of my deed. To this day they still sing the song of me, +and tell the tale of me. And the Princess.” His pause was brief but +significant. “The Princess married me. . . . Oh, well-a-day and +lack-a-day, the whirligig of time and fortune, the topsyturviness of +luck, the wooden shoe going up and the polished heel descending a French +gunboat, a conquered island kingdom of Oceania, to-day ruled over by a +peasant-born, unlettered, colonial gendarme, and . . . ” + +He completed the sentence and the tale by burying his face in the +down-tilted mouth of the condensed milk can and by gurgling the corrosive +drink down his throat in thirsty gulps. + + * * * * * + +After an appropriate pause, Chauncey Delarouse, otherwise Whiskers, took +up the tale. + +“Far be it from me to boast of no matter what place of birth I have +descended from to sit here by this fire with such as . . . as chance +along. I may say, however, that I, too, was once a considerable figure +of a man. I may add that it was horses, plus parents too indulgent, that +exiled me out over the world. I may still wonder to query: ‘Are Dover’s +cliffs still white?’” + +“Huh!” Bruce Cadogan Cavendish sneered. “Next you’ll be asking: ‘How +fares the old Lord Warden?’” + +“And I took every liberty, and vainly, with a constitution that was +iron,” Whiskers hurried on. “Here I am with my three score and ten +behind me, and back on that long road have I buried many a youngster that +was as rare and devilish as I, but who could not stand the pace. I knew +the worst too young. And now I know the worst too old. But there was a +time, alas all too short, when I knew, the best. + +“I, too, kiss my hand to the Princess of my heart. She was truly a +princess, Polynesian, a thousand miles and more away to the eastward and +the south from Delaney’s Isle of Love. The natives of all around that +part of the South Seas called it the Jolly Island. Their own name, the +name of the people who dwelt thereon, translates delicately and justly +into ‘The Island of Tranquil Laughter.’ On the chart you will find the +erroneous name given to it by the old navigators to be Manatomana. The +seafaring gentry the round ocean around called it the Adamless Eden. And +the missionaries for a time called it God’s Witness—so great had been +their success at converting the inhabitants. As for me, it was, and ever +shall be, Paradise. + +“It was _my_ Paradise, for it was there my Princess lived. John Asibeli +Tungi was king. He was full-blooded native, descended out of the oldest +and highest chief-stock that traced back to Manua which was the primeval +sea home of the race. Also was he known as John the Apostate. He lived +a long life and apostasized frequently. First converted by the +Catholics, he threw down the idols, broke the tabus, cleaned out the +native priests, executed a few of the recalcitrant ones, and sent all his +subjects to church. + +“Next he fell for the traders, who developed in him a champagne thirst, +and he shipped off the Catholic priests to New Zealand. The great +majority of his subjects always followed his lead, and, having no +religion at all, ensued the time of the Great Licentiousness, when by all +South Seas missionaries his island, in sermons, was spoken of as Babylon. + +“But the traders ruined his digestion with too much champagne, and after +several years he fell for the Gospel according to the Methodists, sent +his people to church, and cleaned up the beach and the trading crowd so +spick and span that he would not permit them to smoke a pipe out of doors +on Sunday, and, fined one of the chief traders one hundred gold +sovereigns for washing his schooner’s decks on the Sabbath morn. + +“That was the time of the Blue Laws, but perhaps it was too rigorous for +King John. Off he packed the Methodists, one fine day, exiled several +hundred of his people to Samoa for sticking to Methodism, and, of all +things, invented a religion of his own, with himself the figure-head of +worship. In this he was aided and abetted by a renegade Fijian. This +lasted five years. Maybe he grew tired of being God, or maybe it was +because the Fijian decamped with the six thousand pounds in the royal +treasury; but at any rate the Second Reformed Wesleyans got him, and his +entire kingdom went Wesleyan. The pioneer Wesleyan missionary he +actually made prime minister, and what he did to the trading crowd was a +caution. Why, in the end, King John’s kingdom was blacklisted and +boycotted by the traders till the revenues diminished to zero, the people +went bankrupt, and King John couldn’t borrow a shilling from his most +powerful chief. + +“By this time he was getting old, and philosophic, and tolerant, and +spiritually atavistic. He fired out the Second Reformed Wesleyans, +called back the exiles from Samoa, invited in the traders, held a general +love-feast, took the lid off, proclaimed religious liberty and high +tariff, and as for himself went back to the worship of his ancestors, dug +up the idols, reinstated a few octogenarian priests, and observed the +tabus. All of which was lovely for the traders, and prosperity reigned. +Of course, most of his subjects followed him back into heathen worship. +Yet quite a sprinkling of Catholics, Methodists and Wesleyans remained +true to their beliefs and managed to maintain a few squalid, one-horse +churches. But King John didn’t mind, any more than did he the high times +of the traders along the beach. Everything went, so long as the taxes +were paid. Even when his wife, Queen Mamare, elected to become a +Baptist, and invited in a little, weazened, sweet-spirited, club-footed +Baptist missionary, King John did not object. All he insisted on was +that these wandering religions should be self-supporting and not feed a +pennyworth’s out of the royal coffers. + +“And now the threads of my recital draw together in the paragon of female +exquisiteness—my Princess.” + +Whiskers paused, placed carefully on the ground his half-full condensed +milk can with which he had been absently toying, and kissed the fingers +of his one hand audibly aloft. + +“She was the daughter of Queen Mamare. She was the woman wonderful. +Unlike the Diana type of Polynesian, she was almost ethereal. She _was_ +ethereal, sublimated by purity, as shy and modest as a violet, as +fragile-slender as a lily, and her eyes, luminous and shrinking tender, +were as asphodels on the sward of heaven. She was all flower, and fire, +and dew. Hers was the sweetness of the mountain rose, the gentleness of +the dove. And she was all of good as well as all of beauty, devout in +her belief in her mother’s worship, which was the worship introduced by +Ebenezer Naismith, the Baptist missionary. But make no mistake. She was +no mere sweet spirit ripe for the bosom of Abraham. All of exquisite +deliciousness of woman was she. She was woman, all woman, to the last +sensitive quivering atom of her— + +“And I? I was a wastrel of the beach. The wildest was not so wild as I, +the keenest not so keen, of all that wild, keen trading crowd. It was +esteemed I played the stiffest hand of poker. I was the only living man, +white, brown, or black, who dared run the Kuni-kuni Passage in the dark. +And on a black night I have done it under reefs in a gale of wind. Well, +anyway, I had a bad reputation on a beach where there were no good +reputations. I was reckless, dangerous, stopped at nothing in fight or +frolic; and the trading captains used to bring boiler-sheeted prodigies +from the vilest holes of the South Pacific to try and drink me under the +table. I remember one, a calcined Scotchman from the New Hebrides. It +was a great drinking. He died of it, and we laded him aboard ship, +pickled in a cask of trade rum, and sent him back to his own place. A +sample, a fair sample, of the antic tricks we cut up on the beach of +Manatomana. + +“And of all unthinkable things, what did I up and do, one day, but look +upon the Princess to find her good and to fall in love with her. It was +the real thing. I was as mad as a March hare, and after that I got only +madder. I reformed. Think of that! Think of what a slip of a woman can +do to a busy, roving man!—By the Lord Harry, it’s true. I reformed. I +went to church. Hear me! I became converted. I cleared my soul before +God and kept my hands—I had two then—off the ribald crew of the beach +when it laughed at this, my latest antic, and wanted to know what was my +game. + +“I tell you I reformed, and gave myself in passion and sincerity to a +religious experience that has made me tolerant of all religion ever +since. I discharged my best captain for immorality. So did I my cook, +and a better never boiled water in Manatomana. For the same reason I +discharged my chief clerk. And for the first time in the history of +trading my schooners to the westward carried Bibles in their stock. I +built a little anchorite bungalow up town on a mango-lined street +squarely alongside the little house occupied by Ebenezer Naismith. And I +made him my pal and comrade, and found him a veritable honey pot of +sweetnesses and goodnesses. And he was a man, through and through a man. +And he died long after like a man, which I would like to tell you about, +were the tale of it not so deservedly long. + +“It was the Princess, more than the missionary, who was responsible for +my expressing my faith in works, and especially in that crowning work, +the New Church, Our Church, the Queen-mother’s church. + +“‘Our poor church,’ she said to me, one night after prayer-meeting. I +had been converted only a fortnight. ‘It is so small its congregation +can never grow. And the roof leaks. And King John, my hard-hearted +father, will not contribute a penny. Yet he has a big balance in the +treasury. And Manatomana is not poor. Much money is made and +squandered, I know. I hear the gossip of the wild ways of the beach. +Less than a month ago you lost more in one night, gambling at cards, than +the cost of the upkeep of our poor church for a year.’ + +“And I told her it was true, but that it was before I had seen the light. +(I’d had an infernal run of bad luck.) I told her I had not tasted +liquor since, nor turned a card. I told her that the roof would be +repaired at once, by Christian carpenters selected by her from the +congregation. But she was filled with the thought of a great revival +that Ebenezer Naismith could preach—she was a dear saint—and she spoke of +a great church, saying: + +“‘You are rich. You have many schooners, and traders in far islands, and +I have heard of a great contract you have signed to recruit labour for +the German plantations of Upolu. They say, next to Sweitzer, you are the +richest trader here. I should love to see some use of all this money +placed to the glory of God. It would be a noble thing to do, and I +should be proud to know the man who would do it.’ + +“I told her that Ebenezer Naismith would preach the revival, and that I +would build a church great enough in which to house it. + +“‘As big as the Catholic church?’ she asked. + +“This was the ruined cathedral, built at the time when the entire +population was converted, and it was a large order; but I was afire with +love, and I told her that the church I would build would be even bigger. + +“‘But it will take money,’ I explained. ‘And it takes time to make +money.’ + +“‘You have much,’ she said. ‘Some say you have more money than my +father, the King. + +“‘I have more credit,’ I explained. ‘But you do not understand money. +It takes money to have credit. So, with the money I have, and the credit +I have, I will work to make more money and credit, and the church shall +be built.’ + +“Work! I was a surprise to myself. It is an amazement, the amount of +time a man finds on his hands after he’s given up carousing, and +gambling, and all the time-eating diversions of the beach. And I didn’t +waste a second of all my new-found time. Instead I worked it overtime. +I did the work of half a dozen men. I became a driver. My captains made +faster runs than ever and earned bigger bonuses, as did my supercargoes, +who saw to it that my schooners did not loaf and dawdle along the way. +And I saw to it that my supercargoes did see to it. + +“And good! By the Lord Harry I was so good it hurt. My conscience got +so expansive and fine-strung it lamed me across the shoulders to carry it +around with me. Why, I even went back over my accounts and paid Sweitzer +fifty quid I’d jiggered him out of in a deal in Fiji three years before. +And I compounded the interest as well. + +“Work! I planted sugar cane—the first commercial planting on Manatomana. +I ran in cargoes of kinky-heads from Malaita, which is in the Solomons, +till I had twelve hundred of the blackbirds putting in cane. And I sent +a schooner clear to Hawaii to bring back a dismantled sugar mill and a +German who said he knew the field-end of cane. And he did, and he +charged me three hundred dollars screw a month, and I took hold of the +mill-end. I installed the mill myself, with the help of several +mechanics I brought up from Queensland. + +“Of course there was a rival. His name was Motomoe. He was the very +highest chief blood next to King John’s. He was full native, a +strapping, handsome man, with a glowering way of showing his dislikes. +He certainly glowered at me when I began hanging around the palace. He +went back in my history and circulated the blackest tales about me. The +worst of it was that most of them were true. He even made a voyage to +Apia to find things out—as if he couldn’t find a plenty right there on +the beach of Manatomana! And he sneered at my failing for religion, and +at my going to prayer-meeting, and, most of all, at my sugar-planting. +He challenged me to fight, and I kept off of him. He threatened me, and +I learned in the nick of time of his plan to have me knocked on the head. +You see, he wanted the Princess just as much as I did, and I wanted her +more. + +“She used to play the piano. So did I, once. But I never let her know +after I’d heard her play the first time. And she thought her playing was +wonderful, the dear, fond girl! You know the sort, the mechanical +one-two-three tum-tum-tum school-girl stuff. And now I’ll tell you +something funnier. Her playing _was_ wonderful to me. The gates of +heaven opened to me when she played. I can see myself now, worn out and +dog-tired after the long day, lying on the mats of the palace veranda and +gazing upon her at the piano, myself in a perfect idiocy of bliss. Why, +this idea she had of her fine playing was the one flaw in her +deliciousness of perfection, and I loved her for it. It kind of brought +her within my human reach. Why, when she played her one-two-three, +tum-tum-tum, I was in the seventh heaven of bliss. My weariness fell +from me. I loved her, and my love for her was clean as flame, clean as +my love for God. And do you know, into my fond lover’s fancy continually +intruded the thought that God in most ways must look like her. + +“—That’s right, Bruce Cadogan Cavendish, sneer as you like. But I tell +you that’s love that I’ve been describing. That’s all. It’s love. It’s +the realest, purest, finest thing that can happen to a man. And I know +what I’m talking about. It happened to me.” + +Whiskers, his beady squirrel’s eye glittering from out his ruined eyebrow +like a live coal in a jungle ambush, broke off long enough to down a +sedative draught from his condensed milk can and to mix another. + +“The cane,” he resumed, wiping his prodigious mat of face hair with the +back of his hand. “It matured in sixteen months in that climate, and I +was ready, just ready and no more, with the mill for the grinding. +Naturally, it did not all mature at once, but I had planted in such +succession that I could grind for nine months steadily, while more was +being planted and the ratoons were springing up. + +“I had my troubles the first several days. If it wasn’t one thing the +matter with the mill, it was another. On the fourth day, Ferguson, my +engineer, had to shut down several hours in order to remedy his own +troubles. I was bothered by the feeder. After having the niggers (who +had been feeding the cane) pour cream of lime on the rollers to keep +everything sweet, I sent them out to join the cane-cutting squads. So I +was all alone at that end, just as Ferguson started up the mill, just as +I discovered what was the matter with the feed-rollers, and just as +Motomoe strolled up. + +“He stood there, in Norfolk jacket, pigskin puttees, and all the rest of +the fashionable get-up out of a bandbox, sneering at me covered with +filth and grease to the eyebrows and looking like a navvy. And, the +rollers now white from the lime, I’d just seen what was wrong. The +rollers were not in plumb. One side crushed the cane well, but the other +side was too open. I shoved my fingers in on that side. The big, +toothed cogs on the rollers did not touch my fingers. And yet, suddenly, +they did. With the grip of ten thousand devils, my finger-tips were +caught, drawn in, and pulped to—well, just pulp. And, like a slick of +cane, I had started on my way. There was no stopping me. Ten thousand +horses could not have pulled me back. There was nothing to stop me. +Hand, arm, shoulder, head, and chest, down to the toes of me, I was +doomed to feed through. + +“It did hurt. It hurt so much it did not hurt me at all. Quite +detached, almost may I say, I looked on my hand being ground up, knuckle +by knuckle, joint by joint, the back of the hand, the wrist, the forearm, +all in order slowly and inevitably feeding in. O engineer hoist by thine +own petard! O sugar-maker crushed by thine own cane-crusher! + +“Motomoe sprang forward involuntarily, and the sneer was chased from his +face by an expression of solicitude. Then the beauty of the situation +dawned on him, and he chuckled and grinned. No, I didn’t expect anything +of him. Hadn’t he tried to knock me on the head? What could he do +anyway? He didn’t know anything about engines. + +“I yelled at the top of my lungs to Ferguson to shut off the engine, but +the roar of the machinery drowned my voice. And there I stood, up to the +elbow and feeding right on in. Yes, it did hurt. There were some +astonishing twinges when special nerves were shredded and dragged out by +the roots. But I remember that I was surprised at the time that it did +not hurt worse. + +“Motomoe made a movement that attracted my attention. At the same time +he growled out loud, as if he hated himself, ‘I’m a fool.’ What he had +done was to pick up a cane-knife—you know the kind, as big as a machete +and as heavy. And I was grateful to him in advance for putting me out of +my misery. There wasn’t any sense in slowly feeding in till my head was +crushed, and already my arm was pulped half way from elbow to shoulder, +and the pulping was going right on. So I was grateful, as I bent my head +to the blow. + +“‘Get your head out of the way, you idiot!’ he barked at me. + +“And then I understood and obeyed. I was a big man, and he took two +hacks to do it; but he hacked my arm off just outside the shoulder and +dragged me back and laid me down on the cane. + +“Yes, the sugar paid—enormously; and I built for the Princess the church +of her saintly dream, and . . . she married me.” + +He partly assuaged his thirst, and uttered his final word. + +“Alackaday! Shuttlecock and battle-dore. And this at, the end of it +all, lined with boilerplate that even alcohol will not corrode and that +only alcohol will tickle. Yet have I lived, and I kiss my hand to the +dear dust of my Princess long asleep in the great mausoleum of King John +that looks across the Vale of Manona to the alien flag that floats over +the bungalow of the British Government House. . . ” + +Fatty pledged him sympathetically, and sympathetically drank out of his +own small can. Bruce Cadogan Cavendish glared into the fire with +implacable bitterness. He was a man who preferred to drink by himself. +Across the thin lips that composed the cruel slash of his mouth played +twitches of mockery that caught Fatty’s eye. And Fatty, making sure +first that his rock-chunk was within reach, challenged. + +“Well, how about yourself, Bruce Cadogan Cavendish? It’s your turn.” + +The other lifted bleak eyes that bored into Fatty’s until he physically +betrayed uncomfortableness. + +“I’ve lived a hard life,” Slim grated harshly. “What do I know about +love passages?” + +“No man of your build and make-up could have escaped them,” Fatty +wheedled. + +“And what of it?” Slim snarled. “It’s no reason for a gentleman to boast +of amorous triumphs.” + +“Oh, go on, be a good fellow,” Fatty urged. “The night’s still young. +We’ve still some drink left. Delarouse and I have contributed our share. +It isn’t often that three real ones like us get together for a telling. +Surely you’ve got at least one adventure in love you aren’t ashamed to +tell about—” + +Bruce Cadogan Cavendish pulled forth his iron quoit and seemed to debate +whether or not he should brain the other. He sighed, and put back the +quoit. + +“Very well, if you will have it,” he surrendered with manifest +reluctance. “Like you two, I have had a remarkable constitution. And +right now, speaking of armour-plate lining, I could drink the both of you +down when you were at your prime. Like you two, my beginnings were far +distant and different. That I am marked with the hall-mark of gentlehood +there is no discussion . . . unless either of you care to discuss the +matter now . . . ” + +His one hand slipped into his pocket and clutched the quoit. Neither of +his auditors spoke nor betrayed any awareness of his menace. + +“It occurred a thousand miles to the westward of Manatomana, on the +island of Tagalag,” he continued abruptly, with an air of saturnine +disappointment in that there had been no discussion. “But first I must +tell you of how I got to Tagalag. For reasons I shall not mention, by +paths of descent I shall not describe, in the crown of my manhood and the +prime of my devilishness in which Oxford renegades and racing younger +sons had nothing on me, I found myself master and owner of a schooner so +well known that she shall remain historically nameless. I was running +blackbird labour from the west South Pacific and the Coral Sea to the +plantations of Hawaii and the nitrate mines of Chili—” + +“It was you who cleaned out the entire population of—” Fatty exploded, +ere he could check his speech. + +The one hand of Bruce Cadogan Cavendish flashed pocketward and flashed +back with the quoit balanced ripe for business. + +“Proceed,” Fatty sighed. “I . . . I have quite forgotten what I was +going to say.” + +“Beastly funny country over that way,” the narrator drawled with perfect +casualness. “You’ve read this Sea Wolf stuff—” + +“You weren’t the Sea Wolf,” Whiskers broke in with involuntary +positiveness. + +“No, sir,” was the snarling answer. “The Sea Wolf’s dead, isn’t he? And +I’m still alive, aren’t I?” + +“Of course, of course,” Whiskers conceded. “He suffocated head-first in +the mud off a wharf in Victoria a couple of years back.” + +“As I was saying—and I don’t like interruptions,” Bruce Cadogan Cavendish +proceeded, “it’s a beastly funny country over that way. I was at +Taki-Tiki, a low island that politically belongs to the Solomons, but +that geologically doesn’t at all, for the Solomons are high islands. +Ethnographically it belongs to Polynesia, Melanesia, and Micronesia, +because all the breeds of the South Pacific have gravitated to it by +canoe-drift and intricately, degeneratively, and amazingly interbred. +The scum of the scrapings of the bottom of the human pit, biologically +speaking, resides in Taka-Tiki. And I know the bottom and whereof I +speak. + +“It was a beastly funny time of it I had, diving out shell, fishing +beche-de-mer, trading hoop-iron and hatchets for copra and ivory-nuts, +running niggers and all the rest of it. Why, even in Fiji the Lotu was +having a hard time of it and the chiefs still eating long-pig. To the +westward it was fierce—funny little black kinky-heads, man-eaters the +last Jack of them, and the jackpot fat and spilling over with wealth—” + +“Jack-pots?” Fatty queried. At sight of an irritable movement, he added: +“You see, I never got over to the West like Delarouse and you.” + +“They’re all head-hunters. Heads are valuable, especially a white man’s +head. They decorate the canoe-houses and devil-devil houses with them. +Each village runs a jack-pot, and everybody antes. Whoever brings in a +white man’s head takes the pot. If there aren’t openers for a long time, +the pot grows to tremendous proportions. Beastly funny, isn’t it? + +“I know. Didn’t a Holland mate die on me of blackwater? And didn’t I +win a pot myself? It was this way. We were lying at Lango-lui at the +time. I never let on, and arranged the affair with Johnny, my +boat-steerer. He was a kinky-head himself from Port Moresby. He cut the +dead mate’s head off and sneaked ashore in the night, while I whanged +away with my rifle as if I were trying to get him. He opened the pot +with the mate’s head, and got it, too. Of course, next day I sent in a +landing boat, with two covering boats, and fetched him off with the +loot.” + +“How big was the pot?” Whiskers asked. “I heard of a pot at Orla worth +eighty quid.” + +“To commence with,” Slim answered, “there were forty fat pigs, each worth +a fathom of prime shell-money, and shell-money worth a quid a fathom. +That was two hundred dollars right there. There were ninety-eight +fathoms of shell-money, which is pretty close to five hundred in itself. +And there were twenty-two gold sovereigns. I split it four ways: +one-fourth to Johnny, one-fourth to the ship, one-fourth to me as owner, +and one-fourth to me as skipper. Johnny never complained. He’d never +had so much wealth all at one time in his life. Besides, I gave him a +couple of the mate’s old shirts. And I fancy the mate’s head is still +there decorating the canoe-house.” + +“Not exactly Christian burial of a Christian,” Whiskers observed. + +“But a lucrative burial,” Slim retorted. “I had to feed the rest of the +mate over-side to the sharks for nothing. Think of feeding an +eight-hundred-dollar head along with it. It would have been criminal +waste and stark lunacy. + +“Well, anyway, it was all beastly funny, over there to the westward. +And, without telling you the scrape I got into at Taki-Tiki, except that +I sailed away with two hundred kinky-heads for Queensland labour, and for +my manner of collecting them had two British ships of war combing the +Pacific for me, I changed my course and ran to the westward thinking to +dispose of the lot to the Spanish plantations on Bangar. + +“Typhoon season. We caught it. The _Merry Mist_ was my schooner’s name, +and I had thought she was stoutly built until she hit that typhoon. I +never saw such seas. They pounded that stout craft to pieces, literally +so. The sticks were jerked out of her, deckhouses splintered to +match-wood, rails ripped off, and, after the worst had passed, the +covering boards began to go. We just managed to repair what was left of +one boat and keep the schooner afloat only till the sea went down barely +enough to get away. And we outfitted that boat in a hurry. The +carpenter and I were the last, and we had to jump for it as he went down. +There were only four of us—” + +“Lost all the niggers?” Whiskers inquired. + +“Some of them swam for some time,” Slim replied. “But I don’t fancy they +made the land. We were ten days’ in doing it. And we had a spanking +breeze most of the way. And what do you think we had in the boat with +us? Cases of square-face gin and cases of dynamite. Funny, wasn’t it? +Well, it got funnier later on. Oh, there was a small beaker of water, a +little salt horse, and some salt-water-soaked sea biscuit—enough to keep +us alive to Tagalag. + +“Now Tagalag is the disappointingest island I’ve ever beheld. It shows +up out of the sea so as you can make its fall twenty miles off. It is a +volcano cone thrust up out of deep sea, with a segment of the crater wall +broken out. This gives sea entrance to the crater itself, and makes a +fine sheltered harbour. And that’s all. Nothing lives there. The +outside and the inside of the crater are too steep. At one place, +inside, is a patch of about a thousand coconut palms. And that’s all, as +I said, saving a few insects. No four-legged thing, even a rat, inhabits +the place. And it’s funny, most awful funny, with all those coconuts, +not even a coconut crab. The only meat-food living was schools of mullet +in the harbour—fattest, finest, biggest mullet I ever laid eyes on. + +“And the four of us landed on the little beach and set up housekeeping +among the coconuts with a larder full of dynamite and square-face. Why +don’t you laugh? It’s funny, I tell you. Try it some time.—Holland gin +and straight coconut diet. I’ve never been able to look a confectioner’s +window in the face since. Now I’m not strong on religion like Chauncey +Delarouse there, but I have some primitive ideas; and my concept of hell +is an illimitable coconut plantation, stocked with cases of square-face +and populated by ship-wrecked mariners. Funny? It must make the devil +scream. + +“You know, straight coconut is what the agriculturists call an unbalanced +ration. It certainly unbalanced our digestions. We got so that whenever +hunger took an extra bite at us, we took another drink of gin. After a +couple of weeks of it, Olaf, a squarehead sailor, got an idea. It came +when he was full of gin, and we, being in the same fix, just watched him +shove a cap and short fuse into a stick of dynamite and stroll down +toward the boat. + +“It dawned on me that he was going to shoot fish if there were any about; +but the sun was beastly hot, and I just reclined there and hoped he’d +have luck. + +“About half an hour after he disappeared we heard the explosion. But he +didn’t come back. We waited till the cool of sunset, and down on the +beach found what had become of him. The boat was there all right, +grounded by the prevailing breeze, but there was no Olaf. He would never +have to eat coconut again. We went back, shakier than ever, and cracked +another square-face. + +“The next day the cook announced that he would rather take his chance +with dynamite than continue trying to exist on coconut, and that, though +he didn’t know anything about dynamite, he knew a sight too much about +coconut. So we bit the detonator down for him, shoved in a fuse, and +picked him a good fire-stick, while he jolted up with a couple more stiff +ones of gin. + +“It was the same programme as the day before. After a while we heard the +explosion and at twilight went down to the boat, from which we scraped +enough of the cook for a funeral. + +“The carpenter and I stuck it out two days more, then we drew straws for +it and it was his turn. We parted with harsh words; for he wanted to +take a square-face along to refresh himself by the way, while I was set +against running any chance of wasting the gin. Besides, he had more than +he could carry then, and he wobbled and staggered as he walked. + +“Same thing, only there was a whole lot of him left for me to bury, +because he’d prepared only half a stick. I managed to last it out till +next day, when, after duly fortifying myself, I got sufficient courage to +tackle the dynamite. I used only a third of a stick—you know, short +fuse, with the end split so as to hold the head of a safety match. +That’s where I mended my predecessors’ methods. Not using the +match-head, they’d too-long fuses. Therefore, when they spotted a school +of mullet; and lighted the fuse, they had to hold the dynamite till the +fuse burned short before they threw it. If they threw it too soon, it +wouldn’t go off the instant it hit the water, while the splash of it +would frighten the mullet away. Funny stuff dynamite. At any rate, I +still maintain mine was the safer method. + +“I picked up a school of mullet before I’d been rowing five minutes. +Fine big fat ones they were, and I could smell them over the fire. When +I stood up, fire-stick in one hand, dynamite stick in the other, my knees +were knocking together. Maybe it was the gin, or the anxiousness, or the +weakness and the hunger, and maybe it was the result of all of them, but +at any rate I was all of a shake. Twice I failed to touch the fire-stick +to the dynamite. Then I did, heard the match-head splutter, and let her +go. + +“Now I don’t know what happened to the others, but I know what I did. I +got turned about. Did you ever stem a strawberry and throw the +strawberry away and pop the stem into your mouth? That’s what I did. I +threw the fire-stick into the water after the mullet and held on to the +dynamite. And my arm went off with the stick when it went off. . . . ” + +Slim investigated the tomato-can for water to mix himself a drink, but +found it empty. He stood up. + +“Heigh ho,” he yawned, and started down the path to the river. + +In several minutes he was back. He mixed the due quantity of river slush +with the alcohol, took a long, solitary drink, and stared with bitter +moodiness into the fire. + +“Yes, but . . . ” Fatty suggested. “What happened then?” + +“Oh,” sad Slim. “Then the princess married me, of course.” + +“But you were the only person left, and there wasn’t any princess . . . ” +Whiskers cried out abruptly, and then let his voice trail away to +embarrassed silence. + +Slim stared unblinkingly into the fire. + +Percival Delaney and Chauncey Delarouse looked at each other. Quietly, +in solemn silence, each with his one arm aided the one arm of the other +in rolling and tying his bundle. And in silence, bundles slung on +shoulders, they went away out of the circle of firelight. Not until they +reached the top of the railroad embankment did they speak. + +“No gentleman would have done it,” said Whiskers. + +“No gentleman would have done it,” Fatty agreed. + + THE END + +Glen Ellen, California, + _September_ 26, 1916. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED ONE*** + + +******* This file should be named 788-0.txt or 788-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/8/788 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Red One + + +Author: Jack London + + + +Release Date: September 28, 2014 [eBook #788] +[This file was first posted on January 25, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED ONE*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1919 Mills and Boon edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>THE RED ONE</h1> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">By<br /> +JACK LONDON</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Author of<br /> +“The Valley of the Moon,” “Jerry of the +Islands,”<br /> +“Michael, Brother of Jerry,” etc., etc.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">MILLS & BOON, LIMITED<br /> +49 RUPERT STREET<br /> +LONDON, W.1.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall"><i>Published +1919</i></span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall"><i>Copyright +in the United States of America by Jack London</i></span><span +class="GutSmall">.</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Red One</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page11">11</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Hussy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Like Argus of the Ancient +Times</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Princess</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page141">141</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>THE +RED ONE</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> it was! The abrupt +liberation of sound! As he timed it with his watch, Bassett +likened it to the trump of an archangel. Walls of cities, +he meditated, might well fall down before so vast and compelling +a summons. For the thousandth time vainly he tried to +analyse the tone-quality of that enormous peal that dominated the +land far into the strong-holds of the surrounding tribes. +The mountain gorge which was its source rang to the rising tide +of it until it brimmed over and flooded earth and sky and +air. With the wantonness of a sick man’s fancy, he +likened it to the mighty cry of some Titan of the Elder World +vexed with misery or wrath. Higher and higher it arose, +challenging and demanding in such profounds of volume that it +seemed intended for ears beyond the narrow confines of the solar +system. There was in it, too, the clamour of protest in +that there were no ears to hear and comprehend its utterance.</p> +<p>—Such the sick man’s fancy. Still he strove +to analyse the sound. Sonorous as thunder was it, mellow as +a golden bell, thin and sweet as a thrummed taut cord of +silver—no; it was none of these, nor a blend of +these. There were no words nor semblances in his vocabulary +and experience with which to describe the totality of that +sound.</p> +<p>Time passed. Minutes merged into quarters of hours, and +quarters of hours into half-hours, and still the sound persisted, +ever changing from its initial vocal impulse yet never receiving +fresh impulse—fading, dimming, dying as enormously as it +had sprung into being. It became a confusion of troubled +mutterings and babblings and colossal whisperings. Slowly +it withdrew, sob by sob, into whatever great bosom had birthed +it, until it whimpered deadly whispers of wrath and as equally +seductive whispers of delight, striving still to be heard, to +convey some cosmic secret, some understanding of infinite import +and value. It dwindled to a ghost of sound that had lost +its menace and promise, and became a thing that pulsed on in the +sick man’s consciousness for minutes after it had +ceased. When he could hear it no longer, Bassett glanced at +his watch. An hour had elapsed ere that archangel’s +trump had subsided into tonal nothingness.</p> +<p>Was this, then, <i>his</i> dark tower?—Bassett pondered, +remembering his Browning and gazing at his skeleton-like and +fever-wasted hands. And the fancy made him smile—of +Childe Roland bearing a slug-horn to his lips with an arm as +feeble as his was. Was it months, or years, he asked +himself, since he first heard that mysterious call on the beach +at Ringmanu? To save himself he could not tell. The +long sickness had been most long. In conscious count of +time he knew of months, many of them; but he had no way of +estimating the long intervals of delirium and stupor. And +how fared Captain Bateman of the blackbirder <i>Nari</i>? he +wondered; and had Captain Bateman’s drunken mate died of +delirium tremens yet?</p> +<p>From which vain speculations, Bassett turned idly to review +all that had occurred since that day on the beach of Ringmanu +when he first heard the sound and plunged into the jungle after +it. Sagawa had protested. He could see him yet, his +queer little monkeyish face eloquent with fear, his back burdened +with specimen cases, in his hands Bassett’s butterfly net +and naturalist’s shot-gun, as he quavered, in +Bêche-de-mer English: “Me fella too much fright along +bush. Bad fella boy, too much stop’m along +bush.”</p> +<p>Bassett smiled sadly at the recollection. The little New +Hanover boy had been frightened, but had proved faithful, +following him without hesitancy into the bush in the quest after +the source of the wonderful sound. No fire-hollowed +tree-trunk, that, throbbing war through the jungle depths, had +been Bassett’s conclusion. Erroneous had been his +next conclusion, namely, that the source or cause could not be +more distant than an hour’s walk, and that he would easily +be back by mid-afternoon to be picked up by the +<i>Nari’s</i> whale-boat.</p> +<p>“That big fella noise no good, all the same +devil-devil,” Sagawa had adjudged. And Sagawa had +been right. Had he not had his head hacked off within the +day? Bassett shuddered. Without doubt Sagawa had been +eaten as well by the “bad fella boys too much” that +stopped along the bush. He could see him, as he had last +seen him, stripped of the shot-gun and all the naturalist’s +gear of his master, lying on the narrow trail where he had been +decapitated barely the moment before. Yes, within a minute +the thing had happened. Within a minute, looking back, +Bassett had seen him trudging patiently along under his +burdens. Then Bassett’s own trouble had come upon +him. He looked at the cruelly healed stumps of the first +and second fingers of his left hand, then rubbed them softly into +the indentation in the back of his skull. Quick as had been +the flash of the long handled tomahawk, he had been quick enough +to duck away his head and partially to deflect the stroke with +his up-flung hand. Two fingers and a hasty scalp-wound had +been the price he paid for his life. With one barrel of his +ten-gauge shot-gun he had blown the life out of the bushman who +had so nearly got him; with the other barrel he had peppered the +bushmen bending over Sagawa, and had the pleasure of knowing that +the major portion of the charge had gone into the one who leaped +away with Sagawa’s head. Everything had occurred in a +flash. Only himself, the slain bushman, and what remained +of Sagawa, were in the narrow, wild-pig run of a path. From +the dark jungle on either side came no rustle of movement or +sound of life. And he had suffered distinct and dreadful +shock. For the first time in his life he had killed a human +being, and he knew nausea as he contemplated the mess of his +handiwork.</p> +<p>Then had begun the chase. He retreated up the pig-run +before his hunters, who were between him and the beach. How +many there were, he could not guess. There might have been +one, or a hundred, for aught he saw of them. That some of +them took to the trees and travelled along through the jungle +roof he was certain; but at the most he never glimpsed more than +an occasional flitting of shadows. No bow-strings +twanged that he could hear; but every little while, whence +discharged he knew not, tiny arrows whispered past him or struck +tree-boles and fluttered to the ground beside him. They +were bone-tipped and feather shafted, and the feathers, torn from +the breasts of humming-birds, iridesced like jewels.</p> +<p>Once—and now, after the long lapse of time, he chuckled +gleefully at the recollection—he had detected a shadow +above him that came to instant rest as he turned his gaze +upward. He could make out nothing, but, deciding to chance +it, had fired at it a heavy charge of number five shot. +Squalling like an infuriated cat, the shadow crashed down through +tree-ferns and orchids and thudded upon the earth at his feet, +and, still squalling its rage and pain, had sunk its human teeth +into the ankle of his stout tramping boot. He, on the other +hand, was not idle, and with his free foot had done what reduced +the squalling to silence. So inured to savagery has Bassett +since become, that he chuckled again with the glee of the +recollection.</p> +<p>What a night had followed! Small wonder that he had +accumulated such a virulence and variety of fevers, he thought, +as he recalled that sleepless night of torment, when the throb of +his wounds was as nothing compared with the myriad stings of the +mosquitoes. There had been no escaping them, and he had not +dared to light a fire. They had literally pumped his body +full of poison, so that, with the coming of day, eyes swollen +almost shut, he had stumbled blindly on, not caring much when his +head should be hacked off and his carcass started on the way of +Sagawa’s to the cooking fire. Twenty-four hours had +made a wreck of him—of mind as well as body. He had +scarcely retained his wits at all, so maddened was he by the +tremendous inoculation of poison he had received. Several +times he fired his shot-gun with effect into the shadows that +dogged him. Stinging day insects and gnats added to his +torment, while his bloody wounds attracted hosts of loathsome +flies that clung sluggishly to his flesh and had to be brushed +off and crushed off.</p> +<p>Once, in that day, he heard again the wonderful sound, +seemingly more distant, but rising imperiously above the nearer +war-drums in the bush. Right there was where he had made +his mistake. Thinking that he had passed beyond it and +that, therefore, it was between him and the beach of Ringmanu, he +had worked back toward it when in reality he was penetrating +deeper and deeper into the mysterious heart of the unexplored +island. That night, crawling in among the twisted roots of +a banyan tree, he had slept from exhaustion while the mosquitoes +had had their will of him.</p> +<p>Followed days and nights that were vague as nightmares in his +memory. One clear vision he remembered was of suddenly +finding himself in the midst of a bush village and watching the +old men and children fleeing into the jungle. All had fled +but one. From close at hand and above him, a whimpering as +of some animal in pain and terror had startled him. And +looking up he had seen her—a girl, or young woman rather, +suspended by one arm in the cooking sun. Perhaps for days +she had so hung. Her swollen, protruding tongue spoke as +much. Still alive, she gazed at him with eyes of +terror. Past help, he decided, as he noted the swellings of +her legs which advertised that the joints had been crushed and +the great bones broken. He resolved to shoot her, and there +the vision terminated. He could not remember whether he had +or not, any more than could he remember how he chanced to be in +that village, or how he succeeded in getting away from it.</p> +<p>Many pictures, unrelated, came and went in Bassett’s +mind as he reviewed that period of his terrible wanderings. +He remembered invading another village of a dozen houses and +driving all before him with his shot-gun save, for one old man, +too feeble to flee, who spat at him and whined and snarled as he +dug open a ground-oven and from amid the hot stones dragged forth +a roasted pig that steamed its essence deliciously through its +green-leaf wrappings. It was at this place that a +wantonness of savagery had seized upon him. Having feasted, +ready to depart with a hind-quarter of the pig in his hand, he +deliberately fired the grass thatch of a house with his burning +glass.</p> +<p>But seared deepest of all in Bassett’s brain, was the +dank and noisome jungle. It actually stank with evil, and +it was always twilight. Rarely did a shaft of sunlight +penetrate its matted roof a hundred feet overhead. And +beneath that roof was an aerial ooze of vegetation, a monstrous, +parasitic dripping of decadent life-forms that rooted in death +and lived on death. And through all this he drifted, ever +pursued by the flitting shadows of the anthropophagi, themselves +ghosts of evil that dared not face him in battle but that knew +that, soon or late, they would feed on him. Bassett +remembered that at the time, in lucid moments, he had likened +himself to a wounded bull pursued by plains’ coyotes too +cowardly to battle with him for the meat of him, yet certain of +the inevitable end of him when they would be full gorged. +As the bull’s horns and stamping hoofs kept off the +coyotes, so his shot-gun kept off these Solomon Islanders, these +twilight shades of bushmen of the island of Guadalcanal.</p> +<p>Came the day of the grass lands. Abruptly, as if cloven +by the sword of God in the hand of God, the jungle +terminated. The edge of it, perpendicular and as black as +the infamy of it, was a hundred feet up and down. And, +beginning at the edge of it, grew the grass—sweet, soft, +tender, pasture grass that would have delighted the eyes and +beasts of any husbandman and that extended, on and on, for +leagues and leagues of velvet verdure, to the backbone of the +great island, the towering mountain range flung up by some +ancient earth-cataclysm, serrated and gullied but not yet erased +by the erosive tropic rains. But the grass! He had +crawled into it a dozen yards, buried his face in it, smelled it, +and broken down in a fit of involuntary weeping.</p> +<p>And, while he wept, the wonderful sound had pealed +forth—if by <i>peal</i>, he had often thought since, an +adequate description could be given of the enunciation of so vast +a sound melting sweet. Sweet it was, as no sound ever +heard. Vast it was, of so mighty a resonance that it might +have proceeded from some brazen-throated monster. And yet +it called to him across that leagues-wide savannah, and was like +a benediction to his long-suffering, pain racked spirit.</p> +<p>He remembered how he lay there in the grass, wet-cheeked but +no longer sobbing, listening to the sound and wondering that he +had been able to hear it on the beach of Ringmanu. Some +freak of air pressures and air currents, he reflected, had made +it possible for the sound to carry so far. Such conditions +might not happen again in a thousand days or ten thousand days, +but the one day it had happened had been the day he landed from +the <i>Nari</i> for several hours’ collecting. +Especially had he been in quest of the famed jungle butterfly, a +foot across from wing-tip to wing-tip, as velvet-dusky of lack of +colour as was the gloom of the roof, of such lofty arboreal +habits that it resorted only to the jungle roof and could be +brought down only by a dose of shot. It was for this +purpose that Sagawa had carried the ten-gauge shot-gun.</p> +<p>Two days and nights he had spent crawling across that belt of +grass land. He had suffered much, but pursuit had ceased at +the jungle-edge. And he would have died of thirst had not a +heavy thunderstorm revived him on the second day.</p> +<p>And then had come Balatta. In the first shade, where the +savannah yielded to the dense mountain jungle, he had collapsed +to die. At first she had squealed with delight at sight of +his helplessness, and was for beating his brain out with a stout +forest branch. Perhaps it was his very utter helplessness +that had appealed to her, and perhaps it was her human curiosity +that made her refrain. At any rate, she had refrained, for +he opened his eyes again under the impending blow, and saw her +studying him intently. What especially struck her about him +were his blue eyes and white skin. Coolly she had squatted +on her hams, spat on his arm, and with her finger-tips scrubbed +away the dirt of days and nights of muck and jungle that sullied +the pristine whiteness of his skin.</p> +<p>And everything about her had struck him especially, although +there was nothing conventional about her at all. He laughed +weakly at the recollection, for she had been as innocent of garb +as Eve before the fig-leaf adventure. Squat and lean at the +same time, asymmetrically limbed, string-muscled as if with +lengths of cordage, dirt-caked from infancy save for casual +showers, she was as unbeautiful a prototype of woman as he, with +a scientist’s eye, had ever gazed upon. Her breasts +advertised at the one time her maturity and youth; and, if by +nothing else, her sex was advertised by the one article of finery +with which she was adorned, namely a pig’s tail, thrust +though a hole in her left ear-lobe. So lately had the tail +been severed, that its raw end still oozed blood that dried upon +her shoulder like so much candle-droppings. And her +face! A twisted and wizened complex of apish features, +perforated by upturned, sky-open, Mongolian nostrils, by a mouth +that sagged from a huge upper-lip and faded precipitately into a +retreating chin, by peering querulous eyes that blinked as blink +the eyes of denizens of monkey-cages.</p> +<p>Not even the water she brought him in a forest-leaf, and the +ancient and half-putrid chunk of roast pig, could redeem in the +slightest the grotesque hideousness of her. When he had +eaten weakly for a space, he closed his eyes in order not to see +her, although again and again she poked them open to peer at the +blue of them. Then had come the sound. Nearer, much +nearer, he knew it to be; and he knew equally well, despite the +weary way he had come, that it was still many hours +distant. The effect of it on her had been startling. +She cringed under it, with averted face, moaning and chattering +with fear. But after it had lived its full life of an hour, +he closed his eyes and fell asleep with Balatta brushing the +flies from him.</p> +<p>When he awoke it was night, and she was gone. But he was +aware of renewed strength, and, by then too thoroughly inoculated +by the mosquito poison to suffer further inflammation, he closed +his eyes and slept an unbroken stretch till sun-up. A +little later Balatta had returned, bringing with her a half-dozen +women who, unbeautiful as they were, were patently not so +unbeautiful as she. She evidenced by her conduct that she +considered him her find, her property, and the pride she took in +showing him off would have been ludicrous had his situation not +been so desperate.</p> +<p>Later, after what had been to him a terrible journey of miles, +when he collapsed in front of the devil-devil house in the shadow +of the breadfruit tree, she had shown very lively ideas on the +matter of retaining possession of him. Ngurn, whom Bassett +was to know afterward as the devil-devil doctor, priest, or +medicine man of the village, had wanted his head. Others of +the grinning and chattering monkey-men, all as stark of clothes +and bestial of appearance as Balatta, had wanted his body for the +roasting oven. At that time he had not understood their +language, if by <i>language</i> might be dignified the uncouth +sounds they made to represent ideas. But Bassett had +thoroughly understood the matter of debate, especially when the +men pressed and prodded and felt of the flesh of him as if he +were so much commodity in a butcher’s stall.</p> +<p>Balatta had been losing the debate rapidly, when the accident +happened. One of the men, curiously examining +Bassett’s shot-gun, managed to cock and pull a +trigger. The recoil of the butt into the pit of the +man’s stomach had not been the most sanguinary result, for +the charge of shot, at a distance of a yard, had blown the head +of one of the debaters into nothingness.</p> +<p>Even Balatta joined the others in flight, and, ere they +returned, his senses already reeling from the oncoming +fever-attack, Bassett had regained possession of the gun. +Whereupon, although his teeth chattered with the ague and his +swimming eyes could scarcely see, he held on to his fading +consciousness until he could intimidate the bushmen with the +simple magics of compass, watch, burning glass, and +matches. At the last, with due emphasis, of solemnity and +awfulness, he had killed a young pig with his shot-gun and +promptly fainted.</p> +<p>Bassett flexed his arm-muscles in quest of what possible +strength might reside in such weakness, and dragged himself +slowly and totteringly to his feet. He was shockingly +emaciated; yet, during the various convalescences of the many +months of his long sickness, he had never regained quite the same +degree of strength as this time. What he feared was another +relapse such as he had already frequently experienced. +Without drugs, without even quinine, he had managed so far to +live through a combination of the most pernicious and most +malignant of malarial and black-water fevers. But could he +continue to endure? Such was his everlasting query. +For, like the genuine scientist he was, he would not be content +to die until he had solved the secret of the sound.</p> +<p>Supported by a staff, he staggered the few steps to the +devil-devil house where death and Ngurn reigned in gloom. +Almost as infamously dark and evil-stinking as the jungle was the +devil-devil house—in Bassett’s opinion. Yet +therein was usually to be found his favourite crony and gossip, +Ngurn, always willing for a yarn or a discussion, the while he +sat in the ashes of death and in a slow smoke shrewdly revolved +curing human heads suspended from the rafters. For, through +the months’ interval of consciousness of his long sickness, +Bassett had mastered the psychological simplicities and lingual +difficulties of the language of the tribe of Ngurn and Balatta +and Vngngn—the latter the addle-headed young chief who was +ruled by Ngurn, and who, whispered intrigue had it, was the son +of Ngurn.</p> +<p>“Will the Red One speak to-day?” Bassett asked, by +this time so accustomed to the old man’s gruesome +occupation as to take even an interest in the progress of the +smoke-curing.</p> +<p>With the eye of an expert Ngurn examined the particular head +he was at work upon.</p> +<p>“It will be ten days before I can say +‘finish,’” he said. “Never has any +man fixed heads like these.”</p> +<p>Bassett smiled inwardly at the old fellow’s reluctance +to talk with him of the Red One. It had always been +so. Never, by any chance, had Ngurn or any other member of +the weird tribe divulged the slightest hint of any physical +characteristic of the Red One. Physical the Red One must +be, to emit the wonderful sound, and though it was called the Red +One, Bassett could not be sure that red represented the colour of +it. Red enough were the deeds and powers of it, from what +abstract clues he had gleaned. Not alone, had Ngurn +informed him, was the Red One more bestial powerful than the +neighbour tribal gods, ever athirst for the red blood of living +human sacrifices, but the neighbour gods themselves were +sacrificed and tormented before him. He was the god of a +dozen allied villages similar to this one, which was the central +and commanding village of the federation. By virtue of the +Red One many alien villages had been devastated and even wiped +out, the prisoners sacrificed to the Red One. This was true +to-day, and it extended back into old history carried down by +word of mouth through the generations. When he, Ngurn, had +been a young man, the tribes beyond the grass lands had made a +war raid. In the counter raid, Ngurn and his fighting folk +had made many prisoners. Of children alone over five score +living had been bled white before the Red One, and many, many +more men and women.</p> +<p>The Thunderer was another of Ngurn’s names for the +mysterious deity. Also at times was he called The Loud +Shouter, The God-Voiced, The Bird-Throated, The One with the +Throat Sweet as the Throat of the Honey-Bird, The Sun Singer, and +The Star-Born.</p> +<p>Why The Star-Born? In vain Bassett interrogated +Ngurn. According to that old devil-devil doctor, the Red +One had always been, just where he was at present, for ever +singing and thundering his will over men. But Ngurn’s +father, wrapped in decaying grass-matting and hanging even then +over their heads among the smoky rafters of the devil-devil +house, had held otherwise. That departed wise one had +believed that the Red One came from out of the starry night, else +why—so his argument had run—had the old and forgotten +ones passed his name down as the Star-Born? Bassett could +not but recognize something cogent in such argument. But +Ngurn affirmed the long years of his long life, wherein he had +gazed upon many starry nights, yet never had he found a star on +grass land or in jungle depth—and he had looked for +them. True, he had beheld shooting stars (this in reply to +Bassett’s contention); but likewise had he beheld the +phosphorescence of fungoid growths and rotten meat and fireflies +on dark nights, and the flames of wood-fires and of blazing +candle-nuts; yet what were flame and blaze and glow when they had +flamed and blazed and glowed? Answer: memories, memories +only, of things which had ceased to be, like memories of matings +accomplished, of feasts forgotten, of desires that were the +ghosts of desires, flaring, flaming, burning, yet unrealized in +achievement of easement and satisfaction. Where was the +appetite of yesterday? the roasted flesh of the wild pig the +hunter’s arrow failed to slay? the maid, unwed and dead ere +the young man knew her?</p> +<p>A memory was not a star, was Ngurn’s contention. +How could a memory be a star? Further, after all his long +life he still observed the starry night-sky unaltered. +Never had he noted the absence of a single star from its +accustomed place. Besides, stars were fire, and the Red One +was not fire—which last involuntary betrayal told Bassett +nothing.</p> +<p>“Will the Red One speak to-morrow?” he +queried.</p> +<p>Ngurn shrugged his shoulders as who should say.</p> +<p>“And the day after?—and the day after that?” +Bassett persisted.</p> +<p>“I would like to have the curing of your head,” +Ngurn changed the subject. “It is different from any +other head. No devil-devil has a head like it. +Besides, I would cure it well. I would take months and +months. The moons would come and the moons would go, and +the smoke would be very slow, and I should myself gather the +materials for the curing smoke. The skin would not +wrinkle. It would be as smooth as your skin now.”</p> +<p>He stood up, and from the dim rafters, grimed with the smoking +of countless heads, where day was no more than a gloom, took down +a matting-wrapped parcel and began to open it.</p> +<p>“It is a head like yours,” he said, “but it +is poorly cured.”</p> +<p>Bassett had pricked up his ears at the suggestion that it was +a white man’s head; for he had long since come to accept +that these jungle-dwellers, in the midmost centre of the great +island, had never had intercourse with white men. Certainly +he had found them without the almost universal bêche-de-mer +English of the west South Pacific. Nor had they knowledge +of tobacco, nor of gunpowder. Their few precious knives, +made from lengths of hoop-iron, and their few and more precious +tomahawks from cheap trade hatchets, he had surmised they had +captured in war from the bushmen of the jungle beyond the grass +lands, and that they, in turn, had similarly gained them from the +salt-water men who fringed the coral beaches of the shore and had +contact with the occasional white men.</p> +<p>“The folk in the out beyond do not know how to cure +heads,” old Ngurn explained, as he drew forth from the +filthy matting and placed in Bassett’s hands an indubitable +white man’s head.</p> +<p>Ancient it was beyond question; white it was as the blond hair +attested. He could have sworn it once belonged to an +Englishman, and to an Englishman of long before by token of the +heavy gold circlets still threaded in the withered ear-lobes.</p> +<p>“Now your head . . . ” the devil-devil doctor +began on his favourite topic.</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you what,” Bassett interrupted, +struck by a new idea. “When I die I’ll let you +have my head to cure, if, first, you take me to look upon the Red +One.”</p> +<p>“I will have your head anyway when you are dead,” +Ngurn rejected the proposition. He added, with the brutal +frankness of the savage: “Besides, you have not long to +live. You are almost a dead man now. You will grow +less strong. In not many months I shall have you here +turning and turning in the smoke. It is pleasant, through +the long afternoons, to turn the head of one you have known as +well as I know you. And I shall talk to you and tell you +the many secrets you want to know. Which will not matter, +for you will be dead.”</p> +<p>“Ngurn,” Bassett threatened in sudden anger. +“You know the Baby Thunder in the Iron that is +mine.” (This was in reference to his all-potent and +all-awful shotgun.) “I can kill you any time, and +then you will not get my head.”</p> +<p>“Just the same, will Vngngn, or some one else of my folk +get it,” Ngurn complacently assured him. “And +just the same will in the end turn devil-devil house +in the smoke. The quicker you slay me with your Baby +Thunder, the quicker will your head turn in the smoke.”</p> +<p>And Bassett knew he was beaten in the discussion.</p> +<p>What was the Red One?—Bassett asked himself a thousand +times in the succeeding week, while he seemed to grow +stronger. What was the source of the wonderful sound? +What was this Sun Singer, this Star-Born One, this mysterious +deity, as bestial-conducted as the black and kinky-headed and +monkey-like human beasts who worshipped it, and whose +silver-sweet, bull-mouthed singing and commanding he had heard at +the taboo distance for so long?</p> +<p>Ngurn had he failed to bribe with the inevitable curing of his +head when he was dead. Vngngn, imbecile and chief that he +was, was too imbecilic, too much under the sway of Ngurn, to be +considered. Remained Balatta, who, from the time she found +him and poked his blue eyes open to recrudescence of her +grotesque female hideousness, had continued his adorer. +Woman she was, and he had long known that the only way to win +from her treason of her tribe was through the woman’s heart +of her.</p> +<p>Bassett was a fastidious man. He had never recovered +from the initial horror caused by Balatta’s female +awfulness. Back in England, even at best the charm of +woman, to him, had never been robust. Yet now, resolutely, +as only a man can do who is capable of martyring himself for the +cause of science, he proceeded to violate all the fineness and +delicacy of his nature by making love to the unthinkably +disgusting bushwoman.</p> +<p>He shuddered, but with averted face hid his grimaces and +swallowed his gorge as he put his arm around her dirt-crusted +shoulders and felt the contact of her rancid oily and kinky hair +with his neck and chin. But he nearly screamed when she +succumbed to that caress so at the very first of the courtship +and mowed and gibbered and squealed little, queer, pig-like +gurgly noises of delight. It was too much. And the +next he did in the singular courtship was to take her down to the +stream and give her a vigorous scrubbing.</p> +<p>From then on he devoted himself to her like a true swain as +frequently and for as long at a time as his will could override +his repugnance. But marriage, which she ardently suggested, +with due observance of tribal custom, he balked at. +Fortunately, taboo rule was strong in the tribe. Thus, +Ngurn could never touch bone, or flesh, or hide of +crocodile. This had been ordained at his birth. +Vngngn was denied ever the touch of woman. Such pollution, +did it chance to occur, could be purged only by the death of the +offending female. It had happened once, since +Bassett’s arrival, when a girl of nine, running in play, +stumbled and fell against the sacred chief. And the +girl-child was seen no more. In whispers, Balatta told +Bassett that she had been three days and nights in dying before +the Red One. As for Balatta, the breadfruit was taboo to +her. For which Bassett was thankful. The taboo might +have been water.</p> +<p>For himself, he fabricated a special taboo. Only could +he marry, he explained, when the Southern Cross rode highest in +the sky. Knowing his astronomy, he thus gained a reprieve +of nearly nine months; and he was confident that within that time +he would either be dead or escaped to the coast with full +knowledge of the Red One and of the source of the Red One’s +wonderful voice. At first he had fancied the Red One to be +some colossal statue, like Memnon, rendered vocal under certain +temperature conditions of sunlight. But when, after a war +raid, a batch of prisoners was brought in and the sacrifice made +at night, in the midst of rain, when the sun could play no part, +the Red One had been more vocal than usual, Bassett discarded +that hypothesis.</p> +<p>In company with Balatta, sometimes with men and parties of +women, the freedom of the jungle was his for three quadrants of +the compass. But the fourth quadrant, which contained the +Red One’s abiding place, was taboo. He made more +thorough love to Balatta—also saw to it that she scrubbed +herself more frequently. Eternal female she was, capable of +any treason for the sake of love. And, though the sight of +her was provocative of nausea and the contact of her provocative +of despair, although he could not escape her awfulness in his +dream-haunted nightmares of her, he nevertheless was aware of the +cosmic verity of sex that animated her and that made her own life +of less value than the happiness of her lover with whom she hoped +to mate. Juliet or Balatta? Where was the intrinsic +difference? The soft and tender product of +ultra-civilization, or her bestial prototype of a hundred +thousand years before her?—there was no difference.</p> +<p>Bassett was a scientist first, a humanist afterward. In +the jungle-heart of Guadalcanal he put the affair to the test, as +in the laboratory he would have put to the test any chemical +reaction. He increased his feigned ardour for the +bushwoman, at the same time increasing the imperiousness of his +will of desire over her to be led to look upon the Red One face +to face. It was the old story, he recognized, that the +woman must pay, and it occurred when the two of them, one day, +were catching the unclassified and unnamed little black fish, an +inch long, half-eel and half-scaled, rotund with salmon-golden +roe, that frequented the fresh water, and that were esteemed, raw +and whole, fresh or putrid, a perfect delicacy. Prone in +the muck of the decaying jungle-floor, Balatta threw herself, +clutching his ankles with her hands kissing his feet and making +slubbery noises that chilled his backbone up and down +again. She begged him to kill her rather than exact this +ultimate love-payment. She told him of the penalty of +breaking the taboo of the Red One—a week of torture, +living, the details of which she yammered out from her face in +the mire until he realized that he was yet a tyro in knowledge of +the frightfulness the human was capable of wreaking on the +human.</p> +<p>Yet did Bassett insist on having his man’s will +satisfied, at the woman’s risk, that he might solve the +mystery of the Red One’s singing, though she should die +long and horribly and screaming. And Balatta, being mere +woman, yielded. She led him into the forbidden +quadrant. An abrupt mountain, shouldering in from the north +to meet a similar intrusion from the south, tormented the stream +in which they had fished into a deep and gloomy gorge. +After a mile along the gorge, the way plunged sharply upward +until they crossed a saddle of raw limestone which attracted his +geologist’s eye. Still climbing, although he paused +often from sheer physical weakness, they scaled forest-clad +heights until they emerged on a naked mesa or tableland. +Bassett recognized the stuff of its composition as black volcanic +sand, and knew that a pocket magnet could have captured a full +load of the sharply angular grains he trod upon.</p> +<p>And then holding Balatta by the hand and leading her onward, +he came to it—a tremendous pit, obviously artificial, in +the heart of the plateau. Old history, the South Seas +Sailing Directions, scores of remembered data and connotations +swift and furious, surged through his brain. It was Mendana +who had discovered the islands and named them Solomon’s, +believing that he had found that monarch’s fabled +mines. They had laughed at the old navigator’s +child-like credulity; and yet here stood himself, Bassett, on the +rim of an excavation for all the world like the diamond pits of +South Africa.</p> +<p>But no diamond this that he gazed down upon. Rather was +it a pearl, with the depth of iridescence of a pearl; but of a +size all pearls of earth and time, welded into one, could not +have totalled; and of a colour undreamed of in any pearl, or of +anything else, for that matter, for it was the colour of the Red +One. And the Red One himself Bassett knew it to be on the +instant. A perfect sphere, full two hundred feet in +diameter, the top of it was a hundred feet below the level of the +rim. He likened the colour quality of it to lacquer. +Indeed, he took it to be some sort of lacquer, applied by man, +but a lacquer too marvellously clever to have been manufactured +by the bush-folk. Brighter than bright cherry-red, its +richness of colour was as if it were red builded upon red. +It glowed and iridesced in the sunlight as if gleaming up from +underlay under underlay of red.</p> +<p>In vain Balatta strove to dissuade him from descending. +She threw herself in the dirt; but, when he continued down the +trail that spiralled the pit-wall, she followed, cringing and +whimpering her terror. That the red sphere had been dug out +as a precious thing, was patent. Considering the paucity of +members of the federated twelve villages and their primitive +tools and methods, Bassett knew that the toil of a myriad +generations could scarcely have made that enormous +excavation.</p> +<p>He found the pit bottom carpeted with human bones, among +which, battered and defaced, lay village gods of wood and +stone. Some, covered with obscene totemic figures and +designs, were carved from solid tree trunks forty or fifty feet +in length. He noted the absence of the shark and turtle +gods, so common among the shore villages, and was amazed at the +constant recurrence of the helmet motive. What did these +jungle savages of the dark heart of Guadalcanal know of +helmets? Had Mendana’s men-at-arms worn helmets and +penetrated here centuries before? And if not, then whence +had the bush-folk caught the motive?</p> +<p>Advancing over the litter of gods and bones, Balatta +whimpering at his heels, Bassett entered the shadow of the Red +One and passed on under its gigantic overhang until he touched it +with his finger-tips. No lacquer that. Nor was the +surface smooth as it should have been in the case of +lacquer. On the contrary, it was corrugated and pitted, +with here and there patches that showed signs of heat and +fusing. Also, the substance of it was metal, though unlike +any metal, or combination of metals, he had ever known. As +for the colour itself, he decided it to be no application. +It was the intrinsic colour of the metal itself.</p> +<p>He moved his finger-tips, which up to that had merely rested, +along the surface, and felt the whole gigantic sphere quicken and +live and respond. It was incredible! So light a touch +on so vast a mass! Yet did it quiver under the finger-tip +caress in rhythmic vibrations that became whisperings and +rustlings and mutterings of sound—but of sound so +different; so elusively thin that it was shimmeringly sibilant; +so mellow that it was maddening sweet, piping like an elfin horn, +which last was just what Bassett decided would be like a peal +from some bell of the gods reaching earthward from across +space.</p> +<p>He looked at Balatta with swift questioning; but the voice of +the Red One he had evoked had flung her face downward and moaning +among the bones. He returned to contemplation of the +prodigy. Hollow it was, and of no metal known on earth, was +his conclusion. It was right-named by the ones of old-time +as the Star-Born. Only from the stars could it have come, +and no thing of chance was it. It was a creation of +artifice and mind. Such perfection of form, such hollowness +that it certainly possessed, could not be the result of mere +fortuitousness. A child of intelligences, remote and +unguessable, working corporally in metals, it indubitably +was. He stared at it in amaze, his brain a racing wild-fire +of hypotheses to account for this far-journeyer who had +adventured the night of space, threaded the stars, and now rose +before him and above him, exhumed by patient anthropophagi, +pitted and lacquered by its fiery bath in two atmospheres.</p> +<p>But was the colour a lacquer of heat upon some familiar +metal? Or was it an intrinsic quality of the metal +itself? He thrust in the blue-point of his pocket-knife to +test the constitution of the stuff. Instantly the entire +sphere burst into a mighty whispering, sharp with protest, almost +twanging goldenly, if a whisper could possibly be considered to +twang, rising higher, sinking deeper, the two extremes of the +registry of sound threatening to complete the circle and coalesce +into the bull-mouthed thundering he had so often heard beyond the +taboo distance.</p> +<p>Forgetful of safety, of his own life itself, entranced by the +wonder of the unthinkable and unguessable thing, he raised his +knife to strike heavily from a long stroke, but was prevented by +Balatta. She upreared on her own knees in an agony of +terror, clasping his knees and supplicating him to desist. +In the intensity of her desire to impress him, she put her +forearm between her teeth and sank them to the bone.</p> +<p>He scarcely observed her act, although he yielded +automatically to his gentler instincts and withheld the +knife-hack. To him, human life had dwarfed to microscopic +proportions before this colossal portent of higher life from +within the distances of the sidereal universe. As had she +been a dog, he kicked the ugly little bushwoman to her feet and +compelled her to start with him on an encirclement of the +base. Part way around, he encountered horrors. Even, +among the others, did he recognize the sun-shrivelled remnant of +the nine-years girl who had accidentally broken Chief +Vngngn’s personality taboo. And, among what was left +of these that had passed, he encountered what was left of one who +had not yet passed. Truly had the bush-folk named +themselves into the name of the Red One, seeing in him their own +image which they strove to placate and please with such red +offerings.</p> +<p>Farther around, always treading the bones and images of humans +and gods that constituted the floor of this ancient charnel-house +of sacrifice, he came upon the device by which the Red One was +made to send his call singing thunderingly across the +jungle-belts and grass-lands to the far beach of Ringmanu. +Simple and primitive was it as was the Red One’s consummate +artifice. A great king-post, half a hundred feet in length, +seasoned by centuries of superstitious care, carven into +dynasties of gods, each superimposed, each helmeted, each seated +in the open mouth of a crocodile, was slung by ropes, twisted of +climbing vegetable parasites, from the apex of a tripod of three +great forest trunks, themselves carved into grinning and +grotesque adumbrations of man’s modern concepts of art and +god. From the striker king-post, were suspended ropes of +climbers to which men could apply their strength and +direction. Like a battering ram, this king-post could be +driven end-onward against the mighty red-iridescent sphere.</p> +<p>Here was where Ngurn officiated and functioned religiously for +himself and the twelve tribes under him. Bassett laughed +aloud, almost with madness, at the thought of this wonderful +messenger, winged with intelligence across space, to fall into a +bushman stronghold and be worshipped by ape-like, man-eating and +head-hunting savages. It was as if God’s World had +fallen into the muck mire of the abyss underlying the bottom of +hell; as if Jehovah’s Commandments had been presented on +carved stone to the monkeys of the monkey cage at the Zoo; as if +the Sermon on the Mount had been preached in a roaring bedlam of +lunatics.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>The slow weeks passed. The nights, by election, Bassett +spent on the ashen floor of the devil-devil house, beneath the +ever-swinging, slow-curing heads. His reason for this was +that it was taboo to the lesser sex of woman, and therefore, a +refuge for him from Balatta, who grew more persecutingly and +perilously loverly as the Southern Cross rode higher in the sky +and marked the imminence of her nuptials. His days Bassett +spent in a hammock swung under the shade of the great breadfruit +tree before the devil-devil house. There were breaks in +this programme, when, in the comas of his devastating +fever-attacks, he lay for days and nights in the house of +heads. Ever he struggled to combat the fever, to live, to +continue to live, to grow strong and stronger against the day +when he would be strong enough to dare the grass-lands and the +belted jungle beyond, and win to the beach, and to some +labour-recruiting, black-birding ketch or schooner, and on to +civilization and the men of civilization, to whom he could give +news of the message from other worlds that lay, darkly worshipped +by beastmen, in the black heart of Guadalcanal’s midmost +centre.</p> +<p>On the other nights, lying late under the breadfruit tree, +Bassett spent long hours watching the slow setting of the western +stars beyond the black wall of jungle where it had been thrust +back by the clearing for the village. Possessed of more +than a cursory knowledge of astronomy, he took a sick man’s +pleasure in speculating as to the dwellers on the unseen worlds +of those incredibly remote suns, to haunt whose houses of light, +life came forth, a shy visitant, from the rayless crypts of +matter. He could no more apprehend limits to time than +bounds to space. No subversive radium speculations had +shaken his steady scientific faith in the conservation of energy +and the indestructibility of matter. Always and forever +must there have been stars. And surely, in that cosmic +ferment, all must be comparatively alike, comparatively of the +same substance, or substances, save for the freaks of the +ferment. All must obey, or compose, the same laws that ran +without infraction through the entire experience of man. +Therefore, he argued and agreed, must worlds and life be +appanages to all the suns as they were appanages to the +particular of his own solar system.</p> +<p>Even as he lay here, under the breadfruit tree, an +intelligence that stared across the starry gulfs, so must all the +universe be exposed to the ceaseless scrutiny of innumerable +eyes, like his, though grantedly different, with behind them, by +the same token, intelligences that questioned and sought the +meaning and the construction of the whole. So reasoning, he +felt his soul go forth in kinship with that august company, that +multitude whose gaze was forever upon the arras of infinity.</p> +<p>Who were they, what were they, those far distant and superior +ones who had bridged the sky with their gigantic, red-iridescent, +heaven-singing message? Surely, and long since, had they, +too, trod the path on which man had so recently, by the calendar +of the cosmos, set his feet. And to be able to send a +message across the pit of space, surely they had reached those +heights to which man, in tears and travail and bloody sweat, in +darkness and confusion of many counsels, was so slowly +struggling. And what were they on their heights? Had +they won Brotherhood? Or had they learned that the law of +love imposed the penalty of weakness and decay? Was strife, +life? Was the rule of all the universe the pitiless rule of +natural selection? And, and most immediately and +poignantly, were their far conclusions, their long-won wisdoms, +shut even then in the huge, metallic heart of the Red One, +waiting for the first earth-man to read? Of one thing he +was certain: No drop of red dew shaken from the lion-mane of some +sun in torment, was the sounding sphere. It was of design, +not chance, and it contained the speech and wisdom of the +stars.</p> +<p>What engines and elements and mastered forces, what lore and +mysteries and destiny-controls, might be there! +Undoubtedly, since so much could be enclosed in so little a thing +as the foundation stone of a public building, this enormous +sphere should contain vast histories, profounds of research +achieved beyond man’s wildest guesses, laws and +formulæ that, easily mastered, would make man’s life +on earth, individual and collective, spring up from its present +mire to inconceivable heights of purity and power. It was +Time’s greatest gift to blindfold, insatiable, and +sky-aspiring man. And to him, Bassett, had been vouchsafed +the lordly fortune to be the first to receive this message from +man’s interstellar kin!</p> +<p>No white man, much less no outland man of the other +bush-tribes, had gazed upon the Red One and lived. Such the +law expounded by Ngurn to Bassett. There was such a thing +as blood brotherhood. Bassett, in return, had often argued +in the past. But Ngurn had stated solemnly no. Even +the blood brotherhood was outside the favour of the Red +One. Only a man born within the tribe could look upon the +Red One and live. But now, his guilty secret known only to +Balatta, whose fear of immolation before the Red One fast-sealed +her lips, the situation was different. What he had to do +was to recover from the abominable fevers that weakened him, and +gain to civilization. Then would he lead an expedition +back, and, although the entire population of Guadalcanal he +destroyed, extract from the heart of the Red One the message of +the world from other worlds.</p> +<p>But Bassett’s relapses grew more frequent, his brief +convalescences less and less vigorous, his periods of coma +longer, until he came to know, beyond the last promptings of the +optimism inherent in so tremendous a constitution as his own, +that he would never live to cross the grass lands, perforate the +perilous coast jungle, and reach the sea. He faded as the +Southern Cross rose higher in the sky, till even Balatta knew +that he would be dead ere the nuptial date determined by his +taboo. Ngurn made pilgrimage personally and gathered the +smoke materials for the curing of Bassett’s head, and to +him made proud announcement and exhibition of the artistic +perfectness of his intention when Bassett should be dead. +As for himself, Bassett was not shocked. Too long and too +deeply had life ebbed down in him to bite him with fear of its +impending extinction. He continued to persist, alternating +periods of unconsciousness with periods of semi-consciousness, +dreamy and unreal, in which he idly wondered whether he had ever +truly beheld the Red One or whether it was a nightmare fancy of +delirium.</p> +<p>Came the day when all mists and cob-webs dissolved, when he +found his brain clear as a bell, and took just appraisement of +his body’s weakness. Neither hand nor foot could he +lift. So little control of his body did he have, that he +was scarcely aware of possessing one. Lightly indeed his +flesh sat upon his soul, and his soul, in its briefness of +clarity, knew by its very clarity that the black of cessation was +near. He knew the end was close; knew that in all truth he +had with his eyes beheld the Red One, the messenger between the +worlds; knew that he would never live to carry that message to +the world—that message, for aught to the contrary, which +might already have waited man’s hearing in the heart of +Guadalcanal for ten thousand years. And Bassett stirred +with resolve, calling Ngurn to him, out under the shade of the +breadfruit tree, and with the old devil-devil doctor discussing +the terms and arrangements of his last life effort, his final +adventure in the quick of the flesh.</p> +<p>“I know the law, O Ngurn,” he concluded the +matter. “Whoso is not of the folk may not look upon +the Red One and live. I shall not live anyway. Your +young men shall carry me before the face of the Red One, and I +shall look upon him, and hear his voice, and thereupon die, under +your hand, O Ngurn. Thus will the three things be +satisfied: the law, my desire, and your quicker possession of my +head for which all your preparations wait.”</p> +<p>To which Ngurn consented, adding:</p> +<p>“It is better so. A sick man who cannot get well +is foolish to live on for so little a while. Also is it +better for the living that he should go. You have been much +in the way of late. Not but what it was good for me to talk +to such a wise one. But for moons of days we have held +little talk. Instead, you have taken up room in the house +of heads, making noises like a dying pig, or talking much and +loudly in your own language which I do not understand. This +has been a confusion to me, for I like to think on the great +things of the light and dark as I turn the heads in the +smoke. Your much noise has thus been a disturbance to the +long-learning and hatching of the final wisdom that will be mine +before I die. As for you, upon whom the dark has already +brooded, it is well that you die now. And I promise you, in +the long days to come when I turn your head in the smoke, no man +of the tribe shall come in to disturb us. And I will tell +you many secrets, for I am an old man and very wise, and I shall +be adding wisdom to wisdom as I turn your head in the +smoke.”</p> +<p>So a litter was made, and, borne on the shoulders of half a +dozen of the men, Bassett departed on the last little adventure +that was to cap the total adventure, for him, of living. +With a body of which he was scarcely aware, for even the pain had +been exhausted out of it, and with a bright clear brain that +accommodated him to a quiet ecstasy of sheer lucidness of +thought, he lay back on the lurching litter and watched the +fading of the passing world, beholding for the last time the +breadfruit tree before the devil-devil house, the dim day beneath +the matted jungle roof, the gloomy gorge between the shouldering +mountains, the saddle of raw limestone, and the mesa of black +volcanic sand.</p> +<p>Down the spiral path of the pit they bore him, encircling the +sheening, glowing Red One that seemed ever imminent to iridesce +from colour and light into sweet singing and thunder. And +over bones and logs of immolated men and gods they bore him, past +the horrors of other immolated ones that yet lived, to the +three-king-post tripod and the huge king-post striker.</p> +<p>Here Bassett, helped by Ngurn and Balatta, weakly sat up, +swaying weakly from the hips, and with clear, unfaltering, +all-seeing eyes gazed upon the Red One.</p> +<p>“Once, O Ngurn,” he said, not taking his eyes from +the sheening, vibrating surface whereon and wherein all the +shades of cherry-red played unceasingly, ever a-quiver to change +into sound, to become silken rustlings, silvery whisperings, +golden thrummings of cords, velvet pipings of elfland, mellow +distances of thunderings.</p> +<p>“I wait,” Ngurn prompted after a long pause, the +long-handled tomahawk unassumingly ready in his hand.</p> +<p>“Once, O Ngurn,” Bassett repeated, “let the +Red One speak so that I may see it speak as well as hear +it. Then strike, thus, when I raise my hand; for, when I +raise my hand, I shall drop my head forward and make place for +the stroke at the base of my neck. But, O Ngurn, I, who am +about to pass out of the light of day for ever, would like to +pass with the wonder-voice of the Red One singing greatly in my +ears.”</p> +<p>“And I promise you that never will a head be so well +cured as yours,” Ngurn assured him, at the same time +signalling the tribesmen to man the propelling ropes suspended +from the king-post striker. “Your head shall be my +greatest piece of work in the curing of heads.”</p> +<p>Bassett smiled quietly to the old one’s conceit, as the +great carved log, drawn back through two-score feet of space, was +released. The next moment he was lost in ecstasy at the +abrupt and thunderous liberation of sound. But such +thunder! Mellow it was with preciousness of all sounding +metals. Archangels spoke in it; it was magnificently +beautiful before all other sounds; it was invested with the +intelligence of supermen of planets of other suns; it was the +voice of God, seducing and commanding to be heard. +And—the everlasting miracle of that interstellar metal! +Bassett, with his own eyes, saw colour and colours transform into +sound till the whole visible surface of the vast sphere was +a-crawl and titillant and vaporous with what he could not tell +was colour or was sound. In that moment the interstices of +matter were his, and the interfusings and intermating +transfusings of matter and force.</p> +<p>Time passed. At the last Bassett was brought back from +his ecstasy by an impatient movement of Ngurn. He had quite +forgotten the old devil-devil one. A quick flash of fancy +brought a husky chuckle into Bassett’s throat. His +shot-gun lay beside him in the litter. All he had to do, +muzzle to head, was to press the trigger and blow his head into +nothingness.</p> +<p>But why cheat him? was Bassett’s next thought. +Head-hunting, cannibal beast of a human that was as much ape as +human, nevertheless Old Ngurn had, according to his lights, +played squarer than square. Ngurn was in himself a +forerunner of ethics and contract, of consideration, and +gentleness in man. No, Bassett decided; it would be a +ghastly pity and an act of dishonour to cheat the old fellow at +the last. His head was Ngurn’s, and Ngurn’s +head to cure it would be.</p> +<p>And Bassett, raising his hand in signal, bending forward his +head as agreed so as to expose cleanly the articulation to his +taut spinal cord, forgot Balatta, who was merely a woman, a woman +merely and only and undesired. He knew, without seeing, +when the razor-edged hatchet rose in the air behind him. +And for that instant, ere the end, there fell upon Bassett the +shadows of the Unknown, a sense of impending marvel of the +rending of walls before the imaginable. Almost, when he +knew the blow had started and just ere the edge of steel bit the +flesh and nerves it seemed that he gazed upon the serene face of +the Medusa, Truth—And, simultaneous with the bite of the +steel on the onrush of the dark, in a flashing instant of fancy, +he saw the vision of his head turning slowly, always turning, in +the devil-devil house beside the breadfruit tree.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">THE END</p> +<p>Waikiki, Honolulu,<br /> + <i>May</i> 22, +1916.</p> +<h2><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>THE +HUSSY</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> are some stories that have to +be true—the sort that cannot be fabricated by a ready +fiction-reckoner. And by the same token there are some men +with stories to tell who cannot be doubted. Such a man was +Julian Jones. Although I doubt if the average reader of +this will believe the story Julian Jones told me. +Nevertheless I believe it. So thoroughly am I convinced of +its verity that I am willing, nay, eager, to invest capital in +the enterprise and embark personally on the adventure to a far +land.</p> +<p>It was in the Australian Building at the Panama Pacific +Exposition that I met him. I was standing before an exhibit +of facsimiles of the record nuggets which had been discovered in +the goldfields of the Antipodes. Knobbed, misshapen and +massive, it was as difficult to believe that they were not real +gold as it was to believe the accompanying statistics of their +weights and values.</p> +<p>“That’s what those kangaroo-hunters call a +nugget,” boomed over my shoulder directly at the largest of +the specimens.</p> +<p>I turned and looked up into the dim blue eyes of Julian +Jones. I looked up, for he stood something like six feet +four inches in height. His hair, a wispy, sandy yellow, +seemed as dimmed and faded as his eyes. It may have been +the sun which had washed out his colouring; at least his face +bore the evidence of a prodigious and ardent sun-burn which had +long since faded to yellow. As his eyes turned from the +exhibit and focussed on mine I noted a queer look in them as of +one who vainly tries to recall some fact of supreme +importance.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter with it as a +nugget?” I demanded.</p> +<p>The remote, indwelling expression went out of his eyes as he +boomed</p> +<p>“Why, its size.”</p> +<p>“It does seem large,” I admitted. “But +there’s no doubt it’s authentic. The Australian +Government would scarcely dare—”</p> +<p>“Large!” he interrupted, with a sniff and a +sneer.</p> +<p>“Largest ever discovered—” I started on.</p> +<p>“Ever discovered!” His dim eyes smouldered +hotly as he proceeded. “Do you think that every lump +of gold ever discovered has got into the newspapers and +encyclopedias?”</p> +<p>“Well,” I replied judicially, “if +there’s one that hasn’t, I don’t see how +we’re to know about it. If a really big nugget, or +nugget-finder, elects to blush unseen—”</p> +<p>“But it didn’t,” he broke in quickly. +“I saw it with my own eyes, and, besides, I’m too +tanned to blush anyway. I’m a railroad man and +I’ve been in the tropics a lot. Why, I used to be the +colour of mahogany—real old mahogany, and have been taken +for a blue-eyed Spaniard more than once—”</p> +<p>It was my turn to interrupt, and I did.</p> +<p>“Was that nugget bigger than those in there, +Mr.—er—?”</p> +<p>“Jones, Julian Jones is my name.”</p> +<p>He dug into an inner pocket and produced an envelope addressed +to such a person, care of General Delivery, San Francisco; and I, +in turn, presented him with my card.</p> +<p>“Pleased to know you, sir,” he said, extending his +hand, his voice booming as if accustomed to loud noises or wide +spaces. “Of course I’ve heard of you, seen your +picture in the papers, and all that, and, though I say it that +shouldn’t, I want to say that I didn’t care a rap +about those articles you wrote on Mexico. You’re +wrong, all wrong. You make the mistake of all Gringos in +thinking a Mexican is a white man. He ain’t. +None of them ain’t—Greasers, Spiggoties, +Latin-Americans and all the rest of the cattle. Why, sir, +they don’t think like we think, or reason, or act. +Even their multiplication table is different. You think +seven times seven is forty-nine; but not them. They work it +out different. And white isn’t white to them, +either. Let me give you an example. Buying coffee +retail for house-keeping in one-pound or ten-pound +lots—”</p> +<p>“How big was that nugget you referred to?” I +queried firmly. “As big as the biggest of +those?”</p> +<p>“Bigger,” he said quietly. “Bigger +than the whole blamed exhibit of them put together, and then +some.” He paused and regarded me with a steadfast +gaze. “I don’t see no reason why I +shouldn’t go into the matter with you. You’ve +got a reputation a man ought to be able to trust, and I’ve +read you’ve done some tall skylarking yourself in +out-of-the-way places. I’ve been browsing around with +an eye open for some one to go in with me on the +proposition.”</p> +<p>“You can trust me,” I said.</p> +<p>And here I am, blazing out into print with the whole story +just as he told it to me as we sat on a bench by the lagoon +before the Palace of Fine Arts with the cries of the sea gulls in +our ears. Well, he should have kept his appointment with +me. But I anticipate.</p> +<p>As we started to leave the building and hunt for a seat, a +small woman, possibly thirty years of age, with a washed-out +complexion of the farmer’s wife sort, darted up to him in a +bird-like way, for all the world like the darting veering gulls +over our heads and fastened herself to his arm with the accuracy +and dispatch and inevitableness of a piece of machinery.</p> +<p>“There you go!” she shrilled. +“A-trottin’ right off and never givin’ me a +thought.”</p> +<p>I was formally introduced to her. It was patent that she +had never heard of me, and she surveyed me bleakly with shrewd +black eyes, set close together and as beady and restless as a +bird’s.</p> +<p>“You ain’t goin’ to tell him about that +hussy?” she complained.</p> +<p>“Well, now, Sarah, this is business, you see,” he +argued plaintively. “I’ve been lookin’ +for a likely man this long while, and now that he’s shown +up it seems to me I got a right to give him the hang of what +happened.”</p> +<p>The small woman made no reply, but set her thin lips in a +needle-like line. She gazed straight before her at the +Tower of Jewels with so austere an expression that no glint of +refracted sunlight could soften it. We proceeded slowly to +the lagoon, managed to obtain an unoccupied seat, and sat down +with mutual sighs of relief as we released our weights from our +tortured sightseeing feet.</p> +<p>“One does get so mortal weary,” asserted the small +woman, almost defiantly.</p> +<p>Two swans waddled up from the mirroring water and investigated +us. When their suspicions of our niggardliness or lack of +peanuts had been confirmed, Jones half-turned his back on his +life-partner and gave me his story.</p> +<p>“Ever been in Ecuador? Then take my +advice—and don’t. Though I take that back, for +you and me might be hitting it for there together if you can +rustle up the faith in me and the backbone in yourself for the +trip. Well, anyway, it ain’t so many years ago that I +came ambling in there on a rusty, foul-bottomed, tramp collier +from Australia, forty-three days from land to land. Seven +knots was her speed when everything favoured, and we’d had +a two weeks’ gale to the north’ard of New Zealand, +and broke our engines down for two days off Pitcairn Island.</p> +<p>“I was no sailor on her. I’m a locomotive +engineer. But I’d made friends with the skipper at +Newcastle an’ come along as his guest for as far as +Guayaquil. You see, I’d heard wages was ’way up +on the American railroad runnin’ from that place over the +Andes to Quito. Now Guayaquil—”</p> +<p>“Is a fever-hole,” I interpolated.</p> +<p>Julian Jones nodded.</p> +<p>“Thomas Nast died there of it within a month after he +landed.—He was our great American cartoonist,” I +added.</p> +<p>“Don’t know him,” Julian Jones said +shortly. “But I do know he wasn’t the first to +pass out by a long shot. Why, look you the way I found +it. The pilot grounds is sixty miles down the river. +‘How’s the fever?’ said I to the pilot who came +aboard in the early morning. ‘See that Hamburg +barque,’ said he, pointing to a sizable ship at +anchor. ‘Captain and fourteen men dead of it already, +and the cook and two men dying right now, and they’re the +last left of her.’</p> +<p>“And by jinks he told the truth. And right then +they were dying forty a day in Guayaquil of Yellow Jack. +But that was nothing, as I was to find out. Bubonic plague +and small-pox were raging, while dysentery and pneumonia were +reducing the population, and the railroad was raging worst of +all. I mean that. For them that insisted in riding on +it, it was more dangerous than all the other diseases put +together.</p> +<p>“When we dropped anchor off Guayaquil half a dozen +skippers from other steamers came on board to warn our skipper +not to let any of his crew or officers go ashore except the ones +he wanted to lose. A launch came off for me from Duran, +which is on the other side of the river and is the terminal of +the railroad. And it brought off a man that soared up the +gangway three jumps at a time he was that eager to get +aboard. When he hit the deck he hadn’t time to speak +to any of us. He just leaned out over the rail and shook +his fist at Duran and shouted: ‘I beat you to it! I +beat you to it!’</p> +<p>“‘Who’d you beat to it, friend?’ I +asked. ‘The railroad,’ he said, as he unbuckled +the straps and took off a big ’44 Colt’s automatic +from where he wore it handy on his left side under his coat, +‘I staved as long as I agreed—three months—and +it didn’t get me. I was a conductor.’</p> +<p>“And that was the railroad I was to work for. All +of which was nothing to what he told me in the next few +minutes. The road ran from sea level at Duran up to twelve +thousand feet on Chimborazo and down to ten thousand at Quito on +the other side the range. And it was so dangerous that the +trains didn’t run nights. The through passengers had +to get off and sleep in the towns at night while the train waited +for daylight. And each train carried a guard of Ecuadoriano +soldiers which was the most dangerous of all. They were +supposed to protect the train crews, but whenever trouble started +they unlimbered their rifles and joined the mob. You see, +whenever a train wreck occurred, the first cry of the spiggoties +was ‘Kill the Gringos!’ They always did that, +and proceeded to kill the train crew and whatever chance Gringo +passengers that’d escaped being killed in the +accident. Which is their kind of arithmetic, which I told +you a while back as being different from ours.</p> +<p>“Shucks! Before the day was out I was to find out +for myself that that ex-conductor wasn’t lying. It +was over at Duran. I was to take my run on the first +division out to Quito, for which place I was to start next +morning—only one through train running every twenty-four +hours. It was the afternoon of my first day, along about +four o’clock, when the boilers of the <i>Governor +Hancock</i> exploded and she sank in sixty feet of water +alongside the dock. She was the big ferry boat that carried +the railroad passengers across the river to Guayaquil. It +was a bad accident, but it was the cause of worse that +followed. By half-past four, big trainloads began to +arrive. It was a feast day and they’d run an +excursion up country but of Guayaquil, and this was the crowd +coming back.</p> +<p>“And the crowd—there was five thousand of +them—wanted to get ferried across, and the ferry was at the +bottom of the river, which wasn’t our fault. But by +the Spiggoty arithmetic, it was. ‘Kill the +Gringos!’ shouts one of them. And right there the +beans were spilled. Most of us got away by the skin of our +teeth. I raced on the heels of the Master Mechanic, +carrying one of his babies for him, for the locomotives that was +just pulling out. You see, way down there away from +everywhere they just got to save their locomotives in times of +trouble, because, without them, a railroad can’t be +run. Half a dozen American wives and as many children were +crouching on the cab floors along with the rest of us when we +pulled out; and the Ecuadoriano soldiers, who should have been +protecting our lives and property, turned loose with their rifles +and must have given us all of a thousand rounds before we got out +of range.</p> +<p>“We camped up country and didn’t come back to +clean up until next day. It was some cleaning. Every +flat-car, box-car, coach, asthmatic switch engine, and even +hand-car that mob of Spiggoties had shoved off the dock into +sixty feet of water on top of the <i>Governor Hancock</i>. +They’d burnt the round house, set fire to the coal bunkers, +and made a scandal of the repair shops. Oh, yes, and there +were three of our fellows they’d got that we had to bury +mighty quick. It’s hot weather all the time down +there.”</p> +<p>Julian Jones came to a full pause and over his shoulder +studied the straight-before-her gaze and forbidding expression of +his wife’s face.</p> +<p>“I ain’t forgotten the nugget,” he assured +me.</p> +<p>“Nor the hussy,” the little woman snapped, +apparently at the mud-hens paddling on the surface of the +lagoon.</p> +<p>“I’ve been travelling toward the nugget right +along—”</p> +<p>“There was never no reason for you to stay in that +dangerous country,” his wife snapped in on him.</p> +<p>“Now, Sarah,” he appealed. “I was +working for you right along.” And to me he explained: +“The risk was big, but so was the pay. Some months I +earned as high as five hundred gold. And here was Sarah +waiting for me back in Nebraska—”</p> +<p>“An’ us engaged two years,” she complained +to the Tower of Jewels.</p> +<p>“—What of the strike, and me being blacklisted, +and getting typhoid down in Australia, and everything,” he +went on. “And luck was with me on that +railroad. Why, I saw fellows fresh from the States pass +out, some of them not a week on their first run. If the +diseases and the railroad didn’t get them, then it was the +Spiggoties got them. But it just wasn’t my fate, even +that time I rode my engine down to the bottom of a forty-foot +washout. I lost my fireman; and the conductor and the +Superintendent of Rolling Stock (who happened to be running down +to Duran to meet his bride) had their heads knifed off by the +Spiggoties and paraded around on poles. But I lay snug as a +bug under a couple of feet of tender coal, and they thought +I’d headed for tall timber—lay there a day and a +night till the excitement cooled down. Yes, I was +lucky. The worst that happened to me was I caught a cold +once, and another time had a carbuncle. But the other +fellows! They died like flies, what of Yellow Jack, +pneumonia, the Spiggoties, and the railroad. The trouble +was I didn’t have much chance to pal with them. No +sooner’d I get some intimate with one of them he’d up +and die—all but a fireman named Andrews, and he went loco +for keeps.</p> +<p>“I made good on my job from the first, and lived in +Quito in a ’dobe house with whacking big Spanish tiles on +the roof that I’d rented. And I never had much +trouble with the Spiggoties, what of letting them sneak free +rides in the tender or on the cowcatcher. Me throw them +off? Never! I took notice, when Jack Harris put off a +bunch of them, that I attended his funeral <i>muy +pronto</i>—”</p> +<p>“Speak English,” the little woman beside him +snapped.</p> +<p>“Sarah just can’t bear to tolerate me speaking +Spanish,” he apologized. “It gets so on her +nerves that I promised not to. Well, as I was saying, the +goose hung high and everything was going hunky-dory, and I was +piling up my wages to come north to Nebraska and marry Sarah, +when I run on to Vahna—”</p> +<p>“The hussy!” Sarah hissed.</p> +<p>“Now, Sarah,” her towering giant of a husband +begged, “I just got to mention her or I can’t tell +about the nugget.—It was one night when I was taking a +locomotive—no train—down to Amato, about thirty miles +from Quito. Seth Manners was my fireman. I was +breaking him in to engineer for himself, and I was letting him +run the locomotive while I sat up in his seat meditating about +Sarah here. I’d just got a letter from her, begging +as usual for me to come home and hinting as usual about the +dangers of an unmarried man like me running around loose in a +country full of senoritas and fandangos. Lord! If she +could only a-seen them. Positive frights, that’s what +they are, their faces painted white as corpses and their lips red +as—as some of the train wrecks I’ve helped clean +up.</p> +<p>“It was a lovely April night, not a breath of wind, and +a tremendous big moon shining right over the top of +Chimborazo.—Some mountain that. The railroad skirted +it twelve thousand feet above sea level, and the top of it ten +thousand feet higher than that.</p> +<p>“Mebbe I was drowsing, with Seth running the engine; but +he slammed on the brakes so sudden hard that I darn near went +through the cab window.</p> +<p>“‘What the—’ I started to yell, and +‘Holy hell,’ Seth says, as both of us looked at what +was on the track. And I agreed with Seth entirely in his +remark. It was an Indian girl—and take it from me, +Indians ain’t Spiggoties by any manner of means. Seth +had managed to fetch a stop within twenty feet of her, and us +bowling down hill at that! But the girl. +She—”</p> +<p>I saw the form of Mrs. Julian Jones stiffen, although she kept +her gaze fixed balefully upon two mud-hens that were prowling +along the lagoon shallows below us. “The +hussy!” she hissed, once and implacably. Jones had +stopped at the sound, but went on immediately.</p> +<p>“She was a tall girl, slim and slender, you know the +kind, with black hair, remarkably long hanging, down loose behind +her, as she stood there no more afraid than nothing, her arms +spread out to stop the engine. She was wearing a slimpsy +sort of garment wrapped around her that wasn’t cloth but +ocelot skins, soft and dappled, and silky. It was all she +had on—”</p> +<p>“The hussy!” breathed Mrs. Jones.</p> +<p>But Mr. Jones went on, making believe that he was unaware of +the interruption.</p> +<p>“‘Hell of a way to stop a locomotive,’ I +complained at Seth, as I climbed down on to the right of +way. I walked past our engine and up to the girl, and what +do you think? Her eyes were shut tight. She was +trembling that violent that you would see it by the +moonlight. And she was barefoot, too.</p> +<p>“‘What’s the row?’ I said, none too +gentle. She gave a start, seemed to come out of her trance, +and opened her eyes. Say! They were big and black and +beautiful. Believe me, she was some +looker—”</p> +<p>“The hussy!” At which hiss the two mud-hens +veered away a few feet. But Jones was getting himself in +hand, and didn’t even blink.</p> +<p>“‘What are you stopping this locomotive +for?’ I demanded in Spanish. Nary an answer. +She stared at me, then at the snorting engine and then burst into +tears, which you’ll admit is uncommon behaviour for an +Indian woman.</p> +<p>“‘If you try to get rides that way,’ I slung +at her in Spiggoty Spanish (which they tell me is some different +from regular Spanish), ‘you’ll be taking one smeared +all over our cowcatcher and headlight, and it’ll be up to +my fireman to scrape you off.’</p> +<p>“My Spiggoty Spanish wasn’t much to brag on, but I +could see she understood, though she only shook her head and +wouldn’t speak. But great Moses, she was some +looker—”</p> +<p>I glanced apprehensively at Mrs. Jones, who must have caught +me out of the tail of her eye, for she muttered: “If she +hadn’t been do you think he’d a-taken her into his +house to live?”</p> +<p>“Now hold on, Sarah,” he protested. +“That ain’t fair. Besides, I’m telling +this.—Next thing, Seth yells at me, ‘Goin’ to +stay here all night?’</p> +<p>“‘Come on,’ I said to the girl, ‘and +climb on board. But next time you want a ride don’t +flag a locomotive between stations.’ She followed +along; but when I got to the step and turned to give her a +lift-up, she wasn’t there. I went forward +again. Not a sign of her. Above and below was sheer +cliff, and the track stretched ahead a hundred yards clear and +empty. And then I spotted her, crouched down right against +the cowcatcher, that close I’d almost stepped on her. +If we’d started up, we’d have run over her in a +second. It was all so nonsensical, I never could make out +her actions. Maybe she was trying to suicide. I +grabbed her by the wrist and jerked her none too gentle to her +feet. And she came along all right. Women do know +when a man means business.”</p> +<p>I glanced from this Goliath to his little, bird-eyed spouse, +and wondered if he had ever tried to mean business with her.</p> +<p>“Seth kicked at first, but I boosted her into the cab +and made her sit up beside me—”</p> +<p>“And I suppose Seth was busy running the engine,” +Mrs. Jones observed.</p> +<p>“I was breaking him in, wasn’t I?” Mr. +Jones protested. “So we made the run into +Amato. She’d never opened her mouth once, and no +sooner’d the engine stopped than she’d jumped to the +ground and was gone. Just like that. Not a thank you +kindly. Nothing.</p> +<p>“But next morning when we came to pull out for Quito +with a dozen flat cars loaded with rails, there she was in the +cab waiting for us; and in the daylight I could see how much +better a looker she was than the night before.</p> +<p>“‘Huh! she’s adopted you,’ Seth +grins. And it looked like it. She just stood there +and looked at me—at us—like a loving hound dog that +you love, that you’ve caught with a string of sausages +inside of him, and that just knows you ain’t going to lift +a hand to him. ‘Go chase yourself!’ I told her +<i>pronto</i>.” (Mrs. Jones her proximity noticeable +with a wince at the Spanish word.) “You see, Sarah, +I’d no use for her, even at the start.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Jones stiffened. Her lips moved soundlessly, but I +knew to what syllables.</p> +<p>“And what made it hardest was Seth jeering at me. +‘You can’t shake her that way,’ he said. +‘You saved her life—’ ‘I +didn’t,’ I said sharply; ‘it was +you.’ ‘But she thinks you did, which is the +same thing,’ he came back at me. ‘And now she +belongs to you. Custom of the country, as you ought to +know.’”</p> +<p>“Heathenish,” said Mrs. Jones, and though her +steady gaze was set upon the Tower of Jewels I knew she was +making no reference to its architecture.</p> +<p>“‘She’s come to do light housekeeping for +you,’ Seth grinned. I let him rave, though afterwards +I kept him throwing in the coal too fast to work his mouth very +much. Why, say, when I got to the spot where I picked her +up, and stopped the train for her to get off, she just flopped +down on her knees, got a hammerlock with her arms around my +knees, and cried all over my shoes. What was I to +do?”</p> +<p>With no perceptible movement that I was aware of, Mrs. Jones +advertised her certitude of knowledge of what <i>she</i> would +have done.</p> +<p>“And the moment we pulled into Quito, she did what +she’d done before—vanished. Sarah never +believes me when I say how relieved I felt to be quit of +her. But it was not to be. I got to my ’dobe +house and managed a cracking fine dinner my cook had ready for +me. She was mostly Spiggoty and half Indian, and her name +was Paloma.—Now, Sarah, haven’t I told you she was +older’n a grandmother, and looked more like a buzzard than +a dove? Why, I couldn’t bear to eat with her around +where I could look at her. But she did make things +comfortable, and she was some economical when it came to +marketing.</p> +<p>“That afternoon, after a big long siesta, what’d I +find in the kitchen, just as much at home as if she belonged +there, but that blamed Indian girl. And old Paloma was +squatting at the girl’s feet and rubbing the girl’s +knees and legs like for rheumatism, which I knew the girl +didn’t have from the way I’d sized up the walk of +her, and keeping time to the rubbing with a funny sort of +gibberish chant. And I let loose right there and +then. As Sarah knows, I never could a-bear women around the +house—young, unmarried women, I mean. But it was no +go! Old Paloma sided with the girl, and said if the girl +went she went, too. Also, she called me more kinds of a +fool than the English language has accommodation for. +You’d like the Spanish lingo, Sarah, for expressing +yourself in such ways, and you’d have liked old Paloma, +too. She was a good woman, though she didn’t have any +teeth and her face could kill a strong man’s appetite in +the cradle.</p> +<p>“I gave in. I had to. Except for the excuse +that she needed Vahna’s help around the house (which she +didn’t at all), old Paloma never said why she stuck up for +the girl. Anyway, Vahna was a quiet thing, never in the +way. And she never gadded. Just sat in-doors +jabbering with Paloma and helping with the chores. But I +wasn’t long in getting on to that she was afraid of +something. She would look up, that anxious it hurt, +whenever anybody called, like some of the boys to have a gas or a +game of pedro. I tried to worm it out of Paloma what was +worrying the girl, but all the old woman did was to look solemn +and shake her head like all the devils in hell was liable to +precipitate a visit on us.</p> +<p>“And then one day Vahna had a visitor. I’d +just come in from a run and was passing the time of day with +her—I had to be polite, even if she had butted in on me and +come to live in my house for keeps—when I saw a queer +expression come into her eyes. In the doorway stood an +Indian boy. He looked like her, but was younger and +slimmer. She took him into the kitchen and they must have +had a great palaver, for he didn’t leave until after +dark. Inside the week he came back, but I missed him. +When I got home, Paloma put a fat nugget of gold into my hand, +which Vahna had sent him for. The blamed thing weighed all +of two pounds and was worth more than five hundred dollars. +She explained that Vahna wanted me to take it to pay for her +keep. And I had to take it to keep peace in the house.</p> +<p>“Then, after a long time, came another visitor. We +were sitting before the fire—”</p> +<p>“Him and the hussy,” quoth Mrs. Jones.</p> +<p>“And Paloma,” he added quickly.</p> +<p>“Him and his cook and his light housekeeper sitting by +the fire,” she amended.</p> +<p>“Oh, I admit Vahna did like me a whole heap,” he +asserted recklessly, then modified with a pang of caution: +“A heap more than was good for her, seeing that I had no +inclination her way.</p> +<p>“Well, as I was saying, she had another visitor. +He was a lean, tall, white-headed old Indian, with a beak on him +like an eagle. He walked right in without knocking. +Vahna gave a little cry that was half like a yelp and half like a +gasp, and flumped down on her knees before me, pleading to me +with deer’s eyes and to him with the eyes of a deer about +to be killed that don’t want to be killed. Then, for +a minute that seemed as long as a life-time, she and the old +fellow glared at each other. Paloma was the first to talk, +in his own lingo, for he talked back to her. But great +Moses, if he wasn’t the high and mighty one! +Paloma’s old knees were shaking, and she cringed to him +like a hound dog. And all this in my own house! +I’d have thrown him out on his neck, only he was so +old.</p> +<p>“If the things he said to Vahna were as terrible as the +way he looked! Say! He just spit words at her! +But Paloma kept whimpering and butting in, till something she +said got across, because his face relaxed. He condescended +to give me the once over and fired some question at Vahna. +She hung her head, and looked foolish, and blushed, and then +replied with a single word and a shake of the head. And +with that he just naturally turned on his heel and beat it. +I guess she’d said ‘No.’</p> +<p>“For some time after that Vahna used to fluster up +whenever she saw me. Then she took to the kitchen for a +spell. But after a long time she began hanging around the +big room again. She was still mighty shy, but she’d +keep on following me about with those big eyes of +hers—”</p> +<p>“The hussy!” I heard plainly. But Julian +Jones and I were pretty well used to it by this time.</p> +<p>“I don’t mind saying that I was getting some +interested myself—oh, not in the way Sarah never lets up +letting me know she thinks. That two-pound nugget was what +had me going. If Vahna’d put me wise to where it came +from, I could say good-bye to railroading and hit the high places +for Nebraska and Sarah.</p> +<p>“And then the beans were spilled . . . by +accident. Come a letter from Wisconsin. My Aunt Eliza +’d died and up and left me her big farm. I let out a +whoop when I read it; but I could have canned my joy, for I was +jobbed out of it by the courts and lawyers afterward—not a +cent to me, and I’m still paying ’m in +instalments.</p> +<p>“But I didn’t know, then; and I prepared to pull +back to God’s country. Paloma got sore, and Vahna got +the weeps. ‘Don’t go! Don’t +go!’ That was her song. But I gave notice on my +job, and wrote a letter to Sarah here—didn’t I, +Sarah?</p> +<p>“That night, sitting by the fire like at a funeral, +Vahna really loosened up for the first time.</p> +<p>“‘Don’t go,’ she says to me, with old +Paloma nodding agreement with her. ‘I’ll show +you where my brother got the nugget, if you don’t +go.’ ‘Too late,’ said I. And I told +her why.</p> +<p>“And told her about me waiting for you back in +Nebraska,” Mrs. Jones observed in cold, passionless +tones.</p> +<p>“Now, Sarah, why should I hurt a poor Indian +girl’s feelings? Of course I didn’t.</p> +<p>“Well, she and Paloma talked Indian some more, and then +Vahna says: ‘If you stay, I’ll show you the biggest +nugget that is the father of all other nuggets.’ +‘How big?’ I asked. ‘As big as +me?’ She laughed. ‘Bigger than +you,’ she says, ‘much, much bigger.’ +‘They don’t grow that way,’ I said. But +she said she’d seen it and Paloma backed her up. Why, +to listen to them you’d have thought there was millions in +that one nugget. Paloma ’d never seen it herself, but +she’d heard about it. A secret of the tribe which she +couldn’t share, being only half Indian herself.”</p> +<p>Julian Jones paused and heaved a sigh.</p> +<p>“And they kept on insisting until I fell +for—”</p> +<p>“The hussy,” said Mrs. Jones, pert as a bird, at +the ready instant.</p> +<p>“‘No; for the nugget. What of Aunt +Eliza’s farm I was rich enough to quit railroading, but not +rich enough to turn my back on big money—and I just +couldn’t help believing them two women. Gee! I +could be another Vanderbilt, or J. P. Morgan. That’s +the way I thought; and I started in to pump Vahna. But she +wouldn’t give down. ‘You come along with +me,’ she says. ‘We can be back here in a couple +of weeks with all the gold the both of us can carry.’ +‘We’ll take a burro, or a pack-train of +burros,’ was my suggestion. But nothing doing. +And Paloma agreed with her. It was too dangerous. The +Indians would catch us.</p> +<p>“The two of us pulled out when the nights were +moonlight. We travelled only at night, and laid up in the +days. Vahna wouldn’t let me light a fire, and I +missed my coffee something fierce. We got up in the real +high mountains of the main Andes, where the snow on one pass gave +us some trouble; but the girl knew the trails, and, though we +didn’t waste any time, we were a full week getting +there. I know the general trend of our travel, because I +carried a pocket compass; and the general trend is all I need to +get there again, because of that peak. There’s no +mistaking it. There ain’t another peak like it in the +world. Now, I’m not telling you its particular shape, +but when you and I head out for it from Quito I’ll take you +straight to it.</p> +<p>“It’s no easy thing to climb, and the person +doesn’t live that can climb it at night. We had to +take the daylight to it, and didn’t reach the top till +after sunset. Why, I could take hours and hours telling you +about that last climb, which I won’t. The top was +flat as a billiard table, about a quarter of an acre in size, and +was almost clean of snow. Vahna told me that the great +winds that usually blew, kept the snow off of it.</p> +<p>“We were winded, and I got mountain sickness so bad that +I had to stretch out for a spell. Then, when the moon come +up, I took a prowl around. It didn’t take long, and I +didn’t catch a sight or a smell of anything that looked +like gold. And when I asked Vahna, she only laughed and +clapped her hands. Meantime my mountain sickness tuned up +something fierce, and I sat down on a big rock to wait for it to +ease down.</p> +<p>“‘Come on, now,’ I said, when I felt +better. ‘Stop your fooling and tell me where that +nugget is.’ ‘It’s nearer to you right now +than I’ll ever get,’ she answered, her big eyes going +sudden wistful. ‘All you Gringos are alike. +Gold is the love of your heart, and women don’t count +much.’</p> +<p>“I didn’t say anything. That was no time to +tell her about Sarah here. But Vahna seemed to shake off +her depressed feelings, and began to laugh and tease again. +‘How do you like it?’ she asked. ‘Like +what?’ ‘The nugget you’re sitting +on.’</p> +<p>“I jumped up as though it was a red-hot stove. And +all it was was a rock. I felt nay heart sink. Either +she had gone clean loco or this was her idea of a joke. +Wrong on both counts. She gave me the hatchet and told me +to take a hack at the boulder, which I did, again and again, for +yellow spots sprang up from under every blow. By the great +Moses! it was gold! The whole blamed boulder!”</p> +<p>Jones rose suddenly to his full height and flung out his long +arms, his face turned to the southern skies. The movement +shot panic into the heart of a swan that had drawn nearer with +amiably predatory designs. Its consequent abrupt retreat +collided it with a stout old lady, who squealed and dropped her +bag of peanuts. Jones sat down and resumed.</p> +<p>“Gold, I tell you, solid gold and that pure and soft +that I chopped chips out of it. It had been coated with +some sort of rain-proof paint or lacquer made out of asphalt or +something. No wonder I’d taken it for a rock. +It was ten feet long, all of five feet through, and tapering to +both ends like an egg. Here. Take a look at +this.”</p> +<p>From his pocket he drew and opened a leather case, from which +he took an object wrapped in tissue-paper. Unwrapping it, +he dropped into my hand a chip of pure soft gold, the size of a +ten-dollar gold-piece. I could make out the greyish +substance on one side with which it had been painted.</p> +<p>“I chopped that from one end of the thing,” Jones +went on, replacing the chip in its paper and leather case. +“And lucky I put it in my pocket. For right at my +back came one loud word—more like a croak than a word, in +my way of thinking. And there was that lean old fellow with +the eagle beak that had dropped in on us one night. And +there was about thirty Indians with him—all slim young +fellows.</p> +<p>“Vahna’d flopped down and begun whimpering, but I +told her, ‘Get up and make friends with them for +me.’ ‘No, no,’ she cried. +‘This is death. Good-bye, +<i>amigo</i>—’”</p> +<p>Here Mrs. Jones winced, and her husband abruptly checked the +particular flow of his narrative.</p> +<p>“‘Then get up and fight along with me,’ I +said to her. And she did. She was some hellion, there +on the top of the world, clawing and scratching tooth and +nail—a regular she cat. And I wasn’t idle, +though all I had was that hatchet and my long arms. But +they were too many for me, and there was no place for me to put +my back against a wall. When I come to, minutes after +they’d cracked me on the head—here, feel +this.”</p> +<p>Removing his hat, Julian Jones guided my finger tips through +his thatch of sandy hair until they sank into an +indentation. It was fully three inches long, and went into +the bone itself of the skull.</p> +<p>“When I come to, there was Vahna spread-eagled on top of +the nugget, and the old fellow with a beak jabbering away +solemnly as if going through some sort of religious +exercises. In his hand he had a stone knife—you know, +a thin, sharp sliver of some obsidian-like stuff same as they +make arrow-heads out of. I couldn’t lift a hand, +being held down, and being too weak besides. +And—well, anyway, that stone knife did for her, and me they +didn’t even do the honour of killing there on top their +sacred peak. They chucked me off of it like so much +carrion.</p> +<p>“And the buzzards didn’t get me either. I +can see the moonlight yet, shining on all those peaks of snow, as +I went down. Why, sir, it was a five-hundred-foot fall, +only I didn’t make it. I went into a big snow-drift +in a crevice. And when I come to (hours after I know, for +it was full day when I next saw the sun), I found myself in a +regular snow-cave or tunnel caused by the water from the melting +snow running along the ledge. In fact, the stone above +actually overhung just beyond where I first landed. A few +feet more to the side, either way, and I’d almost be going +yet. It was a straight miracle, that’s what it +was.</p> +<p>“But I paid for it. It was two years and over +before I knew what happened. All I knew was that I was +Julian Jones and that I’d been blacklisted in the big +strike, and that I was married to Sarah here. I mean +that. I didn’t know anything in between, and when +Sarah tried to talk about it, it gave me pains in the head. +I mean my head was queer, and I knew it was queer.</p> +<p>“And then, sitting on the porch of her father’s +farmhouse back in Nebraska one moonlight evening, Sarah came out +and put that gold chip into my hand. Seems she’d just +found it in the torn lining of the trunk I’d brought back +from Ecuador—I who for two years didn’t even know +I’d been to Ecuador, or Australia, or anything! Well, +I just sat there looking at the chip in the moonlight, and +turning it over and over and figuring what it was and where +it’d come from, when all of a sudden there was a snap +inside my head as if something had broken, and then I could see +Vahna spread-eagled on that big nugget and the old fellow with +the beak waving the stone knife, and . . . and everything. +That is, everything that had happened from the time I first left +Nebraska to when I crawled to the daylight out of the snow after +they had chucked me off the mountain-top. But everything +that’d happened after that I’d clean forgotten. +When Sarah said I was her husband, I wouldn’t listen to +her. Took all her family and the preacher that’d +married us to convince me.</p> +<p>“Later on I wrote to Seth Manners. The railroad +hadn’t killed him yet, and he pieced out a lot for +me. I’ll show you his letters. I’ve got +them at the hotel. One day, he said, making his regular +run, I crawled out on to the track. I didn’t stand +upright, I just crawled. He took me for a calf, or a big +dog, at first. I wasn’t anything human, he said, and +I didn’t know him or anything. As near as I can make +out, it was ten days after the mountain-top to the time Seth +picked me up. What I ate I don’t know. Maybe I +didn’t eat. Then it was doctors at Quito, and Paloma +nursing me (she must have packed that gold chip in my trunk), +until they found out I was a man without a mind, and the railroad +sent me back to Nebraska. At any rate, that’s what +Seth writes me. Of myself, I don’t know. But +Sarah here knows. She corresponded with the railroad before +they shipped me and all that.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Jones nodded affirmation of his words, sighed and +evidenced unmistakable signs of eagerness to go.</p> +<p>“I ain’t been able to work since,” her +husband continued. “And I ain’t been able to +figure out how to get back that big nugget. Sarah’s +got money of her own, and she won’t let go a +penny—”</p> +<p>“He won’t get down to <i>that</i> country no +more!” she broke forth.</p> +<p>“But, Sarah, Vahna’s dead—you know +that,” Julian Jones protested.</p> +<p>“I don’t know anything about anything,” she +answered decisively, “except that <i>that</i> country is no +place for a married man.”</p> +<p>Her lips snapped together, and she fixed an unseeing stare +across to where the afternoon sun was beginning to glow into +sunset. I gazed for a moment at her face, white, plump, +tiny, and implacable, and gave her up.</p> +<p>“How do you account for such a mass of gold being +there?” I queried of Julian Jones. “A +solid-gold meteor that fell out of the sky?”</p> +<p>“Not for a moment.” He shook his head. +“ It was carried there by the Indians.”</p> +<p>“Up a mountain like that—and such enormous weight +and size!” I objected.</p> +<p>“Just as easy,” he smiled. “I used to +be stumped by that proposition myself, after I got my memory +back. Now how in Sam Hill—’ I used to begin, +and then spend hours figuring at it. And then when I got +the answer I felt downright idiotic, it was that +easy.” He paused, then announced: “They +didn’t.”</p> +<p>“But you just—said they did.”</p> +<p>“They did and they didn’t,” was his +enigmatic reply. “Of course they never carried that +monster nugget up there. What they did was to carry up its +contents.”</p> +<p>He waited until he saw enlightenment dawn in my face.</p> +<p>“And then of course melted all the gold, or welded it, +or smelted it, all into one piece. You know the first +Spaniards down there, under a leader named Pizarro, were a gang +of robbers and cut-throats. They went through the country +like the hoof-and-mouth disease, and killed the Indians off like +cattle. You see, the Indians had lots of gold. Well, +what the Spaniards didn’t get, the surviving Indians hid +away in that one big chunk on top the mountain, and it’s +been waiting there ever since for me—and for you, if you +want to go in on it.”</p> +<p>And here, by the Lagoon of the Palace of Fine Arts, ended my +acquaintance with Julian Jones. On my agreeing to finance +the adventure, he promised to call on me at my hotel next morning +with the letters of Seth Manners and the railroad, and conclude +arrangements. But he did not call. That evening I +telephoned his hotel and was informed by the clerk that Mr. +Julian Jones and wife had departed in the early afternoon, with +their baggage.</p> +<p>Can Mrs. Jones have rushed him back and hidden him away in +Nebraska? I remember that as we said good-bye, there was +that in her smile that recalled the vulpine complacency of Mona +Lisa, the Wise.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">THE END</p> +<p>Kohala, Hawaii,<br /> + <i>May</i> 5, 1916.</p> +<h2><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>LIKE +ARGUS OF THE ANCIENT TIMES</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was the summer of 1897, and +there was trouble in the Tarwater family. Grandfather +Tarwater, after remaining properly subdued and crushed for a +quiet decade, had broken out again. This time it was the +Klondike fever. His first and one unvarying symptom of such +attacks was song. One chant only he raised, though he +remembered no more than the first stanza and but three lines of +that. And the family knew his feet were itching and his +brain was tingling with the old madness, when he lifted his +hoarse-cracked voice, now falsetto-cracked, in:</p> +<p class="poetry">Like Argus of the ancient times,<br /> + We leave this modern Greece,<br /> +Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum,<br /> + To shear the Golden Fleece.</p> +<p>Ten years earlier he had lifted the chant, sung to the air of +the “Doxology,” when afflicted with the fever to go +gold-mining in Patagonia. The multitudinous family had sat +upon him, but had had a hard time doing it. When all else +had failed to shake his resolution, they had applied lawyers to +him, with the threat of getting out guardianship papers and of +confining him in the state asylum for the insane—which was +reasonable for a man who had, a quarter of a century before, +speculated away all but ten meagre acres of a California +principality, and who had displayed no better business acumen +ever since.</p> +<p>The application of lawyers to John Tarwater was like the +application of a mustard plaster. For, in his judgment, +they were the gentry, more than any other, who had skinned him +out of the broad Tarwater acres. So, at the time of his +Patagonian fever, the very thought of so drastic a remedy was +sufficient to cure him. He quickly demonstrated he was not +crazy by shaking the fever from him and agreeing not to go to +Patagonia.</p> +<p>Next, he demonstrated how crazy he really was, by deeding over +to his family, unsolicited, the ten acres on Tarwater Flat, the +house, barn, outbuildings, and water-rights. Also did he +turn over the eight hundred dollars in bank that was the +long-saved salvage of his wrecked fortune. But for this the +family found no cause for committal to the asylum, since such +committal would necessarily invalidate what he had done.</p> +<p>“Grandfather is sure peeved,” said Mary, his +oldest daughter, herself a grandmother, when her father quit +smoking.</p> +<p>All he had retained for himself was a span of old horses, a +mountain buckboard, and his one room in the crowded house. +Further, having affirmed that he would be beholden to none of +them, he got the contract to carry the United States mail, twice +a week, from Kelterville up over Tarwater Mountain to Old +Almaden—which was a sporadically worked quick-silver mine +in the upland cattle country. With his old horses it took +all his time to make the two weekly round trips. And for +ten years, rain or shine, he had never missed a trip. Nor +had he failed once to pay his week’s board into +Mary’s hand. This board he had insisted on, in the +convalescence from his Patagonian fever, and he had paid it +strictly, though he had given up tobacco in order to be able to +do it.</p> +<p>“Huh!” he confided to the ruined water wheel of +the old Tarwater Mill, which he had built from the standing +timber and which had ground wheat for the first settlers. +“Huh! They’ll never put me in the poor farm so +long as I support myself. And without a penny to my name it +ain’t likely any lawyer fellows’ll come +snoopin’ around after me.”</p> +<p>And yet, precisely because of these highly rational acts, it +was held that John Tarwater was mildly crazy!</p> +<p>The first time he had lifted the chant of “Like Argus of +the Ancient Times,” had been in 1849, when, twenty-two +years’ of age, violently attacked by the Californian fever, +he had sold two hundred and forty Michigan acres, forty of it +cleared, for the price of four yoke of oxen, and a wagon, and had +started across the Plains.</p> +<p>“And we turned off at Fort Hall, where the Oregon +emigration went north’ard, and swung south for +Californy,” was his way of concluding the narrative of that +arduous journey. “And Bill Ping and me used to rope +grizzlies out of the underbrush of Cache Slough in the Sacramento +Valley.”</p> +<p>Years of freighting and mining had followed, and, with a stake +gleaned from the Merced placers, he satisfied the land-hunger of +his race and time by settling in Sonoma County.</p> +<p>During the ten years of carrying the mail across Tarwater +Township, up Tarwater Valley, and over Tarwater Mountain, most +all of which land had once been his, he had spent his time +dreaming of winning back that land before he died. And now, +his huge gaunt form more erect than it had been for years, with a +glinting of blue fires in his small and close-set eyes, he was +lifting his ancient chant again.</p> +<p>“There he goes now—listen to him,” said +William Tarwater.</p> +<p>“Nobody at home,” laughed Harris Topping, day +labourer, husband of Annie Tarwater, and father of her nine +children.</p> +<p>The kitchen door opened to admit the old man, returning from +feeding his horses. The song had ceased from his lips; but +Mary was irritable from a burnt hand and a grandchild whose +stomach refused to digest properly diluted cows’ milk.</p> +<p>“Now there ain’t no use you carryin’ on that +way, father,” she tackled him. “The +time’s past for you to cut and run for a place like the +Klondike, and singing won’t buy you nothing.”</p> +<p>“Just the same,” he answered quietly. +“I bet I could go to that Klondike place and pick up enough +gold to buy back the Tarwater lands.”</p> +<p>“Old fool!” Annie contributed.</p> +<p>“You couldn’t buy them back for less’n three +hundred thousand and then some,” was William’s effort +at squelching him.</p> +<p>“Then I could pick up three hundred thousand, and then +some, if I was only there,” the old man retorted +placidly.</p> +<p>“Thank God you can’t walk there, or you’d be +startin’, I know,” Mary cried. “Ocean +travel costs money.”</p> +<p>“I used to have money,” her father said +humbly.</p> +<p>“Well, you ain’t got any now—so forget +it,” William advised. “Them times is past, like +roping bear with Bill Ping. There ain’t no more +bear.”</p> +<p>“Just the same—”</p> +<p>But Mary cut him off. Seizing the day’s paper from +the kitchen table, she flourished it savagely under her aged +progenitor’s nose.</p> +<p>“What do those Klondikers say? There it is in cold +print. Only the young and robust can stand the +Klondike. It’s worse than the north pole. And +they’ve left their dead a-plenty there themselves. +Look at their pictures. You’re forty years older +’n the oldest of them.”</p> +<p>John Tarwater did look, but his eyes strayed to other +photographs on the highly sensational front page.</p> +<p>“And look at the photys of them nuggets they brought +down,” he said. “I know gold. +Didn’t I gopher twenty thousand outa the Merced? And +wouldn’t it a-ben a hundred thousand if that cloudburst +hadn’t busted my wing-dam? Now if I was only in the +Klondike—”</p> +<p>“Crazy as a loon,” William sneered in open aside +to the rest.</p> +<p>“A nice way to talk to your father,” Old Man +Tarwater censured mildly. “My father’d have +walloped the tar out of me with a single-tree if I’d spoke +to him that way.”</p> +<p>“But you <i>are</i> crazy, father—” William +began.</p> +<p>“Reckon you’re right, son. And that’s +where my father wasn’t crazy. He’d a-done +it.”</p> +<p>“The old man’s been reading some of them magazine +articles about men who succeeded after forty,” Annie +jibed.</p> +<p>“And why not, daughter?” he asked. +“And why can’t a man succeed after he’s +seventy? I was only seventy this year. And mebbe I +could succeed if only I could get to the +Klondike—”</p> +<p>“Which you ain’t going to get to,” Mary shut +him off.</p> +<p>“Oh, well, then,” he sighed, “seein’s +I ain’t, I might just as well go to bed.”</p> +<p>He stood up, tall, gaunt, great-boned and gnarled, a splendid +ruin of a man. His ragged hair and whiskers were not grey +but snowy white, as were the tufts of hair that stood out on the +backs of his huge bony fingers. He moved toward the door, +opened it, sighed, and paused with a backward look.</p> +<p>“Just the same,” he murmured plaintively, +“the bottoms of my feet is itching something +terrible.”</p> +<p>Long before the family stirred next morning, his horses fed +and harnessed by lantern light, breakfast cooked and eaten by +lamp fight, Old Man Tarwater was off and away down Tarwater +Valley on the road to Kelterville. Two things were unusual +about this usual trip which he had made a thousand and forty +times since taking the mail contract. He did not drive to +Kelterville, but turned off on the main road south to Santa +Rosa. Even more remarkable than this was the paper-wrapped +parcel between his feet. It contained his one decent black +suit, which Mary had been long reluctant to see him wear any +more, not because it was shabby, but because, as he guessed what +was at the back of her mind, it was decent enough to bury him +in.</p> +<p>And at Santa Rosa, in a second-hand clothes shop, he sold the +suit outright for two dollars and a half. From the same +obliging shopman he received four dollars for the wedding ring of +his long-dead wife. The span of horses and the wagon he +disposed of for seventy-five dollars, although twenty-five was +all he received down in cash. Chancing to meet Alton +Granger on the street, to whom never before had he mentioned the +ten dollars loaned him in ’74, he reminded Alton Granger of +the little affair, and was promptly paid. Also, of all +unbelievable men to be in funds, he so found the town drunkard +for whom he had bought many a drink in the old and palmy +days. And from him John Tarwater borrowed a dollar. +Finally, he took the afternoon train to San Francisco.</p> +<p>A dozen days later, carrying a half-empty canvas sack of +blankets and old clothes, he landed on the beach of Dyea in the +thick of the great Klondike Rush. The beach was screaming +bedlam. Ten thousand tons of outfit lay heaped and +scattered, and twice ten thousand men struggled with it and +clamoured about it. Freight, by Indian-back, over Chilcoot +to Lake Linderman, had jumped from sixteen to thirty cents a +pound, which latter was a rate of six hundred dollars a +ton. And the sub-arctic winter gloomed near at hand. +All knew it, and all knew that of the twenty thousand of them +very few would get across the passes, leaving the rest to winter +and wait for the late spring thaw.</p> +<p>Such the beach old John Tarwater stepped upon; and straight +across the beach and up the trail toward Chilcoot he headed, +cackling his ancient chant, a very Grandfather Argus himself, +with no outfit worry in the world, for he did not possess any +outfit. That night he slept on the flats, five miles above +Dyea, at the head of canoe navigation. Here the Dyea River +became a rushing mountain torrent, plunging out of a dark canyon +from the glaciers that fed it far above.</p> +<p>And here, early next morning, he beheld a little man weighing +no more than a hundred, staggering along a foot-log under all of +a hundred pounds of flour strapped on his back. Also, he +beheld the little man stumble off the log and fall face-downward +in a quiet eddy where the water was two feet deep and proceed +quietly to drown. It was no desire of his to take death so +easily, but the flour on his back weighed as much as he and would +not let him up.</p> +<p>“Thank you, old man,” he said to Tarwater, when +the latter had dragged him up into the air and ashore.</p> +<p>While he unlaced his shoes and ran the water out, they had +further talk. Next, he fished out a ten-dollar gold-piece +and offered it to his rescuer.</p> +<p>Old Tarwater shook his head and shivered, for the ice-water +had wet him to his knees.</p> +<p>“But I reckon I wouldn’t object to settin’ +down to a friendly meal with you.”</p> +<p>“Ain’t had breakfast?” the little man, who +was past forty and who had said his name was Anson, queried with +a glance frankly curious.</p> +<p>“Nary bite,” John Tarwater answered.</p> +<p>“Where’s your outfit? Ahead?”</p> +<p>“Nary outfit.”</p> +<p>“Expect to buy your grub on the Inside?”</p> +<p>“Nary a dollar to buy it with, friend. Which +ain’t so important as a warm bite of breakfast right +now.”</p> +<p>In Anson’s camp, a quarter of a mile on, Tarwater found +a slender, red-whiskered young man of thirty cursing over a fire +of wet willow wood. Introduced as Charles, he transferred +his scowl and wrath to Tarwater, who, genially oblivious, devoted +himself to the fire, took advantage of the chill morning breeze +to create a draught which the other had left stupidly blocked by +stones, and soon developed less smoke and more flame. The +third member of the party, Bill Wilson, or Big Bill as they +called him, came in with a hundred-and-forty-pound pack; and what +Tarwater esteemed to be a very rotten breakfast was dished out by +Charles. The mush was half cooked and mostly burnt, the +bacon was charred carbon, and the coffee was unspeakable.</p> +<p>Immediately the meal was wolfed down the three partners took +their empty pack-straps and headed down trail to where the +remainder of their outfit lay at the last camp a mile away. +And old Tarwater became busy. He washed the dishes, foraged +dry wood, mended a broken pack-strap, put an edge on the +butcher-knife and camp-axe, and repacked the picks and shovels +into a more carryable parcel.</p> +<p>What had impressed him during the brief breakfast was the sort +of awe in which Anson and Big Bill stood of Charles. Once, +during the morning, while Anson took a breathing spell after +bringing in another hundred-pound pack, Tarwater delicately +hinted his impression.</p> +<p>“You see, it’s this way,” Anson said. +“We’ve divided our leadership. We’ve got +specialities. Now I’m a carpenter. When we get +to Lake Linderman, and the trees are chopped and whipsawed into +planks, I’ll boss the building of the boat. Big Bill +is a logger and miner. So he’ll boss getting out the +logs and all mining operations. Most of our outfit’s +ahead. We went broke paying the Indians to pack that much +of it to the top of Chilcoot. Our last partner is up there +with it, moving it along by himself down the other side. +His name’s Liverpool, and he’s a sailor. So, +when the boat’s built, he’s the boss of the outfit to +navigate the lakes and rapids to Klondike.</p> +<p>“And Charles—this Mr. Crayton—what might his +speciality be?” Tarwater asked.</p> +<p>“He’s the business man. When it comes to +business and organization he’s boss.”</p> +<p>“Hum,” Tarwater pondered. “Very lucky +to get such a bunch of specialities into one outfit.”</p> +<p>“More than luck,” Anson agreed. “It +was all accident, too. Each of us started alone. We +met on the steamer coming up from San Francisco, and formed the +party.—Well, I got to be goin’. Charles is +liable to get kicking because I ain’t packin’ my +share’ just the same, you can’t expect a +hundred-pound man to pack as much as a +hundred-and-sixty-pounder.”</p> +<p>“Stick around and cook us something for dinner,” +Charles, on his next load in and noting the effects of the old +man’s handiness, told Tarwater.</p> +<p>And Tarwater cooked a dinner that was a dinner, washed the +dishes, had real pork and beans for supper, and bread baked in a +frying-pan that was so delectable that the three partners nearly +foundered themselves on it. Supper dishes washed, he cut +shavings and kindling for a quick and certain breakfast fire, +showed Anson a trick with foot-gear that was invaluable to any +hiker, sang his “Like Argus of the Ancient Times,” +and told them of the great emigration across the Plains in +Forty-nine.</p> +<p>“My goodness, the first cheerful and hearty-like camp +since we hit the beach,” Big Bill remarked as he knocked +out his pipe and began pulling off his shoes for bed.</p> +<p>“Kind of made things easy, boys, eh?” +Tarwater queried genially.</p> +<p>All nodded. “Well, then, I got a proposition, +boys. You can take it or leave it, but just listen kindly +to it. You’re in a hurry to get in before the +freeze-up. Half the time is wasted over the cooking by one +of you that he might be puttin’ in packin’ +outfit. If I do the cookin’ for you, you all’ll +get on that much faster. Also, the cookin’ ’ll +be better, and that’ll make you pack better. And I +can pack quite a bit myself in between times, quite a bit, yes, +sir, quite a bit.”</p> +<p>Big Bill and Anson were just beginning to nod their heads in +agreement, when Charles stopped them.</p> +<p>“What do you expect of us in return?” he demanded +of the old man.</p> +<p>“Oh, I leave it up to the boys.”</p> +<p>“That ain’t business,” Charles reprimanded +sharply. “You made the proposition. Now finish +it.”</p> +<p>“Well, it’s this way—”</p> +<p>“You expect us to feed you all winter, eh?” +Charles interrupted.</p> +<p>“No, siree, I don’t. All I reckon is a +passage to Klondike in your boat would be mighty square of +you.”</p> +<p>“You haven’t an ounce of grub, old man. +You’ll starve to death when you get there.”</p> +<p>“I’ve been feedin’ some long time pretty +successful,” Old Tarwater replied, a whimsical light in his +eyes. “I’m seventy, and ain’t starved to +death never yet.”</p> +<p>“Will you sign a paper to the effect that you shift for +yourself as soon as you get to Dawson?” the business one +demanded.</p> +<p>“Oh, sure,” was the response.</p> +<p>Again Charles checked his two partners’ expressions of +satisfaction with the arrangement.</p> +<p>“One other thing, old man. We’re a party of +four, and we all have a vote on questions like this. Young +Liverpool is ahead with the main outfit. He’s got a +say so, and he isn’t here to say it.”</p> +<p>“What kind of a party might he be?” Tarwater +inquired.</p> +<p>“He’s a rough-neck sailor, and he’s got a +quick, bad temper.”</p> +<p>“Some turbulent,” Anson contributed.</p> +<p>“And the way he can cuss is simply God-awful,” Big +Bill testified.</p> +<p>“But he’s square,” Big Bill added.</p> +<p>Anson nodded heartily to this appraisal.</p> +<p>“Well, boys,” Tarwater summed up, “I set out +for Californy and I got there. And I’m going to get +to Klondike. Ain’t a thing can stop me, ain’t a +thing. I’m going to get three hundred thousand outa +the ground, too. Ain’t a thing can stop me, +ain’t a thing, because I just naturally need the +money. I don’t mind a bad temper so long’s the +boy is square. I’ll take my chance, an’ +I’ll work along with you till we catch up with him. +Then, if he says no to the proposition, I reckon I’ll +lose. But somehow I just can’t see ’m +sayin’ no, because that’d mean too close up to +freeze-up and too late for me to find another chance like +this. And, as I’m sure going to get to Klondike, +it’s just plumb impossible for him to say no.”</p> +<p>Old John Tarwater became a striking figure on a trail +unusually replete with striking figures. With thousands of +men, each back-tripping half a ton of outfit, retracing every +mile of the trail twenty times, all came to know him and to hail +him as “Father Christmas.” And, as he worked, +ever he raised his chant with his age-falsetto voice. None +of the three men he had joined could complain about his +work. True, his joints were stiff—he admitted to a +trifle of rheumatism. He moved slowly, and seemed to creak +and crackle when he moved; but he kept on moving. Last into +the blankets at night, he was first out in the morning, so that +the other three had hot coffee before their one before-breakfast +pack. And, between breakfast and dinner and between dinner +and supper, he always managed to back-trip for several packs +himself. Sixty pounds was the limit of his burden, +however. He could manage seventy-five, but he could not +keep it up. Once, he tried ninety, but collapsed on the +trail and was seriously shaky for a couple of days afterward.</p> +<p>Work! On a trail where hard-working men learned for the +first time what work was, no man worked harder in proportion to +his strength than Old Tarwater. Driven desperately on by +the near-thrust of winter, and lured madly on by the dream of +gold, they worked to their last ounce of strength and fell by the +way. Others, when failure made certain, blew out their +brains. Some went mad, and still others, under the irk of +the man-destroying strain, broke partnerships and dissolved +life-time friendships with fellows just as good as themselves and +just as strained and mad.</p> +<p>Work! Old Tarwater could shame them all, despite his +creaking and crackling and the nasty hacking cough he had +developed. Early and late, on trail or in camp beside the +trail he was ever in evidence, ever busy at something, ever +responsive to the hail of “Father Christmas.” +Weary back-trippers would rest their packs on a log or rock +alongside of where he rested his, and would say: “Sing us +that song of yourn, dad, about Forty-Nine.” And, when +he had wheezingly complied, they would arise under their loads, +remark that it was real heartening, and hit the forward trail +again.</p> +<p>“If ever a man worked his passage and earned it,” +Big Bill confided to his two partners, “that man’s +our old Skeezicks.”</p> +<p>“You bet,” Anson confirmed. +“He’s a valuable addition to the party, and I, for +one, ain’t at all disagreeable to the notion of making him +a regular partner—”</p> +<p>“None of that!” Charles Crayton cut in. +“When we get to Dawson we’re quit of +him—that’s the agreement. We’d only have +to bury him if we let him stay on with us. Besides, +there’s going to be a famine, and every ounce of +grub’ll count. Remember, we’re feeding him out +of our own supply all the way in. And if we run short in +the pinch next year, you’ll know the reason. +Steamboats can’t get up grub to Dawson till the middle of +June, and that’s nine months away.”</p> +<p>“Well, you put as much money and outfit in as the rest +of us,” Big Bill conceded, “and you’ve a say +according.”</p> +<p>“And I’m going to have my say,” Charles +asserted with increasing irritability. “And +it’s lucky for you with your fool sentiments that +you’ve got somebody to think ahead for you, else +you’d all starve to death. I tell you that +famine’s coming. I’ve been studying the +situation. Flour will be two dollars a pound, or ten, and +no sellers. You mark my words.”</p> +<p>Across the rubble-covered flats, up the dark canyon to Sheep +Camp, past the over-hanging and ever-threatening glaciers to the +Scales, and from the Scales up the steep pitches of ice-scoured +rock where packers climbed with hands and feet, Old Tarwater +camp-cooked and packed and sang. He blew across Chilcoot +Pass, above timberline, in the first swirl of autumn snow. +Those below, without firewood, on the bitter rim of Crater Lake, +heard from the driving obscurity above them a weird voice +chanting:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Like Argus of the ancient times,<br /> + We leave this modern Greece,<br /> +Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum,<br /> + To shear the Golden Fleece.”</p> +<p>And out of the snow flurries they saw appear a tall, gaunt +form, with whiskers of flying white that blended with the storm, +bending under a sixty-pound pack of camp dunnage.</p> +<p>“Father Christmas!” was the hail. And then: +“Three rousing cheers for Father Christmas!”</p> +<p>Two miles beyond Crater Lake lay Happy Camp—so named +because here was found the uppermost fringe of the timber line, +where men might warm themselves by fire again. Scarcely +could it be called timber, for it was a dwarf rock-spruce that +never raised its loftiest branches higher than a foot above the +moss, and that twisted and grovelled like a pig-vegetable under +the moss. Here, on the trail leading into Happy Camp, in +the first sunshine of half a dozen days, Old Tarwater rested his +pack against a huge boulder and caught his breath. Around +this boulder the trail passed, laden men toiling slowly forward +and men with empty pack-straps limping rapidly back for fresh +loads. Twice Old Tarwater essayed to rise and go on, and +each time, warned by his shakiness, sank back to recover more +strength. From around the boulder he heard voices in +greeting, recognized Charles Crayton’s voice, and realized +that at last they had met up with Young Liverpool. Quickly, +Charles plunged into business, and Tarwater heard with great +distinctness every word of Charles’ unflattering +description of him and the proposition to give him passage to +Dawson.</p> +<p>“A dam fool proposition,” was Liverpool’s +judgment, when Charles had concluded. “An old +granddad of seventy! If he’s on his last legs, why in +hell did you hook up with him? If there’s going to be +a famine, and it looks like it, we need every ounce of grub for +ourselves. We only out-fitted for four, not +five.”</p> +<p>“It’s all right,” Tarwater heard Charles +assuring the other. “Don’t get excited. +The old codger agreed to leave the final decision to you when we +caught up with you. All you’ve got to do is put your +foot down and say no.”</p> +<p>“You mean it’s up to me to turn the old one down, +after your encouraging him and taking advantage of his work clear +from Dyea here?”</p> +<p>“It’s a hard trail, Liverpool, and only the men +that are hard will get through,” Charles strove to +palliate.</p> +<p>“And I’m to do the dirty work?” Liverpool +complained, while Tarwater’s heart sank.</p> +<p>“That’s just about the size of it,” Charles +said. “You’ve got the deciding.”</p> +<p>Then old Tarwater’s heart uprose again as the air was +rent by a cyclone of profanity, from the midst of which crackled +sentences like:—“Dirty skunks! . . . See you in hell +first! . . . My mind’s made up! . . . Hell’s fire and +corruption! . . . The old codger goes down the Yukon with us, +stack on that, my hearty! . . . Hard? You don’t know +what hard is unless I show you! . . . I’ll bust the whole +outfit to hell and gone if any of you try to side-track him! . . +. Just try to side-track him, that is all, and you’ll think +the Day of Judgment and all God’s blastingness has hit the +camp in one chunk!”</p> +<p>Such was the invigoratingness of Liverpool’s flow of +speech that, quite without consciousness of effort, the old man +arose easily under his load and strode on toward Happy Camp.</p> +<p>From Happy Camp to Long Lake, from Long Lake to Deep Lake, and +from Deep Lake up over the enormous hog-back and down to +Linderman, the man-killing race against winter kept on. Men +broke their hearts and backs and wept beside the trail in sheer +exhaustion. But winter never faltered. The fall gales +blew, and amid bitter soaking rains and ever-increasing snow +flurries, Tarwater and the party to which he was attached piled +the last of their outfit on the beach.</p> +<p>There was no rest. Across the lake, a mile above a +roaring torrent, they located a patch of spruce and built their +saw-pit. Here, by hand, with an inadequate whipsaw, they +sawed the spruce-trunks into lumber. They worked night and +day. Thrice, on the night-shift, underneath in the saw-pit, +Old Tarwater fainted. By day he cooked as well, and, in the +betweenwhiles, helped Anson in the building of the boat beside +the torrent as the green planks came down.</p> +<p>The days grew shorter. The wind shifted into the north +and blew unending gales. In the mornings the weary men +crawled from their blankets and in their socks thawed out their +frozen shoes by the fire Tarwater always had burning for +them. Ever arose the increasing tale of famine on the +Inside. The last grub steamboats up from Bering Sea were +stalled by low water at the beginning of the Yukon Flats hundreds +of miles north of Dawson. In fact, they lay at the old +Hudson Bay Company’s post at Fort Yukon inside the Arctic +Circle. Flour in Dawson was up to two dollars a pound, but +no one would sell. Bonanza and Eldorado Kings, with money +to burn, were leaving for the Outside because they could buy no +grub. Miners’ Committees were confiscating all grub +and putting the population on strict rations. A man who +held out an ounce of grub was shot like a dog. A score had +been so executed already.</p> +<p>And, under a strain which had broken so many younger men, Old +Tarwater began to break. His cough had become terrible, and +had not his exhausted comrades slept like the dead, he would have +kept them awake nights. Also, he began to take chills, so +that he dressed up to go to bed. When he had finished so +dressing, not a rag of garment remained in his clothes bag. +All he possessed was on his back and swathed around his gaunt old +form.</p> +<p>“Gee!” said Big Bill. “If he puts all +he’s got on now, when it ain’t lower than twenty +above, what’ll he do later on when it goes down to fifty +and sixty below?”</p> +<p>They lined the rough-made boat down the mountain torrent, +nearly losing it a dozen times, and rowed across the south end of +Lake Linderman in the thick of a fall blizzard. Next +morning they planned to load and start, squarely into the teeth +of the north, on their perilous traverse of half a thousand miles +of lakes and rapids and box canyons. But before he went to +bed that night, Young Liverpool was out over the camp. He +returned to find his whole party asleep. Rousing Tarwater, +he talked with him in low tones.</p> +<p>“Listen, dad,” he said.—“You’ve +got a passage in our boat, and if ever a man earned a passage you +have. But you know yourself you’re pretty well along +in years, and your health right now ain’t exciting. +If you go on with us you’ll croak surer’n +hell.—Now wait till I finish, dad. The price for a +passage has jumped to five hundred dollars. I’ve been +throwing my feet and I’ve hustled a passenger. +He’s an official of the Alaska Commercial and just has to +get in. He’s bid up to six hundred to go with me in +our boat. Now the passage is yours. You sell it to +him, poke the six hundred into your jeans, and pull South for +California while the goin’s good. You can be in Dyea +in two days, and in California in a week more. What +d’ye say?”</p> +<p>Tarwater coughed and shivered for a space, ere he could get +freedom of breath for speech.</p> +<p>“Son,” he said, “I just want to tell you one +thing. I drove my four yoke of oxen across the Plains in +Forty-nine and lost nary a one. I drove them plumb to +Californy, and I freighted with them afterward out of +Sutter’s Fort to American Bar. Now I’m going to +Klondike. Ain’t nothing can stop me, ain’t +nothing at all. I’m going to ride that boat, with you +at the steering sweep, clean to Klondike, and I’m going to +shake three hundred thousand out of the moss-roots. That +being so, it’s contrary to reason and common sense for me +to sell out my passage. But I thank you kindly, son, I +thank you kindly.”</p> +<p>The young sailor shot out his hand impulsively and gripped the +old man’s.</p> +<p>“By God, dad!” he cried. “You’re +sure going to go then. You’re the real +stuff.” He looked with undisguised contempt across +the sleepers to where Charles Crayton snored in his red +beard. “They don’t seem to make your kind any +more, dad.”</p> +<p>Into the north they fought their way, although old-timers, +coming out, shook their heads and prophesied they would be frozen +in on the lakes. That the freeze-up might come any day was +patent, and delays of safety were no longer considered. For +this reason, Liverpool decided to shoot the rapid stream +connecting Linderman to Lake Bennett with the fully loaded +boat. It was the custom to line the empty boats down and to +portage the cargoes across. Even then many empty boats had +been wrecked. But the time was past for such +precaution.</p> +<p>“Climb out, dad,” Liverpool commanded as he +prepared to swing from the bank and enter the rapids.</p> +<p>Old Tarwater shook his white head.</p> +<p>“I’m sticking to the outfit,” he +declared. “It’s the only way to get +through. You see, son, I’m going to Klondike. +If I stick by the boat, then the boat just naturally goes to +Klondike, too. If I get out, then most likely you’ll +lose the boat.”</p> +<p>“Well, there’s no use in overloading,” +Charles announced, springing abruptly out on the bank as the boat +cast off.</p> +<p>“Next time you wait for my orders!” Liverpool +shouted ashore as the current gripped the boat. “And +there won’t be any more walking around rapids and losing +time waiting to pick you up!”</p> +<p>What took them ten minutes by river, took Charles half an hour +by land, and while they waited for him at the head of Lake +Bennett they passed the time of day with several dilapidated +old-timers on their way out. The famine news was graver +than ever. The North-west Mounted Police, stationed at the +foot of Lake Marsh where the gold-rushers entered Canadian +territory, were refusing to let a man past who did not carry with +him seven hundred pounds of grub. In Dawson City a thousand +men, with dog-teams, were waiting the freeze-up to come out over +the ice. The trading companies could not fill their +grub-contracts, and partners were cutting the cards to see which +should go and which should stay and work the claims.</p> +<p>“That settles it,” Charles announced, when he +learned of the action of the mounted police on the +boundary. “Old Man, you might as well start back +now.”</p> +<p>“Climb aboard!” Liverpool commanded. +“We’re going to Klondike, and old dad is going +along.”</p> +<p>A shift of gale to the south gave them a fair wind down Lake +Bennett, before which they ran under a huge sail made by +Liverpool. The heavy weight of outfit gave such ballast +that he cracked on as a daring sailor should when moments +counted. A shift of four points into the south-west, coming +just at the right time as they entered upon Caribou Crossing, +drove them down that connecting link to lakes Tagish and +Marsh. In stormy sunset and twilight—they made the +dangerous crossing of Great Windy Arm, wherein they beheld two +other boat-loads of gold-rushers capsize and drown.</p> +<p>Charles was for beaching for the night, but Liverpool held on, +steering down Tagish by the sound of the surf on the shoals and +by the occasional shore-fires that advertised wrecked or timid +argonauts. At four in the morning, he aroused +Charles. Old Tarwater, shiveringly awake, heard Liverpool +order Crayton aft beside him at the steering-sweep, and also +heard the one-sided conversation.</p> +<p>“Just listen, friend Charles, and keep your own mouth +shut,” Liverpool began. “I want you to get one +thing into your head and keep it there: <i>old dad’s going +by the police</i>. <i>Understand</i>? <i>He’s +going by</i>. When they examine our outfit, old dad’s +got a fifth share in it, savvee? That’ll put us all +’way under what we ought to have, but we can bluff it +through. Now get this, and get it hard: <i>there +ain’t going to be any fall-down on this +bluff</i>—”</p> +<p>“If you think I’d give away on the old +codger—” Charles began indignantly.</p> +<p>“You thought that,” Liverpool checked him, +“because I never mentioned any such thing. +Now—get me and get me hard: I don’t care what +you’ve been thinking. It’s what you’re +going to think. We’ll make the police post some time +this afternoon, and we’ve got to get ready to pull the +bluff without a hitch, and a word to the wise is +plenty.”</p> +<p>“If you think I’ve got it in my mind—” +Charles began again.</p> +<p>“Look here,” Liverpool shut him off. +“I don’t know what’s in your mind. I +don’t want to know. I want you to know what’s +in my mind. If there’s any slip-up, if old dad gets +turned back by the police, I’m going to pick out the first +quiet bit of landscape and take you ashore on it. And then +I’m going to beat you up to the Queen’s taste. +Get me, and get me hard. It ain’t going to be any +half-way beating, but a real, two-legged, two-fisted, he-man +beating. I don’t expect I’ll kill you, but +I’ll come damn near to half-killing you.”</p> +<p>“But what can I do?” Charles almost whimpered.</p> +<p>“Just one thing,” was Liverpool’s final +word. “You just pray. You pray so hard that old +dad gets by the police that he does get by. That’s +all. Go back to your blankets.”</p> +<p>Before they gained Lake Le Barge, the land was sheeted with +snow that would not melt for half a year. Nor could they +lay their boat at will against the bank, for the rim-ice was +already forming. Inside the mouth of the river, just ere it +entered Lake Le Barge, they found a hundred storm-bound boats of +the argonauts. Out of the north, across the full sweep of +the great lake, blew an unending snow gale. Three mornings +they put out and fought it and the cresting seas it drove that +turned to ice as they fell in-board. While the others broke +their hearts at the oars, Old Tarwater managed to keep up just +sufficient circulation to survive by chopping ice and throwing it +overboard.</p> +<p>Each day for three days, beaten to helplessness, they turned +tail on the battle and ran back into the sheltering river. +By the fourth day, the hundred boats had increased to three +hundred, and the two thousand argonauts on board knew that the +great gale heralded the freeze-up of Le Barge. Beyond, the +rapid rivers would continue to run for days, but unless they got +beyond, and immediately, they were doomed to be frozen in for six +months to come.</p> +<p>“This day we go through,” Liverpool +announced. “We turn back for nothing. And those +of us that dies at the oars will live again and go on +pulling.”</p> +<p>And they went through, winning half the length of the lake by +nightfall and pulling on through all the night hours as the wind +went down, falling asleep at the oars and being rapped awake by +Liverpool, toiling on through an age-long nightmare while the +stars came out and the surface of the lake turned to the +unruffledness of a sheet of paper and froze skin-ice that tinkled +like broken glass as their oar-blades shattered it.</p> +<p>As day broke clear and cold, they entered the river, with +behind them a sea of ice. Liverpool examined his aged +passenger and found him helpless and almost gone. When he +rounded the boat to against the rim-ice to build a fire and warm +up Tarwater inside and out, Charles protested against such loss +of time.</p> +<p>“This ain’t business, so don’t you come +horning in,” Liverpool informed him. “I’m +running the boat trip. So you just climb out and chop +firewood, and plenty of it. I’ll take care of +dad. You, Anson, make a fire on the bank. And you, +Bill, set up the Yukon stove in the boat. Old dad +ain’t as young as the rest of us, and for the rest of this +voyage he’s going to have a fire on board to sit +by.”</p> +<p>All of which came to pass; and the boat, in the grip of the +current, like a river steamer with smoke rising from the two +joints of stove-pipe, grounded on shoals, hung up on split +currents, and charged rapids and canyons, as it drove deeper into +the Northland winter. The Big and Little Salmon rivers were +throwing mush-ice into the main river as they passed, and, below +the riffles, anchor-ice arose from the river bottom and coated +the surface with crystal scum. Night and day the rim-ice +grew, till, in quiet places, it extended out a hundred yards from +shore. And Old Tarwater, with all his clothes on, sat by +the stove and kept the fire going. Night and day, not +daring to stop for fear of the imminent freeze-up, they dared to +run, an increasing mushiness of ice running with them.</p> +<p>“What ho, old hearty?” Liverpool would call out at +times.</p> +<p>“Cheer O,” Old Tarwater had learned to +respond.</p> +<p>“What can I ever do for you, son, in payment?” +Tarwater, stoking the fire, would sometimes ask Liverpool, +beating now one released hand and now the other as he fought for +circulation where he steered in the freezing stern-sheets.</p> +<p>“Just break out that regular song of yours, old +Forty-Niner,” was the invariable reply.</p> +<p>And Tarwater would lift his voice in the cackling chant, as he +lifted it at the end, when the boat swung in through driving +cake-ice and moored to the Dawson City bank, and all waterfront +Dawson pricked its ears to hear the triumphant pæan:</p> +<p class="poetry">Like Argus of the ancient times,<br /> + We leave this modern Greece,<br /> +Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum,<br /> + To shear the Golden Fleece,</p> +<p>Charles did it, but he did it so discreetly that none of his +party, least of all the sailor, ever learned of it. He saw +two great open barges being filled up with men, and, on inquiry, +learned that these were grubless ones being rounded up and sent +down the Yukon by the Committee of Safety. The barges were +to be towed by the last little steamboat in Dawson, and the hope +was that Fort Yukon, where lay the stranded steamboats, would be +gained before the river froze. At any rate, no matter what +happened to them, Dawson would be relieved of their +grub-consuming presence. So to the Committee of Safety +Charles went, privily to drop a flea in its ear concerning +Tarwater’s grubless, moneyless, and aged condition. +Tarwater was one of the last gathered in, and when Young +Liverpool returned to the boat, from the bank he saw the barges +in a run of cake-ice, disappearing around the bend below +Moose-hide Mountain.</p> +<p>Running in cake-ice all the way, and several times escaping +jams in the Yukon Flats, the barges made their hundreds of miles +of progress farther into the north and froze up cheek by jowl +with the grub-fleet. Here, inside the Arctic Circle, Old +Tarwater settled down to pass the long winter. Several +hours’ work a day, chopping firewood for the steamboat +companies, sufficed to keep him in food. For the rest of +the time there was nothing to do but hibernate in his log +cabin.</p> +<p>Warmth, rest, and plenty to eat, cured his hacking cough and +put him in as good physical condition as was possible for his +advanced years. But, even before Christmas, the lack of +fresh vegetables caused scurvy to break out, and disappointed +adventurer after disappointed adventurer took to his bunk in +abject surrender to this culminating misfortune. Not so +Tarwater. Even before the first symptoms appeared on him, +he was putting into practice his one prescription, namely, +exercise. From the junk of the old trading post he +resurrected a number of rusty traps, and from one of the +steamboat captains he borrowed a rifle.</p> +<p>Thus equipped, he ceased from wood-chopping, and began to make +more than a mere living. Nor was he downhearted when the +scurvy broke out on his own body. Ever he ran his +trap-lines and sang his ancient chant. Nor could the +pessimist shake his surety of the three hundred thousand of +Alaskan gold he as going to shake out of the moss-roots.</p> +<p>“But this ain’t gold-country,” they told +him.</p> +<p>“Gold is where you find it, son, as I should know who +was mining before you was born, ’way back in +Forty-Nine,” was his reply. “What was Bonanza +Creek but a moose-pasture? No miner’d look at it; yet +they washed five-hundred-dollar pans and took out fifty million +dollars. Eldorado was just as bad. For all you know, +right under this here cabin, or right over the next hill, is +millions just waiting for a lucky one like me to come and shake +it out.”</p> +<p>At the end of January came his disaster. Some powerful +animal that he decided was a bob-cat, managing to get caught in +one of his smaller traps, dragged it away. A heavy +snow-fall put a stop midway to his pursuit, losing the trail for +him and losing himself. There were but several hours of +daylight each day between the twenty hours of intervening +darkness, and his efforts in the grey light and continually +falling snow succeeded only in losing him more thoroughly. +Fortunately, when winter snow falls in the Northland the +thermometer invariably rises; so, instead of the customary forty +and fifty and even sixty degrees below zero, the temperature +remained fifteen below. Also, he was warmly clad and had a +full matchbox. Further to mitigate his predicament, on the +fifth day he killed a wounded moose that weighed over half a +ton. Making his camp beside it on a spruce-bottom, he was +prepared to last out the winter, unless a searching party found +him or his scurvy grew worse.</p> +<p>But at the end of two weeks there had been no sign of search, +while his scurvy had undeniably grown worse. Against his +fire, banked from outer cold by a shelter-wall of spruce-boughs, +he crouched long hours in sleep and long hours in waking. +But the waking hours grew less, becoming semi-waking or +half-dreaming hours as the process of hibernation worked their +way with him. Slowly the sparkle point of consciousness and +identity that was John Tarwater sank, deeper and deeper, into the +profounds of his being that had been compounded ere man was man, +and while he was becoming man, when he, first of all animals, +regarded himself with an introspective eye and laid the +beginnings of morality in foundations of nightmare peopled by the +monsters of his own ethic-thwarted desires.</p> +<p>Like a man in fever, waking to intervals of consciousness, so +Old Tarwater awoke, cooked his moose-meat, and fed the fire; but +more and more time he spent in his torpor, unaware of what was +day-dream and what was sleep-dream in the content of his +unconsciousness. And here, in the unforgetable crypts of +man’s unwritten history, unthinkable and unrealizable, like +passages of nightmare or impossible adventures of lunacy, he +encountered the monsters created of man’s first morality +that ever since have vexed him into the spinning of fantasies to +elude them or do battle with them.</p> +<p>In short, weighted by his seventy years, in the vast and +silent loneliness of the North, Old Tarwater, as in the delirium +of drug or anæsthetic, recovered within himself, the +infantile mind of the child-man of the early world. It was +in the dusk of Death’s fluttery wings that Tarwater thus +crouched, and, like his remote forebear, the child-man, went to +myth-making, and sun-heroizing, himself hero-maker and the hero +in quest of the immemorable treasure difficult of attainment.</p> +<p>Either must he attain the treasure—for so ran the +inexorable logic of the shadow-land of the unconscious—or +else sink into the all-devouring sea, the blackness eater of the +light that swallowed to extinction the sun each night . . . the +sun that arose ever in rebirth next morning in the east, and that +had become to man man’s first symbol of immortality through +rebirth. All this, in the deeps of his unconsciousness (the +shadowy western land of descending light), was the near dusk of +Death down into which he slowly ebbed.</p> +<p>But how to escape this monster of the dark that from within +him slowly swallowed him? Too deep-sunk was he to dream of +escape or feel the prod of desire to escape. For him +reality had ceased. Nor from within the darkened chamber of +himself could reality recrudesce. His years were too heavy +upon him, the debility of disease and the lethargy and torpor of +the silence and the cold were too profound. Only from +without could reality impact upon him and reawake within him an +awareness of reality. Otherwise he would ooze down through +the shadow-realm of the unconscious into the all-darkness of +extinction.</p> +<p>But it came, the smash of reality from without, crashing upon +his ear drums in a loud, explosive snort. For twenty days, +in a temperature that had never risen above fifty below, no +breath of wind had blown movement, no slightest sound had broken +the silence. Like the smoker on the opium couch refocusing +his eyes from the spacious walls of dream to the narrow confines +of the mean little room, so Old Tarwater stared vague-eyed before +him across his dying fire, at a huge moose that stared at him in +startlement, dragging a wounded leg, manifesting all signs of +extreme exhaustion; it, too, had been straying blindly in the +shadow-land, and had wakened to reality only just ere it stepped +into Tarwater’s fire.</p> +<p>He feebly slipped the large fur mitten lined with thickness of +wool from his right hand. Upon trial he found the trigger +finger too numb for movement. Carefully, slowly, through +long minutes, he worked the bare hand inside his blankets, up +under his fur <i>parka</i>, through the chest openings of his +shirts, and into the slightly warm hollow of his left +arm-pit. Long minutes passed ere the finger could move, +when, with equal slowness of caution, he gathered his rifle to +his shoulder and drew bead upon the great animal across the +fire.</p> +<p>At the shot, of the two shadow-wanderers, the one reeled +downward to the dark and the other reeled upward to the light, +swaying drunkenly on his scurvy-ravaged legs, shivering with +nervousness and cold, rubbing swimming eyes with shaking fingers, +and staring at the real world all about him that had returned to +him with such sickening suddenness. He shook himself +together, and realized that for long, how long he did not know, +he had bedded in the arms of Death. He spat, with definite +intention, heard the spittle crackle in the frost, and judged it +must be below and far below sixty below. In truth, that day +at Fort Yukon, the spirit thermometer registered seventy-five +degrees below zero, which, since freezing-point is thirty-two +above, was equivalent to one hundred and seven degrees of +frost.</p> +<p>Slowly Tarwater’s brain reasoned to action. Here, +in the vast alone, dwelt Death. Here had come two wounded +moose. With the clearing of the sky after the great cold +came on, he had located his bearings, and he knew that both +wounded moose had trailed to him from the east. Therefore, +in the east, were men—whites or Indians he could not tell, +but at any rate men who might stand by him in his need and help +moor him to reality above the sea of dark.</p> +<p>He moved slowly, but he moved in reality, girding himself with +rifle, ammunition, matches, and a pack of twenty pounds of +moose-meat. Then, an Argus rejuvenated, albeit lame of both +legs and tottery, he turned his back on the perilous west and +limped into the sun-arising, re-birthing east. . . .</p> +<p>Days later—how many days later he was never to +know—dreaming dreams and seeing visions, cackling his old +gold-chant of Forty-Nine, like one drowning and swimming feebly +to keep his consciousness above the engulfing dark, he came out +upon the snow-slope to a canyon and saw below smoke rising and +men who ceased from work to gaze at him. He tottered down +the hill to them, still singing; and when he ceased from lack of +breath they called him variously: Santa Claus, Old Christmas, +Whiskers, the Last of the Mohicans, and Father Christmas. +And when he stood among them he stood very still, without speech, +while great tears welled out of his eyes. He cried +silently, a long time, till, as if suddenly bethinking himself, +he sat down in the snow with much creaking and crackling of his +joints, and from this low vantage point toppled sidewise and +fainted calmly and easily away.</p> +<p>In less than a week Old Tarwater was up and limping about the +housework of the cabin, cooking and dish-washing for the five men +of the creek. Genuine sourdoughs (pioneers) they were, +tough and hard-bitten, who had been buried so deeply inside the +Circle that they did not know there was a Klondike Strike. +The news he brought them was their first word of it. They +lived on an almost straight-meat diet of moose, caribou, and +smoked salmon, eked out with wild berries and somewhat succulent +wild roots they had stocked up with in the summer. They had +forgotten the taste of coffee, made fire with a burning glass, +carried live fire-sticks with them wherever they travelled, and +in their pipes smoked dry leaves that bit the tongue and were +pungent to the nostrils.</p> +<p>Three years before, they had prospected from the head-reaches +of the Koyokuk northward and clear across to the mouth of the +Mackenzie on the Arctic Ocean. Here, on the whaleships, +they had beheld their last white men and equipped themselves with +the last white man’s grub, consisting principally of salt +and smoking tobacco. Striking south and west on the long +traverse to the junction of the Yukon and Porcupine at Fort +Yukon, they had found gold on this creek and remained over to +work the ground.</p> +<p>They hailed the advent of Tarwater with joy, never tired of +listening to his tales of Forty-Nine, and rechristened him Old +Hero. Also, with tea made from spruce needles, with +concoctions brewed from the inner willow bark, and with sour and +bitter roots and bulbs from the ground, they dosed his scurvy out +of him, so that he ceased limping and began to lay on flesh over +his bony framework. Further, they saw no reason at all why +he should not gather a rich treasure of gold from the ground.</p> +<p>“Don’t know about all of three hundred +thousand,” they told him one morning, at breakfast, ere +they departed to their work, “but how’d a hundred +thousand do, Old Hero? That’s what we figure a claim +is worth, the ground being badly spotted, and we’ve already +staked your location notices.”</p> +<p>“Well, boys,” Old Tarwater answered, “and +thanking you kindly, all I can say is that a hundred thousand +will do nicely, and very nicely, for a starter. Of course, +I ain’t goin’ to stop till I get the full three +hundred thousand. That’s what I come into the country +for.”</p> +<p>They laughed and applauded his ambition and reckoned +they’d have to hunt a richer creek for him. And Old +Hero reckoned that as the spring came on and he grew spryer, +he’d have to get out and do a little snooping around +himself.</p> +<p>“For all anybody knows,” he said, pointing to a +hillside across the creek bottom, “the moss under the snow +there may be plumb rooted in nugget gold.”</p> +<p>He said no more, but as the sun rose higher and the days grew +longer and warmer, he gazed often across the creek at the +definite bench-formation half way up the hill. And, one +day, when the thaw was in full swing, he crossed the stream and +climbed to the bench. Exposed patches of ground had already +thawed an inch deep. On one such patch he stopped, gathered +a bunch of moss in his big gnarled hands, and ripped it out by +the roots. The sun smouldered on dully glistening +yellow. He shook the handful of moss, and coarse nuggets, +like gravel, fell to the ground. It was the Golden Fleece +ready for the shearing.</p> +<p>Not entirely unremembered in Alaskan annals is the summer +stampede of 1898 from Fort Yukon to the bench diggings of +Tarwater Hill. And when Tarwater sold his holdings to the +Bowdie interests for a sheer half-million and faced for +California, he rode a mule over a new-cut trail, with convenient +road houses along the way, clear to the steamboat landing at Fort +Yukon.</p> +<p>At the first meal on the ocean-going steamship out of St. +Michaels, a waiter, greyish-haired, pain-ravaged of face, +scurvy-twisted of body, served him. Old Tarwater was +compelled to look him over twice in order to make certain he was +Charles Crayton.</p> +<p>“Got it bad, eh, son?” Tarwater queried.</p> +<p>“Just my luck,” the other complained, after +recognition and greeting. “Only one of the party that +the scurvy attacked. I’ve been through hell. +The other three are all at work and healthy, getting grub-stake +to prospect up White River this winter. Anson’s +earning twenty-five a day at carpentering, Liverpool getting +twenty logging for the saw-mill, and Big Bill’s getting +forty a day as chief sawyer. I tried my best, and if it +hadn’t been for scurvy . . .”</p> +<p>“Sure, son, you done your best, which ain’t much, +you being naturally irritable and hard from too much +business. Now I’ll tell you what. You +ain’t fit to work crippled up this way. I’ll +pay your passage with the captain in kind remembrance of the +voyage you gave me, and you can lay up and take it easy the rest +of the trip. And what are your circumstances when you land +at San Francisco?”</p> +<p>Charles Crayton shrugged his shoulders.</p> +<p>“Tell you what,” Tarwater continued. +“There’s work on the ranch for you till you can start +business again.”</p> +<p>“I could manage your business for you—” +Charles began eagerly.</p> +<p>“No, siree,” Tarwater declared emphatically. +“But there’s always post-holes to dig, and cordwood +to chop, and the climate’s fine . . . ”</p> +<p>Tarwater arrived home a true prodigal grandfather for whom the +fatted calf was killed and ready. But first, ere he sat +down at table, he must stroll out and around. And sons and +daughters of his flesh and of the law needs must go with him +fulsomely eating out of the gnarled old hand that had half a +million to disburse. He led the way, and no opinion he +slyly uttered was preposterous or impossible enough to draw +dissent from his following. Pausing by the ruined water +wheel which he had built from the standing timber, his face +beamed as he gazed across the stretches of Tarwater Valley, and +on and up the far heights to the summit of Tarwater +Mountain—now all his again.</p> +<p>A thought came to him that made him avert his face and blow +his nose in order to hide the twinkle in his eyes. Still +attended by the entire family, he strolled on to the dilapidated +barn. He picked up an age-weathered single-tree from the +ground.</p> +<p>“William,” he said. “Remember that +little conversation we had just before I started to +Klondike? Sure, William, you remember. You told me I +was crazy. And I said my father’d have walloped the +tar out of me with a single-tree if I’d spoke to him that +way.”</p> +<p>“Aw, but that was only foolin’,” William +temporized.</p> +<p>William was a grizzled man of forty-five, and his wife and +grown sons stood in the group, curiously watching Grandfather +Tarwater take off his coat and hand it to Mary to hold.</p> +<p>“William—come here,” he commanded +imperatively.</p> +<p>No matter how reluctantly, William came.</p> +<p>“Just a taste, William, son, of what my father give me +often enough,” Old Tarwater crooned, as he laid on his +son’s back and shoulders with the single-tree. +“Observe, I ain’t hitting you on the head. My +father had a gosh-wollickin’ temper and never drew the line +at heads when he went after tar.—Don’t jerk your +elbows back that way! You’re likely to get a crack on +one by accident. And just tell me one thing, William, son: +is there nary notion in your head that I’m +crazy?”</p> +<p>“No!” William yelped out in pain, as he danced +about. “You ain’t crazy, father of course you +ain’t crazy!”</p> +<p>“You said it,” Old Tarwater remarked +sententiously, tossing the single-tree aside and starting to +struggle into his coat. “Now let’s all go in +and eat.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">THE END.</p> +<p>Glen Ellen, California,<br /> + <i>September</i> 14, 1916.</p> +<h2><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>THE +PRINCESS</h2> +<p>A <span class="smcap">fire</span> burned cheerfully in the +jungle camp, and beside the fire lolled a cheerful-seeming though +horrible-appearing man. This was a hobo jungle, pitched in +a thin strip of woods that lay between a railroad embankment and +the bank of a river. But no hobo was the man. So +deep-sunk was he in the social abyss that a proper hobo would not +sit by the same fire with him. A gay-cat, who is an +ignorant new-comer on the “Road,” might sit with such +as he, but only long enough to learn better. Even low down +bindle-stiffs and stew-bums, after a once-over, would have passed +this man by. A genuine hobo, a couple of punks, or a bunch +of tender-yeared road-kids might have gone through his rags for +any stray pennies or nickels and kicked him out into the +darkness. Even an alki-stiff would have reckoned himself +immeasurably superior.</p> +<p>For this man was that hybrid of tramp-land, an alki-stiff that +has degenerated into a stew-bum, with so little self-respect that +he will never “boil-up,” and with so little pride +that he will eat out of a garbage can. He was truly +horrible-appearing. He might have been sixty years of age; +he might have been ninety. His garments might have been +discarded by a rag-picker. Beside him, an unrolled bundle +showed itself as consisting of a ragged overcoat and containing +an empty and smoke-blackened tomato can, an empty and battered +condensed milk can, some dog-meat partly wrapped in brown paper +and evidently begged from some butcher-shop, a carrot that had +been run over in the street by a wagon-wheel, three +greenish-cankered and decayed potatoes, and a sugar-bun with a +mouthful bitten from it and rescued from the gutter, as was made +patent by the gutter-filth that still encrusted it.</p> +<p>A prodigious growth of whiskers, greyish-dirty and untrimmed +for years, sprouted from his face. This hirsute growth +should have been white, but the season was summer and it had not +been exposed to a rain-shower for some time. What was +visible of the face looked as if at some period it had stopped a +hand-grenade. The nose was so variously malformed in its +healed brokenness that there was no bridge, while one nostril, +the size of a pea, opened downward, and the other, the size of a +robin’s egg, tilted upward to the sky. One eye, of +normal size, dim-brown and misty, bulged to the verge of popping +out, and as if from senility wept copiously and +continuously. The other eye, scarcely larger than a +squirrel’s and as uncannily bright, twisted up obliquely +into the hairy scar of a bone-crushed eyebrow. And he had +but one arm.</p> +<p>Yet was he cheerful. On his face, in mild degree, was +depicted sensuous pleasure as he lethargically scratched his ribs +with his one hand. He pawed over his food-scraps, debated, +then drew a twelve-ounce druggist bottle from his inside +coat-pocket. The bottle was full of a colourless liquid, +the contemplation of which made his little eye burn brighter and +quickened his movements. Picking up the tomato can, he +arose, went down the short path to the river, and returned with +the can filled with not-nice river water. In the condensed +milk can he mixed one part of water with two parts of fluid from +the bottle. This colourless fluid was druggist’s +alcohol, and as such is known in tramp-land as +“alki.”</p> +<p>Slow footsteps, coming down the side of the railroad +embankment, alarmed him ere he could drink. Placing the can +carefully upon the ground between his legs, he covered it with +his hat and waited anxiously whatever impended.</p> +<p>Out of the darkness emerged a man as filthy ragged as +he. The new-comer, who might have been fifty, and might +have been sixty, was grotesquely fat. He bulged +everywhere. He was composed of bulges. His bulbous +nose was the size and shape of a turnip. His eyelids bulged +and his blue eyes bulged in competition with them. In many +places the seams of his garments had parted across the bulges of +body. His calves grew into his feet, for the broken elastic +sides of his Congress gaiters were swelled full with the fat of +him. One arm only he sported, from the shoulder of which +was suspended a small and tattered bundle with the mud caked dry +on the outer covering from the last place he had pitched his +doss. He advanced with tentative caution, made sure of the +harmlessness of the man beside the fire, and joined him.</p> +<p>“Hello, grandpa,” the new-comer greeted, then +paused to stare at the other’s flaring, sky-open +nostril. “Say, Whiskers, how’d ye keep the +night dew out of that nose o’ yourn?”</p> +<p>Whiskers growled an incoherence deep in his throat and spat +into the fire in token that he was not pleased by the +question.</p> +<p>“For the love of Mike,” the fat man chuckled, +“if you got caught out in a rainstorm without an umbrella +you’d sure drown, wouldn’t you?”</p> +<p>“Can it, Fatty, can it,” Whiskers muttered +wearily. “They ain’t nothin’ new in that +line of chatter. Even the bulls hand it out to +me.”</p> +<p>“But you can still drink, I hope”; Fatty at the +same time mollified and invited, with his one hand deftly pulling +the slip-knots that fastened his bundle.</p> +<p>From within the bundle he brought to light a twelve-ounce +bottle of alki. Footsteps coming down the embankment +alarmed him, and he hid the bottle under his hat on the ground +between his legs.</p> +<p>But the next comer proved to be not merely one of their own +ilk, but likewise to have only one arm. So forbidding of +aspect was he that greetings consisted of no more than +grunts. Huge-boned, tall, gaunt to cadaverousness, his face +a dirty death’s head, he was as repellent a nightmare of +old age as ever Doré imagined. His toothless, +thin-lipped mouth was a cruel and bitter slash under a great +curved nose that almost met the chin and that was like a +buzzard’s beak. His one hand, lean and crooked, was a +talon. The beady grey eyes, unblinking and unwavering, were +bitter as death, as bleak as absolute zero and as +merciless. His presence was a chill, and Whiskers and Fatty +instinctively drew together for protection against the unguessed +threat of him. Watching his chance, privily, Whiskers +snuggled a chunk of rock several pounds in weigh close to his +hand if need for action should arise. Fatty duplicated the +performance.</p> +<p>Then both sat licking their lips, guiltily embarrassed, while +the unblinking eyes of the terrible one bored into them, now into +one, now into another, and then down at the rock-chunks of their +preparedness.</p> +<p>“Huh!” sneered the terrible one, with such +dreadfulness of menace as to cause Whiskers and Fatty +involuntarily to close their hands down on their cave-man’s +weapons.</p> +<p>“Huh!” the other repeated, reaching his one talon +into his side coat pocket with swift definiteness. “A +hell of a chance you two cheap bums ’d have with +me.”</p> +<p>The talon emerged, clutching ready for action a six-pound iron +quoit.</p> +<p>“We ain’t lookin’ for trouble, Slim,” +Fatty quavered.</p> +<p>“Who in hell are you to call me +‘Slim’?” came the snarling answer.</p> +<p>“Me? I’m just Fatty, an’ seein’ +’s I never seen you before—”</p> +<p>“An’ I suppose that’s Whiskers, there, with +the gay an’ festive lamp tan-going into his eyebrow +an’ the God-forgive-us nose joy-riding all over his +mug?”</p> +<p>“It’ll do, it’ll do,” Whiskers +muttered uncomfortably. “One monica’s as good +as another, I find, at my time of life. And everybody hands +it out to me anyway. And I need an umbrella when it rains +to keep from getting drowned, an’ all the rest of +it.”</p> +<p>“I ain’t used to company—don’t like +it,” Slim growled. “So if you guys want to +stick around, mind your step, that’s all, mind your +step.”</p> +<p>He fished from his pocket a cigar stump, self-evidently shot +from the gutter, and prepared to put it in his mouth to +chew. Then he changed his mind, glared at his companions +savagely, and unrolled his bundle. Appeared in his hand a +druggist’s bottle of alki.</p> +<p>“Well,” he snarled, “I suppose I gotta give +you cheap skates a drink when I ain’t got more’n +enough for a good petrification for myself.”</p> +<p>Almost a softening flicker of light was imminent in his +withered face as he beheld the others proudly lift their hats and +exhibit their own supplies.</p> +<p>“Here’s some water for the mixin’s,” +Whiskers said, proffering his tomato-can of river slush. +“Stockyards just above,” he added +apologetically. “But they say—”</p> +<p>“Huh!” Slim snapped short, mixing the drink. +“I’ve drunk worse’n stockyards in my +time.”</p> +<p>Yet when all was ready, cans of alki in their solitary hands, +the three things that had once been men hesitated, as if of old +habit, and next betrayed shame as if at self-exposure.</p> +<p>Whiskers was the first to brazen it.</p> +<p>“I’ve sat in at many a finer drinking,” he +bragged.</p> +<p>“With the pewter,” Slim sneered.</p> +<p>“With the silver,” Whiskers corrected.</p> +<p>Slim turned a scorching eye-interrogation on Fatty.</p> +<p>Fatty nodded.</p> +<p>“Beneath the salt,” said Slim.</p> +<p>“Above it,” came Fatty’s correction. +“I was born above it, and I’ve never travelled second +class. First or steerage, but no intermediate in +mine.”</p> +<p>“Yourself?” Whiskers queried of Slim.</p> +<p>“In broken glass to the Queen, God bless her,” +Slim answered, solemnly, without snarl or sneer.</p> +<p>“In the pantry?” Fatty insinuated.</p> +<p>Simultaneously Slim reached for his quoit, and Whiskers and +Fatty for their rocks.</p> +<p>“Now don’t let’s get feverish,” Fatty +said, dropping his own weapon. “We aren’t +scum. We’re gentlemen. Let’s drink like +gentlemen.”</p> +<p>“Let it be a real drinking,” Whiskers +approved.</p> +<p>“Let’s get petrified,” Slim agreed. +“Many a distillery’s flowed under the bridge since we +were gentlemen; but let’s forget the long road we’ve +travelled since, and hit our doss in the good old fashion in +which every gentleman went to bed when we were young.”</p> +<p>“My father done it—did it,” Fatty concurred +and corrected, as old recollections exploded long-sealed +brain-cells of connotation and correct usage.</p> +<p>The other two nodded a descent from similar fathers, and +elevated their tin cans of alcohol.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>By the time each had finished his own bottle and from his rags +fished forth a second one, their brains were well-mellowed and +a-glow, although they had not got around to telling their real +names. But their English had improved. They spoke it +correctly, while the argo of tramp-land ceased from their +lips.</p> +<p>“It’s my constitution,” Whiskers was +explaining. “Very few men could go through what I +have and live to tell the tale. And I never took any care +of myself. If what the moralists and the physiologists say +were true, I’d have been dead long ago. And +it’s the same with you two. Look at us, at our +advanced years, carousing as the young ones don’t dare, +sleeping out in the open on the ground, never sheltered from +frost nor rain nor storm, never afraid of pneumonia or rheumatism +that would put half the young ones on their backs in +hospital.”</p> +<p>He broke off to mix another drink, and Fatty took up the +tale.</p> +<p>“And we’ve had our fun,” he boasted, +“and speaking of sweethearts and all,” he cribbed +from Kipling, “‘We’ve rogued and we’ve +ranged—’”</p> +<p>“‘In our time,’” Slim completed the +crib for him.</p> +<p>“I should say so, I should say so,” Fatty +confirmed. “And been loved by princesses—at +least I have.”</p> +<p>“Go on and tell us about it,” Whiskers +urged. “The night’s young, and why +shouldn’t we remember back to the roofs of +kings?”</p> +<p>Nothing loth, Fatty cleared his throat for the recital and +cast about in his mind for the best way to begin.</p> +<p>“It must be known that I came of good family. +Percival Delaney, let us say, yes, let us say Percival Delaney, +was not unknown at Oxford once upon a time—not for +scholarship, I am frank to admit; but the gay young dogs of that +day, if any be yet alive, would remember him—”</p> +<p>“My people came over with the Conqueror,” Whiskers +interrupted, extending his hand to Fatty’s in +acknowledgment of the introduction.</p> +<p>“What name?” Fatty queried. “I did not +seem quite to catch it.”</p> +<p>“Delarouse, Chauncey Delarouse. The name will +serve as well as any.”</p> +<p>Both completed the handshake and glanced to Slim.</p> +<p>“Oh, well, while we’re about it . . . +” Fatty urged.</p> +<p>“Bruce Cadogan Cavendish,” Slim growled +morosely. “Go on, Percival, with your princesses and +the roofs of kings.”</p> +<p>“Oh, I was a rare young devil,” Percival obliged, +“after I played ducks and drakes at home and sported out +over the world. And I was some figure of a man before I +lost my shape—polo, steeple-chasing, boxing. I won +medals at buckjumping in Australia, and I held more than several +swimming records from the quarter of a mile up. Women +turned their heads to look when I went by. The women! +God bless them!”</p> +<p>And Fatty, alias Percival Delaney, a grotesque of manhood, put +his bulgy hand to his puffed lips and kissed audibly into the +starry vault of the sky.</p> +<p>“And the Princess!” he resumed, with another kiss +to the stars. “She was as fine a figure of a woman as +I was a man, as high-spirited and courageous, as reckless and +dare-devilish. Lord, Lord, in the water she was a mermaid, +a sea-goddess. And when it came to blood, beside her I was +parvenu. Her royal line traced back into the mists of +antiquity.</p> +<p>“She was not a daughter of a fair-skinned folk. +Tawny golden was she, with golden-brown eyes, and her hair that +fell to her knees was blue-black and straight, with just the +curly tendrilly tendency that gives to woman’s hair its +charm. Oh, there were no kinks in it, any more than were +there kinks in the hair of her entire genealogy. For she +was Polynesian, glowing, golden, lovely and lovable, royal +Polynesian.”</p> +<p>Again he paused to kiss his hand to the memory of her, and +Slim, alias Bruce Cadogan Cavendish, took advantage to +interject:</p> +<p>“Huh! Maybe you didn’t shine in scholarship, +but at least you gleaned a vocabulary out of Oxford.”</p> +<p>“And in the South Seas garnered a better vocabulary from +the lexicon of Love,” Percival was quick on the uptake.</p> +<p>“It was the island of Talofa,” he went on, +“meaning love, the Isle of Love, and it was her +island. Her father, the king, an old man, sat on his mats +with paralysed knees and drank squareface gin all day and most of +the night, out of grief, sheer grief. She, my princess, was +the only issue, her brother having been lost in their double +canoe in a hurricane while coming up from a voyage to +Samoa. And among the Polynesians the royal women have equal +right with the men to rule. In fact, they trace their +genealogies always by the female line.”</p> +<p>To this both Chauncey Delarouse and Bruce Cadogan Cavendish +nodded prompt affirmation.</p> +<p>“Ah,” said Percival, “I perceive you both +know the South Seas, wherefore, without undue expenditure of +verbiage on my part, I am assured that you will appreciate the +charm of my princess, the Princess Tui-nui of Talofa, the +Princess of the Isle of Love.”</p> +<p>He kissed his hand to her, sipped from his condensed milk can +a man-size drink of druggist’s alcohol, and to her again +kissed her hand.</p> +<p>“But she was coy, and ever she fluttered near to me but +never near enough. When my arm went out to her to girdle +her, presto, she was not there. I knew, as never before, +nor since, the thousand dear and delightful anguishes of love +frustrated but ever resilient and beckoned on by the very goddess +of love.”</p> +<p>“Some vocabulary,” Bruce Cadogan Cavendish +muttered in aside to Chauncey Delarouse. But Percival +Delaney was not to be deterred. He kissed his pudgy hand +aloft into the night and held warmly on.</p> +<p>“No fond agonies of rapture deferred that were not +lavished upon me by my dear Princess, herself ever a luring +delight of promise flitting just beyond my reach. Every +sweet lover’s inferno unguessed of by Dante she led me +through. Ah! Those swooning tropic nights, under our +palm trees, the distant surf a langourous murmur as from some +vast sea shell of mystery, when she, my Princess, all but melted +to my yearning, and with her laughter, that was as silver strings +by buds and blossoms smitten, all but made lunacy of my +lover’s ardency.</p> +<p>“It was by my wrestling with the champions of Talofa +that I first interested her. It was by my prowess at +swimming that I awoke her. And it was by a certain swimming +deed that I won from her more than coquettish smiles and shy +timidities of feigned retreat.</p> +<p>“We were squidding that day, out on the reef—you +know how, undoubtedly, diving down the face of the wall of the +reef, five fathoms, ten fathoms, any depth within reason, and +shoving our squid-sticks into the likely holes and crannies of +the coral where squid might be lairing. With the +squid-stick, bluntly sharp at both ends, perhaps a foot long, and +held crosswise in the hand, the trick was to gouge any lazying +squid until he closed his tentacles around fist, stick and +arm.—Then you had him, and came to the surface with him, +and hit him in the head which is in the centre of him, and peeled +him off into the waiting canoe. . . . And to think I used to do +that!”</p> +<p>Percival Delaney paused a moment, a glimmer of awe on his +rotund face, as he contemplated the mighty picture of his +youth.</p> +<p>“Why, I’ve pulled out a squid with tentacles eight +feet long, and done it under fifty feet of water. I could +stay down four minutes. I’ve gone down, with a +coral-rock to sink me, in a hundred and ten feet to clear a +fouled anchor. And I could back-dive with a once-over and +go in feet-first from eighty feet above the +surface—”</p> +<p>“Quit it, delete it, cease it,” Chauncey Delarouse +admonished testily. “Tell of the Princess. +That’s what makes old blood leap again. Almost can I +see her. Was she wonderful?”</p> +<p>Percival Delaney kissed unutterable affirmation.</p> +<p>“I have said she was a mermaid. She was. I +know she swam thirty-six hours before being rescued, after her +schooner was capsized in a double-squall. I have seen her +do ninety feet and bring up pearl shell in each hand. She +was wonderful. As a woman she was ravishing, sublime. +I have said she was a sea-goddess. She was. Oh, for a +Phidias or a Praxiteles to have made the wonder of her body +immortal!</p> +<p>“And that day, out for squid on the reef, I was almost +sick for her. Mad—I know I was mad for her. We +would step over the side from the big canoe, and swim down, side +by side, into the delicious depths of cool and colour, and she +would look at me, as we swam, and with her eyes tantalize me to +further madness. And at last, down, far down, I lost myself +and reached for her. She eluded me like the mermaid she +was, and I saw the laughter on her face as she fled. She +fled deeper, and I knew I had her for I was between her and the +surface; but in the muck coral sand of the bottom she made a +churning with her squid stick. It was the old trick to +escape a shark. And she worked it on me, rolling the water +so that I could not see her. And when I came up, she was +there ahead of me, clinging to the side of the canoe and +laughing.</p> +<p>“Almost I would not be denied. But not for nothing +was she a princess. She rested her hand on my arm and +compelled me to listen. We should play a game, she said, +enter into a competition for which should get the more squid, the +biggest squid, and the smallest squid. Since the wagers +were kisses, you can well imagine I went down on the first next +dive with soul aflame.</p> +<p>“I got no squid. Never again in all my life have I +dived for squid. Perhaps we were five fathoms down and +exploring the face of the reefwall for lurking places of our +prey, when it happened. I had found a likely lair and just +proved it empty, when I felt or sensed the nearness of something +inimical. I turned. There it was, alongside of me, +and no mere fish-shark. Fully a dozen feet in length, with +the unmistakable phosphorescent cat’s eye gleaming like a +drowning star, I knew it for what it was, a tiger shark.</p> +<p>“Not ten feet to the right, probing a coral fissure with +her squid stick, was the Princess, and the tiger shark was +heading directly for her. My totality of thought was +precipitated to consciousness in a single all-embracing +flash. The man-eater must be deflected from her, and what +was I, except a mad lover who would gladly fight and die, or more +gladly fight and live, for his beloved? Remember, she was +the woman wonderful, and I was aflame for her.</p> +<p>“Knowing fully the peril of my act, I thrust the +blunt-sharp end of my squid-stick into the side of the shark, +much as one would attract a passing acquaintance with a +thumb-nudge in the ribs. And the man-eater turned on +me. You know the South Seas, and you know that the tiger +shark, like the bald-face grizzly of Alaska, never gives +trail. The combat, fathoms deep under the sea, was +on—if by combat may be named such a one-sided struggle.</p> +<p>“The Princess unaware, caught her squid and rose to the +surface. The man-eater rushed me. I fended him off +with both hands on his nose above his thousand-toothed open +mouth, so that he backed me against the sharp coral. The +scars are there to this day. Whenever I tried to rise, he +rushed me, and I could not remain down there indefinitely without +air. Whenever he rushed me, I fended him off with my hands +on his nose. And I would have escaped unharmed, except for +the slip of my right hand. Into his mouth it went to the +elbow. His jaws closed, just below the elbow. You +know how a shark’s teeth are. Once in they cannot be +released. They must go through to complete the bite, but +they cannot go through heavy bone. So, from just below the +elbow he stripped the bone clean to the articulation of the +wrist-joint, where his teeth met and my good right hand became +his for an appetizer.</p> +<p>“But while he was doing this, I drove the thumb of my +left hand, to the hilt into his eye-orifice and popped out his +eye. This did not stop him. The meat had maddened +him. He pursued the gushing stump of my wrist. Half a +dozen times I fended with my intact arm. Then he got the +poor mangled arm again, closed down, and stripped the meat off +the bone from the shoulder down to the elbow-joint, where his +teeth met and he was free of his second mouthful of me. +But, at the same time, with my good arm, I thumbed out his +remaining eye.”</p> +<p>Percival Delaney shrugged his shoulders, ere he resumed.</p> +<p>“From above, those in the canoe had beheld the entire +happening and were loud in praise of my deed. To this day +they still sing the song of me, and tell the tale of me. +And the Princess.” His pause was brief but +significant. “The Princess married me. . . . Oh, +well-a-day and lack-a-day, the whirligig of time and fortune, the +topsyturviness of luck, the wooden shoe going up and the polished +heel descending a French gunboat, a conquered island kingdom of +Oceania, to-day ruled over by a peasant-born, unlettered, +colonial gendarme, and . . . ”</p> +<p>He completed the sentence and the tale by burying his face in +the down-tilted mouth of the condensed milk can and by gurgling +the corrosive drink down his throat in thirsty gulps.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>After an appropriate pause, Chauncey Delarouse, otherwise +Whiskers, took up the tale.</p> +<p>“Far be it from me to boast of no matter what place of +birth I have descended from to sit here by this fire with such as +. . . as chance along. I may say, however, that I, too, was +once a considerable figure of a man. I may add that it was +horses, plus parents too indulgent, that exiled me out over the +world. I may still wonder to query: ‘Are +Dover’s cliffs still white?’”</p> +<p>“Huh!” Bruce Cadogan Cavendish sneered. +“Next you’ll be asking: ‘How fares the old Lord +Warden?’”</p> +<p>“And I took every liberty, and vainly, with a +constitution that was iron,” Whiskers hurried on. +“Here I am with my three score and ten behind me, and back +on that long road have I buried many a youngster that was as rare +and devilish as I, but who could not stand the pace. I knew +the worst too young. And now I know the worst too +old. But there was a time, alas all too short, when I knew, +the best.</p> +<p>“I, too, kiss my hand to the Princess of my heart. +She was truly a princess, Polynesian, a thousand miles and more +away to the eastward and the south from Delaney’s Isle of +Love. The natives of all around that part of the South Seas +called it the Jolly Island. Their own name, the name of the +people who dwelt thereon, translates delicately and justly into +‘The Island of Tranquil Laughter.’ On the chart +you will find the erroneous name given to it by the old +navigators to be Manatomana. The seafaring gentry the round +ocean around called it the Adamless Eden. And the +missionaries for a time called it God’s Witness—so +great had been their success at converting the inhabitants. +As for me, it was, and ever shall be, Paradise.</p> +<p>“It was <i>my</i> Paradise, for it was there my Princess +lived. John Asibeli Tungi was king. He was +full-blooded native, descended out of the oldest and highest +chief-stock that traced back to Manua which was the primeval sea +home of the race. Also was he known as John the +Apostate. He lived a long life and apostasized +frequently. First converted by the Catholics, he threw down +the idols, broke the tabus, cleaned out the native priests, +executed a few of the recalcitrant ones, and sent all his +subjects to church.</p> +<p>“Next he fell for the traders, who developed in him a +champagne thirst, and he shipped off the Catholic priests to New +Zealand. The great majority of his subjects always followed +his lead, and, having no religion at all, ensued the time of the +Great Licentiousness, when by all South Seas missionaries his +island, in sermons, was spoken of as Babylon.</p> +<p>“But the traders ruined his digestion with too much +champagne, and after several years he fell for the Gospel +according to the Methodists, sent his people to church, and +cleaned up the beach and the trading crowd so spick and span that +he would not permit them to smoke a pipe out of doors on Sunday, +and, fined one of the chief traders one hundred gold sovereigns +for washing his schooner’s decks on the Sabbath morn.</p> +<p>“That was the time of the Blue Laws, but perhaps it was +too rigorous for King John. Off he packed the Methodists, +one fine day, exiled several hundred of his people to Samoa for +sticking to Methodism, and, of all things, invented a religion of +his own, with himself the figure-head of worship. In this +he was aided and abetted by a renegade Fijian. This lasted +five years. Maybe he grew tired of being God, or maybe it +was because the Fijian decamped with the six thousand pounds in +the royal treasury; but at any rate the Second Reformed Wesleyans +got him, and his entire kingdom went Wesleyan. The pioneer +Wesleyan missionary he actually made prime minister, and what he +did to the trading crowd was a caution. Why, in the end, +King John’s kingdom was blacklisted and boycotted by the +traders till the revenues diminished to zero, the people went +bankrupt, and King John couldn’t borrow a shilling from his +most powerful chief.</p> +<p>“By this time he was getting old, and philosophic, and +tolerant, and spiritually atavistic. He fired out the +Second Reformed Wesleyans, called back the exiles from Samoa, +invited in the traders, held a general love-feast, took the lid +off, proclaimed religious liberty and high tariff, and as for +himself went back to the worship of his ancestors, dug up the +idols, reinstated a few octogenarian priests, and observed the +tabus. All of which was lovely for the traders, and +prosperity reigned. Of course, most of his subjects +followed him back into heathen worship. Yet quite a +sprinkling of Catholics, Methodists and Wesleyans remained true +to their beliefs and managed to maintain a few squalid, one-horse +churches. But King John didn’t mind, any more than +did he the high times of the traders along the beach. +Everything went, so long as the taxes were paid. Even when +his wife, Queen Mamare, elected to become a Baptist, and invited +in a little, weazened, sweet-spirited, club-footed Baptist +missionary, King John did not object. All he insisted on +was that these wandering religions should be self-supporting and +not feed a pennyworth’s out of the royal coffers.</p> +<p>“And now the threads of my recital draw together in the +paragon of female exquisiteness—my Princess.”</p> +<p>Whiskers paused, placed carefully on the ground his half-full +condensed milk can with which he had been absently toying, and +kissed the fingers of his one hand audibly aloft.</p> +<p>“She was the daughter of Queen Mamare. She was the +woman wonderful. Unlike the Diana type of Polynesian, she +was almost ethereal. She <i>was</i> ethereal, sublimated by +purity, as shy and modest as a violet, as fragile-slender as a +lily, and her eyes, luminous and shrinking tender, were as +asphodels on the sward of heaven. She was all flower, and +fire, and dew. Hers was the sweetness of the mountain rose, +the gentleness of the dove. And she was all of good as well +as all of beauty, devout in her belief in her mother’s +worship, which was the worship introduced by Ebenezer Naismith, +the Baptist missionary. But make no mistake. She was +no mere sweet spirit ripe for the bosom of Abraham. All of +exquisite deliciousness of woman was she. She was woman, +all woman, to the last sensitive quivering atom of her—</p> +<p>“And I? I was a wastrel of the beach. The +wildest was not so wild as I, the keenest not so keen, of all +that wild, keen trading crowd. It was esteemed I played the +stiffest hand of poker. I was the only living man, white, +brown, or black, who dared run the Kuni-kuni Passage in the +dark. And on a black night I have done it under reefs in a +gale of wind. Well, anyway, I had a bad reputation on a +beach where there were no good reputations. I was reckless, +dangerous, stopped at nothing in fight or frolic; and the trading +captains used to bring boiler-sheeted prodigies from the vilest +holes of the South Pacific to try and drink me under the +table. I remember one, a calcined Scotchman from the New +Hebrides. It was a great drinking. He died of it, and +we laded him aboard ship, pickled in a cask of trade rum, and +sent him back to his own place. A sample, a fair sample, of +the antic tricks we cut up on the beach of Manatomana.</p> +<p>“And of all unthinkable things, what did I up and do, +one day, but look upon the Princess to find her good and to fall +in love with her. It was the real thing. I was as mad +as a March hare, and after that I got only madder. I +reformed. Think of that! Think of what a slip of a +woman can do to a busy, roving man!—By the Lord Harry, +it’s true. I reformed. I went to church. +Hear me! I became converted. I cleared my soul before +God and kept my hands—I had two then—off the ribald +crew of the beach when it laughed at this, my latest antic, and +wanted to know what was my game.</p> +<p>“I tell you I reformed, and gave myself in passion and +sincerity to a religious experience that has made me tolerant of +all religion ever since. I discharged my best captain for +immorality. So did I my cook, and a better never boiled +water in Manatomana. For the same reason I discharged my +chief clerk. And for the first time in the history of +trading my schooners to the westward carried Bibles in their +stock. I built a little anchorite bungalow up town on a +mango-lined street squarely alongside the little house occupied +by Ebenezer Naismith. And I made him my pal and comrade, +and found him a veritable honey pot of sweetnesses and +goodnesses. And he was a man, through and through a +man. And he died long after like a man, which I would like +to tell you about, were the tale of it not so deservedly +long.</p> +<p>“It was the Princess, more than the missionary, who was +responsible for my expressing my faith in works, and especially +in that crowning work, the New Church, Our Church, the +Queen-mother’s church.</p> +<p>“‘Our poor church,’ she said to me, one +night after prayer-meeting. I had been converted only a +fortnight. ‘It is so small its congregation can never +grow. And the roof leaks. And King John, my +hard-hearted father, will not contribute a penny. Yet he +has a big balance in the treasury. And Manatomana is not +poor. Much money is made and squandered, I know. I +hear the gossip of the wild ways of the beach. Less than a +month ago you lost more in one night, gambling at cards, than the +cost of the upkeep of our poor church for a year.’</p> +<p>“And I told her it was true, but that it was before I +had seen the light. (I’d had an infernal run of bad +luck.) I told her I had not tasted liquor since, nor turned +a card. I told her that the roof would be repaired at once, +by Christian carpenters selected by her from the +congregation. But she was filled with the thought of a +great revival that Ebenezer Naismith could preach—she was a +dear saint—and she spoke of a great church, saying:</p> +<p>“‘You are rich. You have many schooners, and +traders in far islands, and I have heard of a great contract you +have signed to recruit labour for the German plantations of +Upolu. They say, next to Sweitzer, you are the richest +trader here. I should love to see some use of all this +money placed to the glory of God. It would be a noble thing +to do, and I should be proud to know the man who would do +it.’</p> +<p>“I told her that Ebenezer Naismith would preach the +revival, and that I would build a church great enough in which to +house it.</p> +<p>“‘As big as the Catholic church?’ she +asked.</p> +<p>“This was the ruined cathedral, built at the time when +the entire population was converted, and it was a large order; +but I was afire with love, and I told her that the church I would +build would be even bigger.</p> +<p>“‘But it will take money,’ I +explained. ‘And it takes time to make +money.’</p> +<p>“‘You have much,’ she said. +‘Some say you have more money than my father, the King.</p> +<p>“‘I have more credit,’ I explained. +‘But you do not understand money. It takes money to +have credit. So, with the money I have, and the credit I +have, I will work to make more money and credit, and the church +shall be built.’</p> +<p>“Work! I was a surprise to myself. It is an +amazement, the amount of time a man finds on his hands after +he’s given up carousing, and gambling, and all the +time-eating diversions of the beach. And I didn’t +waste a second of all my new-found time. Instead I worked +it overtime. I did the work of half a dozen men. I +became a driver. My captains made faster runs than ever and +earned bigger bonuses, as did my supercargoes, who saw to it that +my schooners did not loaf and dawdle along the way. And I +saw to it that my supercargoes did see to it.</p> +<p>“And good! By the Lord Harry I was so good it +hurt. My conscience got so expansive and fine-strung it +lamed me across the shoulders to carry it around with me. +Why, I even went back over my accounts and paid Sweitzer fifty +quid I’d jiggered him out of in a deal in Fiji three years +before. And I compounded the interest as well.</p> +<p>“Work! I planted sugar cane—the first +commercial planting on Manatomana. I ran in cargoes of +kinky-heads from Malaita, which is in the Solomons, till I had +twelve hundred of the blackbirds putting in cane. And I +sent a schooner clear to Hawaii to bring back a dismantled sugar +mill and a German who said he knew the field-end of cane. +And he did, and he charged me three hundred dollars screw a +month, and I took hold of the mill-end. I installed the +mill myself, with the help of several mechanics I brought up from +Queensland.</p> +<p>“Of course there was a rival. His name was +Motomoe. He was the very highest chief blood next to King +John’s. He was full native, a strapping, handsome +man, with a glowering way of showing his dislikes. He +certainly glowered at me when I began hanging around the +palace. He went back in my history and circulated the +blackest tales about me. The worst of it was that most of +them were true. He even made a voyage to Apia to find +things out—as if he couldn’t find a plenty right +there on the beach of Manatomana! And he sneered at my +failing for religion, and at my going to prayer-meeting, and, +most of all, at my sugar-planting. He challenged me to +fight, and I kept off of him. He threatened me, and I +learned in the nick of time of his plan to have me knocked on the +head. You see, he wanted the Princess just as much as I +did, and I wanted her more.</p> +<p>“She used to play the piano. So did I, once. +But I never let her know after I’d heard her play the first +time. And she thought her playing was wonderful, the dear, +fond girl! You know the sort, the mechanical one-two-three +tum-tum-tum school-girl stuff. And now I’ll tell you +something funnier. Her playing <i>was</i> wonderful to +me. The gates of heaven opened to me when she played. +I can see myself now, worn out and dog-tired after the long day, +lying on the mats of the palace veranda and gazing upon her at +the piano, myself in a perfect idiocy of bliss. Why, this +idea she had of her fine playing was the one flaw in her +deliciousness of perfection, and I loved her for it. It +kind of brought her within my human reach. Why, when she +played her one-two-three, tum-tum-tum, I was in the seventh +heaven of bliss. My weariness fell from me. I loved +her, and my love for her was clean as flame, clean as my love for +God. And do you know, into my fond lover’s fancy +continually intruded the thought that God in most ways must look +like her.</p> +<p>“—That’s right, Bruce Cadogan Cavendish, +sneer as you like. But I tell you that’s love that +I’ve been describing. That’s all. +It’s love. It’s the realest, purest, finest +thing that can happen to a man. And I know what I’m +talking about. It happened to me.”</p> +<p>Whiskers, his beady squirrel’s eye glittering from out +his ruined eyebrow like a live coal in a jungle ambush, broke off +long enough to down a sedative draught from his condensed milk +can and to mix another.</p> +<p>“The cane,” he resumed, wiping his prodigious mat +of face hair with the back of his hand. “It matured +in sixteen months in that climate, and I was ready, just ready +and no more, with the mill for the grinding. Naturally, it +did not all mature at once, but I had planted in such succession +that I could grind for nine months steadily, while more was being +planted and the ratoons were springing up.</p> +<p>“I had my troubles the first several days. If it +wasn’t one thing the matter with the mill, it was +another. On the fourth day, Ferguson, my engineer, had to +shut down several hours in order to remedy his own +troubles. I was bothered by the feeder. After having +the niggers (who had been feeding the cane) pour cream of lime on +the rollers to keep everything sweet, I sent them out to join the +cane-cutting squads. So I was all alone at that end, just +as Ferguson started up the mill, just as I discovered what was +the matter with the feed-rollers, and just as Motomoe strolled +up.</p> +<p>“He stood there, in Norfolk jacket, pigskin puttees, and +all the rest of the fashionable get-up out of a bandbox, sneering +at me covered with filth and grease to the eyebrows and looking +like a navvy. And, the rollers now white from the lime, +I’d just seen what was wrong. The rollers were not in +plumb. One side crushed the cane well, but the other side +was too open. I shoved my fingers in on that side. +The big, toothed cogs on the rollers did not touch my +fingers. And yet, suddenly, they did. With the grip +of ten thousand devils, my finger-tips were caught, drawn in, and +pulped to—well, just pulp. And, like a slick of cane, +I had started on my way. There was no stopping me. +Ten thousand horses could not have pulled me back. There +was nothing to stop me. Hand, arm, shoulder, head, and +chest, down to the toes of me, I was doomed to feed through.</p> +<p>“It did hurt. It hurt so much it did not hurt me +at all. Quite detached, almost may I say, I looked on my +hand being ground up, knuckle by knuckle, joint by joint, the +back of the hand, the wrist, the forearm, all in order slowly and +inevitably feeding in. O engineer hoist by thine own +petard! O sugar-maker crushed by thine own +cane-crusher!</p> +<p>“Motomoe sprang forward involuntarily, and the sneer was +chased from his face by an expression of solicitude. Then +the beauty of the situation dawned on him, and he chuckled and +grinned. No, I didn’t expect anything of him. +Hadn’t he tried to knock me on the head? What could +he do anyway? He didn’t know anything about +engines.</p> +<p>“I yelled at the top of my lungs to Ferguson to shut off +the engine, but the roar of the machinery drowned my voice. +And there I stood, up to the elbow and feeding right on in. +Yes, it did hurt. There were some astonishing twinges when +special nerves were shredded and dragged out by the roots. +But I remember that I was surprised at the time that it did not +hurt worse.</p> +<p>“Motomoe made a movement that attracted my +attention. At the same time he growled out loud, as if he +hated himself, ‘I’m a fool.’ What he had +done was to pick up a cane-knife—you know the kind, as big +as a machete and as heavy. And I was grateful to him in +advance for putting me out of my misery. There wasn’t +any sense in slowly feeding in till my head was crushed, and +already my arm was pulped half way from elbow to shoulder, and +the pulping was going right on. So I was grateful, as I +bent my head to the blow.</p> +<p>“‘Get your head out of the way, you idiot!’ +he barked at me.</p> +<p>“And then I understood and obeyed. I was a big +man, and he took two hacks to do it; but he hacked my arm off +just outside the shoulder and dragged me back and laid me down on +the cane.</p> +<p>“Yes, the sugar paid—enormously; and I built for +the Princess the church of her saintly dream, and . . . she +married me.”</p> +<p>He partly assuaged his thirst, and uttered his final word.</p> +<p>“Alackaday! Shuttlecock and battle-dore. And +this at, the end of it all, lined with boilerplate that even +alcohol will not corrode and that only alcohol will tickle. +Yet have I lived, and I kiss my hand to the dear dust of my +Princess long asleep in the great mausoleum of King John that +looks across the Vale of Manona to the alien flag that floats +over the bungalow of the British Government House. . . +”</p> +<p>Fatty pledged him sympathetically, and sympathetically drank +out of his own small can. Bruce Cadogan Cavendish glared +into the fire with implacable bitterness. He was a man who +preferred to drink by himself. Across the thin lips that +composed the cruel slash of his mouth played twitches of mockery +that caught Fatty’s eye. And Fatty, making sure first +that his rock-chunk was within reach, challenged.</p> +<p>“Well, how about yourself, Bruce Cadogan +Cavendish? It’s your turn.”</p> +<p>The other lifted bleak eyes that bored into Fatty’s +until he physically betrayed uncomfortableness.</p> +<p>“I’ve lived a hard life,” Slim grated +harshly. “What do I know about love +passages?”</p> +<p>“No man of your build and make-up could have escaped +them,” Fatty wheedled.</p> +<p>“And what of it?” Slim snarled. +“It’s no reason for a gentleman to boast of amorous +triumphs.”</p> +<p>“Oh, go on, be a good fellow,” Fatty urged. +“The night’s still young. We’ve still +some drink left. Delarouse and I have contributed our +share. It isn’t often that three real ones like us +get together for a telling. Surely you’ve got at +least one adventure in love you aren’t ashamed to tell +about—”</p> +<p>Bruce Cadogan Cavendish pulled forth his iron quoit and seemed +to debate whether or not he should brain the other. He +sighed, and put back the quoit.</p> +<p>“Very well, if you will have it,” he surrendered +with manifest reluctance. “Like you two, I have had a +remarkable constitution. And right now, speaking of +armour-plate lining, I could drink the both of you down when you +were at your prime. Like you two, my beginnings were far +distant and different. That I am marked with the hall-mark +of gentlehood there is no discussion . . . unless either of you +care to discuss the matter now . . . ”</p> +<p>His one hand slipped into his pocket and clutched the +quoit. Neither of his auditors spoke nor betrayed any +awareness of his menace.</p> +<p>“It occurred a thousand miles to the westward of +Manatomana, on the island of Tagalag,” he continued +abruptly, with an air of saturnine disappointment in that there +had been no discussion. “But first I must tell you of +how I got to Tagalag. For reasons I shall not mention, by +paths of descent I shall not describe, in the crown of my manhood +and the prime of my devilishness in which Oxford renegades and +racing younger sons had nothing on me, I found myself master and +owner of a schooner so well known that she shall remain +historically nameless. I was running blackbird labour from +the west South Pacific and the Coral Sea to the plantations of +Hawaii and the nitrate mines of Chili—”</p> +<p>“It was you who cleaned out the entire population +of—” Fatty exploded, ere he could check his +speech.</p> +<p>The one hand of Bruce Cadogan Cavendish flashed pocketward and +flashed back with the quoit balanced ripe for business.</p> +<p>“Proceed,” Fatty sighed. “I . . . I +have quite forgotten what I was going to say.”</p> +<p>“Beastly funny country over that way,” the +narrator drawled with perfect casualness. +“You’ve read this Sea Wolf stuff—”</p> +<p>“You weren’t the Sea Wolf,” Whiskers broke +in with involuntary positiveness.</p> +<p>“No, sir,” was the snarling answer. +“The Sea Wolf’s dead, isn’t he? And +I’m still alive, aren’t I?”</p> +<p>“Of course, of course,” Whiskers conceded. +“He suffocated head-first in the mud off a wharf in +Victoria a couple of years back.”</p> +<p>“As I was saying—and I don’t like +interruptions,” Bruce Cadogan Cavendish proceeded, +“it’s a beastly funny country over that way. I +was at Taki-Tiki, a low island that politically belongs to the +Solomons, but that geologically doesn’t at all, for the +Solomons are high islands. Ethnographically it belongs to +Polynesia, Melanesia, and Micronesia, because all the breeds of +the South Pacific have gravitated to it by canoe-drift and +intricately, degeneratively, and amazingly interbred. The +scum of the scrapings of the bottom of the human pit, +biologically speaking, resides in Taka-Tiki. And I know the +bottom and whereof I speak.</p> +<p>“It was a beastly funny time of it I had, diving out +shell, fishing beche-de-mer, trading hoop-iron and hatchets for +copra and ivory-nuts, running niggers and all the rest of +it. Why, even in Fiji the Lotu was having a hard time of it +and the chiefs still eating long-pig. To the westward it +was fierce—funny little black kinky-heads, man-eaters the +last Jack of them, and the jackpot fat and spilling over with +wealth—”</p> +<p>“Jack-pots?” Fatty queried. At sight of an +irritable movement, he added: “You see, I never got over to +the West like Delarouse and you.”</p> +<p>“They’re all head-hunters. Heads are +valuable, especially a white man’s head. They +decorate the canoe-houses and devil-devil houses with them. +Each village runs a jack-pot, and everybody antes. Whoever +brings in a white man’s head takes the pot. If there +aren’t openers for a long time, the pot grows to tremendous +proportions. Beastly funny, isn’t it?</p> +<p>“I know. Didn’t a Holland mate die on me of +blackwater? And didn’t I win a pot myself? It +was this way. We were lying at Lango-lui at the time. +I never let on, and arranged the affair with Johnny, my +boat-steerer. He was a kinky-head himself from Port +Moresby. He cut the dead mate’s head off and sneaked +ashore in the night, while I whanged away with my rifle as if I +were trying to get him. He opened the pot with the +mate’s head, and got it, too. Of course, next day I +sent in a landing boat, with two covering boats, and fetched him +off with the loot.”</p> +<p>“How big was the pot?” Whiskers asked. +“I heard of a pot at Orla worth eighty quid.”</p> +<p>“To commence with,” Slim answered, “there +were forty fat pigs, each worth a fathom of prime shell-money, +and shell-money worth a quid a fathom. That was two hundred +dollars right there. There were ninety-eight fathoms of +shell-money, which is pretty close to five hundred in +itself. And there were twenty-two gold sovereigns. I +split it four ways: one-fourth to Johnny, one-fourth to the ship, +one-fourth to me as owner, and one-fourth to me as skipper. +Johnny never complained. He’d never had so much +wealth all at one time in his life. Besides, I gave him a +couple of the mate’s old shirts. And I fancy the +mate’s head is still there decorating the +canoe-house.”</p> +<p>“Not exactly Christian burial of a Christian,” +Whiskers observed.</p> +<p>“But a lucrative burial,” Slim retorted. +“I had to feed the rest of the mate over-side to the sharks +for nothing. Think of feeding an eight-hundred-dollar head +along with it. It would have been criminal waste and stark +lunacy.</p> +<p>“Well, anyway, it was all beastly funny, over there to +the westward. And, without telling you the scrape I got +into at Taki-Tiki, except that I sailed away with two hundred +kinky-heads for Queensland labour, and for my manner of +collecting them had two British ships of war combing the Pacific +for me, I changed my course and ran to the westward thinking to +dispose of the lot to the Spanish plantations on Bangar.</p> +<p>“Typhoon season. We caught it. The <i>Merry +Mist</i> was my schooner’s name, and I had thought she was +stoutly built until she hit that typhoon. I never saw such +seas. They pounded that stout craft to pieces, literally +so. The sticks were jerked out of her, deckhouses +splintered to match-wood, rails ripped off, and, after the worst +had passed, the covering boards began to go. We just +managed to repair what was left of one boat and keep the schooner +afloat only till the sea went down barely enough to get +away. And we outfitted that boat in a hurry. The +carpenter and I were the last, and we had to jump for it as he +went down. There were only four of us—”</p> +<p>“Lost all the niggers?” Whiskers inquired.</p> +<p>“Some of them swam for some time,” Slim +replied. “But I don’t fancy they made the +land. We were ten days’ in doing it. And we had +a spanking breeze most of the way. And what do you think we +had in the boat with us? Cases of square-face gin and cases +of dynamite. Funny, wasn’t it? Well, it got +funnier later on. Oh, there was a small beaker of water, a +little salt horse, and some salt-water-soaked sea +biscuit—enough to keep us alive to Tagalag.</p> +<p>“Now Tagalag is the disappointingest island I’ve +ever beheld. It shows up out of the sea so as you can make +its fall twenty miles off. It is a volcano cone thrust up +out of deep sea, with a segment of the crater wall broken +out. This gives sea entrance to the crater itself, and +makes a fine sheltered harbour. And that’s all. +Nothing lives there. The outside and the inside of the +crater are too steep. At one place, inside, is a patch of +about a thousand coconut palms. And that’s all, as I +said, saving a few insects. No four-legged thing, even a +rat, inhabits the place. And it’s funny, most awful +funny, with all those coconuts, not even a coconut crab. +The only meat-food living was schools of mullet in the +harbour—fattest, finest, biggest mullet I ever laid eyes +on.</p> +<p>“And the four of us landed on the little beach and set +up housekeeping among the coconuts with a larder full of dynamite +and square-face. Why don’t you laugh? +It’s funny, I tell you. Try it some +time.—Holland gin and straight coconut diet. +I’ve never been able to look a confectioner’s window +in the face since. Now I’m not strong on religion +like Chauncey Delarouse there, but I have some primitive ideas; +and my concept of hell is an illimitable coconut plantation, +stocked with cases of square-face and populated by ship-wrecked +mariners. Funny? It must make the devil scream.</p> +<p>“You know, straight coconut is what the agriculturists +call an unbalanced ration. It certainly unbalanced our +digestions. We got so that whenever hunger took an extra +bite at us, we took another drink of gin. After a couple of +weeks of it, Olaf, a squarehead sailor, got an idea. It +came when he was full of gin, and we, being in the same fix, just +watched him shove a cap and short fuse into a stick of dynamite +and stroll down toward the boat.</p> +<p>“It dawned on me that he was going to shoot fish if +there were any about; but the sun was beastly hot, and I just +reclined there and hoped he’d have luck.</p> +<p>“About half an hour after he disappeared we heard the +explosion. But he didn’t come back. We waited +till the cool of sunset, and down on the beach found what had +become of him. The boat was there all right, grounded by +the prevailing breeze, but there was no Olaf. He would +never have to eat coconut again. We went back, shakier than +ever, and cracked another square-face.</p> +<p>“The next day the cook announced that he would rather +take his chance with dynamite than continue trying to exist on +coconut, and that, though he didn’t know anything about +dynamite, he knew a sight too much about coconut. So we bit +the detonator down for him, shoved in a fuse, and picked him a +good fire-stick, while he jolted up with a couple more stiff ones +of gin.</p> +<p>“It was the same programme as the day before. +After a while we heard the explosion and at twilight went down to +the boat, from which we scraped enough of the cook for a +funeral.</p> +<p>“The carpenter and I stuck it out two days more, then we +drew straws for it and it was his turn. We parted with +harsh words; for he wanted to take a square-face along to refresh +himself by the way, while I was set against running any chance of +wasting the gin. Besides, he had more than he could carry +then, and he wobbled and staggered as he walked.</p> +<p>“Same thing, only there was a whole lot of him left for +me to bury, because he’d prepared only half a stick. +I managed to last it out till next day, when, after duly +fortifying myself, I got sufficient courage to tackle the +dynamite. I used only a third of a stick—you know, +short fuse, with the end split so as to hold the head of a safety +match. That’s where I mended my predecessors’ +methods. Not using the match-head, they’d too-long +fuses. Therefore, when they spotted a school of mullet; and +lighted the fuse, they had to hold the dynamite till the fuse +burned short before they threw it. If they threw it too +soon, it wouldn’t go off the instant it hit the water, +while the splash of it would frighten the mullet away. +Funny stuff dynamite. At any rate, I still maintain mine +was the safer method.</p> +<p>“I picked up a school of mullet before I’d been +rowing five minutes. Fine big fat ones they were, and I +could smell them over the fire. When I stood up, fire-stick +in one hand, dynamite stick in the other, my knees were knocking +together. Maybe it was the gin, or the anxiousness, or the +weakness and the hunger, and maybe it was the result of all of +them, but at any rate I was all of a shake. Twice I failed +to touch the fire-stick to the dynamite. Then I did, heard +the match-head splutter, and let her go.</p> +<p>“Now I don’t know what happened to the others, but +I know what I did. I got turned about. Did you ever +stem a strawberry and throw the strawberry away and pop the stem +into your mouth? That’s what I did. I threw the +fire-stick into the water after the mullet and held on to the +dynamite. And my arm went off with the stick when it went +off. . . . ”</p> +<p>Slim investigated the tomato-can for water to mix himself a +drink, but found it empty. He stood up.</p> +<p>“Heigh ho,” he yawned, and started down the path +to the river.</p> +<p>In several minutes he was back. He mixed the due +quantity of river slush with the alcohol, took a long, solitary +drink, and stared with bitter moodiness into the fire.</p> +<p>“Yes, but . . . ” Fatty suggested. +“What happened then?”</p> +<p>“Oh,” sad Slim. “Then the princess +married me, of course.”</p> +<p>“But you were the only person left, and there +wasn’t any princess . . . ” Whiskers cried out +abruptly, and then let his voice trail away to embarrassed +silence.</p> +<p>Slim stared unblinkingly into the fire.</p> +<p>Percival Delaney and Chauncey Delarouse looked at each +other. Quietly, in solemn silence, each with his one arm +aided the one arm of the other in rolling and tying his +bundle. And in silence, bundles slung on shoulders, they +went away out of the circle of firelight. Not until they +reached the top of the railroad embankment did they speak.</p> +<p>“No gentleman would have done it,” said +Whiskers.</p> +<p>“No gentleman would have done it,” Fatty +agreed.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">THE END</p> +<p>Glen Ellen, California,<br /> + <i>September</i> 26, 1916.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED ONE***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 788-h.htm or 788-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/8/788 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Red One + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: January, 1997 [EBook #788] +[This file was first posted on January 25, 1997] +[Most recently updated: September 17, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE RED ONE *** + + + + +Transcribed from the 1919 Mills and Boon edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +THE RED ONE + + + + +Contents: + + +The Red One +The Hussy +Like Argus of the Ancient Times +The Princess + + + + +STORY: THE RED ONE + + + + +There it was! The abrupt liberation of sound! As he timed it with +his watch, Bassett likened it to the trump of an archangel. Walls +of cities, he meditated, might well fall down before so vast and +compelling a summons. For the thousandth time vainly he tried to +analyse the tone-quality of that enormous peal that dominated the +land far into the strong-holds of the surrounding tribes. The +mountain gorge which was its source rang to the rising tide of it +until it brimmed over and flooded earth and sky and air. With the +wantonness of a sick man's fancy, he likened it to the mighty cry +of some Titan of the Elder World vexed with misery or wrath. +Higher and higher it arose, challenging and demanding in such +profounds of volume that it seemed intended for ears beyond the +narrow confines of the solar system. There was in it, too, the +clamour of protest in that there were no ears to hear and +comprehend its utterance. + +- Such the sick man's fancy. Still he strove to analyse the sound. +Sonorous as thunder was it, mellow as a golden bell, thin and sweet +as a thrummed taut cord of silver--no; it was none of these, nor a +blend of these. There were no words nor semblances in his +vocabulary and experience with which to describe the totality of +that sound. + +Time passed. Minutes merged into quarters of hours, and quarters +of hours into half-hours, and still the sound persisted, ever +changing from its initial vocal impulse yet never receiving fresh +impulse--fading, dimming, dying as enormously as it had sprung into +being. It became a confusion of troubled mutterings and babblings +and colossal whisperings. Slowly it withdrew, sob by sob, into +whatever great bosom had birthed it, until it whimpered deadly +whispers of wrath and as equally seductive whispers of delight, +striving still to be heard, to convey some cosmic secret, some +understanding of infinite import and value. It dwindled to a ghost +of sound that had lost its menace and promise, and became a thing +that pulsed on in the sick man's consciousness for minutes after it +had ceased. When he could hear it no longer, Bassett glanced at +his watch. An hour had elapsed ere that archangel's trump had +subsided into tonal nothingness. + +Was this, then, HIS dark tower?--Bassett pondered, remembering his +Browning and gazing at his skeleton-like and fever-wasted hands. +And the fancy made him smile--of Childe Roland bearing a slug-horn +to his lips with an arm as feeble as his was. Was it months, or +years, he asked himself, since he first heard that mysterious call +on the beach at Ringmanu? To save himself he could not tell. The +long sickness had been most long. In conscious count of time he +knew of months, many of them; but he had no way of estimating the +long intervals of delirium and stupor. And how fared Captain +Bateman of the blackbirder Nari? he wondered; and had Captain +Bateman's drunken mate died of delirium tremens yet? + +From which vain speculations, Bassett turned idly to review all +that had occurred since that day on the beach of Ringmanu when he +first heard the sound and plunged into the jungle after it. Sagawa +had protested. He could see him yet, his queer little monkeyish +face eloquent with fear, his back burdened with specimen cases, in +his hands Bassett's butterfly net and naturalist's shot-gun, as he +quavered, in Beche-de-mer English: "Me fella too much fright along +bush. Bad fella boy, too much stop'm along bush." + +Bassett smiled sadly at the recollection. The little New Hanover +boy had been frightened, but had proved faithful, following him +without hesitancy into the bush in the quest after the source of +the wonderful sound. No fire-hollowed tree-trunk, that, throbbing +war through the jungle depths, had been Bassett's conclusion. +Erroneous had been his next conclusion, namely, that the source or +cause could not be more distant than an hour's walk, and that he +would easily be back by mid-afternoon to be picked up by the Nari's +whale-boat. + +"That big fella noise no good, all the same devil-devil," Sagawa +had adjudged. And Sagawa had been right. Had he not had his head +hacked off within the day? Bassett shuddered. Without doubt +Sagawa had been eaten as well by the "bad fella boys too much" that +stopped along the bush. He could see him, as he had last seen him, +stripped of the shot-gun and all the naturalist's gear of his +master, lying on the narrow trail where he had been decapitated +barely the moment before. Yes, within a minute the thing had +happened. Within a minute, looking back, Bassett had seen him +trudging patiently along under his burdens. Then Bassett's own +trouble had come upon him. He looked at the cruelly healed stumps +of the first and second fingers of his left hand, then rubbed them +softly into the indentation in the back of his skull. Quick as had +been the flash of the long handled tomahawk, he had been quick +enough to duck away his head and partially to deflect the stroke +with his up-flung hand. Two fingers and a hasty scalp-wound had +been the price he paid for his life. With one barrel of his ten- +gauge shot-gun he had blown the life out of the bushman who had so +nearly got him; with the other barrel he had peppered the bushmen +bending over Sagawa, and had the pleasure of knowing that the major +portion of the charge had gone into the one who leaped away with +Sagawa's head. Everything had occurred in a flash. Only himself, +the slain bushman, and what remained of Sagawa, were in the narrow, +wild-pig run of a path. From the dark jungle on either side came +no rustle of movement or sound of life. And he had suffered +distinct and dreadful shock. For the first time in his life he had +killed a human being, and he knew nausea as he contemplated the +mess of his handiwork. + +Then had begun the chase. He retreated up the pig-run before his +hunters, who were between him and the beach. How many there were, +he could not guess. There might have been one, or a hundred, for +aught he saw of them. That some of them took to the trees and +travelled along through the jungle roof he was certain; but at the +most he never glimpsed more than an occasional flitting of shadows. +No bow-strings twanged that he could hear; but every little while, +whence discharged he knew not, tiny arrows whispered past him or +struck tree-boles and fluttered to the ground beside him. They +were bone-tipped and feather shafted, and the feathers, torn from +the breasts of humming-birds, iridesced like jewels. + +Once--and now, after the long lapse of time, he chuckled gleefully +at the recollection--he had detected a shadow above him that came +to instant rest as he turned his gaze upward. He could make out +nothing, but, deciding to chance it, had fired at it a heavy charge +of number five shot. Squalling like an infuriated cat, the shadow +crashed down through tree-ferns and orchids and thudded upon the +earth at his feet, and, still squalling its rage and pain, had sunk +its human teeth into the ankle of his stout tramping boot. He, on +the other hand, was not idle, and with his free foot had done what +reduced the squalling to silence. So inured to savagery has +Bassett since become, that he chuckled again with the glee of the +recollection. + +What a night had followed! Small wonder that he had accumulated +such a virulence and variety of fevers, he thought, as he recalled +that sleepless night of torment, when the throb of his wounds was +as nothing compared with the myriad stings of the mosquitoes. +There had been no escaping them, and he had not dared to light a +fire. They had literally pumped his body full of poison, so that, +with the coming of day, eyes swollen almost shut, he had stumbled +blindly on, not caring much when his head should be hacked off and +his carcass started on the way of Sagawa's to the cooking fire. +Twenty-four hours had made a wreck of him--of mind as well as body. +He had scarcely retained his wits at all, so maddened was he by the +tremendous inoculation of poison he had received. Several times he +fired his shot-gun with effect into the shadows that dogged him. +Stinging day insects and gnats added to his torment, while his +bloody wounds attracted hosts of loathsome flies that clung +sluggishly to his flesh and had to be brushed off and crushed off. + +Once, in that day, he heard again the wonderful sound, seemingly +more distant, but rising imperiously above the nearer war-drums in +the bush. Right there was where he had made his mistake. Thinking +that he had passed beyond it and that, therefore, it was between +him and the beach of Ringmanu, he had worked back toward it when in +reality he was penetrating deeper and deeper into the mysterious +heart of the unexplored island. That night, crawling in among the +twisted roots of a banyan tree, he had slept from exhaustion while +the mosquitoes had had their will of him. + +Followed days and nights that were vague as nightmares in his +memory. One clear vision he remembered was of suddenly finding +himself in the midst of a bush village and watching the old men and +children fleeing into the jungle. All had fled but one. From +close at hand and above him, a whimpering as of some animal in pain +and terror had startled him. And looking up he had seen her--a +girl, or young woman rather, suspended by one arm in the cooking +sun. Perhaps for days she had so hung. Her swollen, protruding +tongue spoke as much. Still alive, she gazed at him with eyes of +terror. Past help, he decided, as he noted the swellings of her +legs which advertised that the joints had been crushed and the +great bones broken. He resolved to shoot her, and there the vision +terminated. He could not remember whether he had or not, any more +than could he remember how he chanced to be in that village, or how +he succeeded in getting away from it. + +Many pictures, unrelated, came and went in Bassett's mind as he +reviewed that period of his terrible wanderings. He remembered +invading another village of a dozen houses and driving all before +him with his shot-gun save, for one old man, too feeble to flee, +who spat at him and whined and snarled as he dug open a ground-oven +and from amid the hot stones dragged forth a roasted pig that +steamed its essence deliciously through its green-leaf wrappings. +It was at this place that a wantonness of savagery had seized upon +him. Having feasted, ready to depart with a hind-quarter of the +pig in his hand, he deliberately fired the grass thatch of a house +with his burning glass. + +But seared deepest of all in Bassett's brain, was the dank and +noisome jungle. It actually stank with evil, and it was always +twilight. Rarely did a shaft of sunlight penetrate its matted roof +a hundred feet overhead. And beneath that roof was an aerial ooze +of vegetation, a monstrous, parasitic dripping of decadent life- +forms that rooted in death and lived on death. And through all +this he drifted, ever pursued by the flitting shadows of the +anthropophagi, themselves ghosts of evil that dared not face him in +battle but that knew that, soon or late, they would feed on him. +Bassett remembered that at the time, in lucid moments, he had +likened himself to a wounded bull pursued by plains' coyotes too +cowardly to battle with him for the meat of him, yet certain of the +inevitable end of him when they would be full gorged. As the +bull's horns and stamping hoofs kept off the coyotes, so his shot- +gun kept off these Solomon Islanders, these twilight shades of +bushmen of the island of Guadalcanal. + +Came the day of the grass lands. Abruptly, as if cloven by the +sword of God in the hand of God, the jungle terminated. The edge +of it, perpendicular and as black as the infamy of it, was a +hundred feet up and down. And, beginning at the edge of it, grew +the grass--sweet, soft, tender, pasture grass that would have +delighted the eyes and beasts of any husbandman and that extended, +on and on, for leagues and leagues of velvet verdure, to the +backbone of the great island, the towering mountain range flung up +by some ancient earth-cataclysm, serrated and gullied but not yet +erased by the erosive tropic rains. But the grass! He had crawled +into it a dozen yards, buried his face in it, smelled it, and +broken down in a fit of involuntary weeping. + +And, while he wept, the wonderful sound had pealed forth--if by +PEAL, he had often thought since, an adequate description could be +given of the enunciation of so vast a sound melting sweet. Sweet +it was, as no sound ever heard. Vast it was, of so mighty a +resonance that it might have proceeded from some brazen-throated +monster. And yet it called to him across that leagues-wide +savannah, and was like a benediction to his long-suffering, pain +racked spirit. + +He remembered how he lay there in the grass, wet-cheeked but no +longer sobbing, listening to the sound and wondering that he had +been able to hear it on the beach of Ringmanu. Some freak of air +pressures and air currents, he reflected, had made it possible for +the sound to carry so far. Such conditions might not happen again +in a thousand days or ten thousand days, but the one day it had +happened had been the day he landed from the Nari for several +hours' collecting. Especially had he been in quest of the famed +jungle butterfly, a foot across from wing-tip to wing-tip, as +velvet-dusky of lack of colour as was the gloom of the roof, of +such lofty arboreal habits that it resorted only to the jungle roof +and could be brought down only by a dose of shot. It was for this +purpose that Sagawa had carried the ten-gauge shot-gun. + +Two days and nights he had spent crawling across that belt of grass +land. He had suffered much, but pursuit had ceased at the jungle- +edge. And he would have died of thirst had not a heavy +thunderstorm revived him on the second day. + +And then had come Balatta. In the first shade, where the savannah +yielded to the dense mountain jungle, he had collapsed to die. At +first she had squealed with delight at sight of his helplessness, +and was for beating his brain out with a stout forest branch. +Perhaps it was his very utter helplessness that had appealed to +her, and perhaps it was her human curiosity that made her refrain. +At any rate, she had refrained, for he opened his eyes again under +the impending blow, and saw her studying him intently. What +especially struck her about him were his blue eyes and white skin. +Coolly she had squatted on her hams, spat on his arm, and with her +finger-tips scrubbed away the dirt of days and nights of muck and +jungle that sullied the pristine whiteness of his skin. + +And everything about her had struck him especially, although there +was nothing conventional about her at all. He laughed weakly at +the recollection, for she had been as innocent of garb as Eve +before the fig-leaf adventure. Squat and lean at the same time, +asymmetrically limbed, string-muscled as if with lengths of +cordage, dirt-caked from infancy save for casual showers, she was +as unbeautiful a prototype of woman as he, with a scientist's eye, +had ever gazed upon. Her breasts advertised at the one time her +maturity and youth; and, if by nothing else, her sex was advertised +by the one article of finery with which she was adorned, namely a +pig's tail, thrust though a hole in her left ear-lobe. So lately +had the tail been severed, that its raw end still oozed blood that +dried upon her shoulder like so much candle-droppings. And her +face! A twisted and wizened complex of apish features, perforated +by upturned, sky-open, Mongolian nostrils, by a mouth that sagged +from a huge upper-lip and faded precipitately into a retreating +chin, by peering querulous eyes that blinked as blink the eyes of +denizens of monkey-cages. + +Not even the water she brought him in a forest-leaf, and the +ancient and half-putrid chunk of roast pig, could redeem in the +slightest the grotesque hideousness of her. When he had eaten +weakly for a space, he closed his eyes in order not to see her, +although again and again she poked them open to peer at the blue of +them. Then had come the sound. Nearer, much nearer, he knew it to +be; and he knew equally well, despite the weary way he had come, +that it was still many hours distant. The effect of it on her had +been startling. She cringed under it, with averted face, moaning +and chattering with fear. But after it had lived its full life of +an hour, he closed his eyes and fell asleep with Balatta brushing +the flies from him. + +When he awoke it was night, and she was gone. But he was aware of +renewed strength, and, by then too thoroughly inoculated by the +mosquito poison to suffer further inflammation, he closed his eyes +and slept an unbroken stretch till sun-up. A little later Balatta +had returned, bringing with her a half-dozen women who, unbeautiful +as they were, were patently not so unbeautiful as she. She +evidenced by her conduct that she considered him her find, her +property, and the pride she took in showing him off would have been +ludicrous had his situation not been so desperate. + +Later, after what had been to him a terrible journey of miles, when +he collapsed in front of the devil-devil house in the shadow of the +breadfruit tree, she had shown very lively ideas on the matter of +retaining possession of him. Ngurn, whom Bassett was to know +afterward as the devil-devil doctor, priest, or medicine man of the +village, had wanted his head. Others of the grinning and +chattering monkey-men, all as stark of clothes and bestial of +appearance as Balatta, had wanted his body for the roasting oven. +At that time he had not understood their language, if by LANGUAGE +might be dignified the uncouth sounds they made to represent ideas. +But Bassett had thoroughly understood the matter of debate, +especially when the men pressed and prodded and felt of the flesh +of him as if he were so much commodity in a butcher's stall. + +Balatta had been losing the debate rapidly, when the accident +happened. One of the men, curiously examining Bassett's shot-gun, +managed to cock and pull a trigger. The recoil of the butt into +the pit of the man's stomach had not been the most sanguinary +result, for the charge of shot, at a distance of a yard, had blown +the head of one of the debaters into nothingness. + +Even Balatta joined the others in flight, and, ere they returned, +his senses already reeling from the oncoming fever-attack, Bassett +had regained possession of the gun. Whereupon, although his teeth +chattered with the ague and his swimming eyes could scarcely see, +he held on to his fading consciousness until he could intimidate +the bushmen with the simple magics of compass, watch, burning +glass, and matches. At the last, with due emphasis, of solemnity +and awfulness, he had killed a young pig with his shot-gun and +promptly fainted. + +Bassett flexed his arm-muscles in quest of what possible strength +might reside in such weakness, and dragged himself slowly and +totteringly to his feet. He was shockingly emaciated; yet, during +the various convalescences of the many months of his long sickness, +he had never regained quite the same degree of strength as this +time. What he feared was another relapse such as he had already +frequently experienced. Without drugs, without even quinine, he +had managed so far to live through a combination of the most +pernicious and most malignant of malarial and black-water fevers. +But could he continue to endure? Such was his everlasting query. +For, like the genuine scientist he was, he would not be content to +die until he had solved the secret of the sound. + +Supported by a staff, he staggered the few steps to the devil-devil +house where death and Ngurn reigned in gloom. Almost as infamously +dark and evil-stinking as the jungle was the devil-devil house--in +Bassett's opinion. Yet therein was usually to be found his +favourite crony and gossip, Ngurn, always willing for a yarn or a +discussion, the while he sat in the ashes of death and in a slow +smoke shrewdly revolved curing human heads suspended from the +rafters. For, through the months' interval of consciousness of his +long sickness, Bassett had mastered the psychological simplicities +and lingual difficulties of the language of the tribe of Ngurn and +Balatta and Vngngn--the latter the addle-headed young chief who was +ruled by Ngurn, and who, whispered intrigue had it, was the son of +Ngurn. + +"Will the Red One speak to-day?" Bassett asked, by this time so +accustomed to the old man's gruesome occupation as to take even an +interest in the progress of the smoke-curing. + +With the eye of an expert Ngurn examined the particular head he was +at work upon. + +"It will be ten days before I can say 'finish,'" he said. "Never +has any man fixed heads like these." + +Bassett smiled inwardly at the old fellow's reluctance to talk with +him of the Red One. It had always been so. Never, by any chance, +had Ngurn or any other member of the weird tribe divulged the +slightest hint of any physical characteristic of the Red One. +Physical the Red One must be, to emit the wonderful sound, and +though it was called the Red One, Bassett could not be sure that +red represented the colour of it. Red enough were the deeds and +powers of it, from what abstract clues he had gleaned. Not alone, +had Ngurn informed him, was the Red One more bestial powerful than +the neighbour tribal gods, ever athirst for the red blood of living +human sacrifices, but the neighbour gods themselves were sacrificed +and tormented before him. He was the god of a dozen allied +villages similar to this one, which was the central and commanding +village of the federation. By virtue of the Red One many alien +villages had been devastated and even wiped out, the prisoners +sacrificed to the Red One. This was true to-day, and it extended +back into old history carried down by word of mouth through the +generations. When he, Ngurn, had been a young man, the tribes +beyond the grass lands had made a war raid. In the counter raid, +Ngurn and his fighting folk had made many prisoners. Of children +alone over five score living had been bled white before the Red +One, and many, many more men and women. + +The Thunderer was another of Ngurn's names for the mysterious +deity. Also at times was he called The Loud Shouter, The God- +Voiced, The Bird-Throated, The One with the Throat Sweet as the +Throat of the Honey-Bird, The Sun Singer, and The Star-Born. + +Why The Star-Born? In vain Bassett interrogated Ngurn. According +to that old devil-devil doctor, the Red One had always been, just +where he was at present, for ever singing and thundering his will +over men. But Ngurn's father, wrapped in decaying grass-matting +and hanging even then over their heads among the smoky rafters of +the devil-devil house, had held otherwise. That departed wise one +had believed that the Red One came from out of the starry night, +else why--so his argument had run--had the old and forgotten ones +passed his name down as the Star-Born? Bassett could not but +recognize something cogent in such argument. But Ngurn affirmed +the long years of his long life, wherein he had gazed upon many +starry nights, yet never had he found a star on grass land or in +jungle depth--and he had looked for them. True, he had beheld +shooting stars (this in reply to Bassett's contention); but +likewise had he beheld the phosphorescence of fungoid growths and +rotten meat and fireflies on dark nights, and the flames of wood- +fires and of blazing candle-nuts; yet what were flame and blaze and +glow when they had flamed and blazed and glowed? Answer: +memories, memories only, of things which had ceased to be, like +memories of matings accomplished, of feasts forgotten, of desires +that were the ghosts of desires, flaring, flaming, burning, yet +unrealized in achievement of easement and satisfaction. Where was +the appetite of yesterday? the roasted flesh of the wild pig the +hunter's arrow failed to slay? the maid, unwed and dead ere the +young man knew her? + +A memory was not a star, was Ngurn's contention. How could a +memory be a star? Further, after all his long life he still +observed the starry night-sky unaltered. Never had he noted the +absence of a single star from its accustomed place. Besides, stars +were fire, and the Red One was not fire--which last involuntary +betrayal told Bassett nothing. + +"Will the Red One speak to-morrow?" he queried. + +Ngurn shrugged his shoulders as who should say. + +"And the day after?--and the day after that?" Bassett persisted. + +"I would like to have the curing of your head," Ngurn changed the +subject. "It is different from any other head. No devil-devil has +a head like it. Besides, I would cure it well. I would take +months and months. The moons would come and the moons would go, +and the smoke would be very slow, and I should myself gather the +materials for the curing smoke. The skin would not wrinkle. It +would be as smooth as your skin now." + +He stood up, and from the dim rafters, grimed with the smoking of +countless heads, where day was no more than a gloom, took down a +matting-wrapped parcel and began to open it. + +"It is a head like yours," he said, "but it is poorly cured." + +Bassett had pricked up his ears at the suggestion that it was a +white man's head; for he had long since come to accept that these +jungle-dwellers, in the midmost centre of the great island, had +never had intercourse with white men. Certainly he had found them +without the almost universal beche-de-mer English of the west South +Pacific. Nor had they knowledge of tobacco, nor of gunpowder. +Their few precious knives, made from lengths of hoop-iron, and +their few and more precious tomahawks from cheap trade hatchets, he +had surmised they had captured in war from the bushmen of the +jungle beyond the grass lands, and that they, in turn, had +similarly gained them from the salt-water men who fringed the coral +beaches of the shore and had contact with the occasional white men. + +"The folk in the out beyond do not know how to cure heads," old +Ngurn explained, as he drew forth from the filthy matting and +placed in Bassett's hands an indubitable white man's head. + +Ancient it was beyond question; white it was as the blond hair +attested. He could have sworn it once belonged to an Englishman, +and to an Englishman of long before by token of the heavy gold +circlets still threaded in the withered ear-lobes. + +"Now your head . . . " the devil-devil doctor began on his +favourite topic. + +"I'll tell you what," Bassett interrupted, struck by a new idea. +"When I die I'll let you have my head to cure, if, first, you take +me to look upon the Red One." + +"I will have your head anyway when you are dead," Ngurn rejected +the proposition. He added, with the brutal frankness of the +savage: "Besides, you have not long to live. You are almost a +dead man now. You will grow less strong. In not many months I +shall have you here turning and turning in the smoke. It is +pleasant, through the long afternoons, to turn the head of one you +have known as well as I know you. And I shall talk to you and tell +you the many secrets you want to know. Which will not matter, for +you will be dead." + +"Ngurn," Bassett threatened in sudden anger. "You know the Baby +Thunder in the Iron that is mine." (This was in reference to his +all-potent and all-awful shotgun.) "I can kill you any time, and +then you will not get my head." + +"Just the same, will Vngngn, or some one else of my folk get it," +Ngurn complacently assured him. "And just the same will it turn +here in the and turn devil-devil house in the smoke. The quicker +you slay me with your Baby Thunder, the quicker will your head turn +in the smoke." + +And Bassett knew he was beaten in the discussion. + +What was the Red One?--Bassett asked himself a thousand times in +the succeeding week, while he seemed to grow stronger. What was +the source of the wonderful sound? What was this Sun Singer, this +Star-Born One, this mysterious deity, as bestial-conducted as the +black and kinky-headed and monkey-like human beasts who worshipped +it, and whose silver-sweet, bull-mouthed singing and commanding he +had heard at the taboo distance for so long? + +Ngurn had he failed to bribe with the inevitable curing of his head +when he was dead. Vngngn, imbecile and chief that he was, was too +imbecilic, too much under the sway of Ngurn, to be considered. +Remained Balatta, who, from the time she found him and poked his +blue eyes open to recrudescence of her grotesque female +hideousness, had continued his adorer. Woman she was, and he had +long known that the only way to win from her treason of her tribe +was through the woman's heart of her. + +Bassett was a fastidious man. He had never recovered from the +initial horror caused by Balatta's female awfulness. Back in +England, even at best the charm of woman, to him, had never been +robust. Yet now, resolutely, as only a man can do who is capable +of martyring himself for the cause of science, he proceeded to +violate all the fineness and delicacy of his nature by making love +to the unthinkably disgusting bushwoman. + +He shuddered, but with averted face hid his grimaces and swallowed +his gorge as he put his arm around her dirt-crusted shoulders and +felt the contact of her rancidoily and kinky hair with his neck and +chin. But he nearly screamed when she succumbed to that caress so +at the very first of the courtship and mowed and gibbered and +squealed little, queer, pig-like gurgly noises of delight. It was +too much. And the next he did in the singular courtship was to +take her down to the stream and give her a vigorous scrubbing. + +From then on he devoted himself to her like a true swain as +frequently and for as long at a time as his will could override his +repugnance. But marriage, which she ardently suggested, with due +observance of tribal custom, he balked at. Fortunately, taboo rule +was strong in the tribe. Thus, Ngurn could never touch bone, or +flesh, or hide of crocodile. This had been ordained at his birth. +Vngngn was denied ever the touch of woman. Such pollution, did it +chance to occur, could be purged only by the death of the offending +female. It had happened once, since Bassett's arrival, when a girl +of nine, running in play, stumbled and fell against the sacred +chief. And the girl-child was seen no more. In whispers, Balatta +told Bassett that she had been three days and nights in dying +before the Red One. As for Balatta, the breadfruit was taboo to +her. For which Bassett was thankful. The taboo might have been +water. + +For himself, he fabricated a special taboo. Only could he marry, +he explained, when the Southern Cross rode highest in the sky. +Knowing his astronomy, he thus gained a reprieve of nearly nine +months; and he was confident that within that time he would either +be dead or escaped to the coast with full knowledge of the Red One +and of the source of the Red One's wonderful voice. At first he +had fancied the Red One to be some colossal statue, like Memnon, +rendered vocal under certain temperature conditions of sunlight. +But when, after a war raid, a batch of prisoners was brought in and +the sacrifice made at night, in the midst of rain, when the sun +could play no part, the Red One had been more vocal than usual, +Bassett discarded that hypothesis. + +In company with Balatta, sometimes with men and parties of women, +the freedom of the jungle was his for three quadrants of the +compass. But the fourth quadrant, which contained the Red One's +abiding place, was taboo. He made more thorough love to Balatta-- +also saw to it that she scrubbed herself more frequently. Eternal +female she was, capable of any treason for the sake of love. And, +though the sight of her was provocative of nausea and the contact +of her provocative of despair, although he could not escape her +awfulness in his dream-haunted nightmares of her, he nevertheless +was aware of the cosmic verity of sex that animated her and that +made her own life of less value than the happiness of her lover +with whom she hoped to mate. Juliet or Balatta? Where was the +intrinsic difference? The soft and tender product of ultra- +civilization, or her bestial prototype of a hundred thousand years +before her?--there was no difference. + +Bassett was a scientist first, a humanist afterward. In the +jungle-heart of Guadalcanal he put the affair to the test, as in +the laboratory he would have put to the test any chemical reaction. +He increased his feigned ardour for the bushwoman, at the same time +increasing the imperiousness of his will of desire over her to be +led to look upon the Red One face to face. It was the old story, +he recognized, that the woman must pay, and it occurred when the +two of them, one day, were catching the unclassified and unnamed +little black fish, an inch long, half-eel and half-scaled, rotund +with salmon-golden roe, that frequented the fresh water, and that +were esteemed, raw and whole, fresh or putrid, a perfect delicacy. +Prone in the muck of the decaying jungle-floor, Balatta threw +herself, clutching his ankles with her hands kissing his feet and +making slubbery noises that chilled his backbone up and down again. +She begged him to kill her rather than exact this ultimate love- +payment. She told him of the penalty of breaking the taboo of the +Red One--a week of torture, living, the details of which she +yammered out from her face in the mire until he realized that he +was yet a tyro in knowledge of the frightfulness the human was +capable of wreaking on the human. + +Yet did Bassett insist on having his man's will satisfied, at the +woman's risk, that he might solve the mystery of the Red One's +singing, though she should die long and horribly and screaming. +And Balatta, being mere woman, yielded. She led him into the +forbidden quadrant. An abrupt mountain, shouldering in from the +north to meet a similar intrusion from the south, tormented the +stream in which they had fished into a deep and gloomy gorge. +After a mile along the gorge, the way plunged sharply upward until +they crossed a saddle of raw limestone which attracted his +geologist's eye. Still climbing, although he paused often from +sheer physical weakness, they scaled forest-clad heights until they +emerged on a naked mesa or tableland. Bassett recognized the stuff +of its composition as black volcanic sand, and knew that a pocket +magnet could have captured a full load of the sharply angular +grains he trod upon. + +And then holding Balatta by the hand and leading her onward, he +came to it--a tremendous pit, obviously artificial, in the heart of +the plateau. Old history, the South Seas Sailing Directions, +scores of remembered data and connotations swift and furious, +surged through his brain. It was Mendana who had discovered the +islands and named them Solomon's, believing that he had found that +monarch's fabled mines. They had laughed at the old navigator's +child-like credulity; and yet here stood himself, Bassett, on the +rim of an excavation for all the world like the diamond pits of +South Africa. + +But no diamond this that he gazed down upon. Rather was it a +pearl, with the depth of iridescence of a pearl; but of a size all +pearls of earth and time, welded into one, could not have totalled; +and of a colour undreamed of in any pearl, or of anything else, for +that matter, for it was the colour of the Red One. And the Red One +himself Bassett knew it to be on the instant. A perfect sphere, +full two hundred feet in diameter, the top of it was a hundred feet +below the level of the rim. He likened the colour quality of it to +lacquer. Indeed, he took it to be some sort of lacquer, applied by +man, but a lacquer too marvellously clever to have been +manufactured by the bush-folk. Brighter than bright cherry-red, +its richness of colour was as if it were red builded upon red. It +glowed and iridesced in the sunlight as if gleaming up from +underlay under underlay of red. + +In vain Balatta strove to dissuade him from descending. She threw +herself in the dirt; but, when he continued down the trail that +spiralled the pit-wall, she followed, cringing and whimpering her +terror. That the red sphere had been dug out as a precious thing, +was patent. Considering the paucity of members of the federated +twelve villages and their primitive tools and methods, Bassett knew +that the toil of a myriad generations could scarcely have made that +enormous excavation. + +He found the pit bottom carpeted with human bones, among which, +battered and defaced, lay village gods of wood and stone. Some, +covered with obscene totemic figures and designs, were carved from +solid tree trunks forty or fifty feet in length. He noted the +absence of the shark and turtle gods, so common among the shore +villages, and was amazed at the constant recurrence of the helmet +motive. What did these jungle savages of the dark heart of +Guadalcanal know of helmets? Had Mendana's men-at-arms worn +helmets and penetrated here centuries before? And if not, then +whence had the bush-folk caught the motive? + +Advancing over the litter of gods and bones, Balatta whimpering at +his heels, Bassett entered the shadow of the Red One and passed on +under its gigantic overhang until he touched it with his finger- +tips. No lacquer that. Nor was the surface smooth as it should +have been in the case of lacquer. On the contrary, it was +corrugated and pitted, with here and there patches that showed +signs of heat and fusing. Also, the substance of it was metal, +though unlike any metal, or combination of metals, he had ever +known. As for the colour itself, he decided it to be no +application. It was the intrinsic colour of the metal itself. + +He moved his finger-tips, which up to that had merely rested, along +the surface, and felt the whole gigantic sphere quicken and live +and respond. It was incredible! So light a touch on so vast a +mass! Yet did it quiver under the finger-tip caress in rhythmic +vibrations that became whisperings and rustlings and mutterings of +sound--but of sound so different; so elusively thin that it was +shimmeringly sibilant; so mellow that it was maddening sweet, +piping like an elfin horn, which last was just what Bassett decided +would be like a peal from some bell of the gods reaching earthward +from across space. + +He looked at Balatta with swift questioning; but the voice of the +Red One he had evoked had flung her face downward and moaning among +the bones. He returned to contemplation of the prodigy. Hollow it +was, and of no metal known on earth, was his conclusion. It was +right-named by the ones of old-time as the Star-Born. Only from +the stars could it have come, and no thing of chance was it. It +was a creation of artifice and mind. Such perfection of form, such +hollowness that it certainly possessed, could not be the result of +mere fortuitousness. A child of intelligences, remote and +unguessable, working corporally in metals, it indubitably was. He +stared at it in amaze, his brain a racing wild-fire of hypotheses +to account for this far-journeyer who had adventured the night of +space, threaded the stars, and now rose before him and above him, +exhumed by patient anthropophagi, pitted and lacquered by its fiery +bath in two atmospheres. + +But was the colour a lacquer of heat upon some familiar metal? Or +was it an intrinsic quality of the metal itself? He thrust in the +blue-point of his pocket-knife to test the constitution of the +stuff. Instantly the entire sphere burst into a mighty whispering, +sharp with protest, almost twanging goldenly, if a whisper could +possibly be considered to twang, rising higher, sinking deeper, the +two extremes of the registry of sound threatening to complete the +circle and coalesce into the bull-mouthed thundering he had so +often heard beyond the taboo distance. + +Forgetful of safety, of his own life itself, entranced by the +wonder of the unthinkable and unguessable thing, he raised his +knife to strike heavily from a long stroke, but was prevented by +Balatta. She upreared on her own knees in an agony of terror, +clasping his knees and supplicating him to desist. In the +intensity of her desire to impress him, she put her forearm between +her teeth and sank them to the bone. + +He scarcely observed her act, although he yielded automatically to +his gentler instincts and withheld the knife-hack. To him, human +life had dwarfed to microscopic proportions before this colossal +portent of higher life from within the distances of the sidereal +universe. As had she been a dog, he kicked the ugly little +bushwoman to her feet and compelled her to start with him on an +encirclement of the base. Part way around, he encountered horrors. +Even, among the others, did he recognize the sun-shrivelled remnant +of the nine-years girl who had accidentally broken Chief Vngngn's +personality taboo. And, among what was left of these that had +passed, he encountered what was left of one who had not yet passed. +Truly had the bush-folk named themselves into the name of the Red +One, seeing in him their own image which they strove to placate and +please with such red offerings. + +Farther around, always treading the bones and images of humans and +gods that constituted the floor of this ancient charnel-house of +sacrifice, he came upon the device by which the Red One was made to +send his call singing thunderingly across the jungle-belts and +grass-lands to the far beach of Ringmanu. Simple and primitive was +it as was the Red One's consummate artifice. A great king-post, +half a hundred feet in length, seasoned by centuries of +superstitious care, carven into dynasties of gods, each +superimposed, each helmeted, each seated in the open mouth of a +crocodile, was slung by ropes, twisted of climbing vegetable +parasites, from the apex of a tripod of three great forest trunks, +themselves carved into grinning and grotesque adumbrations of man's +modern concepts of art and god. From the striker king-post, were +suspended ropes of climbers to which men could apply their strength +and direction. Like a battering ram, this king-post could be +driven end-onward against the mighty red-iridescent sphere. + +Here was where Ngurn officiated and functioned religiously for +himself and the twelve tribes under him. Bassett laughed aloud, +almost with madness, at the thought of this wonderful messenger, +winged with intelligence across space, to fall into a bushman +stronghold and be worshipped by ape-like, man-eating and head- +hunting savages. It was as if God's World had fallen into the muck +mire of the abyss underlying the bottom of hell; as if Jehovah's +Commandments had been presented on carved stone to the monkeys of +the monkey cage at the Zoo; as if the Sermon on the Mount had been +preached in a roaring bedlam of lunatics. + + +The slow weeks passed. The nights, by election, Bassett spent on +the ashen floor of the devil-devil house, beneath the ever- +swinging, slow-curing heads. His reason for this was that it was +taboo to the lesser sex of woman, and therefore, a refuge for him +from Balatta, who grew more persecutingly and perilously loverly as +the Southern Cross rode higher in the sky and marked the imminence +of her nuptials. His days Bassett spent in a hammock swung under +the shade of the great breadfruit tree before the devil-devil +house. There were breaks in this programme, when, in the comas of +his devastating fever-attacks, he lay for days and nights in the +house of heads. Ever he struggled to combat the fever, to live, to +continue to live, to grow strong and stronger against the day when +he would be strong enough to dare the grass-lands and the belted +jungle beyond, and win to the beach, and to some labour-recruiting, +black-birding ketch or schooner, and on to civilization and the men +of civilization, to whom he could give news of the message from +other worlds that lay, darkly worshipped by beastmen, in the black +heart of Guadalcanal's midmost centre. + +On the other nights, lying late under the breadfruit tree, Bassett +spent long hours watching the slow setting of the western stars +beyond the black wall of jungle where it had been thrust back by +the clearing for the village. Possessed of more than a cursory +knowledge of astronomy, he took a sick man's pleasure in +speculating as to the dwellers on the unseen worlds of those +incredibly remote suns, to haunt whose houses of light, life came +forth, a shy visitant, from the rayless crypts of matter. He could +no more apprehend limits to time than bounds to space. No +subversive radium speculations had shaken his steady scientific +faith in the conservation of energy and the indestructibility of +matter. Always and forever must there have been stars. And +surely, in that cosmic ferment, all must be comparatively alike, +comparatively of the same substance, or substances, save for the +freaks of the ferment. All must obey, or compose, the same laws +that ran without infraction through the entire experience of man. +Therefore, he argued and agreed, must worlds and life be appanages +to all the suns as they were appanages to the particular of his own +solar system. + +Even as he lay here, under the breadfruit tree, an intelligence +that stared across the starry gulfs, so must all the universe be +exposed to the ceaseless scrutiny of innumerable eyes, like his, +though grantedly different, with behind them, by the same token, +intelligences that questioned and sought the meaning and the +construction of the whole. So reasoning, he felt his soul go forth +in kinship with that august company, that multitude whose gaze was +forever upon the arras of infinity. + +Who were they, what were they, those far distant and superior ones +who had bridged the sky with their gigantic, red-iridescent, +heaven-singing message? Surely, and long since, had they, too, +trod the path on which man had so recently, by the calendar of the +cosmos, set his feet. And to be able to send a message across the +pit of space, surely they had reached those heights to which man, +in tears and travail and bloody sweat, in darkness and confusion of +many counsels, was so slowly struggling. And what were they on +their heights? Had they won Brotherhood? Or had they learned that +the law of love imposed the penalty of weakness and decay? Was +strife, life? Was the rule of all the universe the pitiless rule +of natural selection? And, and most immediately and poignantly, +were their far conclusions, their long-won wisdoms, shut even then +in the huge, metallic heart of the Red One, waiting for the first +earth-man to read? Of one thing he was certain: No drop of red +dew shaken from the lion-mane of some sun in torment, was the +sounding sphere. It was of design, not chance, and it contained +the speech and wisdom of the stars. + +What engines and elements and mastered forces, what lore and +mysteries and destiny-controls, might be there! Undoubtedly, since +so much could be enclosed in so little a thing as the foundation +stone of a public building, this enormous sphere should contain +vast histories, profounds of research achieved beyond man's wildest +guesses, laws and formulae that, easily mastered, would make man's +life on earth, individual and collective, spring up from its +present mire to inconceivable heights of purity and power. It was +Time's greatest gift to blindfold, insatiable, and sky-aspiring +man. And to him, Bassett, had been vouchsafed the lordly fortune +to be the first to receive this message from man's interstellar +kin! + + No white man, much less no outland man of the other bush-tribes, +had gazed upon the Red One and lived. Such the law expounded by +Ngurn to Bassett. There was such a thing as blood brotherhood. +Bassett, in return, had often argued in the past. But Ngurn had +stated solemnly no. Even the blood brotherhood was outside the +favour of the Red One. Only a man born within the tribe could look +upon the Red One and live. But now, his guilty secret known only +to Balatta, whose fear of immolation before the Red One fast-sealed +her lips, the situation was different. What he had to do was to +recover from the abominable fevers that weakened him, and gain to +civilization. Then would he lead an expedition back, and, although +the entire population of Guadalcanal he destroyed, extract from the +heart of the Red One the message of the world from other worlds. + +But Bassett's relapses grew more frequent, his brief convalescences +less and less vigorous, his periods of coma longer, until he came +to know, beyond the last promptings of the optimism inherent in so +tremendous a constitution as his own, that he would never live to +cross the grass lands, perforate the perilous coast jungle, and +reach the sea. He faded as the Southern Cross rose higher in the +sky, till even Balatta knew that he would be dead ere the nuptial +date determined by his taboo. Ngurn made pilgrimage personally and +gathered the smoke materials for the curing of Bassett's head, and +to him made proud announcement and exhibition of the artistic +perfectness of his intention when Bassett should be dead. As for +himself, Bassett was not shocked. Too long and too deeply had life +ebbed down in him to bite him with fear of its impending +extinction. He continued to persist, alternating periods of +unconsciousness with periods of semi-consciousness, dreamy and +unreal, in which he idly wondered whether he had ever truly beheld +the Red One or whether it was a nightmare fancy of delirium. + +Came the day when all mists and cob-webs dissolved, when he found +his brain clear as a bell, and took just appraisement of his body's +weakness. Neither hand nor foot could he lift. So little control +of his body did he have, that he was scarcely aware of possessing +one. Lightly indeed his flesh sat upon his soul, and his soul, in +its briefness of clarity, knew by its very clarity that the black +of cessation was near. He knew the end was close; knew that in all +truth he had with his eyes beheld the Red One, the messenger +between the worlds; knew that he would never live to carry that +message to the world--that message, for aught to the contrary, +which might already have waited man's hearing in the heart of +Guadalcanal for ten thousand years. And Bassett stirred with +resolve, calling Ngurn to him, out under the shade of the +breadfruit tree, and with the old devil-devil doctor discussing the +terms and arrangements of his last life effort, his final adventure +in the quick of the flesh. + +"I know the law, O Ngurn," he concluded the matter. "Whoso is not +of the folk may not look upon the Red One and live. I shall not +live anyway. Your young men shall carry me before the face of the +Red One, and I shall look upon him, and hear his voice, and +thereupon die, under your hand, O Ngurn. Thus will the three +things be satisfied: the law, my desire, and your quicker +possession of my head for which all your preparations wait." + +To which Ngurn consented, adding: + +"It is better so. A sick man who cannot get well is foolish to +live on for so little a while. Also is it better for the living +that he should go. You have been much in the way of late. Not but +what it was good for me to talk to such a wise one. But for moons +of days we have held little talk. Instead, you have taken up room +in the house of heads, making noises like a dying pig, or talking +much and loudly in your own language which I do not understand. +This has been a confusion to me, for I like to think on the great +things of the light and dark as I turn the heads in the smoke. +Your much noise has thus been a disturbance to the long-learning +and hatching of the final wisdom that will be mine before I die. +As for you, upon whom the dark has already brooded, it is well that +you die now. And I promise you, in the long days to come when I +turn your head in the smoke, no man of the tribe shall come in to +disturb us. And I will tell you many secrets, for I am an old man +and very wise, and I shall be adding wisdom to wisdom as I turn +your head in the smoke." + +So a litter was made, and, borne on the shoulders of half a dozen +of the men, Bassett departed on the last little adventure that was +to cap the total adventure, for him, of living. With a body of +which he was scarcely aware, for even the pain had been exhausted +out of it, and with a bright clear brain that accommodated him to a +quiet ecstasy of sheer lucidness of thought, he lay back on the +lurching litter and watched the fading of the passing world, +beholding for the last time the breadfruit tree before the devil- +devil house, the dim day beneath the matted jungle roof, the gloomy +gorge between the shouldering mountains, the saddle of raw +limestone, and the mesa of black volcanic sand. + +Down the spiral path of the pit they bore him, encircling the +sheening, glowing Red One that seemed ever imminent to iridesce +from colour and light into sweet singing and thunder. And over +bones and logs of immolated men and gods they bore him, past the +horrors of other immolated ones that yet lived, to the three-king- +post tripod and the huge king-post striker. + +Here Bassett, helped by Ngurn and Balatta, weakly sat up, swaying +weakly from the hips, and with clear, unfaltering, all-seeing eyes +gazed upon the Red One. + +"Once, O Ngurn," he said, not taking his eyes from the sheening, +vibrating surface whereon and wherein all the shades of cherry-red +played unceasingly, ever a-quiver to change into sound, to become +silken rustlings, silvery whisperings, golden thrummings of cords, +velvet pipings of elfland, mellow distances of thunderings. + +"I wait," Ngurn prompted after a long pause, the long-handled +tomahawk unassumingly ready in his hand. + +"Once, O Ngurn," Bassett repeated, "let the Red One speak so that I +may see it speak as well as hear it. Then strike, thus, when I +raise my hand; for, when I raise my hand, I shall drop my head +forward and make place for the stroke at the base of my neck. But, +O Ngurn, I, who am about to pass out of the light of day for ever, +would like to pass with the wonder-voice of the Red One singing +greatly in my ears." + +"And I promise you that never will a head be so well cured as +yours," Ngurn assured him, at the same time signalling the +tribesmen to man the propelling ropes suspended from the king-post +striker. "Your head shall be my greatest piece of work in the +curing of heads." + +Bassett smiled quietly to the old one's conceit, as the great +carved log, drawn back through two-score feet of space, was +released. The next moment he was lost in ecstasy at the abrupt and +thunderous liberation of sound. But such thunder! Mellow it was +with preciousness of all sounding metals. Archangels spoke in it; +it was magnificently beautiful before all other sounds; it was +invested with the intelligence of supermen of planets of other +suns; it was the voice of God, seducing and commanding to be heard. +And--the everlasting miracle of that interstellar metal! Bassett, +with his own eyes, saw colour and colours transform into sound till +the whole visible surface of the vast sphere was a-crawl and +titillant and vaporous with what he could not tell was colour or +was sound. In that moment the interstices of matter were his, and +the interfusings and intermating transfusings of matter and force. + +Time passed. At the last Bassett was brought back from his ecstasy +by an impatient movement of Ngurn. He had quite forgotten the old +devil-devil one. A quick flash of fancy brought a husky chuckle +into Bassett's throat. His shot-gun lay beside him in the litter. +All he had to do, muzzle to head, was to press the trigger and blow +his head into nothingness. + +But why cheat him? was Bassett's next thought. Head-hunting, +cannibal beast of a human that was as much ape as human, +nevertheless Old Ngurn had, according to his lights, played squarer +than square. Ngurn was in himself a forerunner of ethics and +contract, of consideration, and gentleness in man. No, Bassett +decided; it would be a ghastly pity and an act of dishonour to +cheat the old fellow at the last. His head was Ngurn's, and +Ngurn's head to cure it would be. + +And Bassett, raising his hand in signal, bending forward his head +as agreed so as to expose cleanly the articulation to his taut +spinal cord, forgot Balatta, who was merely a woman, a woman merely +and only and undesired. He knew, without seeing, when the razor- +edged hatchet rose in the air behind him. And for that instant, +ere the end, there fell upon Bassett the shadows of the Unknown, a +sense of impending marvel of the rending of walls before the +imaginable. Almost, when he knew the blow had started and just ere +the edge of steel bit the flesh and nerves it seemed that he gazed +upon the serene face of the Medusa, Truth--And, simultaneous with +the bite of the steel on the onrush of the dark, in a flashing +instant of fancy, he saw the vision of his head turning slowly, +always turning, in the devil-devil house beside the breadfruit +tree. + + +Waikiki, Honolulu, +May 22, 1916. + + + + +STORY: THE HUSSY + + + + +There are some stories that have to be true--the sort that cannot +be fabricated by a ready fiction-reckoner. And by the same token +there are some men with stories to tell who cannot be doubted. +Such a man was Julian Jones. Although I doubt if the average +reader of this will believe the story Julian Jones told me. +Nevertheless I believe it. So thoroughly am I convinced of its +verity that I am willing, nay, eager, to invest capital in the +enterprise and embark personally on the adventure to a far land. + +It was in the Australian Building at the Panama Pacific Exposition +that I met him. I was standing before an exhibit of facsimiles of +the record nuggets which had been discovered in the goldfields of +the Antipodes. Knobbed, misshapen and massive, it was as difficult +to believe that they were not real gold as it was to believe the +accompanying statistics of their weights and values. + +"That's what those kangaroo-hunters call a nugget," boomed over my +shoulder directly at the largest of the specimens. + +I turned and looked up into the dim blue eyes of Julian Jones. I +looked up, for he stood something like six feet four inches in +height. His hair, a wispy, sandy yellow, seemed as dimmed and +faded as his eyes. It may have been the sun which had washed out +his colouring; at least his face bore the evidence of a prodigious +and ardent sun-burn which had long since faded to yellow. As his +eyes turned from the exhibit and focussed on mine I noted a queer +look in them as of one who vainly tries to recall some fact of +supreme importance. + +"What's the matter with it as a nugget?" I demanded. + +The remote, indwelling expression went out of his eyes as he boomed + +"Why, its size." + +"It does seem large," I admitted. "But there's no doubt it's +authentic. The Australian Government would scarcely dare--" + +"Large!" he interrupted, with a sniff and a sneer. + +"Largest ever discovered--" I started on. + +"Ever discovered!" His dim eyes smouldered hotly as he proceeded. +"Do you think that every lump of gold ever discovered has got into +the newspapers and encyclopedias?" + +"Well," I replied judicially, "if there's one that hasn't, I don't +see how we're to know about it. If a really big nugget, or nugget- +finder, elects to blush unseen--" + +"But it didn't," he broke in quickly. "I saw it with my own eyes, +and, besides, I'm too tanned to blush anyway. I'm a railroad man +and I've been in the tropics a lot. Why, I used to be the colour +of mahogany--real old mahogany, and have been taken for a blue-eyed +Spaniard more than once--" + +It was my turn to interrupt, and I did. + +"Was that nugget bigger than those in there, Mr.--er--?" + +"Jones, Julian Jones is my name." + +He dug into an inner pocket and produced an envelope addressed to +such a person, care of General Delivery, San Francisco; and I, in +turn, presented him with my card. + +"Pleased to know you, sir," he said, extending his hand, his voice +booming as if accustomed to loud noises or wide spaces. "Of course +I've heard of you, seen your picture in the papers, and all that, +and, though I say it that shouldn't, I want to say that I didn't +care a rap about those articles you wrote on Mexico. You're wrong, +all wrong. You make the mistake of all Gringos in thinking a +Mexican is a white man. He ain't. None of them ain't--Greasers, +Spiggoties, Latin-Americans and all the rest of the cattle. Why, +sir, they don't think like we think, or reason, or act. Even their +multiplication table is different. You think seven times seven is +forty-nine; but not them. They work it out different. And white +isn't white to them, either. Let me give you an example. Buying +coffee retail for house-keeping in one-pound or ten-pound lots--" + +"How big was that nugget you referred to?" I queried firmly. "As +big as the biggest of those?" + +"Bigger," he said quietly. "Bigger than the whole blamed exhibit +of them put together, and then some." He paused and regarded me +with a steadfast gaze. "I don't see no reason why I shouldn't go +into the matter with you. You've got a reputation a man ought to +be able to trust, and I've read you've done some tall skylarking +yourself in out-of-the-way places. I've been browsing around with +an eye open for some one to go in with me on the proposition." + +"You can trust me," I said. + +And here I am, blazing out into print with the whole story just as +he told it to me as we sat on a bench by the lagoon before the +Palace of Fine Arts with the cries of the sea gulls in our ears. +Well, he should have kept his appointment with me. But I +anticipate. + +As we started to leave the building and hunt for a seat, a small +woman, possibly thirty years of age, with a washed-out complexion +of the farmer's wife sort, darted up to him in a bird-like way, for +all the world like the darting veering gulls over our heads and +fastened herself to his arm with the accuracy and dispatch and +inevitableness of a piece of machinery. + +"There you go!" she shrilled. "A-trottin' right off and never +givin' me a thought." + +I was formally introduced to her. It was patent that she had never +heard of me, and she surveyed me bleakly with shrewd black eyes, +set close together and as beady and restless as a bird's. + +"You ain't goin' to tell him about that hussy?" she complained. + +"Well, now, Sarah, this is business, you see," he argued +plaintively. "I've been lookin' for a likely man this long while, +and now that he's shown up it seems to me I got a right to give him +the hang of what happened." + +The small woman made no reply, but set her thin lips in a needle- +like line. She gazed straight before her at the Tower of Jewels +with so austere an expression that no glint of refracted sunlight +could soften it. We proceeded slowly to the lagoon, managed to +obtain an unoccupied seat, and sat down with mutual sighs of relief +as we released our weights from our tortured sightseeing feet. + +"One does get so mortal weary," asserted the small woman, almost +defiantly. + +Two swans waddled up from the mirroring water and investigated us. +When their suspicions of our niggardliness or lack of peanuts had +been confirmed, Jones half-turned his back on his life-partner and +gave me his story. + +"Ever been in Ecuador? Then take my advice--and don't. Though I +take that back, for you and me might be hitting it for there +together if you can rustle up the faith in me and the backbone in +yourself for the trip. Well, anyway, it ain't so many years ago +that I came ambling in there on a rusty, foul-bottomed, tramp +collier from Australia, forty-three days from land to land. Seven +knots was her speed when everything favoured, and we'd had a two +weeks' gale to the north'ard of New Zealand, and broke our engines +down for two days off Pitcairn Island. + +"I was no sailor on her. I'm a locomotive engineer. But I'd made +friends with the skipper at Newcastle an' come along as his guest +for as far as Guayaquil. You see, I'd heard wages was 'way up on +the American railroad runnin' from that place over the Andes to +Quito. Now Guayaquil--" + +"Is a fever-hole," I interpolated. + +Julian Jones nodded. + +"Thomas Nast died there of it within a month after he landed.--He +was our great American cartoonist," I added. + +"Don't know him," Julian Jones said shortly. "But I do know he +wasn't the first to pass out by a long shot. Why, look you the way +I found it. The pilot grounds is sixty miles down the river. +'How's the fever?' said I to the pilot who came aboard in the early +morning. 'See that Hamburg barque,' said he, pointing to a sizable +ship at anchor. 'Captain and fourteen men dead of it already, and +the cook and two men dying right now, and they're the last left of +her.' + +"And by jinks he told the truth. And right then they were dying +forty a day in Guayaquil of Yellow Jack. But that was nothing, as +I was to find out. Bubonic plague and small-pox were raging, while +dysentery and pneumonia were reducing the population, and the +railroad was raging worst of all. I mean that. For them that +insisted in riding on it, it was more dangerous than all the other +diseases put together. + +"When we dropped anchor off Guayaquil half a dozen skippers from +other steamers came on board to warn our skipper not to let any of +his crew or officers go ashore except the ones he wanted to lose. +A launch came off for me from Duran, which is on the other side of +the river and is the terminal of the railroad. And it brought off +a man that soared up the gangway three jumps at a time he was that +eager to get aboard. When he hit the deck he hadn't time to speak +to any of us. He just leaned out over the rail and shook his fist +at Duran and shouted: 'I beat you to it! I beat you to it!' + +"'Who'd you beat to it, friend?' I asked. 'The railroad,' he said, +as he unbuckled the straps and took off a big '44 Colt's automatic +from where he wore it handy on his left side under his coat, 'I +staved as long as I agreed--three months--and it didn't get me. I +was a conductor.' + +"And that was the railroad I was to work for. All of which was +nothing to what he told me in the next few minutes. The road ran +from sea level at Duran up to twelve thousand feet on Chimborazo +and down to ten thousand at Quito on the other side the range. And +it was so dangerous that the trains didn't run nights. The through +passengers had to get off and sleep in the towns at night while the +train waited for daylight. And each train carried a guard of +Ecuadoriano soldiers which was the most dangerous of all. They +were supposed to protect the train crews, but whenever trouble +started they unlimbered their rifles and joined the mob. You see, +whenever a train wreck occurred, the first cry of the spiggoties +was 'Kill the Gringos!' They always did that, and proceeded to +kill the train crew and whatever chance Gringo passengers that'd +escaped being killed in the accident. Which is their kind of +arithmetic, which I told you a while back as being different from +ours. + +"Shucks! Before the day was out I was to find out for myself that +that ex-conductor wasn't lying. It was over at Duran. I was to +take my run on the first division out to Quito, for which place I +was to start next morning--only one through train running every +twenty-four hours. It was the afternoon of my first day, along +about four o'clock, when the boilers of the Governor Hancock +exploded and she sank in sixty feet of water alongside the dock. +She was the big ferry boat that carried the railroad passengers +across the river to Guayaquil. It was a bad accident, but it was +the cause of worse that followed. By half-past four, big +trainloads began to arrive. It was a feast day and they'd run an +excursion up country but of Guayaquil, and this was the crowd +coming back. + +"And the crowd--there was five thousand of them--wanted to get +ferried across, and the ferry was at the bottom of the river, which +wasn't our fault. But by the Spiggoty arithmetic, it was. 'Kill +the Gringos!' shouts one of them. And right there the beans were +spilled. Most of us got away by the skin of our teeth. I raced on +the heels of the Master Mechanic, carrying one of his babies for +him, for the locomotives that was just pulling out. You see, way +down there away from everywhere they just got to save their +locomotives in times of trouble, because, without them, a railroad +can't be run. Half a dozen American wives and as many children +were crouching on the cab floors along with the rest of us when we +pulled out; and the Ecuadoriano soldiers, who should have been +protecting our lives and property, turned loose with their rifles +and must have given us all of a thousand rounds before we got out +of range. + +"We camped up country and didn't come back to clean up until next +day. It was some cleaning. Every flat-car, box-car, coach, +asthmatic switch engine, and even hand-car that mob of Spiggoties +had shoved off the dock into sixty feet of water on top of the +Governor Hancock. They'd burnt the round house, set fire to the +coal bunkers, and made a scandal of the repair shops. Oh, yes, and +there were three of our fellows they'd got that we had to bury +mighty quick. It's hot weather all the time down there." + +Julian Jones came to a full pause and over his shoulder studied the +straight-before-her gaze and forbidding expression of his wife's +face. + +"I ain't forgotten the nugget," he assured me. + +"Nor the hussy," the little woman snapped, apparently at the mud- +hens paddling on the surface of the lagoon. + +"I've been travelling toward the nugget right along--" + +"There was never no reason for you to stay in that dangerous +country," his wife snapped in on him. + +"Now, Sarah," he appealed. "I was working for you right along." +And to me he explained: "The risk was big, but so was the pay. +Some months I earned as high as five hundred gold. And here was +Sarah waiting for me back in Nebraska--" + +"An' us engaged two years," she complained to the Tower of Jewels. + +"--What of the strike, and me being blacklisted, and getting +typhoid down in Australia, and everything," he went on. "And luck +was with me on that railroad. Why, I saw fellows fresh from the +States pass out, some of them not a week on their first run. If +the diseases and the railroad didn't get them, then it was the +Spiggoties got them. But it just wasn't my fate, even that time I +rode my engine down to the bottom of a forty-foot washout. I lost +my fireman; and the conductor and the Superintendent of Rolling +Stock (who happened to be running down to Duran to meet his bride) +had their heads knifed off by the Spiggoties and paraded around on +poles. But I lay snug as a bug under a couple of feet of tender +coal, and they thought I'd headed for tall timber--lay there a day +and a night till the excitement cooled down. Yes, I was lucky. +The worst that happened to me was I caught a cold once, and another +time had a carbuncle. But the other fellows! They died like +flies, what of Yellow Jack, pneumonia, the Spiggoties, and the +railroad. The trouble was I didn't have much chance to pal with +them. No sooner'd I get some intimate with one of them he'd up and +die--all but a fireman named Andrews, and he went loco for keeps. + +"I made good on my job from the first, and lived in Quito in a +'dobe house with whacking big Spanish tiles on the roof that I'd +rented. And I never had much trouble with the Spiggoties, what of +letting them sneak free rides in the tender or on the cowcatcher. +Me throw them off? Never! I took notice, when Jack Harris put off +a bunch of them, that I attended his funeral muy pronto--" + +"Speak English," the little woman beside him snapped. + +"Sarah just can't bear to tolerate me speaking Spanish," he +apologized. "It gets so on her nerves that I promised not to. +Well, as I was saying, the goose hung high and everything was going +hunky-dory, and I was piling up my wages to come north to Nebraska +and marry Sarah, when I run on to Vahna--" + +"The hussy!" Sarah hissed. + +"Now, Sarah," her towering giant of a husband begged, "I just got +to mention her or I can't tell about the nugget.--It was one night +when I was taking a locomotive--no train--down to Amato, about +thirty miles from Quito. Seth Manners was my fireman. I was +breaking him in to engineer for himself, and I was letting him run +the locomotive while I sat up in his seat meditating about Sarah +here. I'd just got a letter from her, begging as usual for me to +come home and hinting as usual about the dangers of an unmarried +man like me running around loose in a country full of senoritas and +fandangos. Lord! If she could only a-seen them. Positive +frights, that's what they are, their faces painted white as corpses +and their lips red as--as some of the train wrecks I've helped +clean up. + +"It was a lovely April night, not a breath of wind, and a +tremendous big moon shining right over the top of Chimborazo.--Some +mountain that. The railroad skirted it twelve thousand feet above +sea level, and the top of it ten thousand feet higher than that. + +"Mebbe I was drowsing, with Seth running the engine; but he slammed +on the brakes so sudden hard that I darn near went through the cab +window. + +"'What the--' I started to yell, and 'Holy hell,' Seth says, as +both of us looked at what was on the track. And I agreed with Seth +entirely in his remark. It was an Indian girl--and take it from +me, Indians ain't Spiggoties by any manner of means. Seth had +managed to fetch a stop within twenty feet of her, and us bowling +down hill at that! But the girl. She--" + +I saw the form of Mrs. Julian Jones stiffen, although she kept her +gaze fixed balefully upon two mud-hens that were prowling along the +lagoon shallows below us. "The hussy!" she hissed, once and +implacably. Jones had stopped at the sound, but went on +immediately. + +"She was a tall girl, slim and slender, you know the kind, with +black hair, remarkably long hanging, down loose behind her, as she +stood there no more afraid than nothing, her arms spread out to +stop the engine. She was wearing a slimpsy sort of garment wrapped +around her that wasn't cloth but ocelot skins, soft and dappled, +and silky. It was all she had on--" + +"The hussy!" breathed Mrs. Jones. + +But Mr. Jones went on, making believe that he was unaware of the +interruption. + +"'Hell of a way to stop a locomotive,' I complained at Seth, as I +climbed down on to the right of way. I walked past our engine and +up to the girl, and what do you think? Her eyes were shut tight. +She was trembling that violent that you would see it by the +moonlight. And she was barefoot, too. + +"'What's the row?' I said, none too gentle. She gave a start, +seemed to come out of her trance, and opened her eyes. Say! They +were big and black and beautiful. Believe me, she was some looker- +-" + +"The hussy!" At which hiss the two mud-hens veered away a few +feet. But Jones was getting himself in hand, and didn't even +blink. + +"'What are you stopping this locomotive for?' I demanded in +Spanish. Nary an answer. She stared at me, then at the snorting +engine and then burst into tears, which you'll admit is uncommon +behaviour for an Indian woman. + +"'If you try to get rides that way,' I slung at her in Spiggoty +Spanish (which they tell me is some different from regular +Spanish), 'you'll be taking one smeared all over our cowcatcher and +headlight, and it'll be up to my fireman to scrape you off.' + +"My Spiggoty Spanish wasn't much to brag on, but I could see she +understood, though she only shook her head and wouldn't speak. But +great Moses, she was some looker--" + +I glanced apprehensively at Mrs. Jones, who must have caught me out +of the tail of her eye, for she muttered: "If she hadn't been do +you think he'd a-taken her into his house to live?" + +"Now hold on, Sarah," he protested. "That ain't fair. Besides, +I'm telling this.--Next thing, Seth yells at me, 'Goin' to stay +here all night?' + +"'Come on,' I said to the girl, 'and climb on board. But next time +you want a ride don't flag a locomotive between stations.' She +followed along; but when I got to the step and turned to give her a +lift-up, she wasn't there. I went forward again. Not a sign of +her. Above and below was sheer cliff, and the track stretched +ahead a hundred yards clear and empty. And then I spotted her, +crouched down right against the cowcatcher, that close I'd almost +stepped on her. If we'd started up, we'd have run over her in a +second. It was all so nonsensical, I never could make out her +actions. Maybe she was trying to suicide. I grabbed her by the +wrist and jerked her none too gentle to her feet. And she came +along all right. Women do know when a man means business." + +I glanced from this Goliath to his little, bird-eyed spouse, and +wondered if he had ever tried to mean business with her. + +"Seth kicked at first, but I boosted her into the cab and made her +sit up beside me--" + +"And I suppose Seth was busy running the engine," Mrs. Jones +observed. + +"I was breaking him in, wasn't I?" Mr. Jones protested. "So we +made the run into Amato. She'd never opened her mouth once, and no +sooner'd the engine stopped than she'd jumped to the ground and was +gone. Just like that. Not a thank you kindly. Nothing. + +"But next morning when we came to pull out for Quito with a dozen +flat cars loaded with rails, there she was in the cab waiting for +us; and in the daylight I could see how much better a looker she +was than the night before. + +"'Huh! she's adopted you,' Seth grins. And it looked like it. She +just stood there and looked at me--at us--like a loving hound dog +that you love, that you've caught with a string of sausages inside +of him, and that just knows you ain't going to lift a hand to him. +'Go chase yourself!' I told her pronto." (Mrs. Jones her proximity +noticeable with a wince at the Spanish word.) "You see, Sarah, I'd +no use for her, even at the start." + +Mrs. Jones stiffened. Her lips moved soundlessly, but I knew to +what syllables. + +"And what made it hardest was Seth jeering at me. 'You can't shake +her that way,' he said. 'You saved her life--' 'I didn't,' I said +sharply; 'it was you.' 'But she thinks you did, which is the same +thing,' he came back at me. 'And now she belongs to you. Custom +of the country, as you ought to know.'" + +"Heathenish," said Mrs. Jones, and though her steady gaze was set +upon the Tower of Jewels I knew she was making no reference to its +architecture. + +"'She's come to do light housekeeping for you,' Seth grinned. I +let him rave, though afterwards I kept him throwing in the coal too +fast to work his mouth very much. Why, say, when I got to the spot +where I picked her up, and stopped the train for her to get off, +she just flopped down on her knees, got a hammerlock with her arms +around my knees, and cried all over my shoes. What was I to do?" + +With no perceptible movement that I was aware of, Mrs. Jones +advertised her certitude of knowledge of what SHE would have done. + +"And the moment we pulled into Quito, she did what she'd done +before--vanished. Sarah never believes me when I say how relieved +I felt to be quit of her. But it was not to be. I got to my 'dobe +house and managed a cracking fine dinner my cook had ready for me. +She was mostly Spiggoty and half Indian, and her name was Paloma.-- +Now, Sarah, haven't I told you she was older'n a grandmother, and +looked more like a buzzard than a dove? Why, I couldn't bear to +eat with her around where I could look at her. But she did make +things comfortable, and she was some economical when it came to +marketing. + +"That afternoon, after a big long siesta, what'd I find in the +kitchen, just as much at home as if she belonged there, but that +blamed Indian girl. And old Paloma was squatting at the girl's +feet and rubbing the girl's knees and legs like for rheumatism, +which I knew the girl didn't have from the way I'd sized up the +walk of her, and keeping time to the rubbing with a funny sort of +gibberish chant. And I let loose right there and then. As Sarah +knows, I never could a-bear women around the house--young, +unmarried women, I mean. But it was no go! Old Paloma sided with +the girl, and said if the girl went she went, too. Also, she +called me more kinds of a fool than the English language has +accommodation for. You'd like the Spanish lingo, Sarah, for +expressing yourself in such ways, and you'd have liked old Paloma, +too. She was a good woman, though she didn't have any teeth and +her face could kill a strong man's appetite in the cradle. + +"I gave in. I had to. Except for the excuse that she needed +Vahna's help around the house (which she didn't at all), old Paloma +never said why she stuck up for the girl. Anyway, Vahna was a +quiet thing, never in the way. And she never gadded. Just sat in- +doors jabbering with Paloma and helping with the chores. But I +wasn't long in getting on to that she was afraid of something. She +would look up, that anxious it hurt, whenever anybody called, like +some of the boys to have a gas or a game of pedro. I tried to worm +it out of Paloma what was worrying the girl, but all the old woman +did was to look solemn and shake her head like all the devils in +hell was liable to precipitate a visit on us. + +"And then one day Vahna had a visitor. I'd just come in from a run +and was passing the time of day with her--I had to be polite, even +if she had butted in on me and come to live in my house for keeps-- +when I saw a queer expression come into her eyes. In the doorway +stood an Indian boy. He looked like her, but was younger and +slimmer. She took him into the kitchen and they must have had a +great palaver, for he didn't leave until after dark. Inside the +week he came back, but I missed him. When I got home, Paloma put a +fat nugget of gold into my hand, which Vahna had sent him for. The +blamed thing weighed all of two pounds and was worth more than five +hundred dollars. She explained that Vahna wanted me to take it to +pay for her keep. And I had to take it to keep peace in the house. + +"Then, after a long time, came another visitor. We were sitting +before the fire--" + +"Him and the hussy," quoth Mrs. Jones. + +"And Paloma," he added quickly. + +"Him and his cook and his light housekeeper sitting by the fire," +she amended. + +"Oh, I admit Vahna did like me a whole heap," he asserted +recklessly, then modified with a pang of caution: "A heap more +than was good for her, seeing that I had no inclination her way. + +"Well, as I was saying, she had another visitor. He was a lean, +tall, white-headed old Indian, with a beak on him like an eagle. +He walked right in without knocking. Vahna gave a little cry that +was half like a yelp and half like a gasp, and flumped down on her +knees before me, pleading to me with deer's eyes and to him with +the eyes of a deer about to be killed that don't want to be killed. +Then, for a minute that seemed as long as a life-time, she and the +old fellow glared at each other. Paloma was the first to talk, in +his own lingo, for he talked back to her. But great Moses, if he +wasn't the high and mighty one! Paloma's old knees were shaking, +and she cringed to him like a hound dog. And all this in my own +house! I'd have thrown him out on his neck, only he was so old. + +"If the things he said to Vahna were as terrible as the way he +looked! Say! He just spit words at her! But Paloma kept +whimpering and butting in, till something she said got across, +because his face relaxed. He condescended to give me the once over +and fired some question at Vahna. She hung her head, and looked +foolish, and blushed, and then replied with a single word and a +shake of the head. And with that he just naturally turned on his +heel and beat it. I guess she'd said 'No.' + +"For some time after that Vahna used to fluster up whenever she saw +me. Then she took to the kitchen for a spell. But after a long +time she began hanging around the big room again. She was still +mighty shy, but she'd keep on following me about with those big +eyes of hers--" + +"The hussy!" I heard plainly. But Julian Jones and I were pretty +well used to it by this time. + +"I don't mind saying that I was getting some interested myself--oh, +not in the way Sarah never lets up letting me know she thinks. +That two-pound nugget was what had me going. If Vahna'd put me +wise to where it came from, I could say good-bye to railroading and +hit the high places for Nebraska and Sarah. + +"And then the beans were spilled . . . by accident. Come a letter +from Wisconsin. My Aunt Eliza 'd died and up and left me her big +farm. I let out a whoop when I read it; but I could have canned my +joy, for I was jobbed out of it by the courts and lawyers +afterward--not a cent to me, and I'm still paying 'm in +instalments. + +"But I didn't know, then; and I prepared to pull back to God's +country. Paloma got sore, and Vahna got the weeps. 'Don't go! +Don't go!' That was her song. But I gave notice on my job, and +wrote a letter to Sarah here--didn't I, Sarah? + +"That night, sitting by the fire like at a funeral, Vahna really +loosened up for the first time. + +"'Don't go,' she says to me, with old Paloma nodding agreement with +her. 'I'll show you where my brother got the nugget, if you don't +go.' 'Too late,' said I. And I told her why. + +"And told her about me waiting for you back in Nebraska," Mrs. +Jones observed in cold, passionless tones. + +"Now, Sarah, why should I hurt a poor Indian girl's feelings? Of +course I didn't. + +"Well, she and Paloma talked Indian some more, and then Vahna says: +'If you stay, I'll show you the biggest nugget that is the father +of all other nuggets.' 'How big?' I asked. 'As big as me?' She +laughed. 'Bigger than you,' she says, 'much, much bigger.' 'They +don't grow that way,' I said. But she said she'd seen it and +Paloma backed her up. Why, to listen to them you'd have thought +there was millions in that one nugget. Paloma 'd never seen it +herself, but she'd heard about it. A secret of the tribe which she +couldn't share, being only half Indian herself." + +Julian Jones paused and heaved a sigh. + +"And they kept on insisting until I fell for--" + +"The hussy," said Mrs. Jones, pert as a bird, at the ready instant. + +"'No; for the nugget. What of Aunt Eliza's farm I was rich enough +to quit railroading, but not rich enough to turn my back on big +money--and I just couldn't help believing them two women. Gee! I +could be another Vanderbilt, or J. P. Morgan. That's the way I +thought; and I started in to pump Vahna. But she wouldn't give +down. 'You come along with me,' she says. 'We can be back here in +a couple of weeks with all the gold the both of us can carry.' +'We'll take a burro, or a pack-train of burros,' was my suggestion. +But nothing doing. And Paloma agreed with her. It was too +dangerous. The Indians would catch us. + +"The two of us pulled out when the nights were moonlight. We +travelled only at night, and laid up in the days. Vahna wouldn't +let me light a fire, and I missed my coffee something fierce. We +got up in the real high mountains of the main Andes, where the snow +on one pass gave us some trouble; but the girl knew the trails, +and, though we didn't waste any time, we were a full week getting +there. I know the general trend of our travel, because I carried a +pocket compass; and the general trend is all I need to get there +again, because of that peak. There's no mistaking it. There ain't +another peak like it in the world. Now, I'm not telling you its +particular shape, but when you and I head out for it from Quito +I'll take you straight to it. + +"It's no easy thing to climb, and the person doesn't live that can +climb it at night. We had to take the daylight to it, and didn't +reach the top till after sunset. Why, I could take hours and hours +telling you about that last climb, which I won't. The top was flat +as a billiard table, about a quarter of an acre in size, and was +almost clean of snow. Vahna told me that the great winds that +usually blew, kept the snow off of it. + +"We were winded, and I got mountain sickness so bad that I had to +stretch out for a spell. Then, when the moon come up, I took a +prowl around. It didn't take long, and I didn't catch a sight or a +smell of anything that looked like gold. And when I asked Vahna, +she only laughed and clapped her hands. Meantime my mountain +sickness tuned up something fierce, and I sat down on a big rock to +wait for it to ease down. + +"'Come on, now,' I said, when I felt better. 'Stop your fooling +and tell me where that nugget is.' 'It's nearer to you right now +than I'll ever get,' she answered, her big eyes going sudden +wistful. 'All you Gringos are alike. Gold is the love of your +heart, and women don't count much.' + +"I didn't say anything. That was no time to tell her about Sarah +here. But Vahna seemed to shake off her depressed feelings, and +began to laugh and tease again. 'How do you like it?' she asked. +'Like what?' 'The nugget you're sitting on.' + +"I jumped up as though it was a red-hot stove. And all it was was +a rock. I felt nay heart sink. Either she had gone clean loco or +this was her idea of a joke. Wrong on both counts. She gave me +the hatchet and told me to take a hack at the boulder, which I did, +again and again, for yellow spots sprang up from under every blow. +By the great Moses! it was gold! The whole blamed boulder!" + +Jones rose suddenly to his full height and flung out his long arms, +his face turned to the southern skies. The movement shot panic +into the heart of a swan that had drawn nearer with amiably +predatory designs. Its consequent abrupt retreat collided it with +a stout old lady, who squealed and dropped her bag of peanuts. +Jones sat down and resumed. + +"Gold, I tell you, solid gold and that pure and soft that I chopped +chips out of it. It had been coated with some sort of rain-proof +paint or lacquer made out of asphalt or something. No wonder I'd +taken it for a rock. It was ten feet long, all of five feet +through, and tapering to both ends like an egg. Here. Take a look +at this." + +From his pocket he drew and opened a leather case, from which he +took an object wrapped in tissue-paper. Unwrapping it, he dropped +into my hand a chip of pure soft gold, the size of a ten-dollar +gold-piece. I could make out the greyish substance on one side +with which it had been painted. + +"I chopped that from one end of the thing," Jones went on, +replacing the chip in its paper and leather case. "And lucky I put +it in my pocket. For right at my back came one loud word--more +like a croak than a word, in my way of thinking. And there was +that lean old fellow with the eagle beak that had dropped in on us +one night. And there was about thirty Indians with him--all slim +young fellows. + +"Vahna'd flopped down and begun whimpering, but I told her, 'Get up +and make friends with them for me.' 'No, no,' she cried. 'This is +death. Good-bye, amigo--'" + +Here Mrs. Jones winced, and her husband abruptly checked the +particular flow of his narrative. + +"'Then get up and fight along with me,' I said to her. And she +did. She was some hellion, there on the top of the world, clawing +and scratching tooth and nail--a regular she cat. And I wasn't +idle, though all I had was that hatchet and my long arms. But they +were too many for me, and there was no place for me to put my back +against a wall. When I come to, minutes after they'd cracked me on +the head--here, feel this." + +Removing his hat, Julian Jones guided my finger tips through his +thatch of sandy hair until they sank into an indentation. It was +fully three inches long, and went into the bone itself of the +skull. + +"When I come to, there was Vahna spread-eagled on top of the +nugget, and the old fellow with a beak jabbering away solemnly as +if going through some sort of religious exercises. In his hand he +had a stone knife--you know, a thin, sharp sliver of some obsidian- +like stuff same as they make arrow-heads out of. I couldn't lift a +hand, being held down, and being too weak besides. And--well, +anyway, that stone knife did for her, and me they didn't even do +the honour of killing there on top their sacred peak. They chucked +me off of it like so much carrion. + +"And the buzzards didn't get me either. I can see the moonlight +yet, shining on all those peaks of snow, as I went down. Why, sir, +it was a five-hundred-foot fall, only I didn't make it. I went +into a big snow-drift in a crevice. And when I come to (hours +after I know, for it was full day when I next saw the sun), I found +myself in a regular snow-cave or tunnel caused by the water from +the melting snow running along the ledge. In fact, the stone above +actually overhung just beyond where I first landed. A few feet +more to the side, either way, and I'd almost be going yet. It was +a straight miracle, that's what it was. + +"But I paid for it. It was two years and over before I knew what +happened. All I knew was that I was Julian Jones and that I'd been +blacklisted in the big strike, and that I was married to Sarah +here. I mean that. I didn't know anything in between, and when +Sarah tried to talk about it, it gave me pains in the head. I mean +my head was queer, and I knew it was queer. + +"And then, sitting on the porch of her father's farmhouse back in +Nebraska one moonlight evening, Sarah came out and put that gold +chip into my hand. Seems she'd just found it in the torn lining of +the trunk I'd brought back from Ecuador--I who for two years didn't +even know I'd been to Ecuador, or Australia, or anything! Well, I +just sat there looking at the chip in the moonlight, and turning it +over and over and figuring what it was and where it'd come from, +when all of a sudden there was a snap inside my head as if +something had broken, and then I could see Vahna spread-eagled on +that big nugget and the old fellow with the beak waving the stone +knife, and . . . and everything. That is, everything that had +happened from the time I first left Nebraska to when I crawled to +the daylight out of the snow after they had chucked me off the +mountain-top. But everything that'd happened after that I'd clean +forgotten. When Sarah said I was her husband, I wouldn't listen to +her. Took all her family and the preacher that'd married us to +convince me. + +"Later on I wrote to Seth Manners. The railroad hadn't killed him +yet, and he pieced out a lot for me. I'll show you his letters. +I've got them at the hotel. One day, he said, making his regular +run, I crawled out on to the track. I didn't stand upright, I just +crawled. He took me for a calf, or a big dog, at first. I wasn't +anything human, he said, and I didn't know him or anything. As +near as I can make out, it was ten days after the mountain-top to +the time Seth picked me up. What I ate I don't know. Maybe I +didn't eat. Then it was doctors at Quito, and Paloma nursing me +(she must have packed that gold chip in my trunk), until they found +out I was a man without a mind, and the railroad sent me back to +Nebraska. At any rate, that's what Seth writes me. Of myself, I +don't know. But Sarah here knows. She corresponded with the +railroad before they shipped me and all that." + +Mrs. Jones nodded affirmation of his words, sighed and evidenced +unmistakable signs of eagerness to go. + +"I ain't been able to work since," her husband continued. "And I +ain't been able to figure out how to get back that big nugget. +Sarah's got money of her own, and she won't let go a penny--" + +"He won't get down to THAT country no more!" she broke forth. + +"But, Sarah, Vahna's dead--you know that," Julian Jones protested. + +"I don't know anything about anything," she answered decisively, +"except that THAT country is no place for a married man." + +Her lips snapped together, and she fixed an unseeing stare across +to where the afternoon sun was beginning to glow into sunset. I +gazed for a moment at her face, white, plump, tiny, and implacable, +and gave her up. + +"How do you account for such a mass of gold being there?" I queried +of Julian Jones. "A solid-gold meteor that fell out of the sky?" + +"Not for a moment." He shook his head. " It was carried there by +the Indians." + +"Up a mountain like that--and such enormous weight and size!" I +objected. + +"Just as easy," he smiled. "I used to be stumped by that +proposition myself, after I got my memory back. Now how in Sam +Hill--' I used to begin, and then spend hours figuring at it. And +then when I got the answer I felt downright idiotic, it was that +easy." He paused, then announced: "They didn't." + +"But you just--said they did." + +"They did and they didn't," was his enigmatic reply. "Of course +they never carried that monster nugget up there. What they did was +to carry up its contents." + +He waited until he saw enlightenment dawn in my face. + +"And then of course melted all the gold, or welded it, or smelted +it, all into one piece. You know the first Spaniards down there, +under a leader named Pizarro, were a gang of robbers and cut- +throats. They went through the country like the hoof-and-mouth +disease, and killed the Indians off like cattle. You see, the +Indians had lots of gold. Well, what the Spaniards didn't get, the +surviving Indians hid away in that one big chunk on top the +mountain, and it's been waiting there ever since for me--and for +you, if you want to go in on it." + +And here, by the Lagoon of the Palace of Fine Arts, ended my +acquaintance with Julian Jones. On my agreeing to finance the +adventure, he promised to call on me at my hotel next morning with +the letters of Seth Manners and the railroad, and conclude +arrangements. But he did not call. That evening I telephoned his +hotel and was informed by the clerk that Mr. Julian Jones and wife +had departed in the early afternoon, with their baggage. + +Can Mrs. Jones have rushed him back and hidden him away in +Nebraska? I remember that as we said good-bye, there was that in +her smile that recalled the vulpine complacency of Mona Lisa, the +Wise. + +Kohala, Hawaii, +May 5, 1916. + + + + +STORY: LIKE ARGUS OF THE ANCIENT TIMES + + + + +It was the summer of 1897, and there was trouble in the Tarwater +family. Grandfather Tarwater, after remaining properly subdued and +crushed for a quiet decade, had broken out again. This time it was +the Klondike fever. His first and one unvarying symptom of such +attacks was song. One chant only he raised, though he remembered +no more than the first stanza and but three lines of that. And the +family knew his feet were itching and his brain was tingling with +the old madness, when he lifted his hoarse-cracked voice, now +falsetto-cracked, in: + + +Like Argus of the ancient times, +We leave this modern Greece, +Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum, +To shear the Golden Fleece. + + +Ten years earlier he had lifted the chant, sung to the air of the +"Doxology," when afflicted with the fever to go gold-mining in +Patagonia. The multitudinous family had sat upon him, but had had +a hard time doing it. When all else had failed to shake his +resolution, they had applied lawyers to him, with the threat of +getting out guardianship papers and of confining him in the state +asylum for the insane--which was reasonable for a man who had, a +quarter of a century before, speculated away all but ten meagre +acres of a California principality, and who had displayed no better +business acumen ever since. + +The application of lawyers to John Tarwater was like the +application of a mustard plaster. For, in his judgment, they were +the gentry, more than any other, who had skinned him out of the +broad Tarwater acres. So, at the time of his Patagonian fever, the +very thought of so drastic a remedy was sufficient to cure him. He +quickly demonstrated he was not crazy by shaking the fever from him +and agreeing not to go to Patagonia. + +Next, he demonstrated how crazy he really was, by deeding over to +his family, unsolicited, the ten acres on Tarwater Flat, the house, +barn, outbuildings, and water-rights. Also did he turn over the +eight hundred dollars in bank that was the long-saved salvage of +his wrecked fortune. But for this the family found no cause for +committal to the asylum, since such committal would necessarily +invalidate what he had done. + +"Grandfather is sure peeved," said Mary, his oldest daughter, +herself a grandmother, when her father quit smoking. + +All he had retained for himself was a span of old horses, a +mountain buckboard, and his one room in the crowded house. +Further, having affirmed that he would be beholden to none of them, +he got the contract to carry the United States mail, twice a week, +from Kelterville up over Tarwater Mountain to Old Almaden--which +was a sporadically worked quick-silver mine in the upland cattle +country. With his old horses it took all his time to make the two +weekly round trips. And for ten years, rain or shine, he had never +missed a trip. Nor had he failed once to pay his week's board into +Mary's hand. This board he had insisted on, in the convalescence +from his Patagonian fever, and he had paid it strictly, though he +had given up tobacco in order to be able to do it. + +"Huh!" he confided to the ruined water wheel of the old Tarwater +Mill, which he had built from the standing timber and which had +ground wheat for the first settlers. "Huh! They'll never put me +in the poor farm so long as I support myself. And without a penny +to my name it ain't likely any lawyer fellows'll come snoopin' +around after me." + +And yet, precisely because of these highly rational acts, it was +held that John Tarwater was mildly crazy! + +The first time he had lifted the chant of "Like Argus of the +Ancient Times," had been in 1849, when, twenty-two years' of age, +violently attacked by the Californian fever, he had sold two +hundred and forty Michigan acres, forty of it cleared, for the +price of four yoke of oxen, and a wagon, and had started across the +Plains. + +"And we turned off at Fort Hall, where the Oregon emigration went +north'ard, and swung south for Californy," was his way of +concluding the narrative of that arduous journey. "And Bill Ping +and me used to rope grizzlies out of the underbrush of Cache Slough +in the Sacramento Valley." + +Years of freighting and mining had followed, and, with a stake +gleaned from the Merced placers, he satisfied the land-hunger of +his race and time by settling in Sonoma County. + +During the ten years of carrying the mail across Tarwater Township, +up Tarwater Valley, and over Tarwater Mountain, most all of which +land had once been his, he had spent his time dreaming of winning +back that land before he died. And now, his huge gaunt form more +erect than it had been for years, with a glinting of blue fires in +his small and close-set eyes, he was lifting his ancient chant +again. + +"There he goes now--listen to him," said William Tarwater. + +"Nobody at home," laughed Harris Topping, day labourer, husband of +Annie Tarwater, and father of her nine children. + +The kitchen door opened to admit the old man, returning from +feeding his horses. The song had ceased from his lips; but Mary +was irritable from a burnt hand and a grandchild whose stomach +refused to digest properly diluted cows' milk. + +"Now there ain't no use you carryin' on that way, father," she +tackled him. "The time's past for you to cut and run for a place +like the Klondike, and singing won't buy you nothing." + +"Just the same," he answered quietly. "I bet I could go to that +Klondike place and pick up enough gold to buy back the Tarwater +lands." + +"Old fool!" Annie contributed. + +"You couldn't buy them back for less'n three hundred thousand and +then some," was William's effort at squelching him. + +"Then I could pick up three hundred thousand, and then some, if I +was only there," the old man retorted placidly. + +"Thank God you can't walk there, or you'd be startin', I know," +Mary cried. "Ocean travel costs money." + +"I used to have money," her father said humbly. + +"Well, you ain't got any now--so forget it," William advised. +"Them times is past, like roping bear with Bill Ping. There ain't +no more bear." + +"Just the same--" + +But Mary cut him off. Seizing the day's paper from the kitchen +table, she flourished it savagely under her aged progenitor's nose. + +"What do those Klondikers say? There it is in cold print. Only +the young and robust can stand the Klondike. It's worse than the +north pole. And they've left their dead a-plenty there themselves. +Look at their pictures. You're forty years older 'n the oldest of +them." + +John Tarwater did look, but his eyes strayed to other photographs +on the highly sensational front page. + +"And look at the photys of them nuggets they brought down," he +said. "I know gold. Didn't I gopher twenty thousand outa the +Merced? And wouldn't it a-ben a hundred thousand if that +cloudburst hadn't busted my wing-dam? Now if I was only in the +Klondike--" + +"Crazy as a loon," William sneered in open aside to the rest. + +"A nice way to talk to your father," Old Man Tarwater censured +mildly. "My father'd have walloped the tar out of me with a +single-tree if I'd spoke to him that way." + +"But you ARE crazy, father--" William began. + +"Reckon you're right, son. And that's where my father wasn't +crazy. He'd a-done it." + +"The old man's been reading some of them magazine articles about +men who succeeded after forty," Annie jibed. + +"And why not, daughter?" he asked. "And why can't a man succeed +after he's seventy? I was only seventy this year. And mebbe I +could succeed if only I could get to the Klondike--" + +"Which you ain't going to get to," Mary shut him off. + +"Oh, well, then," he sighed, "seein's I ain't, I might just as well +go to bed." + +He stood up, tall, gaunt, great-boned and gnarled, a splendid ruin +of a man. His ragged hair and whiskers were not grey but snowy +white, as were the tufts of hair that stood out on the backs of his +huge bony fingers. He moved toward the door, opened it, sighed, +and paused with a backward look. + +"Just the same," he murmured plaintively, "the bottoms of my feet +is itching something terrible." + +Long before the family stirred next morning, his horses fed and +harnessed by lantern light, breakfast cooked and eaten by lamp +fight, Old Man Tarwater was off and away down Tarwater Valley on +the road to Kelterville. Two things were unusual about this usual +trip which he had made a thousand and forty times since taking the +mail contract. He did not drive to Kelterville, but turned off on +the main road south to Santa Rosa. Even more remarkable than this +was the paper-wrapped parcel between his feet. It contained his +one decent black suit, which Mary had been long reluctant to see +him wear any more, not because it was shabby, but because, as he +guessed what was at the back of her mind, it was decent enough to +bury him in. + +And at Santa Rosa, in a second-hand clothes shop, he sold the suit +outright for two dollars and a half. From the same obliging +shopman he received four dollars for the wedding ring of his long- +dead wife. The span of horses and the wagon he disposed of for +seventy-five dollars, although twenty-five was all he received down +in cash. Chancing to meet Alton Granger on the street, to whom +never before had he mentioned the ten dollars loaned him in '74, he +reminded Alton Granger of the little affair, and was promptly paid. +Also, of all unbelievable men to be in funds, he so found the town +drunkard for whom he had bought many a drink in the old and palmy +days. And from him John Tarwater borrowed a dollar. Finally, he +took the afternoon train to San Francisco. + +A dozen days later, carrying a half-empty canvas sack of blankets +and old clothes, he landed on the beach of Dyea in the thick of the +great Klondike Rush. The beach was screaming bedlam. Ten thousand +tons of outfit lay heaped and scattered, and twice ten thousand men +struggled with it and clamoured about it. Freight, by Indian-back, +over Chilcoot to Lake Linderman, had jumped from sixteen to thirty +cents a pound, which latter was a rate of six hundred dollars a +ton. And the sub-arctic winter gloomed near at hand. All knew it, +and all knew that of the twenty thousand of them very few would get +across the passes, leaving the rest to winter and wait for the late +spring thaw. + +Such the beach old John Tarwater stepped upon; and straight across +the beach and up the trail toward Chilcoot he headed, cackling his +ancient chant, a very Grandfather Argus himself, with no outfit +worry in the world, for he did not possess any outfit. That night +he slept on the flats, five miles above Dyea, at the head of canoe +navigation. Here the Dyea River became a rushing mountain torrent, +plunging out of a dark canyon from the glaciers that fed it far +above. + +And here, early next morning, he beheld a little man weighing no +more than a hundred, staggering along a foot-log under all of a +hundred pounds of flour strapped on his back. Also, he beheld the +little man stumble off the log and fall face-downward in a quiet +eddy where the water was two feet deep and proceed quietly to +drown. It was no desire of his to take death so easily, but the +flour on his back weighed as much as he and would not let him up. + +"Thank you, old man," he said to Tarwater, when the latter had +dragged him up into the air and ashore. + +While he unlaced his shoes and ran the water out, they had further +talk. Next, he fished out a ten-dollar gold-piece and offered it +to his rescuer. + +Old Tarwater shook his head and shivered, for the ice-water had wet +him to his knees. + +"But I reckon I wouldn't object to settin' down to a friendly meal +with you." + +"Ain't had breakfast?" the little man, who was past forty and who +had said his name was Anson, queried with a glance frankly curious. + +"Nary bite," John Tarwater answered. + +"Where's your outfit? Ahead?" + +"Nary outfit." + +"Expect to buy your grub on the Inside?" + +"Nary a dollar to buy it with, friend. Which ain't so important as +a warm bite of breakfast right now." + +In Anson's camp, a quarter of a mile on, Tarwater found a slender, +red-whiskered young man of thirty cursing over a fire of wet willow +wood. Introduced as Charles, he transferred his scowl and wrath to +Tarwater, who, genially oblivious, devoted himself to the fire, +took advantage of the chill morning breeze to create a draught +which the other had left stupidly blocked by stones, and soon +developed less smoke and more flame. The third member of the +party, Bill Wilson, or Big Bill as they called him, came in with a +hundred-and-forty-pound pack; and what Tarwater esteemed to be a +very rotten breakfast was dished out by Charles. The mush was half +cooked and mostly burnt, the bacon was charred carbon, and the +coffee was unspeakable. + +Immediately the meal was wolfed down the three partners took their +empty pack-straps and headed down trail to where the remainder of +their outfit lay at the last camp a mile away. And old Tarwater +became busy. He washed the dishes, foraged dry wood, mended a +broken pack-strap, put an edge on the butcher-knife and camp-axe, +and repacked the picks and shovels into a more carryable parcel. + +What had impressed him during the brief breakfast was the sort of +awe in which Anson and Big Bill stood of Charles. Once, during the +morning, while Anson took a breathing spell after bringing in +another hundred-pound pack, Tarwater delicately hinted his +impression. + +"You see, it's this way," Anson said. "We've divided our +leadership. We've got specialities. Now I'm a carpenter. When we +get to Lake Linderman, and the trees are chopped and whipsawed into +planks, I'll boss the building of the boat. Big Bill is a logger +and miner. So he'll boss getting out the logs and all mining +operations. Most of our outfit's ahead. We went broke paying the +Indians to pack that much of it to the top of Chilcoot. Our last +partner is up there with it, moving it along by himself down the +other side. His name's Liverpool, and he's a sailor. So, when the +boat's built, he's the boss of the outfit to navigate the lakes and +rapids to Klondike. + +"And Charles--this Mr. Crayton--what might his speciality be?" +Tarwater asked. + +"He's the business man. When it comes to business and organization +he's boss." + +"Hum," Tarwater pondered. "Very lucky to get such a bunch of +specialities into one outfit." + +"More than luck," Anson agreed. "It was all accident, too. Each +of us started alone. We met on the steamer coming up from San +Francisco, and formed the party.--Well, I got to be goin'. Charles +is liable to get kicking because I ain't packin' my share' just the +same, you can't expect a hundred-pound man to pack as much as a +hundred-and-sixty-pounder." + +"Stick around and cook us something for dinner," Charles, on his +next load in and noting the effects of the old man's handiness, +told Tarwater. + +And Tarwater cooked a dinner that was a dinner, washed the dishes, +had real pork and beans for supper, and bread baked in a frying-pan +that was so delectable than the three partners nearly foundered +themselves on it. Supper dishes washed, he cut shavings and +kindling for a quick and certain breakfast fire, showed Anson a +trick with foot-gear that was invaluable to any hiker, sang his +"Like Argus of the Ancient Times," and told them of the great +emigration across the Plains in Forty-nine. + +"My goodness, the first cheerful and hearty-like camp since we hit +the beach," Big Bill remarked as he knocked out his pipe and began +pulling off his shoes for bed. + +"Kind of made things easy, boys, eh?" Tarwater queried genially. + +All nodded. "Well, then, I got a proposition, boys. You can take +it or leave it, but just listen kindly to it. You're in a hurry to +get in before the freeze-up. Half the time is wasted over the +cooking by one of you that he might be puttin' in packin' outfit. +If I do the cookin' for you, you all'll get on that much faster. +Also, the cookin' 'll be better, and that'll make you pack better. +And I can pack quite a bit myself in between times, quite a bit, +yes, sir, quite a bit." + +Big Bill and Anson were just beginning to nod their heads in +agreement, when Charles stopped them. + +"What do you expect of us in return?" he demanded of the old man. + +"Oh, I leave it up to the boys." + +"That ain't business," Charles reprimanded sharply. "You made the +proposition. Now finish it." + +"Well, it's this way--" + +"You expect us to feed you all winter, eh?" Charles interrupted. + +"No, siree, I don't. All I reckon is a passage to Klondike in your +boat would be mighty square of you." + +"You haven't an ounce of grub, old man. You'll starve to death +when you get there." + +"I've been feedin' some long time pretty successful," Old Tarwater +replied, a whimsical light in his eyes. "I'm seventy, and ain't +starved to death never yet." + +"Will you sign a paper to the effect that you shift for yourself as +soon as you get to Dawson?" the business one demanded. + +"Oh, sure," was the response. + +Again Charles checked his two partners' expressions of satisfaction +with the arrangement. + +"One other thing, old man. We're a party of four, and we all have +a vote on questions like this. Young Liverpool is ahead with the +main outfit. He's got a say so, and he isn't here to say it." + +"What kind of a party might he be?" Tarwater inquired. + +"He's a rough-neck sailor, and he's got a quick, bad temper." + +"Some turbulent," Anson contributed. + +"And the way he can cuss is simply God-awful," Big Bill testified. + +"But he's square," Big Bill added. + +Anson nodded heartily to this appraisal. + +"Well, boys," Tarwater summed up, "I set out for Californy and I +got there. And I'm going to get to Klondike. Ain't a thing can +stop me, ain't a thing. I'm going to get three hundred thousand +outa the ground, too. Ain't a thing can stop me, ain't a thing, +because I just naturally need the money. I don't mind a bad temper +so long's the boy is square. I'll take my chance, an' I'll work +along with you till we catch up with him. Then, if he says no to +the proposition, I reckon I'll lose. But somehow I just can't see +'m sayin' no, because that'd mean too close up to freeze-up and too +late for me to find another chance like this. And, as I'm sure +going to get to Klondike, it's just plumb impossible for him to say +no." + +Old John Tarwater became a striking figure on a trail unusually +replete with striking figures. With thousands of men, each back- +tripping half a ton of outfit, retracing every mile of the trail +twenty times, all came to know him and to hail him as "Father +Christmas." And, as he worked, ever he raised his chant with his +age-falsetto voice. None of the three men he had joined could +complain about his work. True, his joints were stiff--he admitted +to a trifle of rheumatism. He moved slowly, and seemed to creak +and crackle when he moved; but he kept on moving. Last into the +blankets at night, he was first out in the morning, so that the +other three had hot coffee before their one before-breakfast pack. +And, between breakfast and dinner and between dinner and supper, he +always managed to back-trip for several packs himself. Sixty +pounds was the limit of his burden, however. He could manage +seventy-five, but he could not keep it up. Once, he tried ninety, +but collapsed on the trail and was seriously shaky for a couple of +days afterward. + +Work! On a trail where hard-working men learned for the first time +what work was, no man worked harder in proportion to his strength +than Old Tarwater. Driven desperately on by the near-thrust of +winter, and lured madly on by the dream of gold, they worked to +their last ounce of strength and fell by the way. Others, when +failure made certain, blew out their brains. Some went mad, and +still others, under the irk of the man-destroying strain, broke +partnerships and dissolved life-time friendships with fellows just +as good as themselves and just as strained and mad. + +Work! Old Tarwater could shame them all, despite his creaking and +crackling and the nasty hacking cough he had developed. Early and +late, on trail or in camp beside the trail he was ever in evidence, +ever busy at something, ever responsive to the hail of "Father +Christmas." Weary back-trippers would rest their packs on a log or +rock alongside of where he rested his, and would say: "Sing us +that song of yourn, dad, about Forty-Nine." And, when he had +wheezingly complied, they would arise under their loads, remark +that it was real heartening, and hit the forward trail again. + +"If ever a man worked his passage and earned it," Big Bill confided +to his two partners, "that man's our old Skeezicks." + +"You bet," Anson confirmed. "He's a valuable addition to the +party, and I, for one, ain't at all disagreeable to the notion of +making him a regular partner--" + +"None of that!" Charles Crayton cut in. "When we get to Dawson +we're quit of him--that's the agreement. We'd only have to bury +him if we let him stay on with us. Besides, there's going to be a +famine, and every ounce of grub'll count. Remember, we're feeding +him out of our own supply all the way in. And if we run short in +the pinch next year, you'll know the reason. Steamboats can't get +up grub to Dawson till the middle of June, and that's nine months +away." + +"Well, you put as much money and outfit in as the rest of us," Big +Bill conceded, "and you've a say according." + +"And I'm going to have my say," Charles asserted with increasing +irritability. "And it's lucky for you with your fool sentiments +that you've got somebody to think ahead for you, else you'd all +starve to death. I tell you that famine's coming. I've been +studying the situation. Flour will be two dollars a pound, or ten, +and no sellers. You mark my words." + +Across the rubble-covered flats, up the dark canyon to Sheep Camp, +past the over-hanging and ever-threatening glaciers to the Scales, +and from the Scales up the steep pitches of ice-scoured rock where +packers climbed with hands and feet, Old Tarwater camp-cooked and +packed and sang. He blew across Chilcoot Pass, above timberline, +in the first swirl of autumn snow. Those below, without firewood, +on the bitter rim of Crater Lake, heard from the driving obscurity +above them a weird voice chanting: + + +"Like Argus of the ancient times, +We leave this modern Greece, +Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum, +To shear the Golden Fleece." + + +And out of the snow flurries they saw appear a tall, gaunt form, +with whiskers of flying white that blended with the storm, bending +under a sixty-pound pack of camp dunnage. + +"Father Christmas!" was the hail. And then: "Three rousing cheers +for Father Christmas!" + +Two miles beyond Crater Lake lay Happy Camp--so named because here +was found the uppermost fringe of the timber line, where men might +warm themselves by fire again. Scarcely could it be called timber, +for it was a dwarf rock-spruce that never raised its loftiest +branches higher than a foot above the moss, and that twisted and +grovelled like a pig-vegetable under the moss. Here, on the trail +leading into Happy Camp, in the first sunshine of half a dozen +days, Old Tarwater rested his pack against a huge boulder and +caught his breath. Around this boulder the trail passed, laden men +toiling slowly forward and men with empty pack-straps limping +rapidly back for fresh loads. Twice Old Tarwater essayed to rise +and go on, and each time, warned by his shakiness, sank back to +recover more strength. From around the boulder he heard voices in +greeting, recognized Charles Crayton's voice, and realized that at +last they had met up with Young Liverpool. Quickly, Charles +plunged into business, and Tarwater heard with great distinctness +every word of Charles' unflattering description of him and the +proposition to give him passage to Dawson. + +"A dam fool proposition," was Liverpool's judgment, when Charles +had concluded. "An old granddad of seventy! If he's on his last +legs, why in hell did you hook up with him? If there's going to be +a famine, and it looks like it, we need every ounce of grub for +ourselves. We only out-fitted for four, not five." + +"It's all right," Tarwater heard Charles assuring the other. +"Don't get excited. The old codger agreed to leave the final +decision to you when we caught up with you. All you've got to do +is put your foot down and say no." + +"You mean it's up to me to turn the old one down, after your +encouraging him and taking advantage of his work clear from Dyea +here?" + +"It's a hard trail, Liverpool, and only the men that are hard will +get through," Charles strove to palliate. + +"And I'm to do the dirty work?" Liverpool complained, while +Tarwater's heart sank. + +"That's just about the size of it," Charles said. "You've got the +deciding." + +Then old Tarwater's heart uprose again as the air was rent by a +cyclone of profanity, from the midst of which crackled sentences +like: --"Dirty skunks! . . . See you in hell first! . . . My mind's +made up! . . . Hell's fire and corruption! . . . The old codger +goes down the Yukon with us, stack on that, my hearty! . . . Hard? +You don't know what hard is unless I show you! . . . I'll bust the +whole outfit to hell and gone if any of you try to side-track him! +. . . Just try to side-track him, that is all, and you'll think the +Day of Judgment and all God's blastingness has hit the camp in one +chunk!" + +Such was the invigoratingness of Liverpool's flow of speech that, +quite without consciousness of effort, the old man arose easily +under his load and strode on toward Happy Camp. + +From Happy Camp to Long Lake, from Long Lake to Deep Lake, and from +Deep Lake up over the enormous hog-back and down to Linderman, the +man-killing race against winter kept on. Men broke their hearts +and backs and wept beside the trail in sheer exhaustion. But +winter never faltered. The fall gales blew, and amid bitter +soaking rains and ever-increasing snow flurries, Tarwater and the +party to which he was attached piled the last of their outfit on +the beach. + +There was no rest. Across the lake, a mile above a roaring +torrent, they located a patch of spruce and built their saw-pit. +Here, by hand, with an inadequate whipsaw, they sawed the spruce- +trunks into lumber. They worked night and day. Thrice, on the +night-shift, underneath in the saw-pit, Old Tarwater fainted. By +day he cooked as well, and, in the betweenwhiles, helped Anson in +the building of the boat beside the torrent as the green planks +came down. + +The days grew shorter. The wind shifted into the north and blew +unending gales. In the mornings the weary men crawled from their +blankets and in their socks thawed out their frozen shoes by the +fire Tarwater always had burning for them. Ever arose the +increasing tale of famine on the Inside. The last grub steamboats +up from Bering Sea were stalled by low water at the beginning of +the Yukon Flats hundreds of miles north of Dawson. In fact, they +lay at the old Hudson Bay Company's post at Fort Yukon inside the +Arctic Circle. Flour in Dawson was up to two dollars a pound, but +no one would sell. Bonanza and Eldorado Kings, with money to burn, +were leaving for the Outside because they could buy no grub. +Miners' Committees were confiscating all grub and putting the +population on strict rations. A man who held out an ounce of grub +was shot like a dog. A score had been so executed already. + +And, under a strain which had broken so many younger men, Old +Tarwater began to break. His cough had become terrible, and had +not his exhausted comrades slept like the dead, he would have kept +them awake nights. Also, he began to take chills, so that he +dressed up to go to bed. When he had finished so dressing, not a +rag of garment remained in his clothes bag. All he possessed was +on his back and swathed around his gaunt old form. + +"Gee!" said Big Bill. "If he puts all he's got on now, when it +ain't lower than twenty above, what'll he do later on when it goes +down to fifty and sixty below?" + +They lined the rough-made boat down the mountain torrent, nearly +losing it a dozen times, and rowed across the south end of Lake +Linderman in the thick of a fall blizzard. Next morning they +planned to load and start, squarely into the teeth of the north, on +their perilous traverse of half a thousand miles of lakes and +rapids and box canyons. But before he went to bed that night, +Young Liverpool was out over the camp. He returned to find his +whole party asleep. Rousing Tarwater, he talked with him in low +tones. + +"Listen, dad," he said.--"You've got a passage in our boat, and if +ever a man earned a passage you have. But you know yourself you're +pretty well along in years, and your health right now ain't +exciting. If you go on with us you'll croak surer'n hell.--Now +wait till I finish, dad. The price for a passage has jumped to +five hundred dollars. I've been throwing my feet and I've hustled +a passenger. He's an official of the Alaska Commercial and just +has to get in. He's bid up to six hundred to go with me in our +boat. Now the passage is yours. You sell it to him, poke the six +hundred into your jeans, and pull South for California while the +goin's good. You can be in Dyea in two days, and in California in +a week more. What d'ye say?" + +Tarwater coughed and shivered for a space, ere he could get freedom +of breath for speech. + +"Son," he said, "I just want to tell you one thing. I drove my +four yoke of oxen across the Plains in Forty-nine and lost nary a +one. I drove them plumb to Californy, and I freighted with them +afterward out of Sutter's Fort to American Bar. Now I'm going to +Klondike. Ain't nothing can stop me, ain't nothing at all. I'm +going to ride that boat, with you at the steering sweep, clean to +Klondike, and I'm going to shake three hundred thousand out of the +moss-roots. That being so, it's contrary to reason and common +sense for me to sell out my passage. But I thank you kindly, son, +I thank you kindly." + +The young sailor shot out his hand impulsively and gripped the old +man's. + +"By God, dad!" he cried. "You're sure going to go then. You're +the real stuff." He looked with undisguised contempt across the +sleepers to where Charles Crayton snored in his red beard. "They +don't seem to make your kind any more, dad." + +Into the north they fought their way, although old-timers, coming +out, shook their heads and prophesied they would be frozen in on +the lakes. That the freeze-up might come any day was patent, and +delays of safety were no longer considered. For this reason, +Liverpool decided to shoot the rapid stream connecting Linderman to +Lake Bennett with the fully loaded boat. It was the custom to line +the empty boats down and to portage the cargoes across. Even then +many empty boats had been wrecked. But the time was past for such +precaution. + +"Climb out, dad," Liverpool commanded as he prepared to swing from +the bank and enter the rapids. + +Old Tarwater shook his white head. + +"I'm sticking to the outfit," he declared. "It's the only way to +get through. You see, son, I'm going to Klondike. If I stick by +the boat, then the boat just naturally goes to Klondike, too. If I +get out, then most likely you'll lose the boat." + +"Well, there's no use in overloading," Charles announced, springing +abruptly out on the bank as the boat cast off. + +"Next time you wait for my orders!" Liverpool shouted ashore as the +current gripped the boat. "And there won't be any more walking +around rapids and losing time waiting to pick you up!" + +What took them ten minutes by river, took Charles half an hour by +land, and while they waited for him at the head of Lake Bennett +they passed the time of day with several dilapidated old-timers on +their way out. The famine news was graver than ever. The North- +west Mounted Police, stationed at the foot of Lake Marsh where the +gold-rushers entered Canadian territory, were refusing to let a man +past who did not carry with him seven hundred pounds of grub. In +Dawson City a thousand men, with dog-teams, were waiting the +freeze-up to come out over the ice. The trading companies could +not fill their grub-contracts, and partners were cutting the cards +to see which should go and which should stay and work the claims. + +"That settles it," Charles announced, when he learned of the action +of the mounted police on the boundary. "Old Man, you might as well +start back now." + +"Climb aboard!" Liverpool commanded. "We're going to Klondike, +and old dad is going along." + +A shift of gale to the south gave them a fair wind down Lake +Bennett, before which they ran under a huge sail made by Liverpool. +The heavy weight of outfit gave such ballast that he cracked on as +a daring sailor should when moments counted. A shift of four +points into the south-west, coming just at the right time as they +entered upon Caribou Crossing, drove them down that connecting link +to lakes Tagish and Marsh. In stormy sunset and twilight--they +made the dangerous crossing of Great Windy Arm, wherein they beheld +two other boat-loads of gold-rushers capsize and drown. + +Charles was for beaching for the night, but Liverpool held on, +steering down Tagish by the sound of the surf on the shoals and by +the occasional shore-fires that advertised wrecked or timid +argonauts. At four in the morning, he aroused Charles. Old +Tarwater, shiveringly awake, heard Liverpool order Crayton aft +beside him at the steering-sweep, and also heard the one-sided +conversation. + +"Just listen, friend Charles, and keep your own mouth shut," +Liverpool began. "I want you to get one thing into your head and +keep it there: OLD DAD'S GOING BY THE POLICE. UNDERSTAND? HE'S +GOING BY. When they examine our outfit, old dad's got a fifth +share in it, savvee? That'll put us all 'way under what we ought +to have, but we can bluff it through. Now get this, and get it +hard: THERE AIN'T GOING TO BE ANY FALL-DOWN ON THIS BLUFF--" + +"If you think I'd give away on the old codger--" Charles began +indignantly. + +"You thought that," Liverpool checked him, "because I never +mentioned any such thing. Now--get me and get me hard: I don't +care what you've been thinking. It's what you're going to think. +We'll make the police post some time this afternoon, and we've got +to get ready to pull the bluff without a hitch, and a word to the +wise is plenty." + +"If you think I've got it in my mind--" Charles began again. + +"Look here," Liverpool shut him off. "I don't know what's in your +mind. I don't want to know. I want you to know what's in my mind. +If there's any slip-up, if old dad gets turned back by the police, +I'm going to pick out the first quiet bit of landscape and take you +ashore on it. And then I'm going to beat you up to the Queen's +taste. Get me, and get me hard. It ain't going to be any half-way +beating, but a real, two-legged, two-fisted, he-man beating. I +don't expect I'll kill you, but I'll come damn near to half-killing +you." + +"But what can I do?" Charles almost whimpered. + +"Just one thing," was Liverpool's final word. "You just pray. You +pray so hard that old dad gets by the police that he does get by. +That's all. Go back to your blankets." + +Before they gained Lake Le Barge, the land was sheeted with snow +that would not melt for half a year. Nor could they lay their boat +at will against the bank, for the rim-ice was already forming. +Inside the mouth of the river, just ere it entered Lake Le Barge, +they found a hundred storm-bound boats of the argonauts. Out of +the north, across the full sweep of the great lake, blew an +unending snow gale. Three mornings they put out and fought it and +the cresting seas it drove that turned to ice as they fell in- +board. While the others broke their hearts at the oars, Old +Tarwater managed to keep up just sufficient circulation to survive +by chopping ice and throwing it overboard. + +Each day for three days, beaten to helplessness, they turned tail +on the battle and ran back into the sheltering river. By the +fourth day, the hundred boats had increased to three hundred, and +the two thousand argonauts on board knew that the great gale +heralded the freeze-up of Le Barge. Beyond, the rapid rivers would +continue to run for days, but unless they got beyond, and +immediately, they were doomed to be frozen in for six months to +come. + +"This day we go through," Liverpool announced. "We turn back for +nothing. And those of us that dies at the oars will live again and +go on pulling." + +And they went through, winning half the length of the lake by +nightfall and pulling on through all the night hours as the wind +went down, falling asleep at the oars and being rapped awake by +Liverpool, toiling on through an age-long nightmare while the stars +came out and the surface of the lake turned to the unruffledness of +a sheet of paper and froze skin-ice that tinkled like broken glass +as their oar-blades shattered it. + +As day broke clear and cold, they entered the river, with behind +them a sea of ice. Liverpool examined his aged passenger and found +him helpless and almost gone. When he rounded the boat to against +the rim-ice to build a fire and warm up Tarwater inside and out, +Charles protested against such loss of time. + +"This ain't business, so don't you come horning in," Liverpool +informed him. "I'm running the boat trip. So you just climb out +and chop firewood, and plenty of it. I'll take care of dad. You, +Anson, make a fire on the bank. And you, Bill, set up the Yukon +stove in the boat. Old dad ain't as young as the rest of us, and +for the rest of this voyage he's going to have a fire on board to +sit by." + +All of which came to pass; and the boat, in the grip of the +current, like a river steamer with smoke rising from the two joints +of stove-pipe, grounded on shoals, hung up on split currents, and +charged rapids and canyons, as it drove deeper into the Northland +winter. The Big and Little Salmon rivers were throwing mush-ice +into the main river as they passed, and, below the riffles, anchor- +ice arose from the river bottom and coated the surface with crystal +scum. Night and day the rim-ice grew, till, in quiet places, it +extended out a hundred yards from shore. And Old Tarwater, with +all his clothes on, sat by the stove and kept the fire going. +Night and day, not daring to stop for fear of the imminent freeze- +up, they dared to run, an increasing mushiness of ice running with +them. + +"What ho, old hearty?" Liverpool would call out at times. + +"Cheer O," Old Tarwater had learned to respond. + +"What can I ever do for you, son, in payment?" Tarwater, stoking +the fire, would sometimes ask Liverpool, beating now one released +hand and now the other as he fought for circulation where he +steered in the freezing stern-sheets. + +"Just break out that regular song of yours, old Forty-Niner," was +the invariable reply. + +And Tarwater would lift his voice in the cackling chant, as he +lifted it at the end, when the boat swung in through driving cake- +ice and moored to the Dawson City bank, and all waterfront Dawson +pricked its ears to hear the triumphant paean: + + +Like Argus of the ancient times, +We leave this modern Greece, +Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum, +To shear the Golden Fleece, + + +Charles did it, but he did it so discreetly that none of his party, +least of all the sailor, ever learned of it. He saw two great open +barges being filled up with men, and, on inquiry, learned that +these were grubless ones being rounded up and sent down the Yukon +by the Committee of Safety. The barges were to be towed by the +last little steamboat in Dawson, and the hope was that Fort Yukon, +where lay the stranded steamboats, would be gained before the river +froze. At any rate, no matter what happened to them, Dawson would +be relieved of their grub-consuming presence. So to the Committee +of Safety Charles went, privily to drop a flea in its ear +concerning Tarwater's grubless, moneyless, and aged condition. +Tarwater was one of the last gathered in, and when Young Liverpool +returned to the boat, from the bank he saw the barges in a run of +cake-ice, disappearing around the bend below Moose-hide Mountain. + +Running in cake-ice all the way, and several times escaping jams in +the Yukon Flats, the barges made their hundreds of miles of +progress farther into the north and froze up cheek by jowl with the +grub-fleet. Here, inside the Arctic Circle, Old Tarwater settled +down to pass the long winter. Several hours' work a day, chopping +firewood for the steamboat companies, sufficed to keep him in food. +For the rest of the time there was nothing to do but hibernate in +his log cabin. + +Warmth, rest, and plenty to eat, cured his hacking cough and put +him in as good physical condition as was possible for his advanced +years. But, even before Christmas, the lack of fresh vegetables +caused scurvy to break out, and disappointed adventurer after +disappointed adventurer took to his bunk in abject surrender to +this culminating misfortune. Not so Tarwater. Even before the +first symptoms appeared on him, he was putting into practice his +one prescription, namely, exercise. From the junk of the old +trading post he resurrected a number of rusty traps, and from one +of the steamboat captains he borrowed a rifle. + +Thus equipped, he ceased from wood-chopping, and began to make more +than a mere living. Nor was he downhearted when the scurvy broke +out on his own body. Ever he ran his trap-lines and sang his +ancient chant. Nor could the pessimist shake his surety of the +three hundred thousand of Alaskan gold he as going to shake out of +the moss-roots. + +"But this ain't gold-country," they told him. + +"Gold is where you find it, son, as I should know who was mining +before you was born, 'way back in Forty-Nine," was his reply. +"What was Bonanza Creek but a moose-pasture? No miner'd look at +it; yet they washed five-hundred-dollar pans and took out fifty +million dollars. Eldorado was just as bad. For all you know, +right under this here cabin, or right over the next hill, is +millions just waiting for a lucky one like me to come and shake it +out." + +At the end of January came his disaster. Some powerful animal that +he decided was a bob-cat, managing to get caught in one of his +smaller traps, dragged it away. A heavy snow-fall put a stop +midway to his pursuit, losing the trail for him and losing himself. +There were but several hours of daylight each day between the +twenty hours of intervening darkness, and his efforts in the grey +light and continually falling snow succeeded only in losing him +more thoroughly. Fortunately, when winter snow falls in the +Northland the thermometer invariably rises; so, instead of the +customary forty and fifty and even sixty degrees below zero, the +temperature remained fifteen below. Also, he was warmly clad and +had a full matchbox. Further to mitigate his predicament, on the +fifth day he killed a wounded moose that weighed over half a ton. +Making his camp beside it on a spruce-bottom, he was prepared to +last out the winter, unless a searching party found him or his +scurvy grew worse. + +But at the end of two weeks there had been no sign of search, while +his scurvy had undeniably grown worse. Against his fire, banked +from outer cold by a shelter-wall of spruce-boughs, he crouched +long hours in sleep and long hours in waking. But the waking hours +grew less, becoming semi-waking or half-dreaming hours as the +process of hibernation worked their way with him. Slowly the +sparkle point of consciousness and identity that was John Tarwater +sank, deeper and deeper, into the profounds of his being that had +been compounded ere man was man, and while he was becoming man, +when he, first of all animals, regarded himself with an +introspective eye and laid the beginnings of morality in +foundations of nightmare peopled by the monsters of his own ethic- +thwarted desires. + +Like a man in fever, waking to intervals of consciousness, so Old +Tarwater awoke, cooked his moose-meat, and fed the fire; but more +and more time he spent in his torpor, unaware of what was day-dream +and what was sleep-dream in the content of his unconsciousness. +And here, in the unforgetable crypts of man's unwritten history, +unthinkable and unrealizable, like passages of nightmare or +impossible adventures of lunacy, he encountered the monsters +created of man's first morality that ever since have vexed him into +the spinning of fantasies to elude them or do battle with them. + +In short, weighted by his seventy years, in the vast and silent +loneliness of the North, Old Tarwater, as in the delirium of drug +or anaesthetic, recovered within himself, the infantile mind of the +child-man of the early world. It was in the dusk of Death's +fluttery wings that Tarwater thus crouched, and, like his remote +forebear, the child-man, went to myth-making, and sun-heroizing, +himself hero-maker and the hero in quest of the immemorable +treasure difficult of attainment. + +Either must he attain the treasure--for so ran the inexorable logic +of the shadow-land of the unconscious--or else sink into the all- +devouring sea, the blackness eater of the light that swallowed to +extinction the sun each night . . . the sun that arose ever in +rebirth next morning in the east, and that had become to man man's +first symbol of immortality through rebirth. All this, in the +deeps of his unconsciousness (the shadowy western land of +descending light), was the near dusk of Death down into which he +slowly ebbed. + +But how to escape this monster of the dark that from within him +slowly swallowed him? Too deep-sunk was he to dream of escape or +feel the prod of desire to escape. For him reality had ceased. +Nor from within the darkened chamber of himself could reality +recrudesce. His years were too heavy upon him, the debility of +disease and the lethargy and torpor of the silence and the cold +were too profound. Only from without could reality impact upon him +and reawake within him an awareness of reality. Otherwise he would +ooze down through the shadow-realm of the unconscious into the all- +darkness of extinction. + +But it came, the smash of reality from without, crashing upon his +ear drums in a loud, explosive snort. For twenty days, in a +temperature that had never risen above fifty below, no breath of +wind had blown movement, no slightest sound had broken the silence. +Like the smoker on the opium couch refocusing his eyes from the +spacious walls of dream to the narrow confines of the mean little +room, so Old Tarwater stared vague-eyed before him across his dying +fire, at a huge moose that stared at him in startlement, dragging a +wounded leg, manifesting all signs of extreme exhaustion; it, too, +had been straying blindly in the shadow-land, and had wakened to +reality only just ere it stepped into Tarwater's fire. + +He feebly slipped the large fur mitten lined with thickness of wool +from his right hand. Upon trial he found the trigger finger too +numb for movement. Carefully, slowly, through long minutes, he +worked the bare hand inside his blankets, up under his fur parka, +through the chest openings of his shirts, and into the slightly +warm hollow of his left arm-pit. Long minutes passed ere the +finger could move, when, with equal slowness of caution, he +gathered his rifle to his shoulder and drew bead upon the great +animal across the fire. + +At the shot, of the two shadow-wanderers, the one reeled downward +to the dark and the other reeled upward to the light, swaying +drunkenly on his scurvy-ravaged legs, shivering with nervousness +and cold, rubbing swimming eyes with shaking fingers, and staring +at the real world all about him that had returned to him with such +sickening suddenness. He shook himself together, and realized that +for long, how long he did not know, he had bedded in the arms of +Death. He spat, with definite intention, heard the spittle crackle +in the frost, and judged it must be below and far below sixty +below. In truth, that day at Fort Yukon, the spirit thermometer +registered seventy-five degrees below zero, which, since freezing- +point is thirty-two above, was equivalent to one hundred and seven +degrees of frost. + +Slowly Tarwater's brain reasoned to action. Here, in the vast +alone, dwelt Death. Here had come two wounded moose. With the +clearing of the sky after the great cold came on, he had located +his bearings, and he knew that both wounded moose had trailed to +him from the east. Therefore, in the east, were men--whites or +Indians he could not tell, but at any rate men who might stand by +him in his need and help moor him to reality above the sea of dark. + +He moved slowly, but he moved in reality, girding himself with +rifle, ammunition, matches, and a pack of twenty pounds of moose- +meat. Then, an Argus rejuvenated, albeit lame of both legs and +tottery, he turned his back on the perilous west and limped into +the sun-arising, re-birthing east. . . . + +Days later--how many days later he was never to know--dreaming +dreams and seeing visions, cackling his old gold-chant of Forty- +Nine, like one drowning and swimming feebly to keep his +consciousness above the engulfing dark, he came out upon the snow- +slope to a canyon and saw below smoke rising and men who ceased +from work to gaze at him. He tottered down the hill to them, still +singing; and when he ceased from lack of breath they called him +variously: Santa Claus, Old Christmas, Whiskers, the Last of the +Mohicans, and Father Christmas. And when he stood among them he +stood very still, without speech, while great tears welled out of +his eyes. He cried silently, a long time, till, as if suddenly +bethinking himself, he sat down in the snow with much creaking and +crackling of his joints, and from this low vantage point toppled +sidewise and fainted calmly and easily away. + +In less than a week Old Tarwater was up and limping about the +housework of the cabin, cooking and dish-washing for the five men +of the creek. Genuine sourdoughs (pioneers) they were, tough and +hard-bitten, who had been buried so deeply inside the Circle that +they did not know there was a Klondike Strike. The news he brought +them was their first word of it. They lived on an almost straight- +meat diet of moose, caribou, and smoked salmon, eked out with wild +berries and somewhat succulent wild roots they had stocked up with +in the summer. They had forgotten the taste of coffee, made fire +with a burning glass, carried live fire-sticks with them wherever +they travelled, and in their pipes smoked dry leaves that bit the +tongue and were pungent to the nostrils. + +Three years before, they had prospected from the head-reaches of +the Koyokuk northward and clear across to the mouth of the +Mackenzie on the Arctic Ocean. Here, on the whaleships, they had +beheld their last white men and equipped themselves with the last +white man's grub, consisting principally of salt and smoking +tobacco. Striking south and west on the long traverse to the +junction of the Yukon and Porcupine at Fort Yukon, they had found +gold on this creek and remained over to work the ground. + +They hailed the advent of Tarwater with joy, never tired of +listening to his tales of Forty-Nine, and rechristened him Old +Hero. Also, with tea made from spruce needles, with concoctions +brewed from the inner willow bark, and with sour and bitter roots +and bulbs from the ground, they dosed his scurvy out of him, so +that he ceased limping and began to lay on flesh over his bony +framework. Further, they saw no reason at all why he should not +gather a rich treasure of gold from the ground. + +"Don't know about all of three hundred thousand," they told him one +morning, at breakfast, ere they departed to their work, "but how'd +a hundred thousand do, Old Hero? That's what we figure a claim is +worth, the ground being badly spotted, and we've already staked +your location notices." + +"Well, boys," Old Tarwater answered, "and thanking you kindly, all +I can say is that a hundred thousand will do nicely, and very +nicely, for a starter. Of course, I ain't goin' to stop till I get +the full three hundred thousand. That's what I come into the +country for." + +They laughed and applauded his ambition and reckoned they'd have to +hunt a richer creek for him. And Old Hero reckoned that as the +spring came on and he grew spryer, he'd have to get out and do a +little snooping around himself. + +"For all anybody knows," he said, pointing to a hillside across the +creek bottom, "the moss under the snow there may be plumb rooted in +nugget gold." + +He said no more, but as the sun rose higher and the days grew +longer and warmer, he gazed often across the creek at the definite +bench-formation half way up the hill. And, one day, when the thaw +was in full swing, he crossed the stream and climbed to the bench. +Exposed patches of ground had already thawed an inch deep. On one +such patch he stopped, gathered a bunch of moss in his big gnarled +hands, and ripped it out by the roots. The sun smouldered on dully +glistening yellow. He shook the handful of moss, and coarse +nuggets, like gravel, fell to the ground. It was the Golden Fleece +ready for the shearing. + +Not entirely unremembered in Alaskan annals is the summer stampede +of 1898 from Fort Yukon to the bench diggings of Tarwater Hill. +And when Tarwater sold his holdings to the Bowdie interests for a +sheer half-million and faced for California, he rode a mule over a +new-cut trail, with convenient road houses along the way, clear to +the steamboat landing at Fort Yukon. + +At the first meal on the ocean-going steamship out of St. Michaels, +a waiter, greyish-haired, pain-ravaged of face, scurvy-twisted of +body, served him. Old Tarwater was compelled to look him over +twice in order to make certain he was Charles Crayton. + +"Got it bad, eh, son?" Tarwater queried. + +"Just my luck," the other complained, after recognition and +greeting. "Only one of the party that the scurvy attacked. I've +been through hell. The other three are all at work and healthy, +getting grub-stake to prospect up White River this winter. Anson's +earning twenty-five a day at carpentering, Liverpool getting twenty +logging for the saw-mill, and Big Bill's getting forty a day as +chief sawyer. I tried my best, and if it hadn't been for scurvy . +. ." + +"Sure, son, you done your best, which ain't much, you being +naturally irritable and hard from too much business. Now I'll tell +you what. You ain't fit to work crippled up this way. I'll pay +your passage with the captain in kind remembrance of the voyage you +gave me, and you can lay up and take it easy the rest of the trip. +And what are your circumstances when you land at San Francisco?" + +Charles Crayton shrugged his shoulders. + +"Tell you what," Tarwater continued. "There's work on the ranch +for you till you can start business again." + +"I could manage your business for you--" Charles began eagerly. + +"No, siree," Tarwater declared emphatically. "But there's always +post-holes to dig, and cordwood to chop, and the climate's fine . . +. " + +Tarwater arrived home a true prodigal grandfather for whom the +fatted calf was killed and ready. But first, ere he sat down at +table, he must stroll out and around. And sons and daughters of +his flesh and of the law needs must go with him fulsomely eating +out of the gnarled old hand that had half a million to disburse. +He led the way, and no opinion he slyly uttered was preposterous or +impossible enough to draw dissent from his following. Pausing by +the ruined water wheel which he had built from the standing timber, +his face beamed as he gazed across the stretches of Tarwater +Valley, and on and up the far heights to the summit of Tarwater +Mountain--now all his again. + +A thought came to him that made him avert his face and blow his +nose in order to hide the twinkle in his eyes. Still attended by +the entire family, he strolled on to the dilapidated barn. He +picked up an age-weathered single-tree from the ground. + +"William," he said. "Remember that little conversation we had just +before I started to Klondike? Sure, William, you remember. You +told me I was crazy. And I said my father'd have walloped the tar +out of me with a single-tree if I'd spoke to him that way." + +"Aw, but that was only foolin'," William temporized. + +William was a grizzled man of forty-five, and his wife and grown +sons stood in the group, curiously watching Grandfather Tarwater +take off his coat and hand it to Mary to hold. + +"William--come here," he commanded imperatively. + +No matter how reluctantly, William came. + +"Just a taste, William, son, of what my father give me often +enough," Old Tarwater crooned, as he laid on his son's back and +shoulders with the single-tree. "Observe, I ain't hitting you on +the head. My father had a gosh-wollickin' temper and never drew +the line at heads when he went after tar.--Don't jerk your elbows +back that way! You're likely to get a crack on one by accident. +And just tell me one thing, William, son: is there nary notion in +your head that I'm crazy?" + +"No!" William yelped out in pain, as he danced about. "You ain't +crazy, father of course you ain't crazy!" + +"You said it," Old Tarwater remarked sententiously, tossing the +single-tree aside and starting to struggle into his coat. + +"Now let's all go in and eat." + +Glen Ellen, California, +September 14, 1916. + + + + +STORY: THE PRINCESS + + + + +A fire burned cheerfully in the jungle camp, and beside the fire +lolled a cheerful-seeming though horrible-appearing man. This was +a hobo jungle, pitched in a thin strip of woods that lay between a +railroad embankment and the bank of a river. But no hobo was the +man. So deep-sunk was he in the social abyss that a proper hobo +would not sit by the same fire with him. A gay-cat, who is an +ignorant new-comer on the "Road," might sit with such as he, but +only long enough to learn better. Even low down bindle-stiffs and +stew-bums, after a once-over, would have passed this man by. A +genuine hobo, a couple of punks, or a bunch of tender-yeared road- +kids might have gone through his rags for any stray pennies or +nickels and kicked him out into the darkness. Even an alki-stiff +would have reckoned himself immeasurably superior. + +For this man was that hybrid of tramp-land, an alki-stiff that has +degenerated into a stew-bum, with so little self-respect that he +will never "boil-up," and with so little pride that he will eat out +of a garbage can. He was truly horrible-appearing. He might have +been sixty years of age; he might have been ninety. His garments +might have been discarded by a rag-picker. Beside him, an unrolled +bundle showed itself as consisting of a ragged overcoat and +containing an empty and smoke-blackened tomato can, an empty and +battered condensed milk can, some dog-meat partly wrapped in brown +paper and evidently begged from some butcher-shop, a carrot that +had been run over in the street by a wagon-wheel, three greenish- +cankered and decayed potatoes, and a sugar-bun with a mouthful +bitten from it and rescued from the gutter, as was made patent by +the gutter-filth that still encrusted it. + +A prodigious growth of whiskers, greyish-dirty and untrimmed for +years, sprouted from his face. This hirsute growth should have +been white, but the season was summer and it had not been exposed +to a rain-shower for some time. What was visible of the face +looked as if at some period it had stopped a hand-grenade. The +nose was so variously malformed in its healed brokenness that there +was no bridge, while one nostril, the size of a pea, opened +downward, and the other, the size of a robin's egg, tilted upward +to the sky. One eye, of normal size, dim-brown and misty, bulged +to the verge of popping out, and as if from senility wept copiously +and continuously. The other eye, scarcely larger than a squirrel's +and as uncannily bright, twisted up obliquely into the hairy scar +of a bone-crushed eyebrow. And he had but one arm. + +Yet was he cheerful. On his face, in mild degree, was depicted +sensuous pleasure as he lethargically scratched his ribs with his +one hand. He pawed over his food-scraps, debated, then drew a +twelve-ounce druggist bottle from his inside coat-pocket. The +bottle was full of a colourless liquid, the contemplation of which +made his little eye burn brighter and quickened his movements. +Picking up the tomato can, he arose, went down the short path to +the river, and returned with the can filled with not-nice river +water. In the condensed milk can he mixed one part of water with +two parts of fluid from the bottle. This colourless fluid was +druggist's alcohol, and as such is known in tramp-land as "alki." + +Slow footsteps, coming down the side of the railroad embankment, +alarmed him ere he could drink. Placing the can carefully upon the +ground between his legs, he covered it with his hat and waited +anxiously whatever impended. + +Out of the darkness emerged a man as filthy ragged as he. The new- +comer, who might have been fifty, and might have been sixty, was +grotesquely fat. He bulged everywhere. He was composed of bulges. +His bulbous nose was the size and shape of a turnip. His eyelids +bulged and his blue eyes bulged in competition with them. In many +places the seams of his garments had parted across the bulges of +body. His calves grew into his feet, for the broken elastic sides +of his Congress gaiters were swelled full with the fat of him. One +arm only he sported, from the shoulder of which was suspended a +small and tattered bundle with the mud caked dry on the outer +covering from the last place he had pitched his doss. He advanced +with tentative caution, made sure of the harmlessness of the man +beside the fire, and joined him. + +"Hello, grandpa," the new-comer greeted, then paused to stare at +the other's flaring, sky-open nostril. "Say, Whiskers, how'd ye +keep the night dew out of that nose o' yourn?" + +Whiskers growled an incoherence deep in his throat and spat into +the fire in token that he was not pleased by the question. + +"For the love of Mike," the fat man chuckled, "if you got caught +out in a rainstorm without an umbrella you'd sure drown, wouldn't +you?" + +"Can it, Fatty, can it," Whiskers muttered wearily. "They ain't +nothin' new in that line of chatter. Even the bulls hand it out to +me." + +"But you can still drink, I hope"; Fatty at the same time mollified +and invited, with his one hand deftly pulling the slip-knots that +fastened his bundle. + +From within the bundle he brought to light a twelve-ounce bottle of +alki. Footsteps coming down the embankment alarmed him, and he hid +the bottle under his hat on the ground between his legs. + +But the next comer proved to be not merely one of their own ilk, +but likewise to have only one arm. So forbidding of aspect was he +that greetings consisted of no more than grunts. Huge-boned, tall, +gaunt to cadaverousness, his face a dirty death's head, he was as +repellent a nightmare of old age as ever Dore imagined. His +toothless, thin-lipped mouth was a cruel and bitter slash under a +great curved nose that almost met the chin and that was like a +buzzard's beak. His one hand, lean and crooked, was a talon. The +beady grey eyes, unblinking and unwavering, were bitter as death, +as bleak as absolute zero and as merciless. His presence was a +chill, and Whiskers and Fatty instinctively drew together for +protection against the unguessed threat of him. Watching his +chance, privily, Whiskers snuggled a chunk of rock several pounds +in weigh close to his hand if need for action should arise. Fatty +duplicated the performance. + +Then both sat licking their lips, guiltily embarrassed, while the +unblinking eyes of the terrible one bored into them, now into one, +now into another, and then down at the rock-chunks of their +preparedness. + +"Huh!" sneered the terrible one, with such dreadfulness of menace +as to cause Whiskers and Fatty involuntarily to close their hands +down on their cave-man's weapons. + +"Huh!" the other repeated, reaching his one talon into his side +coat pocket with swift definiteness. "A hell of a chance you two +cheap bums 'd have with me." + +The talon emerged, clutching ready for action a six-pound iron +quoit. + +"We ain't lookin' for trouble, Slim," Fatty quavered. + +"Who in hell are you to call me 'Slim'?" came the snarling answer. + +"Me? I'm just Fatty, an' seein' 's I never seen you before--" + +"An' I suppose that's Whiskers, there, with the gay an' festive +lamp tan-going into his eyebrow an' the God-forgive-us nose joy- +riding all over his mug?" + +"It'll do, it'll do," Whiskers muttered uncomfortably. "One +monica's as good as another, I find, at my time of life. And +everybody hands it out to me anyway. And I need an umbrella when +it rains to keep from getting drowned, an' all the rest of it." + +"I ain't used to company--don't like it," Slim growled. "So if you +guys want to stick around, mind your step, that's all, mind your +step." + +He fished from his pocket a cigar stump, self-evidently shot from +the gutter, and prepared to put it in his mouth to chew. Then he +changed his mind, glared at his companions savagely, and unrolled +his bundle. Appeared in his hand a druggist's bottle of alki. + +"Well," he snarled, "I suppose I gotta give you cheap skates a +drink when I ain't got more'n enough for a good petrification for +myself." + +Almost a softening flicker of light was imminent in his withered +face as he beheld the others proudly lift their hats and exhibit +their own supplies. + +"Here's some water for the mixin's," Whiskers said, proffering his +tomato-can of river slush. "Stockyards just above," he added +apologetically. "But they say--" + +"Huh!" Slim snapped short, mixing the drink. "I've drunk worse'n +stockyards in my time." + +Yet when all was ready, cans of alki in their solitary hands, the +three things that had once been men hesitated, as if of old habit, +and next betrayed shame as if at self-exposure. + +Whiskers was the first to brazen it. + +"I've sat in at many a finer drinking," he bragged. + +"With the pewter," Slim sneered. + +"With the silver," Whiskers corrected. + +Slim turned a scorching eye-interrogation on Fatty. + +Fatty nodded. + +"Beneath the salt," said Slim. + +"Above it," came Fatty's correction. "I was born above it, and +I've never travelled second class. First or steerage, but no +intermediate in mine." + +"Yourself?" Whiskers queried of Slim. + +"In broken glass to the Queen, God bless her," Slim answered, +solemnly, without snarl or sneer. + +"In the pantry?" Fatty insinuated. + +Simultaneously Slim reached for his quoit, and Whiskers and Fatty +for their rocks. + +"Now don't let's get feverish," Fatty said, dropping his own +weapon. "We aren't scum. We're gentlemen. Let's drink like +gentlemen." + +"Let it be a real drinking," Whiskers approved. + +"Let's get petrified," Slim agreed. "Many a distillery's flowed +under the bridge since we were gentlemen; but let's forget the long +road we've travelled since, and hit our doss in the good old +fashion in which every gentleman went to bed when we were young." + +"My father done it--did it," Fatty concurred and corrected, as old +recollections exploded long-sealed brain-cells of connotation and +correct usage. + +The other two nodded a descent from similar fathers, and elevated +their tin cans of alcohol. + + +By the time each had finished his own bottle and from his rags +fished forth a second one, their brains were well-mellowed and a- +glow, although they had not got around to telling their real names. +But their English had improved. They spoke it correctly, while the +argo of tramp-land ceased from their lips. + +"It's my constitution," Whiskers was explaining. "Very few men +could go through what I have and live to tell the tale. And I +never took any care of myself. If what the moralists and the +physiologists say were true, I'd have been dead long ago. And it's +the same with you two. Look at us, at our advanced years, +carousing as the young ones don't dare, sleeping out in the open on +the ground, never sheltered from frost nor rain nor storm, never +afraid of pneumonia or rheumatism that would put half the young +ones on their backs in hospital." + +He broke off to mix another drink, and Fatty took up the tale. + +"And we've had our fun," he boasted, "and speaking of sweethearts +and all," he cribbed from Kipling, "'We've rogued and we've ranged- +-'" + +"'In our time,'" Slim completed the crib for him. + +"I should say so, I should say so," Fatty confirmed. "And been +loved by princesses--at least I have." + +"Go on and tell us about it," Whiskers urged. "The night's young, +and why shouldn't we remember back to the roofs of kings?" + +Nothing loth, Fatty cleared his throat for the recital and cast +about in his mind for the best way to begin. + +"It must be known that I came of good family. Percival Delaney, +let us say, yes, let us say Percival Delaney, was not unknown at +Oxford once upon a time--not for scholarship, I am frank to admit; +but the gay young dogs of that day, if any be yet alive, would +remember him--" + +"My people came over with the Conqueror," Whiskers interrupted, +extending his hand to Fatty's in acknowledgment of the +introduction. + +"What name?" Fatty queried. "I did not seem quite to catch it." + +"Delarouse, Chauncey Delarouse. The name will serve as well as +any." + +Both completed the handshake and glanced to Slim. + +"Oh, well, while we're about it . . . " Fatty urged. + +"Bruce Cadogan Cavendish," Slim growled morosely. "Go on, +Percival, with your princesses and the roofs of kings." + +"Oh, I was a rare young devil," Percival obliged, "after I played +ducks and drakes at home and sported out over the world. And I was +some figure of a man before I lost my shape--polo, steeple-chasing, +boxing. I won medals at buckjumping in Australia, and I held more +than several swimming records from the quarter of a mile up. Women +turned their heads to look when I went by. The women! God bless +them!" + +And Fatty, alias Percival Delaney, a grotesque of manhood, put his +bulgy hand to his puffed lips and kissed audibly into the starry +vault of the sky. + +"And the Princess!" he resumed, with another kiss to the stars. +"She was as fine a figure of a woman as I was a man, as high- +spirited and courageous, as reckless and dare-devilish. Lord, +Lord, in the water she was a mermaid, a sea-goddess. And when it +came to blood, beside her I was parvenu. Her royal line traced +back into the mists of antiquity. + +"She was not a daughter of a fair-skinned folk. Tawny golden was +she, with golden-brown eyes, and her hair that fell to her knees +was blue-black and straight, with just the curly tendrilly tendency +that gives to woman's hair its charm. Oh, there were no kinks in +it, any more than were there kinks in the hair of her entire +genealogy. For she was Polynesian, glowing, golden, lovely and +lovable, royal Polynesian." + +Again he paused to kiss his hand to the memory of her, and Slim, +alias Bruce Cadogan Cavendish, took advantage to interject: + +"Huh! Maybe you didn't shine in scholarship, but at least you +gleaned a vocabulary out of Oxford." + +"And in the South Seas garnered a better vocabulary from the +lexicon of Love," Percival was quick on the uptake. + +"It was the island of Talofa," he went on, "meaning love, the Isle +of Love, and it was her island. Her father, the king, an old man, +sat on his mats with paralysed knees and drank squareface gin all +day and most of the night, out of grief, sheer grief. She, my +princess, was the only issue, her brother having been lost in their +double canoe in a hurricane while coming up from a voyage to Samoa. +And among the Polynesians the royal women have equal right with the +men to rule. In fact, they trace their genealogies always by the +female line." + +To this both Chauncey Delarouse and Bruce Cadogan Cavendish nodded +prompt affirmation. + +"Ah," said Percival, "I perceive you both know the South Seas, +wherefore, without undue expenditure of verbiage on my part, I am +assured that you will appreciate the charm of my princess, the +Princess Tui-nui of Talofa, the Princess of the Isle of Love." + +He kissed his hand to her, sipped from his condensed milk can a +man-size drink of druggist's alcohol, and to her again kissed her +hand. + +"But she was coy, and ever she fluttered near to me but never near +enough. When my arm went out to her to girdle her, presto, she was +not there. I knew, as never before, nor since, the thousand dear +and delightful anguishes of love frustrated but ever resilient and +beckoned on by the very goddess of love." + +"Some vocabulary," Bruce Cadogan Cavendish muttered in aside to +Chauncey Delarouse. But Percival Delaney was not to be deterred. +He kissed his pudgy hand aloft into the night and held warmly on. + +"No fond agonies of rapture deferred that were not lavished upon me +by my dear Princess, herself ever a luring delight of promise +flitting just beyond my reach. Every sweet lover's inferno +unguessed of by Dante she led me through. Ah! Those swooning +tropic nights, under our palm trees, the distant surf a langourous +murmur as from some vast sea shell of mystery, when she, my +Princess, all but melted to my yearning, and with her laughter, +that was as silver strings by buds and blossoms smitten, all but +made lunacy of my lover's ardency. + +"It was by my wrestling with the champions of Talofa that I first +interested her. It was by my prowess at swimming that I awoke her. +And it was by a certain swimming deed that I won from her more than +coquettish smiles and shy timidities of feigned retreat. + +"We were squidding that day, out on the reef--you know how, +undoubtedly, diving down the face of the wall of the reef, five +fathoms, ten fathoms, any depth within reason, and shoving our +squid-sticks into the likely holes and crannies of the coral where +squid might be lairing. With the squid-stick, bluntly sharp at +both ends, perhaps a foot long, and held crosswise in the hand, the +trick was to gouge any lazying squid until he closed his tentacles +around fist, stick and arm.--Then you had him, and came to the +surface with him, and hit him in the head which is in the centre of +him, and peeled him off into the waiting canoe. . . . And to think +I used to do that!" + +Percival Delaney paused a moment, a glimmer of awe on his rotund +face, as he contemplated the mighty picture of his youth. + +"Why, I've pulled out a squid with tentacles eight feet long, and +done it under fifty feet of water. I could stay down four minutes. +I've gone down, with a coral-rock to sink me, in a hundred and ten +feet to clear a fouled anchor. And I could back-dive with a once- +over and go in feet-first from eighty feet above the surface--" + +"Quit it, delete it, cease it," Chauncey Delarouse admonished +testily. "Tell of the Princess. That's what makes old blood leap +again. Almost can I see her. Was she wonderful?" + +Percival Delaney kissed unutterable affirmation. + +"I have said she was a mermaid. She was. I know she swam thirty- +six hours before being rescued, after her schooner was capsized in +a double-squall. I have seen her do ninety feet and bring up pearl +shell in each hand. She was wonderful. As a woman she was +ravishing, sublime. I have said she was a sea-goddess. She was. +Oh, for a Phidias or a Praxiteles to have made the wonder of her +body immortal! + +"And that day, out for squid on the reef, I was almost sick for +her. Mad--I know I was mad for her. We would step over the side +from the big canoe, and swim down, side by side, into the delicious +depths of cool and colour, and she would look at me, as we swam, +and with her eyes tantalize me to further madness. And at last, +down, far down, I lost myself and reached for her. She eluded me +like the mermaid she was, and I saw the laughter on her face as she +fled. She fled deeper, and I knew I had her for I was between her +and the surface; but in the muck coral sand of the bottom she made +a churning with her squid stick. It was the old trick to escape a +shark. And she worked it on me, rolling the water so that I could +not see her. And when I came up, she was there ahead of me, +clinging to the side of the canoe and laughing. + +"Almost I would not be denied. But not for nothing was she a +princess. She rested her hand on my arm and compelled me to +listen. We should play a game, she said, enter into a competition +for which should get the more squid, the biggest squid, and the +smallest squid. Since the wagers were kisses, you can well imagine +I went down on the first next dive with soul aflame. + +"I got no squid. Never again in all my life have I dived for +squid. Perhaps we were five fathoms down and exploring the face of +the reefwall for lurking places of our prey, when it happened. I +had found a likely lair and just proved it empty, when I felt or +sensed the nearness of something inimical. I turned. There it +was, alongside of me, and no mere fish-shark. Fully a dozen feet +in length, with the unmistakable phosphorescent cat's eye gleaming +like a drowning star, I knew it for what it was, a tiger shark. + +"Not ten feet to the right, probing a coral fissure with her squid +stick, was the Princess, and the tiger shark was heading directly +for her. My totality of thought was precipitated to consciousness +in a single all-embracing flash. The man-eater must be deflected +from her, and what was I, except a mad lover who would gladly fight +and die, or more gladly fight and live, for his beloved? Remember, +she was the woman wonderful, and I was aflame for her. + +"Knowing fully the peril of my act, I thrust the blunt-sharp end of +my squid-stick into the side of the shark, much as one would +attract a passing acquaintance with a thumb-nudge in the ribs. And +the man-eater turned on me. You know the South Seas, and you know +that the tiger shark, like the bald-face grizzly of Alaska, never +gives trail. The combat, fathoms deep under the sea, was on--if by +combat may be named such a one-sided struggle. + +"The Princess unaware, caught her squid and rose to the surface. +The man-eater rushed me. I fended him off with both hands on his +nose above his thousand-toothed open mouth, so that he backed me +against the sharp coral. The scars are there to this day. +Whenever I tried to rise, he rushed me, and I could not remain down +there indefinitely without air. Whenever he rushed me, I fended +him off with my hands on his nose. And I would have escaped +unharmed, except for the slip of my right hand. Into his mouth it +went to the elbow. His jaws closed, just below the elbow. You +know how a shark's teeth are. Once in they cannot be released. +They must go through to complete the bite, but they cannot go +through heavy bone. So, from just below the elbow he stripped the +bone clean to the articulation of the wrist-joint, where his teeth +met and my good right hand became his for an appetizer. + +"But while he was doing this, I drove the thumb of my left hand, to +the hilt into his eye-orifice and popped out his eye. This did not +stop him. The meat had maddened him. He pursued the gushing stump +of my wrist. Half a dozen times I fended with my intact arm. Then +he got the poor mangled arm again, closed down, and stripped the +meat off the bone from the shoulder down to the elbow-joint, where +his teeth met and he was free of his second mouthful of me. But, +at the same time, with my good arm, I thumbed out his remaining +eye." + +Percival Delaney shrugged his shoulders, ere he resumed. + +"From above, those in the canoe had beheld the entire happening and +were loud in praise of my deed. To this day they still sing the +song of me, and tell the tale of me. And the Princess." His pause +was brief but significant. "The Princess married me. . . . Oh, +well-a-day and lack-a-day, the whirligig of time and fortune, the +topsyturviness of luck, the wooden shoe going up and the polished +heel descending a French gunboat, a conquered island kingdom of +Oceania, to-day ruled over by a peasant-born, unlettered, colonial +gendarme, and . . . " + +He completed the sentence and the tale by burying his face in the +down-tilted mouth of the condensed milk can and by gurgling the +corrosive drink down his throat in thirsty gulps. + + +After an appropriate pause, Chauncey Delarouse, otherwise Whiskers, +took up the tale. + +"Far be it from me to boast of no matter what place of birth I have +descended from to sit here by this fire with such as . . . as +chance along. I may say, however, that I, too, was once a +considerable figure of a man. I may add that it was horses, plus +parents too indulgent, that exiled me out over the world. I may +still wonder to query: 'Are Dover's cliffs still white?'" + +"Huh!" Bruce Cadogan Cavendish sneered. "Next you'll be asking: +'How fares the old Lord Warden?'" + +"And I took every liberty, and vainly, with a constitution that was +iron," Whiskers hurried on. "Here I am with my three score and ten +behind me, and back on that long road have I buried many a +youngster that was as rare and devilish as I, but who could not +stand the pace. I knew the worst too young. And now I know the +worst too old. But there was a time, alas all too short, when I +knew, the best. + +"I, too, kiss my hand to the Princess of my heart. She was truly a +princess, Polynesian, a thousand miles and more away to the +eastward and the south from Delaney's Isle of Love. The natives of +all around that part of the South Seas called it the Jolly Island. +Their own name, the name of the people who dwelt thereon, +translates delicately and justly into 'The Island of Tranquil +Laughter.' On the chart you will find the erroneous name given to +it by the old navigators to be Manatomana. The seafaring gentry +the round ocean around called it the Adamless Eden. And the +missionaries for a time called it God's Witness--so great had been +their success at converting the inhabitants. As for me, it was, +and ever shall be, Paradise. + +"It was MY Paradise, for it was there my Princess lived. John +Asibeli Tungi was king. He was full-blooded native, descended out +of the oldest and highest chief-stock that traced back to Manua +which was the primeval sea home of the race. Also was he known as +John the Apostate. He lived a long life and apostasized +frequently. First converted by the Catholics, he threw down the +idols, broke the tabus, cleaned out the native priests, executed a +few of the recalcitrant ones, and sent all his subjects to church. + +"Next he fell for the traders, who developed in him a champagne +thirst, and he shipped off the Catholic priests to New Zealand. +The great majority of his subjects always followed his lead, and, +having no religion at all, ensued the time of the Great +Licentiousness, when by all South Seas missionaries his island, in +sermons, was spoken of as Babylon. + +"But the traders ruined his digestion with too much champagne, and +after several years he fell for the Gospel according to the +Methodists, sent his people to church, and cleaned up the beach and +the trading crowd so spick and span that he would not permit them +to smoke a pipe out of doors on Sunday, and, fined one of the chief +traders one hundred gold sovereigns for washing his schooner's +decks on the Sabbath morn. + +"That was the time of the Blue Laws, but perhaps it was too +rigorous for King John. Off he packed the Methodists, one fine +day, exiled several hundred of his people to Samoa for sticking to +Methodism, and, of all things, invented a religion of his own, with +himself the figure-head of worship. In this he was aided and +abetted by a renegade Fijian. This lasted five years. Maybe he +grew tired of being God, or maybe it was because the Fijian +decamped with the six thousand pounds in the royal treasury; but at +any rate the Second Reformed Wesleyans got him, and his entire +kingdom went Wesleyan. The pioneer Wesleyan missionary he actually +made prime minister, and what he did to the trading crowd was a +caution. Why, in the end, King John's kingdom was blacklisted and +boycotted by the traders till the revenues diminished to zero, the +people went bankrupt, and King John couldn't borrow a shilling from +his most powerful chief. + +"By this time he was getting old, and philosophic, and tolerant, +and spiritually atavistic. He fired out the Second Reformed +Wesleyans, called back the exiles from Samoa, invited in the +traders, held a general love-feast, took the lid off, proclaimed +religious liberty and high tariff, and as for himself went back to +the worship of his ancestors, dug up the idols, reinstated a few +octogenarian priests, and observed the tabus. All of which was +lovely for the traders, and prosperity reigned. Of course, most of +his subjects followed him back into heathen worship. Yet quite a +sprinkling of Catholics, Methodists and Wesleyans remained true to +their beliefs and managed to maintain a few squalid, one-horse +churches. But King John didn't mind, any more than did he the high +times of the traders along the beach. Everything went, so long as +the taxes were paid. Even when his wife, Queen Mamare, elected to +become a Baptist, and invited in a little, weazened, sweet- +spirited, club-footed Baptist missionary, King John did not object. +All he insisted on was that these wandering religions should be +self-supporting and not feed a pennyworth's out of the royal +coffers. + +"And now the threads of my recital draw together in the paragon of +female exquisiteness--my Princess." + +Whiskers paused, placed carefully on the ground his half-full +condensed milk can with which he had been absently toying, and +kissed the fingers of his one hand audibly aloft. + +"She was the daughter of Queen Mamare. She was the woman +wonderful. Unlike the Diana type of Polynesian, she was almost +ethereal. She WAS ethereal, sublimated by purity, as shy and +modest as a violet, as fragile-slender as a lily, and her eyes, +luminous and shrinking tender, were as asphodels on the sward of +heaven. She was all flower, and fire, and dew. Hers was the +sweetness of the mountain rose, the gentleness of the dove. And +she was all of good as well as all of beauty, devout in her belief +in her mother's worship, which was the worship introduced by +Ebenezer Naismith, the Baptist missionary. But make no mistake. +She was no mere sweet spirit ripe for the bosom of Abraham. All of +exquisite deliciousness of woman was she. She was woman, all +woman, to the last sensitive quivering atom of her - + +"And I? I was a wastrel of the beach. The wildest was not so wild +as I, the keenest not so keen, of all that wild, keen trading +crowd. It was esteemed I played the stiffest hand of poker. I was +the only living man, white, brown, or black, who dared run the +Kuni-kuni Passage in the dark. And on a black night I have done it +under reefs in a gale of wind. Well, anyway, I had a bad +reputation on a beach where there were no good reputations. I was +reckless, dangerous, stopped at nothing in fight or frolic; and the +trading captains used to bring boiler-sheeted prodigies from the +vilest holes of the South Pacific to try and drink me under the +table. I remember one, a calcined Scotchman from the New Hebrides. +It was a great drinking. He died of it, and we laded him aboard +ship, pickled in a cask of trade rum, and sent him back to his own +place. A sample, a fair sample, of the antic tricks we cut up on +the beach of Manatomana. + +"And of all unthinkable things, what did I up and do, one day, but +look upon the Princess to find her good and to fall in love with +her. It was the real thing. I was as mad as a March hare, and +after that I got only madder. I reformed. Think of that! Think +of what a slip of a woman can do to a busy, roving man!--By the +Lord Harry, it's true. I reformed. I went to church. Hear me! I +became converted. I cleared my soul before God and kept my hands-- +I had two then--off the ribald crew of the beach when it laughed at +this, my latest antic, and wanted to know what was my game. + +"I tell you I reformed, and gave myself in passion and sincerity to +a religious experience that has made me tolerant of all religion +ever since. I discharged my best captain for immorality. So did I +my cook, and a better never boiled water in Manatomana. For the +same reason I discharged my chief clerk. And for the first time in +the history of trading my schooners to the westward carried Bibles +in their stock. I built a little anchorite bungalow up town on a +mango-lined street squarely alongside the little house occupied by +Ebenezer Naismith. And I made him my pal and comrade, and found +him a veritable honey pot of sweetnesses and goodnesses. And he +was a man, through and through a man. And he died long after like +a man, which I would like to tell you about, were the tale of it +not so deservedly long. + +"It was the Princess, more than the missionary, who was responsible +for my expressing my faith in works, and especially in that +crowning work, the New Church, Our Church, the Queen-mother's +church. + +"'Our poor church,' she said to me, one night after prayer-meeting. +I had been converted only a fortnight. 'It is so small its +congregation can never grow. And the roof leaks. And King John, +my hard-hearted father, will not contribute a penny. Yet he has a +big balance in the treasury. And Manatomana is not poor. Much +money is made and squandered, I know. I hear the gossip of the +wild ways of the beach. Less than a month ago you lost more in one +night, gambling at cards, than the cost of the upkeep of our poor +church for a year.' + +"And I told her it was true, but that it was before I had seen the +light. (I'd had an infernal run of bad luck.) I told her I had +not tasted liquor since, nor turned a card. I told her that the +roof would be repaired at once, by Christian carpenters selected by +her from the congregation. But she was filled with the thought of +a great revival that Ebenezer Naismith could preach--she was a dear +saint--and she spoke of a great church, saying: + +"'You are rich. You have many schooners, and traders in far +islands, and I have heard of a great contract you have signed to +recruit labour for the German plantations of Upolu. They say, next +to Sweitzer, you are the richest trader here. I should love to see +some use of all this money placed to the glory of God. It would be +a noble thing to do, and I should be proud to know the man who +would do it.' + +"I told her that Ebenezer Naismith would preach the revival, and +that I would build a church great enough in which to house it. + +"'As big as the Catholic church?' she asked. + +"This was the ruined cathedral, built at the time when the entire +population was converted, and it was a large order; but I was afire +with love, and I told her that the church I would build would be +even bigger. + +"'But it will take money,' I explained. 'And it takes time to make +money.' + +"'You have much,' she said. 'Some say you have more money than my +father, the King. + +"'I have more credit,' I explained. 'But you do not understand +money. It takes money to have credit. So, with the money I have, +and the credit I have, I will work to make more money and credit, +and the church shall be built.' + +"Work! I was a surprise to myself. It is an amazement, the amount +of time a man finds on his hands after he's given up carousing, and +gambling, and all the time-eating diversions of the beach. And I +didn't waste a second of all my new-found time. Instead I worked +it overtime. I did the work of half a dozen men. I became a +driver. My captains made faster runs than ever and earned bigger +bonuses, as did my supercargoes, who saw to it that my schooners +did not loaf and dawdle along the way. And I saw to it that my +supercargoes did see to it. + +"And good! By the Lord Harry I was so good it hurt. My conscience +got so expansive and fine-strung it lamed me across the shoulders +to carry it around with me. Why, I even went back over my accounts +and paid Sweitzer fifty quid I'd jiggered him out of in a deal in +Fiji three years before. And I compounded the interest as well. + +"Work! I planted sugar cane--the first commercial planting on +Manatomana. I ran in cargoes of kinky-heads from Malaita, which is +in the Solomons, till I had twelve hundred of the blackbirds +putting in cane. And I sent a schooner clear to Hawaii to bring +back a dismantled sugar mill and a German who said he knew the +field-end of cane. And he did, and he charged me three hundred +dollars screw a month, and I took hold of the mill-end. I +installed the mill myself, with the help of several mechanics I +brought up from Queensland. + +"Of course there was a rival. His name was Motomoe. He was the +very highest chief blood next to King John's. He was full native, +a strapping, handsome man, with a glowering way of showing his +dislikes. He certainly glowered at me when I began hanging around +the palace. He went back in my history and circulated the blackest +tales about me. The worst of it was that most of them were true. +He even made a voyage to Apia to find things out--as if he couldn't +find a plenty right there on the beach of Manatomana! And he +sneered at my failing for religion, and at my going to prayer- +meeting, and, most of all, at my sugar-planting. He challenged me +to fight, and I kept off of him. He threatened me, and I learned +in the nick of time of his plan to have me knocked on the head. +You see, he wanted the Princess just as much as I did, and I wanted +her more. + +"She used to play the piano. So did I, once. But I never let her +know after I'd heard her play the first time. And she thought her +playing was wonderful, the dear, fond girl! You know the sort, the +mechanical one-two-three tum-tum-tum school-girl stuff. And now +I'll tell you something funnier. Her playing WAS wonderful to me. +The gates of heaven opened to me when she played. I can see myself +now, worn out and dog-tired after the long day, lying on the mats +of the palace veranda and gazing upon her at the piano, myself in a +perfect idiocy of bliss. Why, this idea she had of her fine +playing was the one flaw in her deliciousness of perfection, and I +loved her for it. It kind of brought her within my human reach. +Why, when she played her one-two-three, tum-tum-tum, I was in the +seventh heaven of bliss. My weariness fell from me. I loved her, +and my love for her was clean as flame, clean as my love for God. +And do you know, into my fond lover's fancy continually intruded +the thought that God in most ways must look like her. + +"--That's right, Bruce Cadogan Cavendish, sneer as you like. But I +tell you that's love that I've been describing. That's all. It's +love. It's the realest, purest, finest thing that can happen to a +man. And I know what I'm talking about. It happened to me." + +Whiskers, his beady squirrel's eye glittering from out his ruined +eyebrow like a live coal in a jungle ambush, broke off long enough +to down a sedative draught from his condensed milk can and to mix +another. + +"The cane," he resumed, wiping his prodigious mat of face hair with +the back of his hand. "It matured in sixteen months in that +climate, and I was ready, just ready and no more, with the mill for +the grinding. Naturally, it did not all mature at once, but I had +planted in such succession that I could grind for nine months +steadily, while more was being planted and the ratoons were +springing up. + +"I had my troubles the first several days. If it wasn't one thing +the matter with the mill, it was another. On the fourth day, +Ferguson, my engineer, had to shut down several hours in order to +remedy his own troubles. I was bothered by the feeder. After +having the niggers (who had been feeding the cane) pour cream of +lime on the rollers to keep everything sweet, I sent them out to +join the cane-cutting squads. So I was all alone at that end, just +as Ferguson started up the mill, just as I discovered what was the +matter with the feed-rollers, and just as Motomoe strolled up. + +"He stood there, in Norfolk jacket, pigskin puttees, and all the +rest of the fashionable get-up out of a bandbox, sneering at me +covered with filth and grease to the eyebrows and looking like a +navvy. And, the rollers now white from the lime, I'd just seen +what was wrong. The rollers were not in plumb. One side crushed +the cane well, but the other side was too open. I shoved my +fingers in on that side. The big, toothed cogs on the rollers did +not touch my fingers. And yet, suddenly, they did. With the grip +of ten thousand devils, my finger-tips were caught, drawn in, and +pulped to--well, just pulp. And, like a slick of cane, I had +started on my way. There was no stopping me. Ten thousand horses +could not have pulled me back. There was nothing to stop me. +Hand, arm, shoulder, head, and chest, down to the toes of me, I was +doomed to feed through. + +"It did hurt. It hurt so much it did not hurt me at all. Quite +detached, almost may I say, I looked on my hand being ground up, +knuckle by knuckle, joint by joint, the back of the hand, the +wrist, the forearm, all in order slowly and inevitably feeding in. +O engineer hoist by thine own petard! O sugar-maker crushed by +thine own cane-crusher! + +"Motomoe sprang forward involuntarily, and the sneer was chased +from his face by an expression of solicitude. Then the beauty of +the situation dawned on him, and he chuckled and grinned. No, I +didn't expect anything of him. Hadn't he tried to knock me on the +head? What could he do anyway? He didn't know anything about +engines. + +"I yelled at the top of my lungs to Ferguson to shut off the +engine, but the roar of the machinery drowned my voice. And there +I stood, up to the elbow and feeding right on in. Yes, it did +hurt. There were some astonishing twinges when special nerves were +shredded and dragged out by the roots. But I remember that I was +surprised at the time that it did not hurt worse. + +"Motomoe made a movement that attracted my attention. At the same +time he growled out loud, as if he hated himself, 'I'm a fool.' +What he had done was to pick up a cane-knife--you know the kind, as +big as a machete and as heavy. And I was grateful to him in +advance for putting me out of my misery. There wasn't any sense in +slowly feeding in till my head was crushed, and already my arm was +pulped half way from elbow to shoulder, and the pulping was going +right on. So I was grateful, as I bent my head to the blow. + +"'Get your head out of the way, you idiot!' he barked at me. + +"And then I understood and obeyed. I was a big man, and he took +two hacks to do it; but he hacked my arm off just outside the +shoulder and dragged me back and laid me down on the cane. + +"Yes, the sugar paid--enormously; and I built for the Princess the +church of her saintly dream, and . . . she married me." + +He partly assuaged his thirst, and uttered his final word. + +"Alackaday! Shuttlecock and battle-dore. And this at, the end of +it all, lined with boilerplate that even alcohol will not corrode +and that only alcohol will tickle. Yet have I lived, and I kiss my +hand to the dear dust of my Princess long asleep in the great +mausoleum of King John that looks across the Vale of Manona to the +alien flag that floats over the bungalow of the British Government +House. . . " + +Fatty pledged him sympathetically, and sympathetically drank out of +his own small can. Bruce Cadogan Cavendish glared into the fire +with implacable bitterness. He was a man who preferred to drink by +himself. Across the thin lips that composed the cruel slash of his +mouth played twitches of mockery that caught Fatty's eye. And +Fatty, making sure first that his rock-chunk was within reach, +challenged. + +"Well, how about yourself, Bruce Cadogan Cavendish? It's your +turn." + +The other lifted bleak eyes that bored into Fatty's until he +physically betrayed uncomfortableness. + +"I've lived a hard life," Slim grated harshly. "What do I know +about love passages?" + +"No man of your build and make-up could have escaped them," Fatty +wheedled. + +"And what of it?" Slim snarled. "It's no reason for a gentleman to +boast of amorous triumphs." + +"Oh, go on, be a good fellow," Fatty urged. "The night's still +young. We've still some drink left. Delarouse and I have +contributed our share. It isn't often that three real ones like us +get together for a telling. Surely you've got at least one +adventure in love you aren't ashamed to tell about--" + +Bruce Cadogan Cavendish pulled forth his iron quoit and seemed to +debate whether or not he should brain the other. He sighed, and +put back the quoit. + +"Very well, if you will have it," he surrendered with manifest +reluctance. "Like you two, I have had a remarkable constitution. +And right now, speaking of armour-plate lining, I could drink the +both of you down when you were at your prime. Like you two, my +beginnings were far distant and different. That I am marked with +the hall-mark of gentlehood there is no discussion . . . unless +either of you care to discuss the matter now . . . " + +His one hand slipped into his pocket and clutched the quoit. +Neither of his auditors spoke nor betrayed any awareness of his +menace. + +"It occurred a thousand miles to the westward of Manatomana, on the +island of Tagalag," he continued abruptly, with an air of saturnine +disappointment in that there had been no discussion. "But first I +must tell you of how I got to Tagalag. For reasons I shall not +mention, by paths of descent I shall not describe, in the crown of +my manhood and the prime of my devilishness in which Oxford +renegades and racing younger sons had nothing on me, I found myself +master and owner of a schooner so well known that she shall remain +historically nameless. I was running blackbird labour from the +west South Pacific and the Coral Sea to the plantations of Hawaii +and the nitrate mines of Chili--" + +"It was you who cleaned out the entire population of--" Fatty +exploded, ere he could check his speech. + +The one hand of Bruce Cadogan Cavendish flashed pocketward and +flashed back with the quoit balanced ripe for business. + +"Proceed," Fatty sighed. "I . . . I have quite forgotten what I +was going to say." + +"Beastly funny country over that way," the narrator drawled with +perfect casualness. "You've read this Sea Wolf stuff--" + +"You weren't the Sea Wolf," Whiskers broke in with involuntary +positiveness. + +"No, sir," was the snarling answer. "The Sea Wolf's dead, isn't +he? And I'm still alive, aren't I?" + +"Of course, of course," Whiskers conceded. "He suffocated head- +first in the mud off a wharf in Victoria a couple of years back." + +"As I was saying--and I don't like interruptions," Bruce Cadogan +Cavendish proceeded, "it's a beastly funny country over that way. +I was at Taki-Tiki, a low island that politically belongs to the +Solomons, but that geologically doesn't at all, for the Solomons +are high islands. Ethnographically it belongs to Polynesia, +Melanesia, and Micronesia, because all the breeds of the South +Pacific have gravitated to it by canoe-drift and intricately, +degeneratively, and amazingly interbred. The scum of the scrapings +of the bottom of the human pit, biologically speaking, resides in +Taka-Tiki. And I know the bottom and whereof I speak. + +"It was a beastly funny time of it I had, diving out shell, fishing +beche-de-mer, trading hoop-iron and hatchets for copra and ivory- +nuts, running niggers and all the rest of it. Why, even in Fiji +the Lotu was having a hard time of it and the chiefs still eating +long-pig. To the westward it was fierce--funny little black kinky- +heads, man-eaters the last Jack of them, and the jackpot fat and +spilling over with wealth--" + +"Jack-pots?" Fatty queried. At sight of an irritable movement, he +added: "You see, I never got over to the West like Delarouse and +you." + +"They're all head-hunters. Heads are valuable, especially a white +man's head. They decorate the canoe-houses and devil-devil houses +with them. Each village runs a jack-pot, and everybody antes. +Whoever brings in a white man's head takes the pot. If there +aren't openers for a long time, the pot grows to tremendous +proportions. Beastly funny, isn't it? + +"I know. Didn't a Holland mate die on me of blackwater? And +didn't I win a pot myself? It was this way. We were lying at +Lango-lui at the time. I never let on, and arranged the affair +with Johnny, my boat-steerer. He was a kinky-head himself from +Port Moresby. He cut the dead mate's head off and sneaked ashore +in the might, while I whanged away with my rifle as if I were +trying to get him. He opened the pot with the mate's head, and got +it, too. Of course, next day I sent in a landing boat, with two +covering boats, and fetched him off with the loot." + +"How big was the pot?" Whiskers asked. "I heard of a pot at Orla +worth eighty quid." + +"To commence with," Slim answered, "there were forty fat pigs, each +worth a fathom of prime shell-money, and shell-money worth a quid a +fathom. That was two hundred dollars right there. There were +ninety-eight fathoms of shell-money, which is pretty close to five +hundred in itself. And there were twenty-two gold sovereigns. I +split it four ways: one-fourth to Johnny, one-fourth to the ship, +one-fourth to me as owner, and one-fourth to me as skipper. Johnny +never complained. He'd never had so much wealth all at one time in +his life. Besides, I gave him a couple of the mate's old shirts. +And I fancy the mate's head is still there decorating the canoe- +house." + +"Not exactly Christian burial of a Christian," Whiskers observed. + +"But a lucrative burial," Slim retorted. "I had to feed the rest +of the mate over-side to the sharks for nothing. Think of feeding +an eight-hundred-dollar head along with it. It would have been +criminal waste and stark lunacy. + +"Well, anyway, it was all beastly funny, over there to the +westward. And, without telling you the scrape I got into at Taki- +Tiki, except that I sailed away with two hundred kinky-heads for +Queensland labour, and for my manner of collecting them had two +British ships of war combing the Pacific for me, I changed my +course and ran to the westward thinking to dispose of the lot to +the Spanish plantations on Bangar. + +"Typhoon season. We caught it. The Merry Mist was my schooner's +name, and I had thought she was stoutly built until she hit that +typhoon. I never saw such seas. They pounded that stout craft to +pieces, literally so. The sticks were jerked out of her, +deckhouses splintered to match-wood, rails ripped off, and, after +the worst had passed, the covering boards began to go. We just +managed to repair what was left of one boat and keep the schooner +afloat only till the sea went down barely enough to get away. And +we outfitted that boat in a hurry. The carpenter and I were the +last, and we had to jump for it as he went down. There were only +four of us--" + +"Lost all the niggers?" Whiskers inquired. + +"Some of them swam for some time," Slim replied. "But I don't +fancy they made the land. We were ten days' in doing it. And we +had a spanking breeze most of the way. And what do you think we +had in the boat with us? Cases of square-face gin and cases of +dynamite. Funny, wasn't it? Well, it got funnier later on. Oh, +there was a small beaker of water, a little salt horse, and some +salt-water-soaked sea biscuit--enough to keep us alive to Tagalag. + +"Now Tagalag is the disappointingest island I've ever beheld. It +shows up out of the sea so as you can make its fall twenty miles +off. It is a volcano cone thrust up out of deep sea, with a +segment of the crater wall broken out. This gives sea entrance to +the crater itself, and makes a fine sheltered harbour. And that's +all. Nothing lives there. The outside and the inside of the +crater are too steep. At one place, inside, is a patch of about a +thousand coconut palms. And that's all, as I said, saving a few +insects. No four-legged thing, even a rat, inhabits the place. +And it's funny, most awful funny, with all those coconuts, not even +a coconut crab. The only meat-food living was schools of mullet in +the harbour--fattest, finest, biggest mullet I ever laid eyes on. + +"And the four of us landed on the little beach and set up +housekeeping among the coconuts with a larder full of dynamite and +square-face. Why don't you laugh? It's funny, I tell you. Try it +some time.--Holland gin and straight coconut diet. I've never been +able to look a confectioner's window in the face since. Now I'm +not strong on religion like Chauncey Delarouse there, but I have +some primitive ideas; and my concept of hell is an illimitable +coconut plantation, stocked with cases of square-face and populated +by ship-wrecked mariners. Funny? It must make the devil scream. + +"You know, straight coconut is what the agriculturists call an +unbalanced ration. It certainly unbalanced our digestions. We got +so that whenever hunger took an extra bite at us, we took another +drink of gin. After a couple of weeks of it, Olaf, a squarehead +sailor, got an idea. It came when he was full of gin, and we, +being in the same fix, just watched him shove a cap and short fuse +into a stick of dynamite and stroll down toward the boat. + +"It dawned on me that he was going to shoot fish if there were any +about; but the sun was beastly hot, and I just reclined there and +hoped he'd have luck. + +"About half an hour after he disappeared we heard the explosion. +But he didn't come back. We waited till the cool of sunset, and +down on the beach found what had become of him. The boat was there +all right, grounded by the prevailing breeze, but there was no +Olaf. He would never have to eat coconut again. We went back, +shakier than ever, and cracked another square-face. + +"The next day the cook announced that he would rather take his +chance with dynamite than continue trying to exist on coconut, and +that, though he didn't know anything about dynamite, he knew a +sight too much about coconut. So we bit the detonator down for +him, shoved in a fuse, and picked him a good fire-stick, while he +jolted up with a couple more stiff ones of gin. + +"It was the same programme as the day before. After a while we +heard the explosion and at twilight went down to the boat, from +which we scraped enough of the cook for a funeral. + +"The carpenter and I stuck it out two days more, then we drew +straws for it and it was his turn. We parted with harsh words; for +he wanted to take a square-face along to refresh himself by the +way, while I was set against running any chance of wasting the gin. +Besides, he had more than he could carry then, and he wobbled and +staggered as he walked. + +"Same thing, only there was a whole lot of him left for me to bury, +because he'd prepared only half a stick. I managed to last it out +till next day, when, after duly fortifying myself, I got sufficient +courage to tackle the dynamite. I used only a third of a stick-- +you know, short fuse, with the end split so as to hold the head of +a safety match. That's where I mended my predecessors' methods. +Not using the match-head, they'd too-long fuses. Therefore, when +they spotted a school of mullet; and lighted the fuse, they had to +hold the dynamite till the fuse burned short before they threw it. +If they threw it too soon, it wouldn't go off the instant it hit +the water, while the splash of it would frighten the mullet away. +Funny stuff dynamite. At any rate, I still maintain mine was the +safer method. + +"I picked up a school of mullet before I'd been rowing five +minutes. Fine big fat ones they were, and I could smell them over +the fire. When I stood up, fire-stick in one hand, dynamite stick +in the other, my knees were knocking together. Maybe it was the +gin, or the anxiousness, or the weakness and the hunger, and maybe +it was the result of all of them, but at any rate I was all of a +shake. Twice I failed to touch the fire-stick to the dynamite. +Then I did, heard the match-head splutter, and let her go. + +"Now I don't know what happened to the others, but I know what I +did. I got turned about. Did you ever stem a strawberry and throw +the strawberry away and pop the stem into your mouth? That's what +I did. I threw the fire-stick into the water after the mullet and +held on to the dynamite. And my arm went off with the stick when +it went off. . . . " + +Slim investigated the tomato-can for water to mix himself a drink, +but found it empty. He stood up. + +"Heigh ho," he yawned, and started down the path to the river. + +In several minutes he was back. He mixed the due quantity of river +slush with the alcohol, took a long, solitary drink, and stared +with bitter moodiness into the fire. + +"Yes, but . . . " Fatty suggested. "What happened then?" + +"Oh," sad Slim. "Then the princess married me, of course." + +"But you were the only person left, and there wasn't any princess . +. . " Whiskers cried out abruptly, and then let his voice trail +away to embarrassed silence. + +Slim stared unblinkingly into the fire. + +Percival Delaney and Chauncey Delarouse looked at each other. +Quietly, in solemn silence, each with his one arm aided the one arm +of the other in rolling and tying his bundle. And in silence, +bundles slung on shoulders, they went away out of the circle of +firelight. Not until they reached the top of the railroad +embankment did they speak. + +"No gentleman would have done it," said Whiskers. + +"No gentleman would have done it," Fatty agreed. + +Glen Ellen, California, +September 26, 1916. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE RED ONE *** + +This file should be named tred110.txt or tred110.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, tred111.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tred110a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/tred110.zip b/old/tred110.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..81b6808 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tred110.zip diff --git a/old/tred110h.htm b/old/tred110h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9732707 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tred110h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3914 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Red One</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Red One, by Jack London</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Red One, by Jack London +(#6 in our series by Jack London) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Red One + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: January, 1997 [EBook #788] +[This file was first posted on January 25, 1997] +[Most recently updated: September 17, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1919 Mills and Boon edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h1>THE RED ONE</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>Contents:</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Red One<br />The Hussy<br />Like Argus of the Ancient Times<br />The +Princess</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>STORY: THE RED ONE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>There it was! The abrupt liberation of sound! As he timed +it with his watch, Bassett likened it to the trump of an archangel. +Walls of cities, he meditated, might well fall down before so vast and +compelling a summons. For the thousandth time vainly he tried +to analyse the tone-quality of that enormous peal that dominated the +land far into the strong-holds of the surrounding tribes. The +mountain gorge which was its source rang to the rising tide of it until +it brimmed over and flooded earth and sky and air. With the wantonness +of a sick man’s fancy, he likened it to the mighty cry of some +Titan of the Elder World vexed with misery or wrath. Higher and +higher it arose, challenging and demanding in such profounds of volume +that it seemed intended for ears beyond the narrow confines of the solar +system. There was in it, too, the clamour of protest in that there +were no ears to hear and comprehend its utterance.</p> +<p>- Such the sick man’s fancy. Still he strove to analyse +the sound. Sonorous as thunder was it, mellow as a golden bell, +thin and sweet as a thrummed taut cord of silver - no; it was none of +these, nor a blend of these. There were no words nor semblances +in his vocabulary and experience with which to describe the totality +of that sound.</p> +<p>Time passed. Minutes merged into quarters of hours, and quarters +of hours into half-hours, and still the sound persisted, ever changing +from its initial vocal impulse yet never receiving fresh impulse - fading, +dimming, dying as enormously as it had sprung into being. It became +a confusion of troubled mutterings and babblings and colossal whisperings. +Slowly it withdrew, sob by sob, into whatever great bosom had birthed +it, until it whimpered deadly whispers of wrath and as equally seductive +whispers of delight, striving still to be heard, to convey some cosmic +secret, some understanding of infinite import and value. It dwindled +to a ghost of sound that had lost its menace and promise, and became +a thing that pulsed on in the sick man’s consciousness for minutes +after it had ceased. When he could hear it no longer, Bassett +glanced at his watch. An hour had elapsed ere that archangel’s +trump had subsided into tonal nothingness.</p> +<p>Was this, then, <i>his</i> dark tower? - Bassett pondered, remembering +his Browning and gazing at his skeleton-like and fever-wasted hands. +And the fancy made him smile - of Childe Roland bearing a slug-horn +to his lips with an arm as feeble as his was. Was it months, or +years, he asked himself, since he first heard that mysterious call on +the beach at Ringmanu? To save himself he could not tell. +The long sickness had been most long. In conscious count of time +he knew of months, many of them; but he had no way of estimating the +long intervals of delirium and stupor. And how fared Captain Bateman +of the blackbirder <i>Nari</i>? he wondered; and had Captain Bateman’s +drunken mate died of delirium tremens yet?</p> +<p>From which vain speculations, Bassett turned idly to review all that +had occurred since that day on the beach of Ringmanu when he first heard +the sound and plunged into the jungle after it. Sagawa had protested. +He could see him yet, his queer little monkeyish face eloquent with +fear, his back burdened with specimen cases, in his hands Bassett’s +butterfly net and naturalist’s shot-gun, as he quavered, in Bêche-de-mer +English: “Me fella too much fright along bush. Bad fella +boy, too much stop’m along bush.”</p> +<p>Bassett smiled sadly at the recollection. The little New Hanover +boy had been frightened, but had proved faithful, following him without +hesitancy into the bush in the quest after the source of the wonderful +sound. No fire-hollowed tree-trunk, that, throbbing war through +the jungle depths, had been Bassett’s conclusion. Erroneous +had been his next conclusion, namely, that the source or cause could +not be more distant than an hour’s walk, and that he would easily +be back by mid-afternoon to be picked up by the <i>Nari’s</i> +whale-boat.</p> +<p>“That big fella noise no good, all the same devil-devil,” +Sagawa had adjudged. And Sagawa had been right. Had he not +had his head hacked off within the day? Bassett shuddered. +Without doubt Sagawa had been eaten as well by the “bad fella +boys too much” that stopped along the bush. He could see +him, as he had last seen him, stripped of the shot-gun and all the naturalist’s +gear of his master, lying on the narrow trail where he had been decapitated +barely the moment before. Yes, within a minute the thing had happened. +Within a minute, looking back, Bassett had seen him trudging patiently +along under his burdens. Then Bassett’s own trouble had +come upon him. He looked at the cruelly healed stumps of the first +and second fingers of his left hand, then rubbed them softly into the +indentation in the back of his skull. Quick as had been the flash +of the long handled tomahawk, he had been quick enough to duck away +his head and partially to deflect the stroke with his up-flung hand. +Two fingers and a hasty scalp-wound had been the price he paid for his +life. With one barrel of his ten-gauge shot-gun he had blown the +life out of the bushman who had so nearly got him; with the other barrel +he had peppered the bushmen bending over Sagawa, and had the pleasure +of knowing that the major portion of the charge had gone into the one +who leaped away with Sagawa’s head. Everything had occurred +in a flash. Only himself, the slain bushman, and what remained +of Sagawa, were in the narrow, wild-pig run of a path. From the +dark jungle on either side came no rustle of movement or sound of life. +And he had suffered distinct and dreadful shock. For the first +time in his life he had killed a human being, and he knew nausea as +he contemplated the mess of his handiwork.</p> +<p>Then had begun the chase. He retreated up the pig-run before +his hunters, who were between him and the beach. How many there +were, he could not guess. There might have been one, or a hundred, +for aught he saw of them. That some of them took to the trees +and travelled along through the jungle roof he was certain; but at the +most he never glimpsed more than an occasional flitting of shadows. + No bow-strings twanged that he could hear; but every little while, +whence discharged he knew not, tiny arrows whispered past him or struck +tree-boles and fluttered to the ground beside him. They were bone-tipped +and feather shafted, and the feathers, torn from the breasts of humming-birds, +iridesced like jewels.</p> +<p>Once - and now, after the long lapse of time, he chuckled gleefully +at the recollection - he had detected a shadow above him that came to +instant rest as he turned his gaze upward. He could make out nothing, +but, deciding to chance it, had fired at it a heavy charge of number +five shot. Squalling like an infuriated cat, the shadow crashed +down through tree-ferns and orchids and thudded upon the earth at his +feet, and, still squalling its rage and pain, had sunk its human teeth +into the ankle of his stout tramping boot. He, on the other hand, +was not idle, and with his free foot had done what reduced the squalling +to silence. So inured to savagery has Bassett since become, that +he chuckled again with the glee of the recollection.</p> +<p>What a night had followed! Small wonder that he had accumulated +such a virulence and variety of fevers, he thought, as he recalled that +sleepless night of torment, when the throb of his wounds was as nothing +compared with the myriad stings of the mosquitoes. There had been +no escaping them, and he had not dared to light a fire. They had +literally pumped his body full of poison, so that, with the coming of +day, eyes swollen almost shut, he had stumbled blindly on, not caring +much when his head should be hacked off and his carcass started on the +way of Sagawa’s to the cooking fire. Twenty-four hours had +made a wreck of him - of mind as well as body. He had scarcely +retained his wits at all, so maddened was he by the tremendous inoculation +of poison he had received. Several times he fired his shot-gun +with effect into the shadows that dogged him. Stinging day insects +and gnats added to his torment, while his bloody wounds attracted hosts +of loathsome flies that clung sluggishly to his flesh and had to be +brushed off and crushed off.</p> +<p>Once, in that day, he heard again the wonderful sound, seemingly +more distant, but rising imperiously above the nearer war-drums in the +bush. Right there was where he had made his mistake. Thinking +that he had passed beyond it and that, therefore, it was between him +and the beach of Ringmanu, he had worked back toward it when in reality +he was penetrating deeper and deeper into the mysterious heart of the +unexplored island. That night, crawling in among the twisted roots +of a banyan tree, he had slept from exhaustion while the mosquitoes +had had their will of him.</p> +<p>Followed days and nights that were vague as nightmares in his memory. +One clear vision he remembered was of suddenly finding himself in the +midst of a bush village and watching the old men and children fleeing +into the jungle. All had fled but one. From close at hand +and above him, a whimpering as of some animal in pain and terror had +startled him. And looking up he had seen her - a girl, or young +woman rather, suspended by one arm in the cooking sun. Perhaps +for days she had so hung. Her swollen, protruding tongue spoke +as much. Still alive, she gazed at him with eyes of terror. +Past help, he decided, as he noted the swellings of her legs which advertised +that the joints had been crushed and the great bones broken. He +resolved to shoot her, and there the vision terminated. He could +not remember whether he had or not, any more than could he remember +how he chanced to be in that village, or how he succeeded in getting +away from it.</p> +<p>Many pictures, unrelated, came and went in Bassett’s mind as +he reviewed that period of his terrible wanderings. He remembered +invading another village of a dozen houses and driving all before him +with his shot-gun save, for one old man, too feeble to flee, who spat +at him and whined and snarled as he dug open a ground-oven and from +amid the hot stones dragged forth a roasted pig that steamed its essence +deliciously through its green-leaf wrappings. It was at this place +that a wantonness of savagery had seized upon him. Having feasted, +ready to depart with a hind-quarter of the pig in his hand, he deliberately +fired the grass thatch of a house with his burning glass.</p> +<p>But seared deepest of all in Bassett’s brain, was the dank +and noisome jungle. It actually stank with evil, and it was always +twilight. Rarely did a shaft of sunlight penetrate its matted +roof a hundred feet overhead. And beneath that roof was an aerial +ooze of vegetation, a monstrous, parasitic dripping of decadent life-forms +that rooted in death and lived on death. And through all this +he drifted, ever pursued by the flitting shadows of the anthropophagi, +themselves ghosts of evil that dared not face him in battle but that +knew that, soon or late, they would feed on him. Bassett remembered +that at the time, in lucid moments, he had likened himself to a wounded +bull pursued by plains’ coyotes too cowardly to battle with him +for the meat of him, yet certain of the inevitable end of him when they +would be full gorged. As the bull’s horns and stamping hoofs +kept off the coyotes, so his shot-gun kept off these Solomon Islanders, +these twilight shades of bushmen of the island of Guadalcanal.</p> +<p>Came the day of the grass lands. Abruptly, as if cloven by +the sword of God in the hand of God, the jungle terminated. The +edge of it, perpendicular and as black as the infamy of it, was a hundred +feet up and down. And, beginning at the edge of it, grew the grass +- sweet, soft, tender, pasture grass that would have delighted the eyes +and beasts of any husbandman and that extended, on and on, for leagues +and leagues of velvet verdure, to the backbone of the great island, +the towering mountain range flung up by some ancient earth-cataclysm, +serrated and gullied but not yet erased by the erosive tropic rains. +But the grass! He had crawled into it a dozen yards, buried his +face in it, smelled it, and broken down in a fit of involuntary weeping.</p> +<p>And, while he wept, the wonderful sound had pealed forth - if by +<i>peal</i>, he had often thought since, an adequate description could +be given of the enunciation of so vast a sound melting sweet. +Sweet it was, as no sound ever heard. Vast it was, of so mighty +a resonance that it might have proceeded from some brazen-throated monster. +And yet it called to him across that leagues-wide savannah, and was +like a benediction to his long-suffering, pain racked spirit.</p> +<p>He remembered how he lay there in the grass, wet-cheeked but no longer +sobbing, listening to the sound and wondering that he had been able +to hear it on the beach of Ringmanu. Some freak of air pressures +and air currents, he reflected, had made it possible for the sound to +carry so far. Such conditions might not happen again in a thousand +days or ten thousand days, but the one day it had happened had been +the day he landed from the <i>Nari</i> for several hours’ collecting. +Especially had he been in quest of the famed jungle butterfly, a foot +across from wing-tip to wing-tip, as velvet-dusky of lack of colour +as was the gloom of the roof, of such lofty arboreal habits that it +resorted only to the jungle roof and could be brought down only by a +dose of shot. It was for this purpose that Sagawa had carried +the ten-gauge shot-gun.</p> +<p>Two days and nights he had spent crawling across that belt of grass +land. He had suffered much, but pursuit had ceased at the jungle-edge. +And he would have died of thirst had not a heavy thunderstorm revived +him on the second day.</p> +<p>And then had come Balatta. In the first shade, where the savannah +yielded to the dense mountain jungle, he had collapsed to die. +At first she had squealed with delight at sight of his helplessness, +and was for beating his brain out with a stout forest branch. +Perhaps it was his very utter helplessness that had appealed to her, +and perhaps it was her human curiosity that made her refrain. +At any rate, she had refrained, for he opened his eyes again under the +impending blow, and saw her studying him intently. What especially +struck her about him were his blue eyes and white skin. Coolly +she had squatted on her hams, spat on his arm, and with her finger-tips +scrubbed away the dirt of days and nights of muck and jungle that sullied +the pristine whiteness of his skin.</p> +<p>And everything about her had struck him especially, although there +was nothing conventional about her at all. He laughed weakly at +the recollection, for she had been as innocent of garb as Eve before +the fig-leaf adventure. Squat and lean at the same time, asymmetrically +limbed, string-muscled as if with lengths of cordage, dirt-caked from +infancy save for casual showers, she was as unbeautiful a prototype +of woman as he, with a scientist’s eye, had ever gazed upon. +Her breasts advertised at the one time her maturity and youth; and, +if by nothing else, her sex was advertised by the one article of finery +with which she was adorned, namely a pig’s tail, thrust though +a hole in her left ear-lobe. So lately had the tail been severed, +that its raw end still oozed blood that dried upon her shoulder like +so much candle-droppings. And her face! A twisted and wizened +complex of apish features, perforated by upturned, sky-open, Mongolian +nostrils, by a mouth that sagged from a huge upper-lip and faded precipitately +into a retreating chin, by peering querulous eyes that blinked as blink +the eyes of denizens of monkey-cages.</p> +<p>Not even the water she brought him in a forest-leaf, and the ancient +and half-putrid chunk of roast pig, could redeem in the slightest the +grotesque hideousness of her. When he had eaten weakly for a space, +he closed his eyes in order not to see her, although again and again +she poked them open to peer at the blue of them. Then had come +the sound. Nearer, much nearer, he knew it to be; and he knew +equally well, despite the weary way he had come, that it was still many +hours distant. The effect of it on her had been startling. +She cringed under it, with averted face, moaning and chattering with +fear. But after it had lived its full life of an hour, he closed +his eyes and fell asleep with Balatta brushing the flies from him.</p> +<p>When he awoke it was night, and she was gone. But he was aware +of renewed strength, and, by then too thoroughly inoculated by the mosquito +poison to suffer further inflammation, he closed his eyes and slept +an unbroken stretch till sun-up. A little later Balatta had returned, +bringing with her a half-dozen women who, unbeautiful as they were, +were patently not so unbeautiful as she. She evidenced by her +conduct that she considered him her find, her property, and the pride +she took in showing him off would have been ludicrous had his situation +not been so desperate.</p> +<p>Later, after what had been to him a terrible journey of miles, when +he collapsed in front of the devil-devil house in the shadow of the +breadfruit tree, she had shown very lively ideas on the matter of retaining +possession of him. Ngurn, whom Bassett was to know afterward as +the devil-devil doctor, priest, or medicine man of the village, had +wanted his head. Others of the grinning and chattering monkey-men, +all as stark of clothes and bestial of appearance as Balatta, had wanted +his body for the roasting oven. At that time he had not understood +their language, if by <i>language</i> might be dignified the uncouth +sounds they made to represent ideas. But Bassett had thoroughly +understood the matter of debate, especially when the men pressed and +prodded and felt of the flesh of him as if he were so much commodity +in a butcher’s stall.</p> +<p>Balatta had been losing the debate rapidly, when the accident happened. +One of the men, curiously examining Bassett’s shot-gun, managed +to cock and pull a trigger. The recoil of the butt into the pit +of the man’s stomach had not been the most sanguinary result, +for the charge of shot, at a distance of a yard, had blown the head +of one of the debaters into nothingness.</p> +<p>Even Balatta joined the others in flight, and, ere they returned, +his senses already reeling from the oncoming fever-attack, Bassett had +regained possession of the gun. Whereupon, although his teeth +chattered with the ague and his swimming eyes could scarcely see, he +held on to his fading consciousness until he could intimidate the bushmen +with the simple magics of compass, watch, burning glass, and matches. +At the last, with due emphasis, of solemnity and awfulness, he had killed +a young pig with his shot-gun and promptly fainted.</p> +<p>Bassett flexed his arm-muscles in quest of what possible strength +might reside in such weakness, and dragged himself slowly and totteringly +to his feet. He was shockingly emaciated; yet, during the various +convalescences of the many months of his long sickness, he had never +regained quite the same degree of strength as this time. What +he feared was another relapse such as he had already frequently experienced. +Without drugs, without even quinine, he had managed so far to live through +a combination of the most pernicious and most malignant of malarial +and black-water fevers. But could he continue to endure? +Such was his everlasting query. For, like the genuine scientist +he was, he would not be content to die until he had solved the secret +of the sound.</p> +<p>Supported by a staff, he staggered the few steps to the devil-devil +house where death and Ngurn reigned in gloom. Almost as infamously +dark and evil-stinking as the jungle was the devil-devil house - in +Bassett’s opinion. Yet therein was usually to be found his +favourite crony and gossip, Ngurn, always willing for a yarn or a discussion, +the while he sat in the ashes of death and in a slow smoke shrewdly +revolved curing human heads suspended from the rafters. For, through +the months’ interval of consciousness of his long sickness, Bassett +had mastered the psychological simplicities and lingual difficulties +of the language of the tribe of Ngurn and Balatta and Vngngn - the latter +the addle-headed young chief who was ruled by Ngurn, and who, whispered +intrigue had it, was the son of Ngurn.</p> +<p>“Will the Red One speak to-day?” Bassett asked, by this +time so accustomed to the old man’s gruesome occupation as to +take even an interest in the progress of the smoke-curing.</p> +<p>With the eye of an expert Ngurn examined the particular head he was +at work upon.</p> +<p>“It will be ten days before I can say ‘finish,’” +he said. “Never has any man fixed heads like these.”</p> +<p>Bassett smiled inwardly at the old fellow’s reluctance to talk +with him of the Red One. It had always been so. Never, by +any chance, had Ngurn or any other member of the weird tribe divulged +the slightest hint of any physical characteristic of the Red One. +Physical the Red One must be, to emit the wonderful sound, and though +it was called the Red One, Bassett could not be sure that red represented +the colour of it. Red enough were the deeds and powers of it, +from what abstract clues he had gleaned. Not alone, had Ngurn +informed him, was the Red One more bestial powerful than the neighbour +tribal gods, ever athirst for the red blood of living human sacrifices, +but the neighbour gods themselves were sacrificed and tormented before +him. He was the god of a dozen allied villages similar to this +one, which was the central and commanding village of the federation. +By virtue of the Red One many alien villages had been devastated and +even wiped out, the prisoners sacrificed to the Red One. This +was true to-day, and it extended back into old history carried down +by word of mouth through the generations. When he, Ngurn, had +been a young man, the tribes beyond the grass lands had made a war raid. +In the counter raid, Ngurn and his fighting folk had made many prisoners. +Of children alone over five score living had been bled white before +the Red One, and many, many more men and women.</p> +<p>The Thunderer was another of Ngurn’s names for the mysterious +deity. Also at times was he called The Loud Shouter, The God-Voiced, +The Bird-Throated, The One with the Throat Sweet as the Throat of the +Honey-Bird, The Sun Singer, and The Star-Born.</p> +<p>Why The Star-Born? In vain Bassett interrogated Ngurn. +According to that old devil-devil doctor, the Red One had always been, +just where he was at present, for ever singing and thundering his will +over men. But Ngurn’s father, wrapped in decaying grass-matting +and hanging even then over their heads among the smoky rafters of the +devil-devil house, had held otherwise. That departed wise one +had believed that the Red One came from out of the starry night, else +why - so his argument had run - had the old and forgotten ones passed +his name down as the Star-Born? Bassett could not but recognize +something cogent in such argument. But Ngurn affirmed the long +years of his long life, wherein he had gazed upon many starry nights, +yet never had he found a star on grass land or in jungle depth - and +he had looked for them. True, he had beheld shooting stars (this +in reply to Bassett’s contention); but likewise had he beheld +the phosphorescence of fungoid growths and rotten meat and fireflies +on dark nights, and the flames of wood-fires and of blazing candle-nuts; +yet what were flame and blaze and glow when they had flamed and blazed +and glowed? Answer: memories, memories only, of things which had +ceased to be, like memories of matings accomplished, of feasts forgotten, +of desires that were the ghosts of desires, flaring, flaming, burning, +yet unrealized in achievement of easement and satisfaction. Where +was the appetite of yesterday? the roasted flesh of the wild pig the +hunter’s arrow failed to slay? the maid, unwed and dead ere the +young man knew her?</p> +<p>A memory was not a star, was Ngurn’s contention. How +could a memory be a star? Further, after all his long life he +still observed the starry night-sky unaltered. Never had he noted +the absence of a single star from its accustomed place. Besides, +stars were fire, and the Red One was not fire - which last involuntary +betrayal told Bassett nothing.</p> +<p>“Will the Red One speak to-morrow?” he queried.</p> +<p>Ngurn shrugged his shoulders as who should say.</p> +<p>“And the day after? - and the day after that?” Bassett +persisted.</p> +<p>“I would like to have the curing of your head,” Ngurn +changed the subject. “It is different from any other head. +No devil-devil has a head like it. Besides, I would cure it well. +I would take months and months. The moons would come and the moons +would go, and the smoke would be very slow, and I should myself gather +the materials for the curing smoke. The skin would not wrinkle. +It would be as smooth as your skin now.”</p> +<p>He stood up, and from the dim rafters, grimed with the smoking of +countless heads, where day was no more than a gloom, took down a matting-wrapped +parcel and began to open it.</p> +<p>“It is a head like yours,” he said, “but it is +poorly cured.”</p> +<p>Bassett had pricked up his ears at the suggestion that it was a white +man’s head; for he had long since come to accept that these jungle-dwellers, +in the midmost centre of the great island, had never had intercourse +with white men. Certainly he had found them without the almost +universal bêche-de-mer English of the west South Pacific. +Nor had they knowledge of tobacco, nor of gunpowder. Their few +precious knives, made from lengths of hoop-iron, and their few and more +precious tomahawks from cheap trade hatchets, he had surmised they had +captured in war from the bushmen of the jungle beyond the grass lands, +and that they, in turn, had similarly gained them from the salt-water +men who fringed the coral beaches of the shore and had contact with +the occasional white men.</p> +<p>“The folk in the out beyond do not know how to cure heads,” +old Ngurn explained, as he drew forth from the filthy matting and placed +in Bassett’s hands an indubitable white man’s head.</p> +<p>Ancient it was beyond question; white it was as the blond hair attested. +He could have sworn it once belonged to an Englishman, and to an Englishman +of long before by token of the heavy gold circlets still threaded in +the withered ear-lobes.</p> +<p>“Now your head . . . ” the devil-devil doctor began on +his favourite topic.</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you what,” Bassett interrupted, struck +by a new idea. “When I die I’ll let you have my head +to cure, if, first, you take me to look upon the Red One.”</p> +<p>“I will have your head anyway when you are dead,” Ngurn +rejected the proposition. He added, with the brutal frankness +of the savage: “Besides, you have not long to live. You +are almost a dead man now. You will grow less strong. In +not many months I shall have you here turning and turning in the smoke. +It is pleasant, through the long afternoons, to turn the head of one +you have known as well as I know you. And I shall talk to you +and tell you the many secrets you want to know. Which will not +matter, for you will be dead.”</p> +<p>“Ngurn,” Bassett threatened in sudden anger. “You +know the Baby Thunder in the Iron that is mine.” (This was +in reference to his all-potent and all-awful shotgun.) “I +can kill you any time, and then you will not get my head.”</p> +<p>“Just the same, will Vngngn, or some one else of my folk get +it,” Ngurn complacently assured him. “And just the +same will it turn here in the and turn devil-devil house in the smoke. +The quicker you slay me with your Baby Thunder, the quicker will your +head turn in the smoke.”</p> +<p>And Bassett knew he was beaten in the discussion.</p> +<p>What was the Red One? - Bassett asked himself a thousand times in +the succeeding week, while he seemed to grow stronger. What was +the source of the wonderful sound? What was this Sun Singer, this +Star-Born One, this mysterious deity, as bestial-conducted as the black +and kinky-headed and monkey-like human beasts who worshipped it, and +whose silver-sweet, bull-mouthed singing and commanding he had heard +at the taboo distance for so long?</p> +<p>Ngurn had he failed to bribe with the inevitable curing of his head +when he was dead. Vngngn, imbecile and chief that he was, was +too imbecilic, too much under the sway of Ngurn, to be considered. +Remained Balatta, who, from the time she found him and poked his blue +eyes open to recrudescence of her grotesque female hideousness, had +continued his adorer. Woman she was, and he had long known that +the only way to win from her treason of her tribe was through the woman’s +heart of her.</p> +<p>Bassett was a fastidious man. He had never recovered from the +initial horror caused by Balatta’s female awfulness. Back +in England, even at best the charm of woman, to him, had never been +robust. Yet now, resolutely, as only a man can do who is capable +of martyring himself for the cause of science, he proceeded to violate +all the fineness and delicacy of his nature by making love to the unthinkably +disgusting bushwoman.</p> +<p>He shuddered, but with averted face hid his grimaces and swallowed +his gorge as he put his arm around her dirt-crusted shoulders and felt +the contact of her rancidoily and kinky hair with his neck and chin. +But he nearly screamed when she succumbed to that caress so at the very +first of the courtship and mowed and gibbered and squealed little, queer, +pig-like gurgly noises of delight. It was too much. And +the next he did in the singular courtship was to take her down to the +stream and give her a vigorous scrubbing.</p> +<p>From then on he devoted himself to her like a true swain as frequently +and for as long at a time as his will could override his repugnance. +But marriage, which she ardently suggested, with due observance of tribal +custom, he balked at. Fortunately, taboo rule was strong in the +tribe. Thus, Ngurn could never touch bone, or flesh, or hide of +crocodile. This had been ordained at his birth. Vngngn was +denied ever the touch of woman. Such pollution, did it chance +to occur, could be purged only by the death of the offending female. +It had happened once, since Bassett’s arrival, when a girl of +nine, running in play, stumbled and fell against the sacred chief. +And the girl-child was seen no more. In whispers, Balatta told +Bassett that she had been three days and nights in dying before the +Red One. As for Balatta, the breadfruit was taboo to her. +For which Bassett was thankful. The taboo might have been water.</p> +<p>For himself, he fabricated a special taboo. Only could he marry, +he explained, when the Southern Cross rode highest in the sky. +Knowing his astronomy, he thus gained a reprieve of nearly nine months; +and he was confident that within that time he would either be dead or +escaped to the coast with full knowledge of the Red One and of the source +of the Red One’s wonderful voice. At first he had fancied +the Red One to be some colossal statue, like Memnon, rendered vocal +under certain temperature conditions of sunlight. But when, after +a war raid, a batch of prisoners was brought in and the sacrifice made +at night, in the midst of rain, when the sun could play no part, the +Red One had been more vocal than usual, Bassett discarded that hypothesis.</p> +<p>In company with Balatta, sometimes with men and parties of women, +the freedom of the jungle was his for three quadrants of the compass. +But the fourth quadrant, which contained the Red One’s abiding +place, was taboo. He made more thorough love to Balatta - also +saw to it that she scrubbed herself more frequently. Eternal female +she was, capable of any treason for the sake of love. And, though +the sight of her was provocative of nausea and the contact of her provocative +of despair, although he could not escape her awfulness in his dream-haunted +nightmares of her, he nevertheless was aware of the cosmic verity of +sex that animated her and that made her own life of less value than +the happiness of her lover with whom she hoped to mate. Juliet +or Balatta? Where was the intrinsic difference? The soft +and tender product of ultra-civilization, or her bestial prototype of +a hundred thousand years before her? - there was no difference.</p> +<p>Bassett was a scientist first, a humanist afterward. In the +jungle-heart of Guadalcanal he put the affair to the test, as in the +laboratory he would have put to the test any chemical reaction. +He increased his feigned ardour for the bushwoman, at the same time +increasing the imperiousness of his will of desire over her to be led +to look upon the Red One face to face. It was the old story, he +recognized, that the woman must pay, and it occurred when the two of +them, one day, were catching the unclassified and unnamed little black +fish, an inch long, half-eel and half-scaled, rotund with salmon-golden +roe, that frequented the fresh water, and that were esteemed, raw and +whole, fresh or putrid, a perfect delicacy. Prone in the muck +of the decaying jungle-floor, Balatta threw herself, clutching his ankles +with her hands kissing his feet and making slubbery noises that chilled +his backbone up and down again. She begged him to kill her rather +than exact this ultimate love-payment. She told him of the penalty +of breaking the taboo of the Red One - a week of torture, living, the +details of which she yammered out from her face in the mire until he +realized that he was yet a tyro in knowledge of the frightfulness the +human was capable of wreaking on the human.</p> +<p>Yet did Bassett insist on having his man’s will satisfied, +at the woman’s risk, that he might solve the mystery of the Red +One’s singing, though she should die long and horribly and screaming. +And Balatta, being mere woman, yielded. She led him into the forbidden +quadrant. An abrupt mountain, shouldering in from the north to +meet a similar intrusion from the south, tormented the stream in which +they had fished into a deep and gloomy gorge. After a mile along +the gorge, the way plunged sharply upward until they crossed a saddle +of raw limestone which attracted his geologist’s eye. Still +climbing, although he paused often from sheer physical weakness, they +scaled forest-clad heights until they emerged on a naked mesa or tableland. +Bassett recognized the stuff of its composition as black volcanic sand, +and knew that a pocket magnet could have captured a full load of the +sharply angular grains he trod upon.</p> +<p>And then holding Balatta by the hand and leading her onward, he came +to it - a tremendous pit, obviously artificial, in the heart of the +plateau. Old history, the South Seas Sailing Directions, scores +of remembered data and connotations swift and furious, surged through +his brain. It was Mendana who had discovered the islands and named +them Solomon’s, believing that he had found that monarch’s +fabled mines. They had laughed at the old navigator’s child-like +credulity; and yet here stood himself, Bassett, on the rim of an excavation +for all the world like the diamond pits of South Africa.</p> +<p>But no diamond this that he gazed down upon. Rather was it +a pearl, with the depth of iridescence of a pearl; but of a size all +pearls of earth and time, welded into one, could not have totalled; +and of a colour undreamed of in any pearl, or of anything else, for +that matter, for it was the colour of the Red One. And the Red +One himself Bassett knew it to be on the instant. A perfect sphere, +full two hundred feet in diameter, the top of it was a hundred feet +below the level of the rim. He likened the colour quality of it +to lacquer. Indeed, he took it to be some sort of lacquer, applied +by man, but a lacquer too marvellously clever to have been manufactured +by the bush-folk. Brighter than bright cherry-red, its richness +of colour was as if it were red builded upon red. It glowed and +iridesced in the sunlight as if gleaming up from underlay under underlay +of red.</p> +<p>In vain Balatta strove to dissuade him from descending. She +threw herself in the dirt; but, when he continued down the trail that +spiralled the pit-wall, she followed, cringing and whimpering her terror. +That the red sphere had been dug out as a precious thing, was patent. +Considering the paucity of members of the federated twelve villages +and their primitive tools and methods, Bassett knew that the toil of +a myriad generations could scarcely have made that enormous excavation.</p> +<p>He found the pit bottom carpeted with human bones, among which, battered +and defaced, lay village gods of wood and stone. Some, covered +with obscene totemic figures and designs, were carved from solid tree +trunks forty or fifty feet in length. He noted the absence of +the shark and turtle gods, so common among the shore villages, and was +amazed at the constant recurrence of the helmet motive. What did +these jungle savages of the dark heart of Guadalcanal know of helmets? +Had Mendana’s men-at-arms worn helmets and penetrated here centuries +before? And if not, then whence had the bush-folk caught the motive?</p> +<p>Advancing over the litter of gods and bones, Balatta whimpering at +his heels, Bassett entered the shadow of the Red One and passed on under +its gigantic overhang until he touched it with his finger-tips. +No lacquer that. Nor was the surface smooth as it should have +been in the case of lacquer. On the contrary, it was corrugated +and pitted, with here and there patches that showed signs of heat and +fusing. Also, the substance of it was metal, though unlike any +metal, or combination of metals, he had ever known. As for the +colour itself, he decided it to be no application. It was the +intrinsic colour of the metal itself.</p> +<p>He moved his finger-tips, which up to that had merely rested, along +the surface, and felt the whole gigantic sphere quicken and live and +respond. It was incredible! So light a touch on so vast +a mass! Yet did it quiver under the finger-tip caress in rhythmic +vibrations that became whisperings and rustlings and mutterings of sound +- but of sound so different; so elusively thin that it was shimmeringly +sibilant; so mellow that it was maddening sweet, piping like an elfin +horn, which last was just what Bassett decided would be like a peal +from some bell of the gods reaching earthward from across space.</p> +<p>He looked at Balatta with swift questioning; but the voice of the +Red One he had evoked had flung her face downward and moaning among +the bones. He returned to contemplation of the prodigy. +Hollow it was, and of no metal known on earth, was his conclusion. +It was right-named by the ones of old-time as the Star-Born. Only +from the stars could it have come, and no thing of chance was it. +It was a creation of artifice and mind. Such perfection of form, +such hollowness that it certainly possessed, could not be the result +of mere fortuitousness. A child of intelligences, remote and unguessable, +working corporally in metals, it indubitably was. He stared at +it in amaze, his brain a racing wild-fire of hypotheses to account for +this far-journeyer who had adventured the night of space, threaded the +stars, and now rose before him and above him, exhumed by patient anthropophagi, +pitted and lacquered by its fiery bath in two atmospheres.</p> +<p>But was the colour a lacquer of heat upon some familiar metal? +Or was it an intrinsic quality of the metal itself? He thrust +in the blue-point of his pocket-knife to test the constitution of the +stuff. Instantly the entire sphere burst into a mighty whispering, +sharp with protest, almost twanging goldenly, if a whisper could possibly +be considered to twang, rising higher, sinking deeper, the two extremes +of the registry of sound threatening to complete the circle and coalesce +into the bull-mouthed thundering he had so often heard beyond the taboo +distance.</p> +<p>Forgetful of safety, of his own life itself, entranced by the wonder +of the unthinkable and unguessable thing, he raised his knife to strike +heavily from a long stroke, but was prevented by Balatta. She +upreared on her own knees in an agony of terror, clasping his knees +and supplicating him to desist. In the intensity of her desire +to impress him, she put her forearm between her teeth and sank them +to the bone.</p> +<p>He scarcely observed her act, although he yielded automatically to +his gentler instincts and withheld the knife-hack. To him, human +life had dwarfed to microscopic proportions before this colossal portent +of higher life from within the distances of the sidereal universe. +As had she been a dog, he kicked the ugly little bushwoman to her feet +and compelled her to start with him on an encirclement of the base. +Part way around, he encountered horrors. Even, among the others, +did he recognize the sun-shrivelled remnant of the nine-years girl who +had accidentally broken Chief Vngngn’s personality taboo. +And, among what was left of these that had passed, he encountered what +was left of one who had not yet passed. Truly had the bush-folk +named themselves into the name of the Red One, seeing in him their own +image which they strove to placate and please with such red offerings.</p> +<p>Farther around, always treading the bones and images of humans and +gods that constituted the floor of this ancient charnel-house of sacrifice, +he came upon the device by which the Red One was made to send his call +singing thunderingly across the jungle-belts and grass-lands to the +far beach of Ringmanu. Simple and primitive was it as was the +Red One’s consummate artifice. A great king-post, half a +hundred feet in length, seasoned by centuries of superstitious care, +carven into dynasties of gods, each superimposed, each helmeted, each +seated in the open mouth of a crocodile, was slung by ropes, twisted +of climbing vegetable parasites, from the apex of a tripod of three +great forest trunks, themselves carved into grinning and grotesque adumbrations +of man’s modern concepts of art and god. From the striker +king-post, were suspended ropes of climbers to which men could apply +their strength and direction. Like a battering ram, this king-post +could be driven end-onward against the mighty red-iridescent sphere.</p> +<p>Here was where Ngurn officiated and functioned religiously for himself +and the twelve tribes under him. Bassett laughed aloud, almost +with madness, at the thought of this wonderful messenger, winged with +intelligence across space, to fall into a bushman stronghold and be +worshipped by ape-like, man-eating and head-hunting savages. It +was as if God’s World had fallen into the muck mire of the abyss +underlying the bottom of hell; as if Jehovah’s Commandments had +been presented on carved stone to the monkeys of the monkey cage at +the Zoo; as if the Sermon on the Mount had been preached in a roaring +bedlam of lunatics.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The slow weeks passed. The nights, by election, Bassett spent +on the ashen floor of the devil-devil house, beneath the ever-swinging, +slow-curing heads. His reason for this was that it was taboo to +the lesser sex of woman, and therefore, a refuge for him from Balatta, +who grew more persecutingly and perilously loverly as the Southern Cross +rode higher in the sky and marked the imminence of her nuptials. +His days Bassett spent in a hammock swung under the shade of the great +breadfruit tree before the devil-devil house. There were breaks +in this programme, when, in the comas of his devastating fever-attacks, +he lay for days and nights in the house of heads. Ever he struggled +to combat the fever, to live, to continue to live, to grow strong and +stronger against the day when he would be strong enough to dare the +grass-lands and the belted jungle beyond, and win to the beach, and +to some labour-recruiting, black-birding ketch or schooner, and on to +civilization and the men of civilization, to whom he could give news +of the message from other worlds that lay, darkly worshipped by beastmen, +in the black heart of Guadalcanal’s midmost centre.</p> +<p>On the other nights, lying late under the breadfruit tree, Bassett +spent long hours watching the slow setting of the western stars beyond +the black wall of jungle where it had been thrust back by the clearing +for the village. Possessed of more than a cursory knowledge of +astronomy, he took a sick man’s pleasure in speculating as to +the dwellers on the unseen worlds of those incredibly remote suns, to +haunt whose houses of light, life came forth, a shy visitant, from the +rayless crypts of matter. He could no more apprehend limits to +time than bounds to space. No subversive radium speculations had +shaken his steady scientific faith in the conservation of energy and +the indestructibility of matter. Always and forever must there +have been stars. And surely, in that cosmic ferment, all must +be comparatively alike, comparatively of the same substance, or substances, +save for the freaks of the ferment. All must obey, or compose, +the same laws that ran without infraction through the entire experience +of man. Therefore, he argued and agreed, must worlds and life +be appanages to all the suns as they were appanages to the particular +of his own solar system.</p> +<p>Even as he lay here, under the breadfruit tree, an intelligence that +stared across the starry gulfs, so must all the universe be exposed +to the ceaseless scrutiny of innumerable eyes, like his, though grantedly +different, with behind them, by the same token, intelligences that questioned +and sought the meaning and the construction of the whole. So reasoning, +he felt his soul go forth in kinship with that august company, that +multitude whose gaze was forever upon the arras of infinity.</p> +<p>Who were they, what were they, those far distant and superior ones +who had bridged the sky with their gigantic, red-iridescent, heaven-singing +message? Surely, and long since, had they, too, trod the path +on which man had so recently, by the calendar of the cosmos, set his +feet. And to be able to send a message across the pit of space, +surely they had reached those heights to which man, in tears and travail +and bloody sweat, in darkness and confusion of many counsels, was so +slowly struggling. And what were they on their heights? +Had they won Brotherhood? Or had they learned that the law of +love imposed the penalty of weakness and decay? Was strife, life? +Was the rule of all the universe the pitiless rule of natural selection? +And, and most immediately and poignantly, were their far conclusions, +their long-won wisdoms, shut even then in the huge, metallic heart of +the Red One, waiting for the first earth-man to read? Of one thing +he was certain: No drop of red dew shaken from the lion-mane of some +sun in torment, was the sounding sphere. It was of design, not +chance, and it contained the speech and wisdom of the stars.</p> +<p>What engines and elements and mastered forces, what lore and mysteries +and destiny-controls, might be there! Undoubtedly, since so much +could be enclosed in so little a thing as the foundation stone of a +public building, this enormous sphere should contain vast histories, +profounds of research achieved beyond man’s wildest guesses, laws +and formulae that, easily mastered, would make man’s life on earth, +individual and collective, spring up from its present mire to inconceivable +heights of purity and power. It was Time’s greatest gift +to blindfold, insatiable, and sky-aspiring man. And to him, Bassett, +had been vouchsafed the lordly fortune to be the first to receive this +message from man’s interstellar kin!</p> +<p> No white man, much less no outland man of the other bush-tribes, +had gazed upon the Red One and lived. Such the law expounded by +Ngurn to Bassett. There was such a thing as blood brotherhood. +Bassett, in return, had often argued in the past. But Ngurn had +stated solemnly no. Even the blood brotherhood was outside the +favour of the Red One. Only a man born within the tribe could +look upon the Red One and live. But now, his guilty secret known +only to Balatta, whose fear of immolation before the Red One fast-sealed +her lips, the situation was different. What he had to do was to +recover from the abominable fevers that weakened him, and gain to civilization. +Then would he lead an expedition back, and, although the entire population +of Guadalcanal he destroyed, extract from the heart of the Red One the +message of the world from other worlds.</p> +<p>But Bassett’s relapses grew more frequent, his brief convalescences +less and less vigorous, his periods of coma longer, until he came to +know, beyond the last promptings of the optimism inherent in so tremendous +a constitution as his own, that he would never live to cross the grass +lands, perforate the perilous coast jungle, and reach the sea. +He faded as the Southern Cross rose higher in the sky, till even Balatta +knew that he would be dead ere the nuptial date determined by his taboo. +Ngurn made pilgrimage personally and gathered the smoke materials for +the curing of Bassett’s head, and to him made proud announcement +and exhibition of the artistic perfectness of his intention when Bassett +should be dead. As for himself, Bassett was not shocked. +Too long and too deeply had life ebbed down in him to bite him with +fear of its impending extinction. He continued to persist, alternating +periods of unconsciousness with periods of semi-consciousness, dreamy +and unreal, in which he idly wondered whether he had ever truly beheld +the Red One or whether it was a nightmare fancy of delirium.</p> +<p>Came the day when all mists and cob-webs dissolved, when he found +his brain clear as a bell, and took just appraisement of his body’s +weakness. Neither hand nor foot could he lift. So little +control of his body did he have, that he was scarcely aware of possessing +one. Lightly indeed his flesh sat upon his soul, and his soul, +in its briefness of clarity, knew by its very clarity that the black +of cessation was near. He knew the end was close; knew that in +all truth he had with his eyes beheld the Red One, the messenger between +the worlds; knew that he would never live to carry that message to the +world - that message, for aught to the contrary, which might already +have waited man’s hearing in the heart of Guadalcanal for ten +thousand years. And Bassett stirred with resolve, calling Ngurn +to him, out under the shade of the breadfruit tree, and with the old +devil-devil doctor discussing the terms and arrangements of his last +life effort, his final adventure in the quick of the flesh.</p> +<p>“I know the law, O Ngurn,” he concluded the matter. +“Whoso is not of the folk may not look upon the Red One and live. +I shall not live anyway. Your young men shall carry me before +the face of the Red One, and I shall look upon him, and hear his voice, +and thereupon die, under your hand, O Ngurn. Thus will the three +things be satisfied: the law, my desire, and your quicker possession +of my head for which all your preparations wait.”</p> +<p>To which Ngurn consented, adding:</p> +<p>“It is better so. A sick man who cannot get well is foolish +to live on for so little a while. Also is it better for the living +that he should go. You have been much in the way of late. +Not but what it was good for me to talk to such a wise one. But +for moons of days we have held little talk. Instead, you have +taken up room in the house of heads, making noises like a dying pig, +or talking much and loudly in your own language which I do not understand. +This has been a confusion to me, for I like to think on the great things +of the light and dark as I turn the heads in the smoke. Your much +noise has thus been a disturbance to the long-learning and hatching +of the final wisdom that will be mine before I die. As for you, +upon whom the dark has already brooded, it is well that you die now. +And I promise you, in the long days to come when I turn your head in +the smoke, no man of the tribe shall come in to disturb us. And +I will tell you many secrets, for I am an old man and very wise, and +I shall be adding wisdom to wisdom as I turn your head in the smoke.”</p> +<p>So a litter was made, and, borne on the shoulders of half a dozen +of the men, Bassett departed on the last little adventure that was to +cap the total adventure, for him, of living. With a body of which +he was scarcely aware, for even the pain had been exhausted out of it, +and with a bright clear brain that accommodated him to a quiet ecstasy +of sheer lucidness of thought, he lay back on the lurching litter and +watched the fading of the passing world, beholding for the last time +the breadfruit tree before the devil-devil house, the dim day beneath +the matted jungle roof, the gloomy gorge between the shouldering mountains, +the saddle of raw limestone, and the mesa of black volcanic sand.</p> +<p>Down the spiral path of the pit they bore him, encircling the sheening, +glowing Red One that seemed ever imminent to iridesce from colour and +light into sweet singing and thunder. And over bones and logs +of immolated men and gods they bore him, past the horrors of other immolated +ones that yet lived, to the three-king-post tripod and the huge king-post +striker.</p> +<p>Here Bassett, helped by Ngurn and Balatta, weakly sat up, swaying +weakly from the hips, and with clear, unfaltering, all-seeing eyes gazed +upon the Red One.</p> +<p>“Once, O Ngurn,” he said, not taking his eyes from the +sheening, vibrating surface whereon and wherein all the shades of cherry-red +played unceasingly, ever a-quiver to change into sound, to become silken +rustlings, silvery whisperings, golden thrummings of cords, velvet pipings +of elfland, mellow distances of thunderings.</p> +<p>“I wait,” Ngurn prompted after a long pause, the long-handled +tomahawk unassumingly ready in his hand.</p> +<p>“Once, O Ngurn,” Bassett repeated, “let the Red +One speak so that I may see it speak as well as hear it. Then +strike, thus, when I raise my hand; for, when I raise my hand, I shall +drop my head forward and make place for the stroke at the base of my +neck. But, O Ngurn, I, who am about to pass out of the light of +day for ever, would like to pass with the wonder-voice of the Red One +singing greatly in my ears.”</p> +<p>“And I promise you that never will a head be so well cured +as yours,” Ngurn assured him, at the same time signalling the +tribesmen to man the propelling ropes suspended from the king-post striker. +“Your head shall be my greatest piece of work in the curing of +heads.”</p> +<p>Bassett smiled quietly to the old one’s conceit, as the great +carved log, drawn back through two-score feet of space, was released. +The next moment he was lost in ecstasy at the abrupt and thunderous +liberation of sound. But such thunder! Mellow it was with +preciousness of all sounding metals. Archangels spoke in it; it +was magnificently beautiful before all other sounds; it was invested +with the intelligence of supermen of planets of other suns; it was the +voice of God, seducing and commanding to be heard. And - the everlasting +miracle of that interstellar metal! Bassett, with his own eyes, saw +colour and colours transform into sound till the whole visible surface +of the vast sphere was a-crawl and titillant and vaporous with what +he could not tell was colour or was sound. In that moment the +interstices of matter were his, and the interfusings and intermating +transfusings of matter and force.</p> +<p>Time passed. At the last Bassett was brought back from his +ecstasy by an impatient movement of Ngurn. He had quite forgotten +the old devil-devil one. A quick flash of fancy brought a husky +chuckle into Bassett’s throat. His shot-gun lay beside him +in the litter. All he had to do, muzzle to head, was to press +the trigger and blow his head into nothingness.</p> +<p>But why cheat him? was Bassett’s next thought. Head-hunting, +cannibal beast of a human that was as much ape as human, nevertheless +Old Ngurn had, according to his lights, played squarer than square. +Ngurn was in himself a forerunner of ethics and contract, of consideration, +and gentleness in man. No, Bassett decided; it would be a ghastly +pity and an act of dishonour to cheat the old fellow at the last. +His head was Ngurn’s, and Ngurn’s head to cure it would +be.</p> +<p>And Bassett, raising his hand in signal, bending forward his head +as agreed so as to expose cleanly the articulation to his taut spinal +cord, forgot Balatta, who was merely a woman, a woman merely and only +and undesired. He knew, without seeing, when the razor-edged hatchet +rose in the air behind him. And for that instant, ere the end, +there fell upon Bassett the shadows of the Unknown, a sense of impending +marvel of the rending of walls before the imaginable. Almost, +when he knew the blow had started and just ere the edge of steel bit +the flesh and nerves it seemed that he gazed upon the serene face of +the Medusa, Truth - And, simultaneous with the bite of the steel on +the onrush of the dark, in a flashing instant of fancy, he saw the vision +of his head turning slowly, always turning, in the devil-devil house +beside the breadfruit tree.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Waikiki, Honolulu,<br /><i>May</i> 22, 1916.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>STORY: THE HUSSY</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>There are some stories that have to be true - the sort that cannot +be fabricated by a ready fiction-reckoner. And by the same token +there are some men with stories to tell who cannot be doubted. +Such a man was Julian Jones. Although I doubt if the average reader +of this will believe the story Julian Jones told me. Nevertheless +I believe it. So thoroughly am I convinced of its verity that +I am willing, nay, eager, to invest capital in the enterprise and embark +personally on the adventure to a far land.</p> +<p>It was in the Australian Building at the Panama Pacific Exposition +that I met him. I was standing before an exhibit of facsimiles +of the record nuggets which had been discovered in the goldfields of +the Antipodes. Knobbed, misshapen and massive, it was as difficult +to believe that they were not real gold as it was to believe the accompanying +statistics of their weights and values.</p> +<p>“That’s what those kangaroo-hunters call a nugget,” +boomed over my shoulder directly at the largest of the specimens.</p> +<p>I turned and looked up into the dim blue eyes of Julian Jones. +I looked up, for he stood something like six feet four inches in height. +His hair, a wispy, sandy yellow, seemed as dimmed and faded as his eyes. +It may have been the sun which had washed out his colouring; at least +his face bore the evidence of a prodigious and ardent sun-burn which +had long since faded to yellow. As his eyes turned from the exhibit +and focussed on mine I noted a queer look in them as of one who vainly +tries to recall some fact of supreme importance.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter with it as a nugget?” +I demanded.</p> +<p>The remote, indwelling expression went out of his eyes as he boomed</p> +<p>“Why, its size.”</p> +<p>“It does seem large,” I admitted. “But there’s +no doubt it’s authentic. The Australian Government would +scarcely dare - ”</p> +<p>“Large!” he interrupted, with a sniff and a sneer.</p> +<p>“Largest ever discovered - ” I started on.</p> +<p>“Ever discovered!” His dim eyes smouldered hotly +as he proceeded. “Do you think that every lump of gold ever +discovered has got into the newspapers and encyclopedias?”</p> +<p>“Well,” I replied judicially, “if there’s +one that hasn’t, I don’t see how we’re to know about +it. If a really big nugget, or nugget-finder, elects to blush +unseen - ”</p> +<p>“But it didn’t,” he broke in quickly. “I +saw it with my own eyes, and, besides, I’m too tanned to blush +anyway. I’m a railroad man and I’ve been in the tropics +a lot. Why, I used to be the colour of mahogany - real old mahogany, +and have been taken for a blue-eyed Spaniard more than once - ”</p> +<p>It was my turn to interrupt, and I did.</p> +<p>“Was that nugget bigger than those in there, Mr. - er - ?”</p> +<p>“Jones, Julian Jones is my name.”</p> +<p>He dug into an inner pocket and produced an envelope addressed to +such a person, care of General Delivery, San Francisco; and I, in turn, +presented him with my card.</p> +<p>“Pleased to know you, sir,” he said, extending his hand, +his voice booming as if accustomed to loud noises or wide spaces. +“Of course I’ve heard of you, seen your picture in the papers, +and all that, and, though I say it that shouldn’t, I want to say +that I didn’t care a rap about those articles you wrote on Mexico. +You’re wrong, all wrong. You make the mistake of all Gringos +in thinking a Mexican is a white man. He ain’t. None +of them ain’t - Greasers, Spiggoties, Latin-Americans and all +the rest of the cattle. Why, sir, they don’t think like +we think, or reason, or act. Even their multiplication table is +different. You think seven times seven is forty-nine; but not +them. They work it out different. And white isn’t +white to them, either. Let me give you an example. Buying +coffee retail for house-keeping in one-pound or ten-pound lots - ”</p> +<p>“How big was that nugget you referred to?” I queried +firmly. “As big as the biggest of those?”</p> +<p>“Bigger,” he said quietly. “Bigger than the +whole blamed exhibit of them put together, and then some.” +He paused and regarded me with a steadfast gaze. “I don’t +see no reason why I shouldn’t go into the matter with you. +You’ve got a reputation a man ought to be able to trust, and I’ve +read you’ve done some tall skylarking yourself in out-of-the-way +places. I’ve been browsing around with an eye open for some +one to go in with me on the proposition.”</p> +<p>“You can trust me,” I said.</p> +<p>And here I am, blazing out into print with the whole story just as +he told it to me as we sat on a bench by the lagoon before the Palace +of Fine Arts with the cries of the sea gulls in our ears. Well, +he should have kept his appointment with me. But I anticipate.</p> +<p>As we started to leave the building and hunt for a seat, a small +woman, possibly thirty years of age, with a washed-out complexion of +the farmer’s wife sort, darted up to him in a bird-like way, for +all the world like the darting veering gulls over our heads and fastened +herself to his arm with the accuracy and dispatch and inevitableness +of a piece of machinery.</p> +<p>“There you go!” she shrilled. “A-trottin’ +right off and never givin’ me a thought.”</p> +<p>I was formally introduced to her. It was patent that she had +never heard of me, and she surveyed me bleakly with shrewd black eyes, +set close together and as beady and restless as a bird’s.</p> +<p>“You ain’t goin’ to tell him about that hussy?” +she complained.</p> +<p>“Well, now, Sarah, this is business, you see,” he argued +plaintively. “I’ve been lookin’ for a likely +man this long while, and now that he’s shown up it seems to me +I got a right to give him the hang of what happened.”</p> +<p>The small woman made no reply, but set her thin lips in a needle-like +line. She gazed straight before her at the Tower of Jewels with +so austere an expression that no glint of refracted sunlight could soften +it. We proceeded slowly to the lagoon, managed to obtain an unoccupied +seat, and sat down with mutual sighs of relief as we released our weights +from our tortured sightseeing feet.</p> +<p>“One does get so mortal weary,” asserted the small woman, +almost defiantly.</p> +<p>Two swans waddled up from the mirroring water and investigated us. +When their suspicions of our niggardliness or lack of peanuts had been +confirmed, Jones half-turned his back on his life-partner and gave me +his story.</p> +<p>“Ever been in Ecuador? Then take my advice - and don’t. +Though I take that back, for you and me might be hitting it for there +together if you can rustle up the faith in me and the backbone in yourself +for the trip. Well, anyway, it ain’t so many years ago that +I came ambling in there on a rusty, foul-bottomed, tramp collier from +Australia, forty-three days from land to land. Seven knots was +her speed when everything favoured, and we’d had a two weeks’ +gale to the north’ard of New Zealand, and broke our engines down +for two days off Pitcairn Island.</p> +<p>“I was no sailor on her. I’m a locomotive engineer. +But I’d made friends with the skipper at Newcastle an’ come +along as his guest for as far as Guayaquil. You see, I’d +heard wages was ’way up on the American railroad runnin’ +from that place over the Andes to Quito. Now Guayaquil - ”</p> +<p>“Is a fever-hole,” I interpolated.</p> +<p>Julian Jones nodded.</p> +<p>“Thomas Nast died there of it within a month after he landed. +- He was our great American cartoonist,” I added.</p> +<p>“Don’t know him,” Julian Jones said shortly. +“But I do know he wasn’t the first to pass out by a long +shot. Why, look you the way I found it. The pilot grounds +is sixty miles down the river. ‘How’s the fever?’ +said I to the pilot who came aboard in the early morning. ‘See +that Hamburg barque,’ said he, pointing to a sizable ship at anchor. +‘Captain and fourteen men dead of it already, and the cook and +two men dying right now, and they’re the last left of her.’</p> +<p>“And by jinks he told the truth. And right then they +were dying forty a day in Guayaquil of Yellow Jack. But that was +nothing, as I was to find out. Bubonic plague and small-pox were +raging, while dysentery and pneumonia were reducing the population, +and the railroad was raging worst of all. I mean that. For +them that insisted in riding on it, it was more dangerous than all the +other diseases put together.</p> +<p>“When we dropped anchor off Guayaquil half a dozen skippers +from other steamers came on board to warn our skipper not to let any +of his crew or officers go ashore except the ones he wanted to lose. +A launch came off for me from Duran, which is on the other side of the +river and is the terminal of the railroad. And it brought off +a man that soared up the gangway three jumps at a time he was that eager +to get aboard. When he hit the deck he hadn’t time to speak +to any of us. He just leaned out over the rail and shook his fist +at Duran and shouted: ‘I beat you to it! I beat you to it!’</p> +<p>“‘Who’d you beat to it, friend?’ I asked. +‘The railroad,’ he said, as he unbuckled the straps and +took off a big ’44 Colt’s automatic from where he wore it +handy on his left side under his coat, ‘I staved as long as I +agreed - three months - and it didn’t get me. I was a conductor.’</p> +<p>“And that was the railroad I was to work for. All of +which was nothing to what he told me in the next few minutes. +The road ran from sea level at Duran up to twelve thousand feet on Chimborazo +and down to ten thousand at Quito on the other side the range. +And it was so dangerous that the trains didn’t run nights. +The through passengers had to get off and sleep in the towns at night +while the train waited for daylight. And each train carried a +guard of Ecuadoriano soldiers which was the most dangerous of all. +They were supposed to protect the train crews, but whenever trouble +started they unlimbered their rifles and joined the mob. You see, +whenever a train wreck occurred, the first cry of the spiggoties was +‘Kill the Gringos!’ They always did that, and proceeded +to kill the train crew and whatever chance Gringo passengers that’d +escaped being killed in the accident. Which is their kind of arithmetic, +which I told you a while back as being different from ours.</p> +<p>“Shucks! Before the day was out I was to find out for +myself that that ex-conductor wasn’t lying. It was over +at Duran. I was to take my run on the first division out to Quito, +for which place I was to start next morning - only one through train +running every twenty-four hours. It was the afternoon of my first +day, along about four o’clock, when the boilers of the <i>Governor +Hancock</i> exploded and she sank in sixty feet of water alongside the +dock. She was the big ferry boat that carried the railroad passengers +across the river to Guayaquil. It was a bad accident, but it was +the cause of worse that followed. By half-past four, big trainloads +began to arrive. It was a feast day and they’d run an excursion +up country but of Guayaquil, and this was the crowd coming back.</p> +<p>“And the crowd - there was five thousand of them - wanted to +get ferried across, and the ferry was at the bottom of the river, which +wasn’t our fault. But by the Spiggoty arithmetic, it was. +‘Kill the Gringos!’ shouts one of them. And right +there the beans were spilled. Most of us got away by the skin +of our teeth. I raced on the heels of the Master Mechanic, carrying +one of his babies for him, for the locomotives that was just pulling +out. You see, way down there away from everywhere they just got +to save their locomotives in times of trouble, because, without them, +a railroad can’t be run. Half a dozen American wives and +as many children were crouching on the cab floors along with the rest +of us when we pulled out; and the Ecuadoriano soldiers, who should have +been protecting our lives and property, turned loose with their rifles +and must have given us all of a thousand rounds before we got out of +range.</p> +<p>“We camped up country and didn’t come back to clean up +until next day. It was some cleaning. Every flat-car, box-car, +coach, asthmatic switch engine, and even hand-car that mob of Spiggoties +had shoved off the dock into sixty feet of water on top of the <i>Governor +Hancock</i>. They’d burnt the round house, set fire to the +coal bunkers, and made a scandal of the repair shops. Oh, yes, +and there were three of our fellows they’d got that we had to +bury mighty quick. It’s hot weather all the time down there.”</p> +<p>Julian Jones came to a full pause and over his shoulder studied the +straight-before-her gaze and forbidding expression of his wife’s +face.</p> +<p>“I ain’t forgotten the nugget,” he assured me.</p> +<p>“Nor the hussy,” the little woman snapped, apparently +at the mud-hens paddling on the surface of the lagoon.</p> +<p>“I’ve been travelling toward the nugget right along - +”</p> +<p>“There was never no reason for you to stay in that dangerous +country,” his wife snapped in on him.</p> +<p>“Now, Sarah,” he appealed. “I was working +for you right along.” And to me he explained: “The +risk was big, but so was the pay. Some months I earned as high +as five hundred gold. And here was Sarah waiting for me back in +Nebraska - ”</p> +<p>“An’ us engaged two years,” she complained to the +Tower of Jewels.</p> +<p>“ - What of the strike, and me being blacklisted, and getting +typhoid down in Australia, and everything,” he went on. +“And luck was with me on that railroad. Why, I saw fellows +fresh from the States pass out, some of them not a week on their first +run. If the diseases and the railroad didn’t get them, then +it was the Spiggoties got them. But it just wasn’t my fate, +even that time I rode my engine down to the bottom of a forty-foot washout. +I lost my fireman; and the conductor and the Superintendent of Rolling +Stock (who happened to be running down to Duran to meet his bride) had +their heads knifed off by the Spiggoties and paraded around on poles. +But I lay snug as a bug under a couple of feet of tender coal, and they +thought I’d headed for tall timber - lay there a day and a night +till the excitement cooled down. Yes, I was lucky. The worst +that happened to me was I caught a cold once, and another time had a +carbuncle. But the other fellows! They died like flies, +what of Yellow Jack, pneumonia, the Spiggoties, and the railroad. +The trouble was I didn’t have much chance to pal with them. +No sooner’d I get some intimate with one of them he’d up +and die - all but a fireman named Andrews, and he went loco for keeps.</p> +<p>“I made good on my job from the first, and lived in Quito in +a ’dobe house with whacking big Spanish tiles on the roof that +I’d rented. And I never had much trouble with the Spiggoties, +what of letting them sneak free rides in the tender or on the cowcatcher. +Me throw them off? Never! I took notice, when Jack Harris +put off a bunch of them, that I attended his funeral <i>muy</i> <i>pronto</i> +- ”</p> +<p>“Speak English,” the little woman beside him snapped.</p> +<p>“Sarah just can’t bear to tolerate me speaking Spanish,” +he apologized. “It gets so on her nerves that I promised +not to. Well, as I was saying, the goose hung high and everything +was going hunky-dory, and I was piling up my wages to come north to +Nebraska and marry Sarah, when I run on to Vahna - ”</p> +<p>“The hussy!” Sarah hissed.</p> +<p>“Now, Sarah,” her towering giant of a husband begged, +“I just got to mention her or I can’t tell about the nugget. +- It was one night when I was taking a locomotive - no train - down +to Amato, about thirty miles from Quito. Seth Manners was my fireman. +I was breaking him in to engineer for himself, and I was letting him +run the locomotive while I sat up in his seat meditating about Sarah +here. I’d just got a letter from her, begging as usual for +me to come home and hinting as usual about the dangers of an unmarried +man like me running around loose in a country full of senoritas and +fandangos. Lord! If she could only a-seen them. Positive +frights, that’s what they are, their faces painted white as corpses +and their lips red as - as some of the train wrecks I’ve helped +clean up.</p> +<p>“It was a lovely April night, not a breath of wind, and a tremendous +big moon shining right over the top of Chimborazo. - Some mountain that. +The railroad skirted it twelve thousand feet above sea level, and the +top of it ten thousand feet higher than that.</p> +<p>“Mebbe I was drowsing, with Seth running the engine; but he +slammed on the brakes so sudden hard that I darn near went through the +cab window.</p> +<p>“‘What the - ’ I started to yell, and ‘Holy +hell,’ Seth says, as both of us looked at what was on the track. +And I agreed with Seth entirely in his remark. It was an Indian +girl - and take it from me, Indians ain’t Spiggoties by any manner +of means. Seth had managed to fetch a stop within twenty feet +of her, and us bowling down hill at that! But the girl. +She - ”</p> +<p>I saw the form of Mrs. Julian Jones stiffen, although she kept her +gaze fixed balefully upon two mud-hens that were prowling along the +lagoon shallows below us. “The hussy!” she hissed, +once and implacably. Jones had stopped at the sound, but went +on immediately.</p> +<p>“She was a tall girl, slim and slender, you know the kind, +with black hair, remarkably long hanging, down loose behind her, as +she stood there no more afraid than nothing, her arms spread out to +stop the engine. She was wearing a slimpsy sort of garment wrapped +around her that wasn’t cloth but ocelot skins, soft and dappled, +and silky. It was all she had on - ”</p> +<p>“The hussy!” breathed Mrs. Jones.</p> +<p>But Mr. Jones went on, making believe that he was unaware of the +interruption.</p> +<p>“‘Hell of a way to stop a locomotive,’ I complained +at Seth, as I climbed down on to the right of way. I walked past +our engine and up to the girl, and what do you think? Her eyes +were shut tight. She was trembling that violent that you would +see it by the moonlight. And she was barefoot, too.</p> +<p>“‘What’s the row?’ I said, none too gentle. +She gave a start, seemed to come out of her trance, and opened her eyes. +Say! They were big and black and beautiful. Believe me, +she was some looker - ”</p> +<p>“The hussy!” At which hiss the two mud-hens veered +away a few feet. But Jones was getting himself in hand, and didn’t +even blink.</p> +<p>“‘What are you stopping this locomotive for?’ I +demanded in Spanish. Nary an answer. She stared at me, then +at the snorting engine and then burst into tears, which you’ll +admit is uncommon behaviour for an Indian woman.</p> +<p>“‘If you try to get rides that way,’ I slung at +her in Spiggoty Spanish (which they tell me is some different from regular +Spanish), ‘you’ll be taking one smeared all over our cowcatcher +and headlight, and it’ll be up to my fireman to scrape you off.’</p> +<p>“My Spiggoty Spanish wasn’t much to brag on, but I could +see she understood, though she only shook her head and wouldn’t +speak. But great Moses, she was some looker - ”</p> +<p>I glanced apprehensively at Mrs. Jones, who must have caught me out +of the tail of her eye, for she muttered: “If she hadn’t +been do you think he’d a-taken her into his house to live?”</p> +<p>“Now hold on, Sarah,” he protested. “That +ain’t fair. Besides, I’m telling this. - Next thing, +Seth yells at me, ‘Goin’ to stay here all night?’</p> +<p>“‘Come on,’ I said to the girl, ‘and climb +on board. But next time you want a ride don’t flag a locomotive +between stations.’ She followed along; but when I got to +the step and turned to give her a lift-up, she wasn’t there. +I went forward again. Not a sign of her. Above and below +was sheer cliff, and the track stretched ahead a hundred yards clear +and empty. And then I spotted her, crouched down right against +the cowcatcher, that close I’d almost stepped on her. If +we’d started up, we’d have run over her in a second. +It was all so nonsensical, I never could make out her actions. +Maybe she was trying to suicide. I grabbed her by the wrist and +jerked her none too gentle to her feet. And she came along all +right. Women do know when a man means business.”</p> +<p>I glanced from this Goliath to his little, bird-eyed spouse, and +wondered if he had ever tried to mean business with her.</p> +<p>“Seth kicked at first, but I boosted her into the cab and made +her sit up beside me - ”</p> +<p>“And I suppose Seth was busy running the engine,” Mrs. +Jones observed.</p> +<p>“I was breaking him in, wasn’t I?” Mr. Jones +protested. “So we made the run into Amato. She’d +never opened her mouth once, and no sooner’d the engine stopped +than she’d jumped to the ground and was gone. Just like +that. Not a thank you kindly. Nothing.</p> +<p>“But next morning when we came to pull out for Quito with a +dozen flat cars loaded with rails, there she was in the cab waiting +for us; and in the daylight I could see how much better a looker she +was than the night before.</p> +<p>“‘Huh! she’s adopted you,’ Seth grins. +And it looked like it. She just stood there and looked at me - +at us - like a loving hound dog that you love, that you’ve caught +with a string of sausages inside of him, and that just knows you ain’t +going to lift a hand to him. ‘Go chase yourself!’ +I told her <i>pronto</i>.” (Mrs. Jones her proximity noticeable +with a wince at the Spanish word.) “You see, Sarah, I’d +no use for her, even at the start.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Jones stiffened. Her lips moved soundlessly, but I knew +to what syllables.</p> +<p>“And what made it hardest was Seth jeering at me. ‘You +can’t shake her that way,’ he said. ‘You saved +her life - ’ ‘I didn’t,’ I said sharply; +‘it was you.’ ‘But she thinks you did, which +is the same thing,’ he came back at me. ‘And now she +belongs to you. Custom of the country, as you ought to know.’”</p> +<p>“Heathenish,” said Mrs. Jones, and though her steady +gaze was set upon the Tower of Jewels I knew she was making no reference +to its architecture.</p> +<p>“‘She’s come to do light housekeeping for you,’ +Seth grinned. I let him rave, though afterwards I kept him throwing +in the coal too fast to work his mouth very much. Why, say, when +I got to the spot where I picked her up, and stopped the train for her +to get off, she just flopped down on her knees, got a hammerlock with +her arms around my knees, and cried all over my shoes. What was +I to do?”</p> +<p>With no perceptible movement that I was aware of, Mrs. Jones advertised +her certitude of knowledge of what <i>she</i> would have done.</p> +<p>“And the moment we pulled into Quito, she did what she’d +done before - vanished. Sarah never believes me when I say how +relieved I felt to be quit of her. But it was not to be. +I got to my ’dobe house and managed a cracking fine dinner my +cook had ready for me. She was mostly Spiggoty and half Indian, +and her name was Paloma. - Now, Sarah, haven’t I told you she +was older’n a grandmother, and looked more like a buzzard than +a dove? Why, I couldn’t bear to eat with her around where +I could look at her. But she did make things comfortable, and +she was some economical when it came to marketing.</p> +<p>“That afternoon, after a big long siesta, what’d I find +in the kitchen, just as much at home as if she belonged there, but that +blamed Indian girl. And old Paloma was squatting at the girl’s +feet and rubbing the girl’s knees and legs like for rheumatism, +which I knew the girl didn’t have from the way I’d sized +up the walk of her, and keeping time to the rubbing with a funny sort +of gibberish chant. And I let loose right there and then. +As Sarah knows, I never could a-bear women around the house - young, +unmarried women, I mean. But it was no go! Old Paloma sided +with the girl, and said if the girl went she went, too. Also, +she called me more kinds of a fool than the English language has accommodation +for. You’d like the Spanish lingo, Sarah, for expressing +yourself in such ways, and you’d have liked old Paloma, too. +She was a good woman, though she didn’t have any teeth and her +face could kill a strong man’s appetite in the cradle.</p> +<p>“I gave in. I had to. Except for the excuse that +she needed Vahna’s help around the house (which she didn’t +at all), old Paloma never said why she stuck up for the girl. +Anyway, Vahna was a quiet thing, never in the way. And she never +gadded. Just sat in-doors jabbering with Paloma and helping with +the chores. But I wasn’t long in getting on to that she +was afraid of something. She would look up, that anxious it hurt, +whenever anybody called, like some of the boys to have a gas or a game +of pedro. I tried to worm it out of Paloma what was worrying the +girl, but all the old woman did was to look solemn and shake her head +like all the devils in hell was liable to precipitate a visit on us.</p> +<p>“And then one day Vahna had a visitor. I’d just +come in from a run and was passing the time of day with her - I had +to be polite, even if she had butted in on me and come to live in my +house for keeps - when I saw a queer expression come into her eyes. +In the doorway stood an Indian boy. He looked like her, but was +younger and slimmer. She took him into the kitchen and they must +have had a great palaver, for he didn’t leave until after dark. +Inside the week he came back, but I missed him. When I got home, +Paloma put a fat nugget of gold into my hand, which Vahna had sent him +for. The blamed thing weighed all of two pounds and was worth +more than five hundred dollars. She explained that Vahna wanted +me to take it to pay for her keep. And I had to take it to keep +peace in the house.</p> +<p>“Then, after a long time, came another visitor. We were +sitting before the fire - ”</p> +<p>“Him and the hussy,” quoth Mrs. Jones.</p> +<p>“And Paloma,” he added quickly.</p> +<p>“Him and his cook and his light housekeeper sitting by the +fire,” she amended.</p> +<p>“Oh, I admit Vahna did like me a whole heap,” he asserted +recklessly, then modified with a pang of caution: “A heap more +than was good for her, seeing that I had no inclination her way.</p> +<p>“Well, as I was saying, she had another visitor. He was +a lean, tall, white-headed old Indian, with a beak on him like an eagle. +He walked right in without knocking. Vahna gave a little cry that +was half like a yelp and half like a gasp, and flumped down on her knees +before me, pleading to me with deer’s eyes and to him with the +eyes of a deer about to be killed that don’t want to be killed. +Then, for a minute that seemed as long as a life-time, she and the old +fellow glared at each other. Paloma was the first to talk, in +his own lingo, for he talked back to her. But great Moses, if +he wasn’t the high and mighty one! Paloma’s old knees +were shaking, and she cringed to him like a hound dog. And all +this in my own house! I’d have thrown him out on his neck, +only he was so old.</p> +<p>“If the things he said to Vahna were as terrible as the way +he looked! Say! He just spit words at her! But Paloma +kept whimpering and butting in, till something she said got across, +because his face relaxed. He condescended to give me the once +over and fired some question at Vahna. She hung her head, and +looked foolish, and blushed, and then replied with a single word and +a shake of the head. And with that he just naturally turned on +his heel and beat it. I guess she’d said ‘No.’</p> +<p>“For some time after that Vahna used to fluster up whenever +she saw me. Then she took to the kitchen for a spell. But +after a long time she began hanging around the big room again. +She was still mighty shy, but she’d keep on following me about +with those big eyes of hers - ”</p> +<p>“The hussy!” I heard plainly. But Julian Jones +and I were pretty well used to it by this time.</p> +<p>“I don’t mind saying that I was getting some interested +myself - oh, not in the way Sarah never lets up letting me know she +thinks. That two-pound nugget was what had me going. If +Vahna’d put me wise to where it came from, I could say good-bye +to railroading and hit the high places for Nebraska and Sarah.</p> +<p>“And then the beans were spilled . . . by accident. Come +a letter from Wisconsin. My Aunt Eliza ’d died and up and +left me her big farm. I let out a whoop when I read it; but I +could have canned my joy, for I was jobbed out of it by the courts and +lawyers afterward - not a cent to me, and I’m still paying ’m +in instalments.</p> +<p>“But I didn’t know, then; and I prepared to pull back +to God’s country. Paloma got sore, and Vahna got the weeps. +‘Don’t go! Don’t go!’ That was her +song. But I gave notice on my job, and wrote a letter to Sarah +here - didn’t I, Sarah?</p> +<p>“That night, sitting by the fire like at a funeral, Vahna really +loosened up for the first time.</p> +<p>“‘Don’t go,’ she says to me, with old Paloma +nodding agreement with her. ‘I’ll show you where my +brother got the nugget, if you don’t go.’ ‘Too +late,’ said I. And I told her why.</p> +<p>“And told her about me waiting for you back in Nebraska,” +Mrs. Jones observed in cold, passionless tones.</p> +<p>“Now, Sarah, why should I hurt a poor Indian girl’s feelings? +Of course I didn’t.</p> +<p>“Well, she and Paloma talked Indian some more, and then Vahna +says: ‘If you stay, I’ll show you the biggest nugget that +is the father of all other nuggets.’ ‘How big?’ +I asked. ‘As big as me?’ She laughed. +‘Bigger than you,’ she says, ‘much, much bigger.’ +‘They don’t grow that way,’ I said. But she +said she’d seen it and Paloma backed her up. Why, to listen +to them you’d have thought there was millions in that one nugget. +Paloma ’d never seen it herself, but she’d heard about it. +A secret of the tribe which she couldn’t share, being only half +Indian herself.”</p> +<p>Julian Jones paused and heaved a sigh.</p> +<p>“And they kept on insisting until I fell for - ”</p> +<p>“The hussy,” said Mrs. Jones, pert as a bird, at the +ready instant.</p> +<p>“‘No; for the nugget. What of Aunt Eliza’s +farm I was rich enough to quit railroading, but not rich enough to turn +my back on big money - and I just couldn’t help believing them +two women. Gee! I could be another Vanderbilt, or J. P. +Morgan. That’s the way I thought; and I started in to pump +Vahna. But she wouldn’t give down. ‘You come +along with me,’ she says. ‘We can be back here in +a couple of weeks with all the gold the both of us can carry.’ +‘We’ll take a burro, or a pack-train of burros,’ was +my suggestion. But nothing doing. And Paloma agreed with +her. It was too dangerous. The Indians would catch us.</p> +<p>“The two of us pulled out when the nights were moonlight. +We travelled only at night, and laid up in the days. Vahna wouldn’t +let me light a fire, and I missed my coffee something fierce. +We got up in the real high mountains of the main Andes, where the snow +on one pass gave us some trouble; but the girl knew the trails, and, +though we didn’t waste any time, we were a full week getting there. +I know the general trend of our travel, because I carried a pocket compass; +and the general trend is all I need to get there again, because of that +peak. There’s no mistaking it. There ain’t another +peak like it in the world. Now, I’m not telling you its +particular shape, but when you and I head out for it from Quito I’ll +take you straight to it.</p> +<p>“It’s no easy thing to climb, and the person doesn’t +live that can climb it at night. We had to take the daylight to +it, and didn’t reach the top till after sunset. Why, I could +take hours and hours telling you about that last climb, which I won’t. +The top was flat as a billiard table, about a quarter of an acre in +size, and was almost clean of snow. Vahna told me that the great +winds that usually blew, kept the snow off of it.</p> +<p>“We were winded, and I got mountain sickness so bad that I +had to stretch out for a spell. Then, when the moon come up, I +took a prowl around. It didn’t take long, and I didn’t +catch a sight or a smell of anything that looked like gold. And +when I asked Vahna, she only laughed and clapped her hands. Meantime +my mountain sickness tuned up something fierce, and I sat down on a +big rock to wait for it to ease down.</p> +<p>“‘Come on, now,’ I said, when I felt better. +‘Stop your fooling and tell me where that nugget is.’ +‘It’s nearer to you right now than I’ll ever get,’ +she answered, her big eyes going sudden wistful. ‘All you +Gringos are alike. Gold is the love of your heart, and women don’t +count much.’</p> +<p>“I didn’t say anything. That was no time to tell +her about Sarah here. But Vahna seemed to shake off her depressed +feelings, and began to laugh and tease again. ‘How do you +like it?’ she asked. ‘Like what?’ ‘The +nugget you’re sitting on.’</p> +<p>“I jumped up as though it was a red-hot stove. And all +it was was a rock. I felt nay heart sink. Either she had +gone clean loco or this was her idea of a joke. Wrong on both +counts. She gave me the hatchet and told me to take a hack at +the boulder, which I did, again and again, for yellow spots sprang up +from under every blow. By the great Moses! it was gold! +The whole blamed boulder!”</p> +<p>Jones rose suddenly to his full height and flung out his long arms, +his face turned to the southern skies. The movement shot panic +into the heart of a swan that had drawn nearer with amiably predatory +designs. Its consequent abrupt retreat collided it with a stout +old lady, who squealed and dropped her bag of peanuts. Jones sat +down and resumed.</p> +<p>“Gold, I tell you, solid gold and that pure and soft that I +chopped chips out of it. It had been coated with some sort of +rain-proof paint or lacquer made out of asphalt or something. +No wonder I’d taken it for a rock. It was ten feet long, +all of five feet through, and tapering to both ends like an egg. +Here. Take a look at this.”</p> +<p>From his pocket he drew and opened a leather case, from which he +took an object wrapped in tissue-paper. Unwrapping it, he dropped +into my hand a chip of pure soft gold, the size of a ten-dollar gold-piece. +I could make out the greyish substance on one side with which it had +been painted.</p> +<p>“I chopped that from one end of the thing,” Jones went +on, replacing the chip in its paper and leather case. “And +lucky I put it in my pocket. For right at my back came one loud +word - more like a croak than a word, in my way of thinking. And +there was that lean old fellow with the eagle beak that had dropped +in on us one night. And there was about thirty Indians with him +- all slim young fellows.</p> +<p>“Vahna’d flopped down and begun whimpering, but I told +her, ‘Get up and make friends with them for me.’ ‘No, +no,’ she cried. ‘This is death. Good-bye, <i>amigo</i> +- ’”</p> +<p>Here Mrs. Jones winced, and her husband abruptly checked the particular +flow of his narrative.</p> +<p>“‘Then get up and fight along with me,’ I said +to her. And she did. She was some hellion, there on the +top of the world, clawing and scratching tooth and nail - a regular +she cat. And I wasn’t idle, though all I had was that hatchet +and my long arms. But they were too many for me, and there was +no place for me to put my back against a wall. When I come to, +minutes after they’d cracked me on the head - here, feel this.”</p> +<p>Removing his hat, Julian Jones guided my finger tips through his +thatch of sandy hair until they sank into an indentation. It was +fully three inches long, and went into the bone itself of the skull.</p> +<p>“When I come to, there was Vahna spread-eagled on top of the +nugget, and the old fellow with a beak jabbering away solemnly as if +going through some sort of religious exercises. In his hand he +had a stone knife - you know, a thin, sharp sliver of some obsidian-like +stuff same as they make arrow-heads out of. I couldn’t lift +a hand, being held down, and being too weak besides. And - well, +anyway, that stone knife did for her, and me they didn’t even +do the honour of killing there on top their sacred peak. They +chucked me off of it like so much carrion.</p> +<p>“And the buzzards didn’t get me either. I can see +the moonlight yet, shining on all those peaks of snow, as I went down. +Why, sir, it was a five-hundred-foot fall, only I didn’t make +it. I went into a big snow-drift in a crevice. And when +I come to (hours after I know, for it was full day when I next saw the +sun), I found myself in a regular snow-cave or tunnel caused by the +water from the melting snow running along the ledge. In fact, +the stone above actually overhung just beyond where I first landed. +A few feet more to the side, either way, and I’d almost be going +yet. It was a straight miracle, that’s what it was.</p> +<p>“But I paid for it. It was two years and over before +I knew what happened. All I knew was that I was Julian Jones and +that I’d been blacklisted in the big strike, and that I was married +to Sarah here. I mean that. I didn’t know anything +in between, and when Sarah tried to talk about it, it gave me pains +in the head. I mean my head was queer, and I knew it was queer.</p> +<p>“And then, sitting on the porch of her father’s farmhouse +back in Nebraska one moonlight evening, Sarah came out and put that +gold chip into my hand. Seems she’d just found it in the +torn lining of the trunk I’d brought back from Ecuador - I who +for two years didn’t even know I’d been to Ecuador, or Australia, +or anything! Well, I just sat there looking at the chip in the +moonlight, and turning it over and over and figuring what it was and +where it’d come from, when all of a sudden there was a snap inside +my head as if something had broken, and then I could see Vahna spread-eagled +on that big nugget and the old fellow with the beak waving the stone +knife, and . . . and everything. That is, everything that had +happened from the time I first left Nebraska to when I crawled to the +daylight out of the snow after they had chucked me off the mountain-top. +But everything that’d happened after that I’d clean forgotten. +When Sarah said I was her husband, I wouldn’t listen to her. +Took all her family and the preacher that’d married us to convince +me.</p> +<p>“Later on I wrote to Seth Manners. The railroad hadn’t +killed him yet, and he pieced out a lot for me. I’ll show +you his letters. I’ve got them at the hotel. One day, +he said, making his regular run, I crawled out on to the track. +I didn’t stand upright, I just crawled. He took me for a +calf, or a big dog, at first. I wasn’t anything human, he +said, and I didn’t know him or anything. As near as I can +make out, it was ten days after the mountain-top to the time Seth picked +me up. What I ate I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t +eat. Then it was doctors at Quito, and Paloma nursing me (she +must have packed that gold chip in my trunk), until they found out I +was a man without a mind, and the railroad sent me back to Nebraska. +At any rate, that’s what Seth writes me. Of myself, I don’t +know. But Sarah here knows. She corresponded with the railroad +before they shipped me and all that.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Jones nodded affirmation of his words, sighed and evidenced +unmistakable signs of eagerness to go.</p> +<p>“I ain’t been able to work since,” her husband +continued. “And I ain’t been able to figure out how +to get back that big nugget. Sarah’s got money of her own, +and she won’t let go a penny - ”</p> +<p>“He won’t get down to <i>that</i> country no more!” +she broke forth.</p> +<p>“But, Sarah, Vahna’s dead - you know that,” Julian +Jones protested.</p> +<p>“I don’t know anything about anything,” she answered +decisively, “except that <i>that</i> country is no place for a +married man.”</p> +<p>Her lips snapped together, and she fixed an unseeing stare across +to where the afternoon sun was beginning to glow into sunset. +I gazed for a moment at her face, white, plump, tiny, and implacable, +and gave her up.</p> +<p>“How do you account for such a mass of gold being there?” +I queried of Julian Jones. “A solid-gold meteor that fell +out of the sky?”</p> +<p>“Not for a moment.” He shook his head. “ +It was carried there by the Indians.”</p> +<p>“Up a mountain like that - and such enormous weight and size!” +I objected.</p> +<p>“Just as easy,” he smiled. “I used to be +stumped by that proposition myself, after I got my memory back. +Now how in Sam Hill - ’ I used to begin, and then spend hours +figuring at it. And then when I got the answer I felt downright +idiotic, it was that easy.” He paused, then announced: “They +didn’t.”</p> +<p>“But you just - said they did.”</p> +<p>“They did and they didn’t,” was his enigmatic reply. +“Of course they never carried that monster nugget up there. +What they did was to carry up its contents.”</p> +<p>He waited until he saw enlightenment dawn in my face.</p> +<p>“And then of course melted all the gold, or welded it, or smelted +it, all into one piece. You know the first Spaniards down there, +under a leader named Pizarro, were a gang of robbers and cut-throats. +They went through the country like the hoof-and-mouth disease, and killed +the Indians off like cattle. You see, the Indians had lots of +gold. Well, what the Spaniards didn’t get, the surviving +Indians hid away in that one big chunk on top the mountain, and it’s +been waiting there ever since for me - and for you, if you want to go +in on it.”</p> +<p>And here, by the Lagoon of the Palace of Fine Arts, ended my acquaintance +with Julian Jones. On my agreeing to finance the adventure, he +promised to call on me at my hotel next morning with the letters of +Seth Manners and the railroad, and conclude arrangements. But +he did not call. That evening I telephoned his hotel and was informed +by the clerk that Mr. Julian Jones and wife had departed in the early +afternoon, with their baggage.</p> +<p>Can Mrs. Jones have rushed him back and hidden him away in Nebraska? +I remember that as we said good-bye, there was that in her smile that +recalled the vulpine complacency of Mona Lisa, the Wise.</p> +<p>Kohala, Hawaii,<br /><i>May</i> 5, 1916.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>STORY: LIKE ARGUS OF THE ANCIENT TIMES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>It was the summer of 1897, and there was trouble in the Tarwater +family. Grandfather Tarwater, after remaining properly subdued +and crushed for a quiet decade, had broken out again. This time +it was the Klondike fever. His first and one unvarying symptom +of such attacks was song. One chant only he raised, though he +remembered no more than the first stanza and but three lines of that. +And the family knew his feet were itching and his brain was tingling +with the old madness, when he lifted his hoarse-cracked voice, now falsetto-cracked, +in:</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Like Argus of the ancient times,<br />We leave this modern Greece,<br />Tum-tum, +tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum,<br />To shear the Golden Fleece.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Ten years earlier he had lifted the chant, sung to the air of the +“Doxology,” when afflicted with the fever to go gold-mining +in Patagonia. The multitudinous family had sat upon him, but had +had a hard time doing it. When all else had failed to shake his +resolution, they had applied lawyers to him, with the threat of getting +out guardianship papers and of confining him in the state asylum for +the insane - which was reasonable for a man who had, a quarter of a +century before, speculated away all but ten meagre acres of a California +principality, and who had displayed no better business acumen ever since.</p> +<p>The application of lawyers to John Tarwater was like the application +of a mustard plaster. For, in his judgment, they were the gentry, +more than any other, who had skinned him out of the broad Tarwater acres. +So, at the time of his Patagonian fever, the very thought of so drastic +a remedy was sufficient to cure him. He quickly demonstrated he +was not crazy by shaking the fever from him and agreeing not to go to +Patagonia.</p> +<p>Next, he demonstrated how crazy he really was, by deeding over to +his family, unsolicited, the ten acres on Tarwater Flat, the house, +barn, outbuildings, and water-rights. Also did he turn over the +eight hundred dollars in bank that was the long-saved salvage of his +wrecked fortune. But for this the family found no cause for committal +to the asylum, since such committal would necessarily invalidate what +he had done.</p> +<p>“Grandfather is sure peeved,” said Mary, his oldest daughter, +herself a grandmother, when her father quit smoking.</p> +<p>All he had retained for himself was a span of old horses, a mountain +buckboard, and his one room in the crowded house. Further, having +affirmed that he would be beholden to none of them, he got the contract +to carry the United States mail, twice a week, from Kelterville up over +Tarwater Mountain to Old Almaden - which was a sporadically worked quick-silver +mine in the upland cattle country. With his old horses it took +all his time to make the two weekly round trips. And for ten years, +rain or shine, he had never missed a trip. Nor had he failed once +to pay his week’s board into Mary’s hand. This board +he had insisted on, in the convalescence from his Patagonian fever, +and he had paid it strictly, though he had given up tobacco in order +to be able to do it.</p> +<p>“Huh!” he confided to the ruined water wheel of the old +Tarwater Mill, which he had built from the standing timber and which +had ground wheat for the first settlers. “Huh! They’ll +never put me in the poor farm so long as I support myself. And +without a penny to my name it ain’t likely any lawyer fellows’ll +come snoopin’ around after me.”</p> +<p>And yet, precisely because of these highly rational acts, it was +held that John Tarwater was mildly crazy!</p> +<p>The first time he had lifted the chant of “Like Argus of the +Ancient Times,” had been in 1849, when, twenty-two years’ +of age, violently attacked by the Californian fever, he had sold two +hundred and forty Michigan acres, forty of it cleared, for the price +of four yoke of oxen, and a wagon, and had started across the Plains.</p> +<p>“And we turned off at Fort Hall, where the Oregon emigration +went north’ard, and swung south for Californy,” was his +way of concluding the narrative of that arduous journey. “And +Bill Ping and me used to rope grizzlies out of the underbrush of Cache +Slough in the Sacramento Valley.”</p> +<p>Years of freighting and mining had followed, and, with a stake gleaned +from the Merced placers, he satisfied the land-hunger of his race and +time by settling in Sonoma County.</p> +<p>During the ten years of carrying the mail across Tarwater Township, +up Tarwater Valley, and over Tarwater Mountain, most all of which land +had once been his, he had spent his time dreaming of winning back that +land before he died. And now, his huge gaunt form more erect than +it had been for years, with a glinting of blue fires in his small and +close-set eyes, he was lifting his ancient chant again.</p> +<p>“There he goes now - listen to him,” said William Tarwater.</p> +<p>“Nobody at home,” laughed Harris Topping, day labourer, +husband of Annie Tarwater, and father of her nine children.</p> +<p>The kitchen door opened to admit the old man, returning from feeding +his horses. The song had ceased from his lips; but Mary was irritable +from a burnt hand and a grandchild whose stomach refused to digest properly +diluted cows’ milk.</p> +<p>“Now there ain’t no use you carryin’ on that way, +father,” she tackled him. “The time’s past for +you to cut and run for a place like the Klondike, and singing won’t +buy you nothing.”</p> +<p>“Just the same,” he answered quietly. “I +bet I could go to that Klondike place and pick up enough gold to buy +back the Tarwater lands.”</p> +<p>“Old fool!” Annie contributed.</p> +<p>“You couldn’t buy them back for less’n three hundred +thousand and then some,” was William’s effort at squelching +him.</p> +<p>“Then I could pick up three hundred thousand, and then some, +if I was only there,” the old man retorted placidly.</p> +<p>“Thank God you can’t walk there, or you’d be startin’, +I know,” Mary cried. “Ocean travel costs money.”</p> +<p>“I used to have money,” her father said humbly.</p> +<p>“Well, you ain’t got any now - so forget it,” William +advised. “Them times is past, like roping bear with Bill +Ping. There ain’t no more bear.”</p> +<p>“Just the same - ”</p> +<p>But Mary cut him off. Seizing the day’s paper from the +kitchen table, she flourished it savagely under her aged progenitor’s +nose.</p> +<p>“What do those Klondikers say? There it is in cold print. +Only the young and robust can stand the Klondike. It’s worse +than the north pole. And they’ve left their dead a-plenty +there themselves. Look at their pictures. You’re forty +years older ’n the oldest of them.”</p> +<p>John Tarwater did look, but his eyes strayed to other photographs +on the highly sensational front page.</p> +<p>“And look at the photys of them nuggets they brought down,” +he said. “I know gold. Didn’t I gopher twenty +thousand outa the Merced? And wouldn’t it a-ben a hundred +thousand if that cloudburst hadn’t busted my wing-dam? Now +if I was only in the Klondike - ”</p> +<p>“Crazy as a loon,” William sneered in open aside to the +rest.</p> +<p>“A nice way to talk to your father,” Old Man Tarwater +censured mildly. “My father’d have walloped the tar +out of me with a single-tree if I’d spoke to him that way.”</p> +<p>“But you <i>are</i> crazy, father - ” William began.</p> +<p>“Reckon you’re right, son. And that’s where +my father wasn’t crazy. He’d a-done it.”</p> +<p>“The old man’s been reading some of them magazine articles +about men who succeeded after forty,” Annie jibed.</p> +<p>“And why not, daughter?” he asked. “And why +can’t a man succeed after he’s seventy? I was only +seventy this year. And mebbe I could succeed if only I could get +to the Klondike - ”</p> +<p>“Which you ain’t going to get to,” Mary shut him +off.</p> +<p>“Oh, well, then,” he sighed, “seein’s I ain’t, +I might just as well go to bed.”</p> +<p>He stood up, tall, gaunt, great-boned and gnarled, a splendid ruin +of a man. His ragged hair and whiskers were not grey but snowy +white, as were the tufts of hair that stood out on the backs of his +huge bony fingers. He moved toward the door, opened it, sighed, +and paused with a backward look.</p> +<p>“Just the same,” he murmured plaintively, “the +bottoms of my feet is itching something terrible.”</p> +<p>Long before the family stirred next morning, his horses fed and harnessed +by lantern light, breakfast cooked and eaten by lamp fight, Old Man +Tarwater was off and away down Tarwater Valley on the road to Kelterville. +Two things were unusual about this usual trip which he had made a thousand +and forty times since taking the mail contract. He did not drive +to Kelterville, but turned off on the main road south to Santa Rosa. +Even more remarkable than this was the paper-wrapped parcel between +his feet. It contained his one decent black suit, which Mary had +been long reluctant to see him wear any more, not because it was shabby, +but because, as he guessed what was at the back of her mind, it was +decent enough to bury him in.</p> +<p>And at Santa Rosa, in a second-hand clothes shop, he sold the suit +outright for two dollars and a half. From the same obliging shopman +he received four dollars for the wedding ring of his long-dead wife. +The span of horses and the wagon he disposed of for seventy-five dollars, +although twenty-five was all he received down in cash. Chancing +to meet Alton Granger on the street, to whom never before had he mentioned +the ten dollars loaned him in ’74, he reminded Alton Granger of +the little affair, and was promptly paid. Also, of all unbelievable +men to be in funds, he so found the town drunkard for whom he had bought +many a drink in the old and palmy days. And from him John Tarwater +borrowed a dollar. Finally, he took the afternoon train to San +Francisco.</p> +<p>A dozen days later, carrying a half-empty canvas sack of blankets +and old clothes, he landed on the beach of Dyea in the thick of the +great Klondike Rush. The beach was screaming bedlam. Ten +thousand tons of outfit lay heaped and scattered, and twice ten thousand +men struggled with it and clamoured about it. Freight, by Indian-back, +over Chilcoot to Lake Linderman, had jumped from sixteen to thirty cents +a pound, which latter was a rate of six hundred dollars a ton. +And the sub-arctic winter gloomed near at hand. All knew it, and +all knew that of the twenty thousand of them very few would get across +the passes, leaving the rest to winter and wait for the late spring +thaw.</p> +<p>Such the beach old John Tarwater stepped upon; and straight across +the beach and up the trail toward Chilcoot he headed, cackling his ancient +chant, a very Grandfather Argus himself, with no outfit worry in the +world, for he did not possess any outfit. That night he slept +on the flats, five miles above Dyea, at the head of canoe navigation. +Here the Dyea River became a rushing mountain torrent, plunging out +of a dark canyon from the glaciers that fed it far above.</p> +<p>And here, early next morning, he beheld a little man weighing no +more than a hundred, staggering along a foot-log under all of a hundred +pounds of flour strapped on his back. Also, he beheld the little +man stumble off the log and fall face-downward in a quiet eddy where +the water was two feet deep and proceed quietly to drown. It was +no desire of his to take death so easily, but the flour on his back +weighed as much as he and would not let him up.</p> +<p>“Thank you, old man,” he said to Tarwater, when the latter +had dragged him up into the air and ashore.</p> +<p>While he unlaced his shoes and ran the water out, they had further +talk. Next, he fished out a ten-dollar gold-piece and offered +it to his rescuer.</p> +<p>Old Tarwater shook his head and shivered, for the ice-water had wet +him to his knees.</p> +<p>“But I reckon I wouldn’t object to settin’ down +to a friendly meal with you.”</p> +<p>“Ain’t had breakfast?” the little man, who was +past forty and who had said his name was Anson, queried with a glance +frankly curious.</p> +<p>“Nary bite,” John Tarwater answered.</p> +<p>“Where’s your outfit? Ahead?”</p> +<p>“Nary outfit.”</p> +<p>“Expect to buy your grub on the Inside?”</p> +<p>“Nary a dollar to buy it with, friend. Which ain’t +so important as a warm bite of breakfast right now.”</p> +<p>In Anson’s camp, a quarter of a mile on, Tarwater found a slender, +red-whiskered young man of thirty cursing over a fire of wet willow +wood. Introduced as Charles, he transferred his scowl and wrath +to Tarwater, who, genially oblivious, devoted himself to the fire, took +advantage of the chill morning breeze to create a draught which the +other had left stupidly blocked by stones, and soon developed less smoke +and more flame. The third member of the party, Bill Wilson, or +Big Bill as they called him, came in with a hundred-and-forty-pound +pack; and what Tarwater esteemed to be a very rotten breakfast was dished +out by Charles. The mush was half cooked and mostly burnt, the +bacon was charred carbon, and the coffee was unspeakable.</p> +<p>Immediately the meal was wolfed down the three partners took their +empty pack-straps and headed down trail to where the remainder of their +outfit lay at the last camp a mile away. And old Tarwater became +busy. He washed the dishes, foraged dry wood, mended a broken +pack-strap, put an edge on the butcher-knife and camp-axe, and repacked +the picks and shovels into a more carryable parcel.</p> +<p>What had impressed him during the brief breakfast was the sort of +awe in which Anson and Big Bill stood of Charles. Once, during +the morning, while Anson took a breathing spell after bringing in another +hundred-pound pack, Tarwater delicately hinted his impression.</p> +<p>“You see, it’s this way,” Anson said. “We’ve +divided our leadership. We’ve got specialities. Now +I’m a carpenter. When we get to Lake Linderman, and the +trees are chopped and whipsawed into planks, I’ll boss the building +of the boat. Big Bill is a logger and miner. So he’ll +boss getting out the logs and all mining operations. Most of our +outfit’s ahead. We went broke paying the Indians to pack +that much of it to the top of Chilcoot. Our last partner is up +there with it, moving it along by himself down the other side. +His name’s Liverpool, and he’s a sailor. So, when +the boat’s built, he’s the boss of the outfit to navigate +the lakes and rapids to Klondike.</p> +<p>“And Charles - this Mr. Crayton - what might his speciality +be?” Tarwater asked.</p> +<p>“He’s the business man. When it comes to business +and organization he’s boss.”</p> +<p>“Hum,” Tarwater pondered. “Very lucky to +get such a bunch of specialities into one outfit.”</p> +<p>“More than luck,” Anson agreed. “It was all +accident, too. Each of us started alone. We met on the steamer +coming up from San Francisco, and formed the party. - Well, I got to +be goin’. Charles is liable to get kicking because I ain’t +packin’ my share’ just the same, you can’t expect +a hundred-pound man to pack as much as a hundred-and-sixty-pounder.”</p> +<p>“Stick around and cook us something for dinner,” Charles, +on his next load in and noting the effects of the old man’s handiness, +told Tarwater.</p> +<p>And Tarwater cooked a dinner that was a dinner, washed the dishes, +had real pork and beans for supper, and bread baked in a frying-pan +that was so delectable than the three partners nearly foundered themselves +on it. Supper dishes washed, he cut shavings and kindling for +a quick and certain breakfast fire, showed Anson a trick with foot-gear +that was invaluable to any hiker, sang his “Like Argus of the +Ancient Times,” and told them of the great emigration across the +Plains in Forty-nine.</p> +<p>“My goodness, the first cheerful and hearty-like camp since +we hit the beach,” Big Bill remarked as he knocked out his pipe +and began pulling off his shoes for bed.</p> +<p>“Kind of made things easy, boys, eh?” Tarwater +queried genially.</p> +<p>All nodded. “Well, then, I got a proposition, boys. +You can take it or leave it, but just listen kindly to it. You’re +in a hurry to get in before the freeze-up. Half the time is wasted +over the cooking by one of you that he might be puttin’ in packin’ +outfit. If I do the cookin’ for you, you all’ll get +on that much faster. Also, the cookin’ ’ll be better, +and that’ll make you pack better. And I can pack quite a +bit myself in between times, quite a bit, yes, sir, quite a bit.”</p> +<p>Big Bill and Anson were just beginning to nod their heads in agreement, +when Charles stopped them.</p> +<p>“What do you expect of us in return?” he demanded of +the old man.</p> +<p>“Oh, I leave it up to the boys.”</p> +<p>“That ain’t business,” Charles reprimanded sharply. +“You made the proposition. Now finish it.”</p> +<p>“Well, it’s this way - ”</p> +<p>“You expect us to feed you all winter, eh?” Charles interrupted.</p> +<p>“No, siree, I don’t. All I reckon is a passage +to Klondike in your boat would be mighty square of you.”</p> +<p>“You haven’t an ounce of grub, old man. You’ll +starve to death when you get there.”</p> +<p>“I’ve been feedin’ some long time pretty successful,” +Old Tarwater replied, a whimsical light in his eyes. “I’m +seventy, and ain’t starved to death never yet.”</p> +<p>“Will you sign a paper to the effect that you shift for yourself +as soon as you get to Dawson?” the business one demanded.</p> +<p>“Oh, sure,” was the response.</p> +<p>Again Charles checked his two partners’ expressions of satisfaction +with the arrangement.</p> +<p>“One other thing, old man. We’re a party of four, +and we all have a vote on questions like this. Young Liverpool +is ahead with the main outfit. He’s got a say so, and he +isn’t here to say it.”</p> +<p>“What kind of a party might he be?” Tarwater inquired.</p> +<p>“He’s a rough-neck sailor, and he’s got a quick, +bad temper.”</p> +<p>“Some turbulent,” Anson contributed.</p> +<p>“And the way he can cuss is simply God-awful,” Big Bill +testified.</p> +<p>“But he’s square,” Big Bill added.</p> +<p>Anson nodded heartily to this appraisal.</p> +<p>“Well, boys,” Tarwater summed up, “I set out for +Californy and I got there. And I’m going to get to Klondike. +Ain’t a thing can stop me, ain’t a thing. I’m +going to get three hundred thousand outa the ground, too. Ain’t +a thing can stop me, ain’t a thing, because I just naturally need +the money. I don’t mind a bad temper so long’s the +boy is square. I’ll take my chance, an’ I’ll +work along with you till we catch up with him. Then, if he says +no to the proposition, I reckon I’ll lose. But somehow I +just can’t see ’m sayin’ no, because that’d +mean too close up to freeze-up and too late for me to find another chance +like this. And, as I’m sure going to get to Klondike, it’s +just plumb impossible for him to say no.”</p> +<p>Old John Tarwater became a striking figure on a trail unusually replete +with striking figures. With thousands of men, each back-tripping +half a ton of outfit, retracing every mile of the trail twenty times, +all came to know him and to hail him as “Father Christmas.” +And, as he worked, ever he raised his chant with his age-falsetto voice. +None of the three men he had joined could complain about his work. +True, his joints were stiff - he admitted to a trifle of rheumatism. +He moved slowly, and seemed to creak and crackle when he moved; but +he kept on moving. Last into the blankets at night, he was first +out in the morning, so that the other three had hot coffee before their +one before-breakfast pack. And, between breakfast and dinner and +between dinner and supper, he always managed to back-trip for several +packs himself. Sixty pounds was the limit of his burden, however. +He could manage seventy-five, but he could not keep it up. Once, +he tried ninety, but collapsed on the trail and was seriously shaky +for a couple of days afterward.</p> +<p>Work! On a trail where hard-working men learned for the first +time what work was, no man worked harder in proportion to his strength +than Old Tarwater. Driven desperately on by the near-thrust of +winter, and lured madly on by the dream of gold, they worked to their +last ounce of strength and fell by the way. Others, when failure +made certain, blew out their brains. Some went mad, and still +others, under the irk of the man-destroying strain, broke partnerships +and dissolved life-time friendships with fellows just as good as themselves +and just as strained and mad.</p> +<p>Work! Old Tarwater could shame them all, despite his creaking +and crackling and the nasty hacking cough he had developed. Early +and late, on trail or in camp beside the trail he was ever in evidence, +ever busy at something, ever responsive to the hail of “Father +Christmas.” Weary back-trippers would rest their packs on +a log or rock alongside of where he rested his, and would say: “Sing +us that song of yourn, dad, about Forty-Nine.” And, when +he had wheezingly complied, they would arise under their loads, remark +that it was real heartening, and hit the forward trail again.</p> +<p>“If ever a man worked his passage and earned it,” Big +Bill confided to his two partners, “that man’s our old Skeezicks.”</p> +<p>“You bet,” Anson confirmed. “He’s a +valuable addition to the party, and I, for one, ain’t at all disagreeable +to the notion of making him a regular partner - ”</p> +<p>“None of that!” Charles Crayton cut in. “When +we get to Dawson we’re quit of him - that’s the agreement. +We’d only have to bury him if we let him stay on with us. +Besides, there’s going to be a famine, and every ounce of grub’ll +count. Remember, we’re feeding him out of our own supply +all the way in. And if we run short in the pinch next year, you’ll +know the reason. Steamboats can’t get up grub to Dawson +till the middle of June, and that’s nine months away.”</p> +<p>“Well, you put as much money and outfit in as the rest of us,” +Big Bill conceded, “and you’ve a say according.”</p> +<p>“And I’m going to have my say,” Charles asserted +with increasing irritability. “And it’s lucky for +you with your fool sentiments that you’ve got somebody to think +ahead for you, else you’d all starve to death. I tell you +that famine’s coming. I’ve been studying the situation. +Flour will be two dollars a pound, or ten, and no sellers. You +mark my words.”</p> +<p>Across the rubble-covered flats, up the dark canyon to Sheep Camp, +past the over-hanging and ever-threatening glaciers to the Scales, and +from the Scales up the steep pitches of ice-scoured rock where packers +climbed with hands and feet, Old Tarwater camp-cooked and packed and +sang. He blew across Chilcoot Pass, above timberline, in the first +swirl of autumn snow. Those below, without firewood, on the bitter +rim of Crater Lake, heard from the driving obscurity above them a weird +voice chanting:</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Like Argus of the ancient times,<br />We leave this modern +Greece,<br />Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum,<br />To shear the +Golden Fleece.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>And out of the snow flurries they saw appear a tall, gaunt form, +with whiskers of flying white that blended with the storm, bending under +a sixty-pound pack of camp dunnage.</p> +<p>“Father Christmas!” was the hail. And then: “Three +rousing cheers for Father Christmas!”</p> +<p>Two miles beyond Crater Lake lay Happy Camp - so named because here +was found the uppermost fringe of the timber line, where men might warm +themselves by fire again. Scarcely could it be called timber, +for it was a dwarf rock-spruce that never raised its loftiest branches +higher than a foot above the moss, and that twisted and grovelled like +a pig-vegetable under the moss. Here, on the trail leading into +Happy Camp, in the first sunshine of half a dozen days, Old Tarwater +rested his pack against a huge boulder and caught his breath. +Around this boulder the trail passed, laden men toiling slowly forward +and men with empty pack-straps limping rapidly back for fresh loads. +Twice Old Tarwater essayed to rise and go on, and each time, warned +by his shakiness, sank back to recover more strength. From around +the boulder he heard voices in greeting, recognized Charles Crayton’s +voice, and realized that at last they had met up with Young Liverpool. +Quickly, Charles plunged into business, and Tarwater heard with great +distinctness every word of Charles’ unflattering description of +him and the proposition to give him passage to Dawson.</p> +<p>“A dam fool proposition,” was Liverpool’s judgment, +when Charles had concluded. “An old granddad of seventy! +If he’s on his last legs, why in hell did you hook up with him? +If there’s going to be a famine, and it looks like it, we need +every ounce of grub for ourselves. We only out-fitted for four, +not five.”</p> +<p>“It’s all right,” Tarwater heard Charles assuring +the other. “Don’t get excited. The old codger +agreed to leave the final decision to you when we caught up with you. +All you’ve got to do is put your foot down and say no.”</p> +<p>“You mean it’s up to me to turn the old one down, after +your encouraging him and taking advantage of his work clear from Dyea +here?”</p> +<p>“It’s a hard trail, Liverpool, and only the men that +are hard will get through,” Charles strove to palliate.</p> +<p>“And I’m to do the dirty work?” Liverpool complained, +while Tarwater’s heart sank.</p> +<p>“That’s just about the size of it,” Charles said. +“You’ve got the deciding.”</p> +<p>Then old Tarwater’s heart uprose again as the air was rent +by a cyclone of profanity, from the midst of which crackled sentences +like: - “Dirty skunks! . . . See you in hell first! . . . My mind’s +made up! . . . Hell’s fire and corruption! . . . The old codger +goes down the Yukon with us, stack on that, my hearty! . . . Hard? +You don’t know what hard is unless I show you! . . . I’ll +bust the whole outfit to hell and gone if any of you try to side-track +him! . . . Just try to side-track him, that is all, and you’ll +think the Day of Judgment and all God’s blastingness has hit the +camp in one chunk!”</p> +<p>Such was the invigoratingness of Liverpool’s flow of speech +that, quite without consciousness of effort, the old man arose easily +under his load and strode on toward Happy Camp.</p> +<p>From Happy Camp to Long Lake, from Long Lake to Deep Lake, and from +Deep Lake up over the enormous hog-back and down to Linderman, the man-killing +race against winter kept on. Men broke their hearts and backs +and wept beside the trail in sheer exhaustion. But winter never +faltered. The fall gales blew, and amid bitter soaking rains and +ever-increasing snow flurries, Tarwater and the party to which he was +attached piled the last of their outfit on the beach.</p> +<p>There was no rest. Across the lake, a mile above a roaring +torrent, they located a patch of spruce and built their saw-pit. +Here, by hand, with an inadequate whipsaw, they sawed the spruce-trunks +into lumber. They worked night and day. Thrice, on the night-shift, +underneath in the saw-pit, Old Tarwater fainted. By day he cooked +as well, and, in the betweenwhiles, helped Anson in the building of +the boat beside the torrent as the green planks came down.</p> +<p>The days grew shorter. The wind shifted into the north and +blew unending gales. In the mornings the weary men crawled from +their blankets and in their socks thawed out their frozen shoes by the +fire Tarwater always had burning for them. Ever arose the increasing +tale of famine on the Inside. The last grub steamboats up from +Bering Sea were stalled by low water at the beginning of the Yukon Flats +hundreds of miles north of Dawson. In fact, they lay at the old +Hudson Bay Company’s post at Fort Yukon inside the Arctic Circle. +Flour in Dawson was up to two dollars a pound, but no one would sell. +Bonanza and Eldorado Kings, with money to burn, were leaving for the +Outside because they could buy no grub. Miners’ Committees +were confiscating all grub and putting the population on strict rations. +A man who held out an ounce of grub was shot like a dog. A score +had been so executed already.</p> +<p>And, under a strain which had broken so many younger men, Old Tarwater +began to break. His cough had become terrible, and had not his +exhausted comrades slept like the dead, he would have kept them awake +nights. Also, he began to take chills, so that he dressed up to +go to bed. When he had finished so dressing, not a rag of garment +remained in his clothes bag. All he possessed was on his back +and swathed around his gaunt old form.</p> +<p>“Gee!” said Big Bill. “If he puts all he’s +got on now, when it ain’t lower than twenty above, what’ll +he do later on when it goes down to fifty and sixty below?”</p> +<p>They lined the rough-made boat down the mountain torrent, nearly +losing it a dozen times, and rowed across the south end of Lake Linderman +in the thick of a fall blizzard. Next morning they planned to +load and start, squarely into the teeth of the north, on their perilous +traverse of half a thousand miles of lakes and rapids and box canyons. +But before he went to bed that night, Young Liverpool was out over the +camp. He returned to find his whole party asleep. Rousing +Tarwater, he talked with him in low tones.</p> +<p>“Listen, dad,” he said. - “You’ve got a passage +in our boat, and if ever a man earned a passage you have. But +you know yourself you’re pretty well along in years, and your +health right now ain’t exciting. If you go on with us you’ll +croak surer’n hell. - Now wait till I finish, dad. The price +for a passage has jumped to five hundred dollars. I’ve been +throwing my feet and I’ve hustled a passenger. He’s +an official of the Alaska Commercial and just has to get in. He’s +bid up to six hundred to go with me in our boat. Now the passage +is yours. You sell it to him, poke the six hundred into your jeans, +and pull South for California while the goin’s good. You +can be in Dyea in two days, and in California in a week more. +What d’ye say?”</p> +<p>Tarwater coughed and shivered for a space, ere he could get freedom +of breath for speech.</p> +<p>“Son,” he said, “I just want to tell you one thing. +I drove my four yoke of oxen across the Plains in Forty-nine and lost +nary a one. I drove them plumb to Californy, and I freighted with +them afterward out of Sutter’s Fort to American Bar. Now +I’m going to Klondike. Ain’t nothing can stop me, +ain’t nothing at all. I’m going to ride that boat, +with you at the steering sweep, clean to Klondike, and I’m going +to shake three hundred thousand out of the moss-roots. That being +so, it’s contrary to reason and common sense for me to sell out +my passage. But I thank you kindly, son, I thank you kindly.”</p> +<p>The young sailor shot out his hand impulsively and gripped the old +man’s.</p> +<p>“By God, dad!” he cried. “You’re sure +going to go then. You’re the real stuff.” He +looked with undisguised contempt across the sleepers to where Charles +Crayton snored in his red beard. “They don’t seem +to make your kind any more, dad.”</p> +<p>Into the north they fought their way, although old-timers, coming +out, shook their heads and prophesied they would be frozen in on the +lakes. That the freeze-up might come any day was patent, and delays +of safety were no longer considered. For this reason, Liverpool +decided to shoot the rapid stream connecting Linderman to Lake Bennett +with the fully loaded boat. It was the custom to line the empty +boats down and to portage the cargoes across. Even then many empty +boats had been wrecked. But the time was past for such precaution.</p> +<p>“Climb out, dad,” Liverpool commanded as he prepared +to swing from the bank and enter the rapids.</p> +<p>Old Tarwater shook his white head.</p> +<p>“I’m sticking to the outfit,” he declared. +“It’s the only way to get through. You see, son, I’m +going to Klondike. If I stick by the boat, then the boat just +naturally goes to Klondike, too. If I get out, then most likely +you’ll lose the boat.”</p> +<p>“Well, there’s no use in overloading,” Charles +announced, springing abruptly out on the bank as the boat cast off.</p> +<p>“Next time you wait for my orders!” Liverpool shouted +ashore as the current gripped the boat. “And there won’t +be any more walking around rapids and losing time waiting to pick you +up!”</p> +<p>What took them ten minutes by river, took Charles half an hour by +land, and while they waited for him at the head of Lake Bennett they +passed the time of day with several dilapidated old-timers on their +way out. The famine news was graver than ever. The North-west +Mounted Police, stationed at the foot of Lake Marsh where the gold-rushers +entered Canadian territory, were refusing to let a man past who did +not carry with him seven hundred pounds of grub. In Dawson City +a thousand men, with dog-teams, were waiting the freeze-up to come out +over the ice. The trading companies could not fill their grub-contracts, +and partners were cutting the cards to see which should go and which +should stay and work the claims.</p> +<p>“That settles it,” Charles announced, when he learned +of the action of the mounted police on the boundary. “Old +Man, you might as well start back now.”</p> +<p>“Climb aboard!” Liverpool commanded. “We’re +going to Klondike, and old dad is going along.”</p> +<p>A shift of gale to the south gave them a fair wind down Lake Bennett, +before which they ran under a huge sail made by Liverpool. The +heavy weight of outfit gave such ballast that he cracked on as a daring +sailor should when moments counted. A shift of four points into +the south-west, coming just at the right time as they entered upon Caribou +Crossing, drove them down that connecting link to lakes Tagish and Marsh. +In stormy sunset and twilight - they made the dangerous crossing of +Great Windy Arm, wherein they beheld two other boat-loads of gold-rushers +capsize and drown.</p> +<p>Charles was for beaching for the night, but Liverpool held on, steering +down Tagish by the sound of the surf on the shoals and by the occasional +shore-fires that advertised wrecked or timid argonauts. At four +in the morning, he aroused Charles. Old Tarwater, shiveringly +awake, heard Liverpool order Crayton aft beside him at the steering-sweep, +and also heard the one-sided conversation.</p> +<p>“Just listen, friend Charles, and keep your own mouth shut,” +Liverpool began. “I want you to get one thing into your +head and keep it there: <i>old dad’s going</i> <i>by the police. +Understand? He’s going</i> <i>by</i>. When they examine +our outfit, old dad’s got a fifth share in it, savvee? That’ll +put us all ’way under what we ought to have, but we can bluff +it through. Now get this, and get it hard: <i>there</i> <i>ain’t +going to be any fall-down on this</i> <i>bluff</i> - ”</p> +<p>“If you think I’d give away on the old codger - ” +Charles began indignantly.</p> +<p>“You thought that,” Liverpool checked him, “because +I never mentioned any such thing. Now - get me and get me hard: +I don’t care what you’ve been thinking. It’s +what you’re going to think. We’ll make the police +post some time this afternoon, and we’ve got to get ready to pull +the bluff without a hitch, and a word to the wise is plenty.”</p> +<p>“If you think I’ve got it in my mind - ” Charles +began again.</p> +<p>“Look here,” Liverpool shut him off. “I don’t +know what’s in your mind. I don’t want to know. +I want you to know what’s in my mind. If there’s any +slip-up, if old dad gets turned back by the police, I’m going +to pick out the first quiet bit of landscape and take you ashore on +it. And then I’m going to beat you up to the Queen’s +taste. Get me, and get me hard. It ain’t going to +be any half-way beating, but a real, two-legged, two-fisted, he-man +beating. I don’t expect I’ll kill you, but I’ll +come damn near to half-killing you.”</p> +<p>“But what can I do?” Charles almost whimpered.</p> +<p>“Just one thing,” was Liverpool’s final word. +“You just pray. You pray so hard that old dad gets by the +police that he does get by. That’s all. Go back to +your blankets.”</p> +<p>Before they gained Lake Le Barge, the land was sheeted with snow +that would not melt for half a year. Nor could they lay their +boat at will against the bank, for the rim-ice was already forming. +Inside the mouth of the river, just ere it entered Lake Le Barge, they +found a hundred storm-bound boats of the argonauts. Out of the +north, across the full sweep of the great lake, blew an unending snow +gale. Three mornings they put out and fought it and the cresting +seas it drove that turned to ice as they fell in-board. While +the others broke their hearts at the oars, Old Tarwater managed to keep +up just sufficient circulation to survive by chopping ice and throwing +it overboard.</p> +<p>Each day for three days, beaten to helplessness, they turned tail +on the battle and ran back into the sheltering river. By the fourth +day, the hundred boats had increased to three hundred, and the two thousand +argonauts on board knew that the great gale heralded the freeze-up of +Le Barge. Beyond, the rapid rivers would continue to run for days, +but unless they got beyond, and immediately, they were doomed to be +frozen in for six months to come.</p> +<p>“This day we go through,” Liverpool announced. +“We turn back for nothing. And those of us that dies at +the oars will live again and go on pulling.”</p> +<p>And they went through, winning half the length of the lake by nightfall +and pulling on through all the night hours as the wind went down, falling +asleep at the oars and being rapped awake by Liverpool, toiling on through +an age-long nightmare while the stars came out and the surface of the +lake turned to the unruffledness of a sheet of paper and froze skin-ice +that tinkled like broken glass as their oar-blades shattered it.</p> +<p>As day broke clear and cold, they entered the river, with behind +them a sea of ice. Liverpool examined his aged passenger and found +him helpless and almost gone. When he rounded the boat to against +the rim-ice to build a fire and warm up Tarwater inside and out, Charles +protested against such loss of time.</p> +<p>“This ain’t business, so don’t you come horning +in,” Liverpool informed him. “I’m running the +boat trip. So you just climb out and chop firewood, and plenty +of it. I’ll take care of dad. You, Anson, make a fire +on the bank. And you, Bill, set up the Yukon stove in the boat. +Old dad ain’t as young as the rest of us, and for the rest of +this voyage he’s going to have a fire on board to sit by.”</p> +<p>All of which came to pass; and the boat, in the grip of the current, +like a river steamer with smoke rising from the two joints of stove-pipe, +grounded on shoals, hung up on split currents, and charged rapids and +canyons, as it drove deeper into the Northland winter. The Big +and Little Salmon rivers were throwing mush-ice into the main river +as they passed, and, below the riffles, anchor-ice arose from the river +bottom and coated the surface with crystal scum. Night and day +the rim-ice grew, till, in quiet places, it extended out a hundred yards +from shore. And Old Tarwater, with all his clothes on, sat by +the stove and kept the fire going. Night and day, not daring to +stop for fear of the imminent freeze-up, they dared to run, an increasing +mushiness of ice running with them.</p> +<p>“What ho, old hearty?” Liverpool would call out at times.</p> +<p>“Cheer O,” Old Tarwater had learned to respond.</p> +<p>“What can I ever do for you, son, in payment?” Tarwater, +stoking the fire, would sometimes ask Liverpool, beating now one released +hand and now the other as he fought for circulation where he steered +in the freezing stern-sheets.</p> +<p>“Just break out that regular song of yours, old Forty-Niner,” +was the invariable reply.</p> +<p>And Tarwater would lift his voice in the cackling chant, as he lifted +it at the end, when the boat swung in through driving cake-ice and moored +to the Dawson City bank, and all waterfront Dawson pricked its ears +to hear the triumphant paean:</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Like Argus of the ancient times,<br />We leave this modern Greece,<br />Tum-tum, +tum-tum, tum, tum, tum-tum,<br />To shear the Golden Fleece,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Charles did it, but he did it so discreetly that none of his party, +least of all the sailor, ever learned of it. He saw two great +open barges being filled up with men, and, on inquiry, learned that +these were grubless ones being rounded up and sent down the Yukon by +the Committee of Safety. The barges were to be towed by the last +little steamboat in Dawson, and the hope was that Fort Yukon, where +lay the stranded steamboats, would be gained before the river froze. +At any rate, no matter what happened to them, Dawson would be relieved +of their grub-consuming presence. So to the Committee of Safety +Charles went, privily to drop a flea in its ear concerning Tarwater’s +grubless, moneyless, and aged condition. Tarwater was one of the +last gathered in, and when Young Liverpool returned to the boat, from +the bank he saw the barges in a run of cake-ice, disappearing around +the bend below Moose-hide Mountain.</p> +<p>Running in cake-ice all the way, and several times escaping jams +in the Yukon Flats, the barges made their hundreds of miles of progress +farther into the north and froze up cheek by jowl with the grub-fleet. +Here, inside the Arctic Circle, Old Tarwater settled down to pass the +long winter. Several hours’ work a day, chopping firewood +for the steamboat companies, sufficed to keep him in food. For +the rest of the time there was nothing to do but hibernate in his log +cabin.</p> +<p>Warmth, rest, and plenty to eat, cured his hacking cough and put +him in as good physical condition as was possible for his advanced years. +But, even before Christmas, the lack of fresh vegetables caused scurvy +to break out, and disappointed adventurer after disappointed adventurer +took to his bunk in abject surrender to this culminating misfortune. +Not so Tarwater. Even before the first symptoms appeared on him, +he was putting into practice his one prescription, namely, exercise. +From the junk of the old trading post he resurrected a number of rusty +traps, and from one of the steamboat captains he borrowed a rifle.</p> +<p>Thus equipped, he ceased from wood-chopping, and began to make more +than a mere living. Nor was he downhearted when the scurvy broke +out on his own body. Ever he ran his trap-lines and sang his ancient +chant. Nor could the pessimist shake his surety of the three hundred +thousand of Alaskan gold he as going to shake out of the moss-roots.</p> +<p>“But this ain’t gold-country,” they told him.</p> +<p>“Gold is where you find it, son, as I should know who was mining +before you was born, ’way back in Forty-Nine,” was his reply. +“What was Bonanza Creek but a moose-pasture? No miner’d +look at it; yet they washed five-hundred-dollar pans and took out fifty +million dollars. Eldorado was just as bad. For all you know, +right under this here cabin, or right over the next hill, is millions +just waiting for a lucky one like me to come and shake it out.”</p> +<p>At the end of January came his disaster. Some powerful animal +that he decided was a bob-cat, managing to get caught in one of his +smaller traps, dragged it away. A heavy snow-fall put a stop midway +to his pursuit, losing the trail for him and losing himself. There +were but several hours of daylight each day between the twenty hours +of intervening darkness, and his efforts in the grey light and continually +falling snow succeeded only in losing him more thoroughly. Fortunately, +when winter snow falls in the Northland the thermometer invariably rises; +so, instead of the customary forty and fifty and even sixty degrees +below zero, the temperature remained fifteen below. Also, he was +warmly clad and had a full matchbox. Further to mitigate his predicament, +on the fifth day he killed a wounded moose that weighed over half a +ton. Making his camp beside it on a spruce-bottom, he was prepared +to last out the winter, unless a searching party found him or his scurvy +grew worse.</p> +<p>But at the end of two weeks there had been no sign of search, while +his scurvy had undeniably grown worse. Against his fire, banked +from outer cold by a shelter-wall of spruce-boughs, he crouched long +hours in sleep and long hours in waking. But the waking hours +grew less, becoming semi-waking or half-dreaming hours as the process +of hibernation worked their way with him. Slowly the sparkle point +of consciousness and identity that was John Tarwater sank, deeper and +deeper, into the profounds of his being that had been compounded ere +man was man, and while he was becoming man, when he, first of all animals, +regarded himself with an introspective eye and laid the beginnings of +morality in foundations of nightmare peopled by the monsters of his +own ethic-thwarted desires.</p> +<p>Like a man in fever, waking to intervals of consciousness, so Old +Tarwater awoke, cooked his moose-meat, and fed the fire; but more and +more time he spent in his torpor, unaware of what was day-dream and +what was sleep-dream in the content of his unconsciousness. And +here, in the unforgetable crypts of man’s unwritten history, unthinkable +and unrealizable, like passages of nightmare or impossible adventures +of lunacy, he encountered the monsters created of man’s first +morality that ever since have vexed him into the spinning of fantasies +to elude them or do battle with them.</p> +<p>In short, weighted by his seventy years, in the vast and silent loneliness +of the North, Old Tarwater, as in the delirium of drug or anaesthetic, +recovered within himself, the infantile mind of the child-man of the +early world. It was in the dusk of Death’s fluttery wings +that Tarwater thus crouched, and, like his remote forebear, the child-man, +went to myth-making, and sun-heroizing, himself hero-maker and the hero +in quest of the immemorable treasure difficult of attainment.</p> +<p>Either must he attain the treasure - for so ran the inexorable logic +of the shadow-land of the unconscious - or else sink into the all-devouring +sea, the blackness eater of the light that swallowed to extinction the +sun each night . . . the sun that arose ever in rebirth next morning +in the east, and that had become to man man’s first symbol of +immortality through rebirth. All this, in the deeps of his unconsciousness +(the shadowy western land of descending light), was the near dusk of +Death down into which he slowly ebbed.</p> +<p>But how to escape this monster of the dark that from within him slowly +swallowed him? Too deep-sunk was he to dream of escape or feel +the prod of desire to escape. For him reality had ceased. +Nor from within the darkened chamber of himself could reality recrudesce. +His years were too heavy upon him, the debility of disease and the lethargy +and torpor of the silence and the cold were too profound. Only +from without could reality impact upon him and reawake within him an +awareness of reality. Otherwise he would ooze down through the +shadow-realm of the unconscious into the all-darkness of extinction.</p> +<p>But it came, the smash of reality from without, crashing upon his +ear drums in a loud, explosive snort. For twenty days, in a temperature +that had never risen above fifty below, no breath of wind had blown +movement, no slightest sound had broken the silence. Like the +smoker on the opium couch refocusing his eyes from the spacious walls +of dream to the narrow confines of the mean little room, so Old Tarwater +stared vague-eyed before him across his dying fire, at a huge moose +that stared at him in startlement, dragging a wounded leg, manifesting +all signs of extreme exhaustion; it, too, had been straying blindly +in the shadow-land, and had wakened to reality only just ere it stepped +into Tarwater’s fire.</p> +<p>He feebly slipped the large fur mitten lined with thickness of wool +from his right hand. Upon trial he found the trigger finger too +numb for movement. Carefully, slowly, through long minutes, he +worked the bare hand inside his blankets, up under his fur <i>parka</i>, +through the chest openings of his shirts, and into the slightly warm +hollow of his left arm-pit. Long minutes passed ere the finger +could move, when, with equal slowness of caution, he gathered his rifle +to his shoulder and drew bead upon the great animal across the fire.</p> +<p>At the shot, of the two shadow-wanderers, the one reeled downward +to the dark and the other reeled upward to the light, swaying drunkenly +on his scurvy-ravaged legs, shivering with nervousness and cold, rubbing +swimming eyes with shaking fingers, and staring at the real world all +about him that had returned to him with such sickening suddenness. +He shook himself together, and realized that for long, how long he did +not know, he had bedded in the arms of Death. He spat, with definite +intention, heard the spittle crackle in the frost, and judged it must +be below and far below sixty below. In truth, that day at Fort +Yukon, the spirit thermometer registered seventy-five degrees below +zero, which, since freezing-point is thirty-two above, was equivalent +to one hundred and seven degrees of frost.</p> +<p>Slowly Tarwater’s brain reasoned to action. Here, in +the vast alone, dwelt Death. Here had come two wounded moose. +With the clearing of the sky after the great cold came on, he had located +his bearings, and he knew that both wounded moose had trailed to him +from the east. Therefore, in the east, were men - whites or Indians +he could not tell, but at any rate men who might stand by him in his +need and help moor him to reality above the sea of dark.</p> +<p>He moved slowly, but he moved in reality, girding himself with rifle, +ammunition, matches, and a pack of twenty pounds of moose-meat. +Then, an Argus rejuvenated, albeit lame of both legs and tottery, he +turned his back on the perilous west and limped into the sun-arising, +re-birthing east. . . .</p> +<p>Days later - how many days later he was never to know - dreaming +dreams and seeing visions, cackling his old gold-chant of Forty-Nine, +like one drowning and swimming feebly to keep his consciousness above +the engulfing dark, he came out upon the snow-slope to a canyon and +saw below smoke rising and men who ceased from work to gaze at him. +He tottered down the hill to them, still singing; and when he ceased +from lack of breath they called him variously: Santa Claus, Old Christmas, +Whiskers, the Last of the Mohicans, and Father Christmas. And +when he stood among them he stood very still, without speech, while +great tears welled out of his eyes. He cried silently, a long +time, till, as if suddenly bethinking himself, he sat down in the snow +with much creaking and crackling of his joints, and from this low vantage +point toppled sidewise and fainted calmly and easily away.</p> +<p>In less than a week Old Tarwater was up and limping about the housework +of the cabin, cooking and dish-washing for the five men of the creek. +Genuine sourdoughs (pioneers) they were, tough and hard-bitten, who +had been buried so deeply inside the Circle that they did not know there +was a Klondike Strike. The news he brought them was their first +word of it. They lived on an almost straight-meat diet of moose, +caribou, and smoked salmon, eked out with wild berries and somewhat +succulent wild roots they had stocked up with in the summer. They +had forgotten the taste of coffee, made fire with a burning glass, carried +live fire-sticks with them wherever they travelled, and in their pipes +smoked dry leaves that bit the tongue and were pungent to the nostrils.</p> +<p>Three years before, they had prospected from the head-reaches of +the Koyokuk northward and clear across to the mouth of the Mackenzie +on the Arctic Ocean. Here, on the whaleships, they had beheld +their last white men and equipped themselves with the last white man’s +grub, consisting principally of salt and smoking tobacco. Striking +south and west on the long traverse to the junction of the Yukon and +Porcupine at Fort Yukon, they had found gold on this creek and remained +over to work the ground.</p> +<p>They hailed the advent of Tarwater with joy, never tired of listening +to his tales of Forty-Nine, and rechristened him Old Hero. Also, +with tea made from spruce needles, with concoctions brewed from the +inner willow bark, and with sour and bitter roots and bulbs from the +ground, they dosed his scurvy out of him, so that he ceased limping +and began to lay on flesh over his bony framework. Further, they +saw no reason at all why he should not gather a rich treasure of gold +from the ground.</p> +<p>“Don’t know about all of three hundred thousand,” +they told him one morning, at breakfast, ere they departed to their +work, “but how’d a hundred thousand do, Old Hero? +That’s what we figure a claim is worth, the ground being badly +spotted, and we’ve already staked your location notices.”</p> +<p>“Well, boys,” Old Tarwater answered, “and thanking +you kindly, all I can say is that a hundred thousand will do nicely, +and very nicely, for a starter. Of course, I ain’t goin’ +to stop till I get the full three hundred thousand. That’s +what I come into the country for.”</p> +<p>They laughed and applauded his ambition and reckoned they’d +have to hunt a richer creek for him. And Old Hero reckoned that +as the spring came on and he grew spryer, he’d have to get out +and do a little snooping around himself.</p> +<p>“For all anybody knows,” he said, pointing to a hillside +across the creek bottom, “the moss under the snow there may be +plumb rooted in nugget gold.”</p> +<p>He said no more, but as the sun rose higher and the days grew longer +and warmer, he gazed often across the creek at the definite bench-formation +half way up the hill. And, one day, when the thaw was in full +swing, he crossed the stream and climbed to the bench. Exposed +patches of ground had already thawed an inch deep. On one such +patch he stopped, gathered a bunch of moss in his big gnarled hands, +and ripped it out by the roots. The sun smouldered on dully glistening +yellow. He shook the handful of moss, and coarse nuggets, like +gravel, fell to the ground. It was the Golden Fleece ready for +the shearing.</p> +<p>Not entirely unremembered in Alaskan annals is the summer stampede +of 1898 from Fort Yukon to the bench diggings of Tarwater Hill. +And when Tarwater sold his holdings to the Bowdie interests for a sheer +half-million and faced for California, he rode a mule over a new-cut +trail, with convenient road houses along the way, clear to the steamboat +landing at Fort Yukon.</p> +<p>At the first meal on the ocean-going steamship out of St. Michaels, +a waiter, greyish-haired, pain-ravaged of face, scurvy-twisted of body, +served him. Old Tarwater was compelled to look him over twice +in order to make certain he was Charles Crayton.</p> +<p>“Got it bad, eh, son?” Tarwater queried.</p> +<p>“Just my luck,” the other complained, after recognition +and greeting. “Only one of the party that the scurvy attacked. +I’ve been through hell. The other three are all at work +and healthy, getting grub-stake to prospect up White River this winter. +Anson’s earning twenty-five a day at carpentering, Liverpool getting +twenty logging for the saw-mill, and Big Bill’s getting forty +a day as chief sawyer. I tried my best, and if it hadn’t +been for scurvy . . .”</p> +<p>“Sure, son, you done your best, which ain’t much, you +being naturally irritable and hard from too much business. Now +I’ll tell you what. You ain’t fit to work crippled +up this way. I’ll pay your passage with the captain in kind +remembrance of the voyage you gave me, and you can lay up and take it +easy the rest of the trip. And what are your circumstances when +you land at San Francisco?”</p> +<p>Charles Crayton shrugged his shoulders.</p> +<p>“Tell you what,” Tarwater continued. “There’s +work on the ranch for you till you can start business again.”</p> +<p>“I could manage your business for you - ” Charles began +eagerly.</p> +<p>“No, siree,” Tarwater declared emphatically. “But +there’s always post-holes to dig, and cordwood to chop, and the +climate’s fine . . . ”</p> +<p>Tarwater arrived home a true prodigal grandfather for whom the fatted +calf was killed and ready. But first, ere he sat down at table, +he must stroll out and around. And sons and daughters of his flesh +and of the law needs must go with him fulsomely eating out of the gnarled +old hand that had half a million to disburse. He led the way, +and no opinion he slyly uttered was preposterous or impossible enough +to draw dissent from his following. Pausing by the ruined water +wheel which he had built from the standing timber, his face beamed as +he gazed across the stretches of Tarwater Valley, and on and up the +far heights to the summit of Tarwater Mountain - now all his again.</p> +<p>A thought came to him that made him avert his face and blow his nose +in order to hide the twinkle in his eyes. Still attended by the +entire family, he strolled on to the dilapidated barn. He picked +up an age-weathered single-tree from the ground.</p> +<p>“William,” he said. “Remember that little +conversation we had just before I started to Klondike? Sure, William, +you remember. You told me I was crazy. And I said my father’d +have walloped the tar out of me with a single-tree if I’d spoke +to him that way.”</p> +<p>“Aw, but that was only foolin’,” William temporized.</p> +<p>William was a grizzled man of forty-five, and his wife and grown +sons stood in the group, curiously watching Grandfather Tarwater take +off his coat and hand it to Mary to hold.</p> +<p>“William - come here,” he commanded imperatively.</p> +<p>No matter how reluctantly, William came.</p> +<p>“Just a taste, William, son, of what my father give me often +enough,” Old Tarwater crooned, as he laid on his son’s back +and shoulders with the single-tree. “Observe, I ain’t +hitting you on the head. My father had a gosh-wollickin’ +temper and never drew the line at heads when he went after tar. - Don’t +jerk your elbows back that way! You’re likely to get a crack +on one by accident. And just tell me one thing, William, son: +is there nary notion in your head that I’m crazy?”</p> +<p>“No!” William yelped out in pain, as he danced about. +“You ain’t crazy, father of course you ain’t crazy!”</p> +<p>“You said it,” Old Tarwater remarked sententiously, tossing +the single-tree aside and starting to struggle into his coat.</p> +<p>“Now let’s all go in and eat.”</p> +<p>Glen Ellen, California,<br /><i>September</i> 14, 1916.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>STORY: THE PRINCESS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>A fire burned cheerfully in the jungle camp, and beside the fire +lolled a cheerful-seeming though horrible-appearing man. This +was a hobo jungle, pitched in a thin strip of woods that lay between +a railroad embankment and the bank of a river. But no hobo was +the man. So deep-sunk was he in the social abyss that a proper +hobo would not sit by the same fire with him. A gay-cat, who is +an ignorant new-comer on the “Road,” might sit with such +as he, but only long enough to learn better. Even low down bindle-stiffs +and stew-bums, after a once-over, would have passed this man by. +A genuine hobo, a couple of punks, or a bunch of tender-yeared road-kids +might have gone through his rags for any stray pennies or nickels and +kicked him out into the darkness. Even an alki-stiff would have +reckoned himself immeasurably superior.</p> +<p>For this man was that hybrid of tramp-land, an alki-stiff that has +degenerated into a stew-bum, with so little self-respect that he will +never “boil-up,” and with so little pride that he will eat +out of a garbage can. He was truly horrible-appearing. He +might have been sixty years of age; he might have been ninety. +His garments might have been discarded by a rag-picker. Beside +him, an unrolled bundle showed itself as consisting of a ragged overcoat +and containing an empty and smoke-blackened tomato can, an empty and +battered condensed milk can, some dog-meat partly wrapped in brown paper +and evidently begged from some butcher-shop, a carrot that had been +run over in the street by a wagon-wheel, three greenish-cankered and +decayed potatoes, and a sugar-bun with a mouthful bitten from it and +rescued from the gutter, as was made patent by the gutter-filth that +still encrusted it.</p> +<p>A prodigious growth of whiskers, greyish-dirty and untrimmed for +years, sprouted from his face. This hirsute growth should have +been white, but the season was summer and it had not been exposed to +a rain-shower for some time. What was visible of the face looked +as if at some period it had stopped a hand-grenade. The nose was +so variously malformed in its healed brokenness that there was no bridge, +while one nostril, the size of a pea, opened downward, and the other, +the size of a robin’s egg, tilted upward to the sky. One +eye, of normal size, dim-brown and misty, bulged to the verge of popping +out, and as if from senility wept copiously and continuously. +The other eye, scarcely larger than a squirrel’s and as uncannily +bright, twisted up obliquely into the hairy scar of a bone-crushed eyebrow. +And he had but one arm.</p> +<p>Yet was he cheerful. On his face, in mild degree, was depicted +sensuous pleasure as he lethargically scratched his ribs with his one +hand. He pawed over his food-scraps, debated, then drew a twelve-ounce +druggist bottle from his inside coat-pocket. The bottle was full +of a colourless liquid, the contemplation of which made his little eye +burn brighter and quickened his movements. Picking up the tomato +can, he arose, went down the short path to the river, and returned with +the can filled with not-nice river water. In the condensed milk +can he mixed one part of water with two parts of fluid from the bottle. +This colourless fluid was druggist’s alcohol, and as such is known +in tramp-land as “alki.”</p> +<p>Slow footsteps, coming down the side of the railroad embankment, +alarmed him ere he could drink. Placing the can carefully upon +the ground between his legs, he covered it with his hat and waited anxiously +whatever impended.</p> +<p>Out of the darkness emerged a man as filthy ragged as he. The +new-comer, who might have been fifty, and might have been sixty, was +grotesquely fat. He bulged everywhere. He was composed of +bulges. His bulbous nose was the size and shape of a turnip. +His eyelids bulged and his blue eyes bulged in competition with them. +In many places the seams of his garments had parted across the bulges +of body. His calves grew into his feet, for the broken elastic +sides of his Congress gaiters were swelled full with the fat of him. +One arm only he sported, from the shoulder of which was suspended a +small and tattered bundle with the mud caked dry on the outer covering +from the last place he had pitched his doss. He advanced with +tentative caution, made sure of the harmlessness of the man beside the +fire, and joined him.</p> +<p>“Hello, grandpa,” the new-comer greeted, then paused +to stare at the other’s flaring, sky-open nostril. “Say, +Whiskers, how’d ye keep the night dew out of that nose o’ +yourn?”</p> +<p>Whiskers growled an incoherence deep in his throat and spat into +the fire in token that he was not pleased by the question.</p> +<p>“For the love of Mike,” the fat man chuckled, “if +you got caught out in a rainstorm without an umbrella you’d sure +drown, wouldn’t you?”</p> +<p>“Can it, Fatty, can it,” Whiskers muttered wearily. +“They ain’t nothin’ new in that line of chatter. +Even the bulls hand it out to me.”</p> +<p>“But you can still drink, I hope”; Fatty at the same +time mollified and invited, with his one hand deftly pulling the slip-knots +that fastened his bundle.</p> +<p>From within the bundle he brought to light a twelve-ounce bottle +of alki. Footsteps coming down the embankment alarmed him, and +he hid the bottle under his hat on the ground between his legs.</p> +<p>But the next comer proved to be not merely one of their own ilk, +but likewise to have only one arm. So forbidding of aspect was +he that greetings consisted of no more than grunts. Huge-boned, +tall, gaunt to cadaverousness, his face a dirty death’s head, +he was as repellent a nightmare of old age as ever Doré imagined. +His toothless, thin-lipped mouth was a cruel and bitter slash under +a great curved nose that almost met the chin and that was like a buzzard’s +beak. His one hand, lean and crooked, was a talon. The beady +grey eyes, unblinking and unwavering, were bitter as death, as bleak +as absolute zero and as merciless. His presence was a chill, and +Whiskers and Fatty instinctively drew together for protection against +the unguessed threat of him. Watching his chance, privily, Whiskers +snuggled a chunk of rock several pounds in weigh close to his hand if +need for action should arise. Fatty duplicated the performance.</p> +<p>Then both sat licking their lips, guiltily embarrassed, while the +unblinking eyes of the terrible one bored into them, now into one, now +into another, and then down at the rock-chunks of their preparedness.</p> +<p>“Huh!” sneered the terrible one, with such dreadfulness +of menace as to cause Whiskers and Fatty involuntarily to close their +hands down on their cave-man’s weapons.</p> +<p>“Huh!” the other repeated, reaching his one talon into +his side coat pocket with swift definiteness. “A hell of +a chance you two cheap bums ’d have with me.”</p> +<p>The talon emerged, clutching ready for action a six-pound iron quoit.</p> +<p>“We ain’t lookin’ for trouble, Slim,” Fatty +quavered.</p> +<p>“Who in hell are you to call me ‘Slim’?” +came the snarling answer.</p> +<p>“Me? I’m just Fatty, an’ seein’ ’s +I never seen you before - ”</p> +<p>“An’ I suppose that’s Whiskers, there, with the +gay an’ festive lamp tan-going into his eyebrow an’ the +God-forgive-us nose joy-riding all over his mug?”</p> +<p>“It’ll do, it’ll do,” Whiskers muttered uncomfortably. +“One monica’s as good as another, I find, at my time of +life. And everybody hands it out to me anyway. And I need +an umbrella when it rains to keep from getting drowned, an’ all +the rest of it.”</p> +<p>“I ain’t used to company - don’t like it,” +Slim growled. “So if you guys want to stick around, mind +your step, that’s all, mind your step.”</p> +<p>He fished from his pocket a cigar stump, self-evidently shot from +the gutter, and prepared to put it in his mouth to chew. Then +he changed his mind, glared at his companions savagely, and unrolled +his bundle. Appeared in his hand a druggist’s bottle of +alki.</p> +<p>“Well,” he snarled, “I suppose I gotta give you +cheap skates a drink when I ain’t got more’n enough for +a good petrification for myself.”</p> +<p>Almost a softening flicker of light was imminent in his withered +face as he beheld the others proudly lift their hats and exhibit their +own supplies.</p> +<p>“Here’s some water for the mixin’s,” Whiskers +said, proffering his tomato-can of river slush. “Stockyards +just above,” he added apologetically. “But they say +- ”</p> +<p>“Huh!” Slim snapped short, mixing the drink. “I’ve +drunk worse’n stockyards in my time.”</p> +<p>Yet when all was ready, cans of alki in their solitary hands, the +three things that had once been men hesitated, as if of old habit, and +next betrayed shame as if at self-exposure.</p> +<p>Whiskers was the first to brazen it.</p> +<p>“I’ve sat in at many a finer drinking,” he bragged.</p> +<p>“With the pewter,” Slim sneered.</p> +<p>“With the silver,” Whiskers corrected.</p> +<p>Slim turned a scorching eye-interrogation on Fatty.</p> +<p>Fatty nodded.</p> +<p>“Beneath the salt,” said Slim.</p> +<p>“Above it,” came Fatty’s correction. “I +was born above it, and I’ve never travelled second class. +First or steerage, but no intermediate in mine.”</p> +<p>“Yourself?” Whiskers queried of Slim.</p> +<p>“In broken glass to the Queen, God bless her,” Slim answered, +solemnly, without snarl or sneer.</p> +<p>“In the pantry?” Fatty insinuated.</p> +<p>Simultaneously Slim reached for his quoit, and Whiskers and Fatty +for their rocks.</p> +<p>“Now don’t let’s get feverish,” Fatty said, +dropping his own weapon. “We aren’t scum. We’re +gentlemen. Let’s drink like gentlemen.”</p> +<p>“Let it be a real drinking,” Whiskers approved.</p> +<p>“Let’s get petrified,” Slim agreed. “Many +a distillery’s flowed under the bridge since we were gentlemen; +but let’s forget the long road we’ve travelled since, and +hit our doss in the good old fashion in which every gentleman went to +bed when we were young.”</p> +<p>“My father done it - did it,” Fatty concurred and corrected, +as old recollections exploded long-sealed brain-cells of connotation +and correct usage.</p> +<p>The other two nodded a descent from similar fathers, and elevated +their tin cans of alcohol.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>By the time each had finished his own bottle and from his rags fished +forth a second one, their brains were well-mellowed and a-glow, although +they had not got around to telling their real names. But their +English had improved. They spoke it correctly, while the argo +of tramp-land ceased from their lips.</p> +<p>“It’s my constitution,” Whiskers was explaining. +“Very few men could go through what I have and live to tell the +tale. And I never took any care of myself. If what the moralists +and the physiologists say were true, I’d have been dead long ago. +And it’s the same with you two. Look at us, at our advanced +years, carousing as the young ones don’t dare, sleeping out in +the open on the ground, never sheltered from frost nor rain nor storm, +never afraid of pneumonia or rheumatism that would put half the young +ones on their backs in hospital.”</p> +<p>He broke off to mix another drink, and Fatty took up the tale.</p> +<p>“And we’ve had our fun,” he boasted, “and +speaking of sweethearts and all,” he cribbed from Kipling, “‘We’ve +rogued and we’ve ranged - ’”</p> +<p>“‘In our time,’” Slim completed the crib +for him.</p> +<p>“I should say so, I should say so,” Fatty confirmed. +“And been loved by princesses - at least I have.”</p> +<p>“Go on and tell us about it,” Whiskers urged. “The +night’s young, and why shouldn’t we remember back to the +roofs of kings?”</p> +<p>Nothing loth, Fatty cleared his throat for the recital and cast about +in his mind for the best way to begin.</p> +<p>“It must be known that I came of good family. Percival +Delaney, let us say, yes, let us say Percival Delaney, was not unknown +at Oxford once upon a time - not for scholarship, I am frank to admit; +but the gay young dogs of that day, if any be yet alive, would remember +him - ”</p> +<p>“My people came over with the Conqueror,” Whiskers interrupted, +extending his hand to Fatty’s in acknowledgment of the introduction.</p> +<p>“What name?” Fatty queried. “I did not seem +quite to catch it.”</p> +<p>“Delarouse, Chauncey Delarouse. The name will serve as +well as any.”</p> +<p>Both completed the handshake and glanced to Slim.</p> +<p>“Oh, well, while we’re about it . . . ” Fatty +urged.</p> +<p>“Bruce Cadogan Cavendish,” Slim growled morosely. +“Go on, Percival, with your princesses and the roofs of kings.”</p> +<p>“Oh, I was a rare young devil,” Percival obliged, “after +I played ducks and drakes at home and sported out over the world. +And I was some figure of a man before I lost my shape - polo, steeple-chasing, +boxing. I won medals at buckjumping in Australia, and I held more +than several swimming records from the quarter of a mile up. Women +turned their heads to look when I went by. The women! God +bless them!”</p> +<p>And Fatty, alias Percival Delaney, a grotesque of manhood, put his +bulgy hand to his puffed lips and kissed audibly into the starry vault +of the sky.</p> +<p>“And the Princess!” he resumed, with another kiss to +the stars. “She was as fine a figure of a woman as I was +a man, as high-spirited and courageous, as reckless and dare-devilish. +Lord, Lord, in the water she was a mermaid, a sea-goddess. And +when it came to blood, beside her I was parvenu. Her royal line +traced back into the mists of antiquity.</p> +<p>“She was not a daughter of a fair-skinned folk. Tawny +golden was she, with golden-brown eyes, and her hair that fell to her +knees was blue-black and straight, with just the curly tendrilly tendency +that gives to woman’s hair its charm. Oh, there were no +kinks in it, any more than were there kinks in the hair of her entire +genealogy. For she was Polynesian, glowing, golden, lovely and +lovable, royal Polynesian.”</p> +<p>Again he paused to kiss his hand to the memory of her, and Slim, +alias Bruce Cadogan Cavendish, took advantage to interject:</p> +<p>“Huh! Maybe you didn’t shine in scholarship, but +at least you gleaned a vocabulary out of Oxford.”</p> +<p>“And in the South Seas garnered a better vocabulary from the +lexicon of Love,” Percival was quick on the uptake.</p> +<p>“It was the island of Talofa,” he went on, “meaning +love, the Isle of Love, and it was her island. Her father, the +king, an old man, sat on his mats with paralysed knees and drank squareface +gin all day and most of the night, out of grief, sheer grief. +She, my princess, was the only issue, her brother having been lost in +their double canoe in a hurricane while coming up from a voyage to Samoa. +And among the Polynesians the royal women have equal right with the +men to rule. In fact, they trace their genealogies always by the +female line.”</p> +<p>To this both Chauncey Delarouse and Bruce Cadogan Cavendish nodded +prompt affirmation.</p> +<p>“Ah,” said Percival, “I perceive you both know +the South Seas, wherefore, without undue expenditure of verbiage on +my part, I am assured that you will appreciate the charm of my princess, +the Princess Tui-nui of Talofa, the Princess of the Isle of Love.”</p> +<p>He kissed his hand to her, sipped from his condensed milk can a man-size +drink of druggist’s alcohol, and to her again kissed her hand.</p> +<p>“But she was coy, and ever she fluttered near to me but never +near enough. When my arm went out to her to girdle her, presto, +she was not there. I knew, as never before, nor since, the thousand +dear and delightful anguishes of love frustrated but ever resilient +and beckoned on by the very goddess of love.”</p> +<p>“Some vocabulary,” Bruce Cadogan Cavendish muttered in +aside to Chauncey Delarouse. But Percival Delaney was not to be +deterred. He kissed his pudgy hand aloft into the night and held +warmly on.</p> +<p>“No fond agonies of rapture deferred that were not lavished +upon me by my dear Princess, herself ever a luring delight of promise +flitting just beyond my reach. Every sweet lover’s inferno +unguessed of by Dante she led me through. Ah! Those swooning +tropic nights, under our palm trees, the distant surf a langourous murmur +as from some vast sea shell of mystery, when she, my Princess, all but +melted to my yearning, and with her laughter, that was as silver strings +by buds and blossoms smitten, all but made lunacy of my lover’s +ardency.</p> +<p>“It was by my wrestling with the champions of Talofa that I +first interested her. It was by my prowess at swimming that I +awoke her. And it was by a certain swimming deed that I won from +her more than coquettish smiles and shy timidities of feigned retreat.</p> +<p>“We were squidding that day, out on the reef - you know how, +undoubtedly, diving down the face of the wall of the reef, five fathoms, +ten fathoms, any depth within reason, and shoving our squid-sticks into +the likely holes and crannies of the coral where squid might be lairing. +With the squid-stick, bluntly sharp at both ends, perhaps a foot long, +and held crosswise in the hand, the trick was to gouge any lazying squid +until he closed his tentacles around fist, stick and arm. - Then you +had him, and came to the surface with him, and hit him in the head which +is in the centre of him, and peeled him off into the waiting canoe. +. . . And to think I used to do that!”</p> +<p>Percival Delaney paused a moment, a glimmer of awe on his rotund +face, as he contemplated the mighty picture of his youth.</p> +<p>“Why, I’ve pulled out a squid with tentacles eight feet +long, and done it under fifty feet of water. I could stay down +four minutes. I’ve gone down, with a coral-rock to sink +me, in a hundred and ten feet to clear a fouled anchor. And I +could back-dive with a once-over and go in feet-first from eighty feet +above the surface - ”</p> +<p>“Quit it, delete it, cease it,” Chauncey Delarouse admonished +testily. “Tell of the Princess. That’s what +makes old blood leap again. Almost can I see her. Was she +wonderful?”</p> +<p>Percival Delaney kissed unutterable affirmation.</p> +<p>“I have said she was a mermaid. She was. I know +she swam thirty-six hours before being rescued, after her schooner was +capsized in a double-squall. I have seen her do ninety feet and +bring up pearl shell in each hand. She was wonderful. As +a woman she was ravishing, sublime. I have said she was a sea-goddess. +She was. Oh, for a Phidias or a Praxiteles to have made the wonder +of her body immortal!</p> +<p>“And that day, out for squid on the reef, I was almost sick +for her. Mad - I know I was mad for her. We would step over +the side from the big canoe, and swim down, side by side, into the delicious +depths of cool and colour, and she would look at me, as we swam, and +with her eyes tantalize me to further madness. And at last, down, +far down, I lost myself and reached for her. She eluded me like +the mermaid she was, and I saw the laughter on her face as she fled. +She fled deeper, and I knew I had her for I was between her and the +surface; but in the muck coral sand of the bottom she made a churning +with her squid stick. It was the old trick to escape a shark. +And she worked it on me, rolling the water so that I could not see her. +And when I came up, she was there ahead of me, clinging to the side +of the canoe and laughing.</p> +<p>“Almost I would not be denied. But not for nothing was +she a princess. She rested her hand on my arm and compelled me +to listen. We should play a game, she said, enter into a competition +for which should get the more squid, the biggest squid, and the smallest +squid. Since the wagers were kisses, you can well imagine I went +down on the first next dive with soul aflame.</p> +<p>“I got no squid. Never again in all my life have I dived +for squid. Perhaps we were five fathoms down and exploring the +face of the reefwall for lurking places of our prey, when it happened. +I had found a likely lair and just proved it empty, when I felt or sensed +the nearness of something inimical. I turned. There it was, +alongside of me, and no mere fish-shark. Fully a dozen feet in +length, with the unmistakable phosphorescent cat’s eye gleaming +like a drowning star, I knew it for what it was, a tiger shark.</p> +<p>“Not ten feet to the right, probing a coral fissure with her +squid stick, was the Princess, and the tiger shark was heading directly +for her. My totality of thought was precipitated to consciousness +in a single all-embracing flash. The man-eater must be deflected +from her, and what was I, except a mad lover who would gladly fight +and die, or more gladly fight and live, for his beloved? Remember, +she was the woman wonderful, and I was aflame for her.</p> +<p>“Knowing fully the peril of my act, I thrust the blunt-sharp +end of my squid-stick into the side of the shark, much as one would +attract a passing acquaintance with a thumb-nudge in the ribs. +And the man-eater turned on me. You know the South Seas, and you +know that the tiger shark, like the bald-face grizzly of Alaska, never +gives trail. The combat, fathoms deep under the sea, was on - +if by combat may be named such a one-sided struggle.</p> +<p>“The Princess unaware, caught her squid and rose to the surface. +The man-eater rushed me. I fended him off with both hands on his +nose above his thousand-toothed open mouth, so that he backed me against +the sharp coral. The scars are there to this day. Whenever +I tried to rise, he rushed me, and I could not remain down there indefinitely +without air. Whenever he rushed me, I fended him off with my hands +on his nose. And I would have escaped unharmed, except for the +slip of my right hand. Into his mouth it went to the elbow. +His jaws closed, just below the elbow. You know how a shark’s +teeth are. Once in they cannot be released. They must go +through to complete the bite, but they cannot go through heavy bone. +So, from just below the elbow he stripped the bone clean to the articulation +of the wrist-joint, where his teeth met and my good right hand became +his for an appetizer.</p> +<p>“But while he was doing this, I drove the thumb of my left +hand, to the hilt into his eye-orifice and popped out his eye. +This did not stop him. The meat had maddened him. He pursued +the gushing stump of my wrist. Half a dozen times I fended with +my intact arm. Then he got the poor mangled arm again, closed +down, and stripped the meat off the bone from the shoulder down to the +elbow-joint, where his teeth met and he was free of his second mouthful +of me. But, at the same time, with my good arm, I thumbed out +his remaining eye.”</p> +<p>Percival Delaney shrugged his shoulders, ere he resumed.</p> +<p>“From above, those in the canoe had beheld the entire happening +and were loud in praise of my deed. To this day they still sing +the song of me, and tell the tale of me. And the Princess.” +His pause was brief but significant. “The Princess married +me. . . . Oh, well-a-day and lack-a-day, the whirligig of time and fortune, +the topsyturviness of luck, the wooden shoe going up and the polished +heel descending a French gunboat, a conquered island kingdom of Oceania, +to-day ruled over by a peasant-born, unlettered, colonial gendarme, +and . . . ”</p> +<p>He completed the sentence and the tale by burying his face in the +down-tilted mouth of the condensed milk can and by gurgling the corrosive +drink down his throat in thirsty gulps.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>After an appropriate pause, Chauncey Delarouse, otherwise Whiskers, +took up the tale.</p> +<p>“Far be it from me to boast of no matter what place of birth +I have descended from to sit here by this fire with such as . . . as +chance along. I may say, however, that I, too, was once a considerable +figure of a man. I may add that it was horses, plus parents too +indulgent, that exiled me out over the world. I may still wonder +to query: ‘Are Dover’s cliffs still white?’”</p> +<p>“Huh!” Bruce Cadogan Cavendish sneered. “Next +you’ll be asking: ‘How fares the old Lord Warden?’”</p> +<p>“And I took every liberty, and vainly, with a constitution +that was iron,” Whiskers hurried on. “Here I am with +my three score and ten behind me, and back on that long road have I +buried many a youngster that was as rare and devilish as I, but who +could not stand the pace. I knew the worst too young. And +now I know the worst too old. But there was a time, alas all too +short, when I knew, the best.</p> +<p>“I, too, kiss my hand to the Princess of my heart. She +was truly a princess, Polynesian, a thousand miles and more away to +the eastward and the south from Delaney’s Isle of Love. +The natives of all around that part of the South Seas called it the +Jolly Island. Their own name, the name of the people who dwelt +thereon, translates delicately and justly into ‘The Island of +Tranquil Laughter.’ On the chart you will find the erroneous +name given to it by the old navigators to be Manatomana. The seafaring +gentry the round ocean around called it the Adamless Eden. And +the missionaries for a time called it God’s Witness - so great +had been their success at converting the inhabitants. As for me, +it was, and ever shall be, Paradise.</p> +<p>“It was <i>my</i> Paradise, for it was there my Princess lived. +John Asibeli Tungi was king. He was full-blooded native, descended +out of the oldest and highest chief-stock that traced back to Manua +which was the primeval sea home of the race. Also was he known +as John the Apostate. He lived a long life and apostasized frequently. +First converted by the Catholics, he threw down the idols, broke the +tabus, cleaned out the native priests, executed a few of the recalcitrant +ones, and sent all his subjects to church.</p> +<p>“Next he fell for the traders, who developed in him a champagne +thirst, and he shipped off the Catholic priests to New Zealand. +The great majority of his subjects always followed his lead, and, having +no religion at all, ensued the time of the Great Licentiousness, when +by all South Seas missionaries his island, in sermons, was spoken of +as Babylon.</p> +<p>“But the traders ruined his digestion with too much champagne, +and after several years he fell for the Gospel according to the Methodists, +sent his people to church, and cleaned up the beach and the trading +crowd so spick and span that he would not permit them to smoke a pipe +out of doors on Sunday, and, fined one of the chief traders one hundred +gold sovereigns for washing his schooner’s decks on the Sabbath +morn.</p> +<p>“That was the time of the Blue Laws, but perhaps it was too +rigorous for King John. Off he packed the Methodists, one fine +day, exiled several hundred of his people to Samoa for sticking to Methodism, +and, of all things, invented a religion of his own, with himself the +figure-head of worship. In this he was aided and abetted by a +renegade Fijian. This lasted five years. Maybe he grew tired +of being God, or maybe it was because the Fijian decamped with the six +thousand pounds in the royal treasury; but at any rate the Second Reformed +Wesleyans got him, and his entire kingdom went Wesleyan. The pioneer +Wesleyan missionary he actually made prime minister, and what he did +to the trading crowd was a caution. Why, in the end, King John’s +kingdom was blacklisted and boycotted by the traders till the revenues +diminished to zero, the people went bankrupt, and King John couldn’t +borrow a shilling from his most powerful chief.</p> +<p>“By this time he was getting old, and philosophic, and tolerant, +and spiritually atavistic. He fired out the Second Reformed Wesleyans, +called back the exiles from Samoa, invited in the traders, held a general +love-feast, took the lid off, proclaimed religious liberty and high +tariff, and as for himself went back to the worship of his ancestors, +dug up the idols, reinstated a few octogenarian priests, and observed +the tabus. All of which was lovely for the traders, and prosperity +reigned. Of course, most of his subjects followed him back into +heathen worship. Yet quite a sprinkling of Catholics, Methodists +and Wesleyans remained true to their beliefs and managed to maintain +a few squalid, one-horse churches. But King John didn’t +mind, any more than did he the high times of the traders along the beach. +Everything went, so long as the taxes were paid. Even when his +wife, Queen Mamare, elected to become a Baptist, and invited in a little, +weazened, sweet-spirited, club-footed Baptist missionary, King John +did not object. All he insisted on was that these wandering religions +should be self-supporting and not feed a pennyworth’s out of the +royal coffers.</p> +<p>“And now the threads of my recital draw together in the paragon +of female exquisiteness - my Princess.”</p> +<p>Whiskers paused, placed carefully on the ground his half-full condensed +milk can with which he had been absently toying, and kissed the fingers +of his one hand audibly aloft.</p> +<p>“She was the daughter of Queen Mamare. She was the woman +wonderful. Unlike the Diana type of Polynesian, she was almost +ethereal. She <i>was</i> ethereal, sublimated by purity, as shy +and modest as a violet, as fragile-slender as a lily, and her eyes, +luminous and shrinking tender, were as asphodels on the sward of heaven. +She was all flower, and fire, and dew. Hers was the sweetness +of the mountain rose, the gentleness of the dove. And she was +all of good as well as all of beauty, devout in her belief in her mother’s +worship, which was the worship introduced by Ebenezer Naismith, the +Baptist missionary. But make no mistake. She was no mere +sweet spirit ripe for the bosom of Abraham. All of exquisite deliciousness +of woman was she. She was woman, all woman, to the last sensitive +quivering atom of her -</p> +<p>“And I? I was a wastrel of the beach. The wildest +was not so wild as I, the keenest not so keen, of all that wild, keen +trading crowd. It was esteemed I played the stiffest hand of poker. +I was the only living man, white, brown, or black, who dared run the +Kuni-kuni Passage in the dark. And on a black night I have done +it under reefs in a gale of wind. Well, anyway, I had a bad reputation +on a beach where there were no good reputations. I was reckless, +dangerous, stopped at nothing in fight or frolic; and the trading captains +used to bring boiler-sheeted prodigies from the vilest holes of the +South Pacific to try and drink me under the table. I remember +one, a calcined Scotchman from the New Hebrides. It was a great +drinking. He died of it, and we laded him aboard ship, pickled +in a cask of trade rum, and sent him back to his own place. A +sample, a fair sample, of the antic tricks we cut up on the beach of +Manatomana.</p> +<p>“And of all unthinkable things, what did I up and do, one day, +but look upon the Princess to find her good and to fall in love with +her. It was the real thing. I was as mad as a March hare, +and after that I got only madder. I reformed. Think of that! +Think of what a slip of a woman can do to a busy, roving man! - By the +Lord Harry, it’s true. I reformed. I went to church. +Hear me! I became converted. I cleared my soul before God +and kept my hands - I had two then - off the ribald crew of the beach +when it laughed at this, my latest antic, and wanted to know what was +my game.</p> +<p>“I tell you I reformed, and gave myself in passion and sincerity +to a religious experience that has made me tolerant of all religion +ever since. I discharged my best captain for immorality. +So did I my cook, and a better never boiled water in Manatomana. +For the same reason I discharged my chief clerk. And for the first +time in the history of trading my schooners to the westward carried +Bibles in their stock. I built a little anchorite bungalow up +town on a mango-lined street squarely alongside the little house occupied +by Ebenezer Naismith. And I made him my pal and comrade, and found +him a veritable honey pot of sweetnesses and goodnesses. And he +was a man, through and through a man. And he died long after like +a man, which I would like to tell you about, were the tale of it not +so deservedly long.</p> +<p>“It was the Princess, more than the missionary, who was responsible +for my expressing my faith in works, and especially in that crowning +work, the New Church, Our Church, the Queen-mother’s church.</p> +<p>“‘Our poor church,’ she said to me, one night after +prayer-meeting. I had been converted only a fortnight. ‘It +is so small its congregation can never grow. And the roof leaks. +And King John, my hard-hearted father, will not contribute a penny. +Yet he has a big balance in the treasury. And Manatomana is not +poor. Much money is made and squandered, I know. I hear +the gossip of the wild ways of the beach. Less than a month ago +you lost more in one night, gambling at cards, than the cost of the +upkeep of our poor church for a year.’</p> +<p>“And I told her it was true, but that it was before I had seen +the light. (I’d had an infernal run of bad luck.) +I told her I had not tasted liquor since, nor turned a card. I +told her that the roof would be repaired at once, by Christian carpenters +selected by her from the congregation. But she was filled with +the thought of a great revival that Ebenezer Naismith could preach - +she was a dear saint - and she spoke of a great church, saying:</p> +<p>“‘You are rich. You have many schooners, and traders +in far islands, and I have heard of a great contract you have signed +to recruit labour for the German plantations of Upolu. They say, +next to Sweitzer, you are the richest trader here. I should love +to see some use of all this money placed to the glory of God. +It would be a noble thing to do, and I should be proud to know the man +who would do it.’</p> +<p>“I told her that Ebenezer Naismith would preach the revival, +and that I would build a church great enough in which to house it.</p> +<p>“‘As big as the Catholic church?’ she asked.</p> +<p>“This was the ruined cathedral, built at the time when the +entire population was converted, and it was a large order; but I was +afire with love, and I told her that the church I would build would +be even bigger.</p> +<p>“‘But it will take money,’ I explained. ‘And +it takes time to make money.’</p> +<p>“‘You have much,’ she said. ‘Some say +you have more money than my father, the King.</p> +<p>“‘I have more credit,’ I explained. ‘But +you do not understand money. It takes money to have credit. +So, with the money I have, and the credit I have, I will work to make +more money and credit, and the church shall be built.’</p> +<p>“Work! I was a surprise to myself. It is an amazement, +the amount of time a man finds on his hands after he’s given up +carousing, and gambling, and all the time-eating diversions of the beach. +And I didn’t waste a second of all my new-found time. Instead +I worked it overtime. I did the work of half a dozen men. +I became a driver. My captains made faster runs than ever and +earned bigger bonuses, as did my supercargoes, who saw to it that my +schooners did not loaf and dawdle along the way. And I saw to +it that my supercargoes did see to it.</p> +<p>“And good! By the Lord Harry I was so good it hurt. +My conscience got so expansive and fine-strung it lamed me across the +shoulders to carry it around with me. Why, I even went back over +my accounts and paid Sweitzer fifty quid I’d jiggered him out +of in a deal in Fiji three years before. And I compounded the +interest as well.</p> +<p>“Work! I planted sugar cane - the first commercial planting +on Manatomana. I ran in cargoes of kinky-heads from Malaita, which +is in the Solomons, till I had twelve hundred of the blackbirds putting +in cane. And I sent a schooner clear to Hawaii to bring back a +dismantled sugar mill and a German who said he knew the field-end of +cane. And he did, and he charged me three hundred dollars screw +a month, and I took hold of the mill-end. I installed the mill +myself, with the help of several mechanics I brought up from Queensland.</p> +<p>“Of course there was a rival. His name was Motomoe. +He was the very highest chief blood next to King John’s. +He was full native, a strapping, handsome man, with a glowering way +of showing his dislikes. He certainly glowered at me when I began +hanging around the palace. He went back in my history and circulated +the blackest tales about me. The worst of it was that most of +them were true. He even made a voyage to Apia to find things out +- as if he couldn’t find a plenty right there on the beach of +Manatomana! And he sneered at my failing for religion, and at +my going to prayer-meeting, and, most of all, at my sugar-planting. +He challenged me to fight, and I kept off of him. He threatened +me, and I learned in the nick of time of his plan to have me knocked +on the head. You see, he wanted the Princess just as much as I +did, and I wanted her more.</p> +<p>“She used to play the piano. So did I, once. But +I never let her know after I’d heard her play the first time. +And she thought her playing was wonderful, the dear, fond girl! +You know the sort, the mechanical one-two-three tum-tum-tum school-girl +stuff. And now I’ll tell you something funnier. Her +playing <i>was</i> wonderful to me. The gates of heaven opened +to me when she played. I can see myself now, worn out and dog-tired +after the long day, lying on the mats of the palace veranda and gazing +upon her at the piano, myself in a perfect idiocy of bliss. Why, +this idea she had of her fine playing was the one flaw in her deliciousness +of perfection, and I loved her for it. It kind of brought her +within my human reach. Why, when she played her one-two-three, +tum-tum-tum, I was in the seventh heaven of bliss. My weariness +fell from me. I loved her, and my love for her was clean as flame, +clean as my love for God. And do you know, into my fond lover’s +fancy continually intruded the thought that God in most ways must look +like her.</p> +<p>“ - That’s right, Bruce Cadogan Cavendish, sneer as you +like. But I tell you that’s love that I’ve been describing. +That’s all. It’s love. It’s the realest, +purest, finest thing that can happen to a man. And I know what +I’m talking about. It happened to me.”</p> +<p>Whiskers, his beady squirrel’s eye glittering from out his +ruined eyebrow like a live coal in a jungle ambush, broke off long enough +to down a sedative draught from his condensed milk can and to mix another.</p> +<p>“The cane,” he resumed, wiping his prodigious mat of +face hair with the back of his hand. “It matured in sixteen +months in that climate, and I was ready, just ready and no more, with +the mill for the grinding. Naturally, it did not all mature at +once, but I had planted in such succession that I could grind for nine +months steadily, while more was being planted and the ratoons were springing +up.</p> +<p>“I had my troubles the first several days. If it wasn’t +one thing the matter with the mill, it was another. On the fourth +day, Ferguson, my engineer, had to shut down several hours in order +to remedy his own troubles. I was bothered by the feeder. +After having the niggers (who had been feeding the cane) pour cream +of lime on the rollers to keep everything sweet, I sent them out to +join the cane-cutting squads. So I was all alone at that end, +just as Ferguson started up the mill, just as I discovered what was +the matter with the feed-rollers, and just as Motomoe strolled up.</p> +<p>“He stood there, in Norfolk jacket, pigskin puttees, and all +the rest of the fashionable get-up out of a bandbox, sneering at me +covered with filth and grease to the eyebrows and looking like a navvy. +And, the rollers now white from the lime, I’d just seen what was +wrong. The rollers were not in plumb. One side crushed the +cane well, but the other side was too open. I shoved my fingers +in on that side. The big, toothed cogs on the rollers did not +touch my fingers. And yet, suddenly, they did. With the +grip of ten thousand devils, my finger-tips were caught, drawn in, and +pulped to - well, just pulp. And, like a slick of cane, I had +started on my way. There was no stopping me. Ten thousand +horses could not have pulled me back. There was nothing to stop +me. Hand, arm, shoulder, head, and chest, down to the toes of +me, I was doomed to feed through.</p> +<p>“It did hurt. It hurt so much it did not hurt me at all. +Quite detached, almost may I say, I looked on my hand being ground up, +knuckle by knuckle, joint by joint, the back of the hand, the wrist, +the forearm, all in order slowly and inevitably feeding in. O +engineer hoist by thine own petard! O sugar-maker crushed by thine +own cane-crusher!</p> +<p>“Motomoe sprang forward involuntarily, and the sneer was chased +from his face by an expression of solicitude. Then the beauty +of the situation dawned on him, and he chuckled and grinned. No, +I didn’t expect anything of him. Hadn’t he tried to +knock me on the head? What could he do anyway? He didn’t +know anything about engines.</p> +<p>“I yelled at the top of my lungs to Ferguson to shut off the +engine, but the roar of the machinery drowned my voice. And there +I stood, up to the elbow and feeding right on in. Yes, it did +hurt. There were some astonishing twinges when special nerves +were shredded and dragged out by the roots. But I remember that +I was surprised at the time that it did not hurt worse.</p> +<p>“Motomoe made a movement that attracted my attention. +At the same time he growled out loud, as if he hated himself, ‘I’m +a fool.’ What he had done was to pick up a cane-knife - +you know the kind, as big as a machete and as heavy. And I was +grateful to him in advance for putting me out of my misery. There +wasn’t any sense in slowly feeding in till my head was crushed, +and already my arm was pulped half way from elbow to shoulder, and the +pulping was going right on. So I was grateful, as I bent my head +to the blow.</p> +<p>“‘Get your head out of the way, you idiot!’ he +barked at me.</p> +<p>“And then I understood and obeyed. I was a big man, and +he took two hacks to do it; but he hacked my arm off just outside the +shoulder and dragged me back and laid me down on the cane.</p> +<p>“Yes, the sugar paid - enormously; and I built for the Princess +the church of her saintly dream, and . . . she married me.”</p> +<p>He partly assuaged his thirst, and uttered his final word.</p> +<p>“Alackaday! Shuttlecock and battle-dore. And this +at, the end of it all, lined with boilerplate that even alcohol will +not corrode and that only alcohol will tickle. Yet have I lived, +and I kiss my hand to the dear dust of my Princess long asleep in the +great mausoleum of King John that looks across the Vale of Manona to +the alien flag that floats over the bungalow of the British Government +House. . . ”</p> +<p>Fatty pledged him sympathetically, and sympathetically drank out +of his own small can. Bruce Cadogan Cavendish glared into the +fire with implacable bitterness. He was a man who preferred to +drink by himself. Across the thin lips that composed the cruel +slash of his mouth played twitches of mockery that caught Fatty’s +eye. And Fatty, making sure first that his rock-chunk was within +reach, challenged.</p> +<p>“Well, how about yourself, Bruce Cadogan Cavendish? It’s +your turn.”</p> +<p>The other lifted bleak eyes that bored into Fatty’s until he +physically betrayed uncomfortableness.</p> +<p>“I’ve lived a hard life,” Slim grated harshly. +“What do I know about love passages?”</p> +<p>“No man of your build and make-up could have escaped them,” +Fatty wheedled.</p> +<p>“And what of it?” Slim snarled. “It’s +no reason for a gentleman to boast of amorous triumphs.”</p> +<p>“Oh, go on, be a good fellow,” Fatty urged. “The +night’s still young. We’ve still some drink left. +Delarouse and I have contributed our share. It isn’t often +that three real ones like us get together for a telling. Surely +you’ve got at least one adventure in love you aren’t ashamed +to tell about - ”</p> +<p>Bruce Cadogan Cavendish pulled forth his iron quoit and seemed to +debate whether or not he should brain the other. He sighed, and +put back the quoit.</p> +<p>“Very well, if you will have it,” he surrendered with +manifest reluctance. “Like you two, I have had a remarkable +constitution. And right now, speaking of armour-plate lining, +I could drink the both of you down when you were at your prime. +Like you two, my beginnings were far distant and different. That +I am marked with the hall-mark of gentlehood there is no discussion +. . . unless either of you care to discuss the matter now . . . ”</p> +<p>His one hand slipped into his pocket and clutched the quoit. +Neither of his auditors spoke nor betrayed any awareness of his menace.</p> +<p>“It occurred a thousand miles to the westward of Manatomana, +on the island of Tagalag,” he continued abruptly, with an air +of saturnine disappointment in that there had been no discussion. +“But first I must tell you of how I got to Tagalag. For +reasons I shall not mention, by paths of descent I shall not describe, +in the crown of my manhood and the prime of my devilishness in which +Oxford renegades and racing younger sons had nothing on me, I found +myself master and owner of a schooner so well known that she shall remain +historically nameless. I was running blackbird labour from the +west South Pacific and the Coral Sea to the plantations of Hawaii and +the nitrate mines of Chili - ”</p> +<p>“It was you who cleaned out the entire population of - ” +Fatty exploded, ere he could check his speech.</p> +<p>The one hand of Bruce Cadogan Cavendish flashed pocketward and flashed +back with the quoit balanced ripe for business.</p> +<p>“Proceed,” Fatty sighed. “I . . . I have +quite forgotten what I was going to say.”</p> +<p>“Beastly funny country over that way,” the narrator drawled +with perfect casualness. “You’ve read this Sea Wolf +stuff - ”</p> +<p>“You weren’t the Sea Wolf,” Whiskers broke in with +involuntary positiveness.</p> +<p>“No, sir,” was the snarling answer. “The +Sea Wolf’s dead, isn’t he? And I’m still alive, +aren’t I?”</p> +<p>“Of course, of course,” Whiskers conceded. “He +suffocated head-first in the mud off a wharf in Victoria a couple of +years back.”</p> +<p>“As I was saying - and I don’t like interruptions,” +Bruce Cadogan Cavendish proceeded, “it’s a beastly funny +country over that way. I was at Taki-Tiki, a low island that politically +belongs to the Solomons, but that geologically doesn’t at all, +for the Solomons are high islands. Ethnographically it belongs +to Polynesia, Melanesia, and Micronesia, because all the breeds of the +South Pacific have gravitated to it by canoe-drift and intricately, +degeneratively, and amazingly interbred. The scum of the scrapings +of the bottom of the human pit, biologically speaking, resides in Taka-Tiki. +And I know the bottom and whereof I speak.</p> +<p>“It was a beastly funny time of it I had, diving out shell, +fishing beche-de-mer, trading hoop-iron and hatchets for copra and ivory-nuts, +running niggers and all the rest of it. Why, even in Fiji the +Lotu was having a hard time of it and the chiefs still eating long-pig. +To the westward it was fierce - funny little black kinky-heads, man-eaters +the last Jack of them, and the jackpot fat and spilling over with wealth +- ”</p> +<p>“Jack-pots?” Fatty queried. At sight of an irritable +movement, he added: “You see, I never got over to the West like +Delarouse and you.”</p> +<p>“They’re all head-hunters. Heads are valuable, +especially a white man’s head. They decorate the canoe-houses +and devil-devil houses with them. Each village runs a jack-pot, +and everybody antes. Whoever brings in a white man’s head +takes the pot. If there aren’t openers for a long time, +the pot grows to tremendous proportions. Beastly funny, isn’t +it?</p> +<p>“I know. Didn’t a Holland mate die on me of blackwater? +And didn’t I win a pot myself? It was this way. We +were lying at Lango-lui at the time. I never let on, and arranged +the affair with Johnny, my boat-steerer. He was a kinky-head himself +from Port Moresby. He cut the dead mate’s head off and sneaked +ashore in the might, while I whanged away with my rifle as if I were +trying to get him. He opened the pot with the mate’s head, +and got it, too. Of course, next day I sent in a landing boat, +with two covering boats, and fetched him off with the loot.”</p> +<p>“How big was the pot?” Whiskers asked. “I +heard of a pot at Orla worth eighty quid.”</p> +<p>“To commence with,” Slim answered, “there were +forty fat pigs, each worth a fathom of prime shell-money, and shell-money +worth a quid a fathom. That was two hundred dollars right there. +There were ninety-eight fathoms of shell-money, which is pretty close +to five hundred in itself. And there were twenty-two gold sovereigns. +I split it four ways: one-fourth to Johnny, one-fourth to the ship, +one-fourth to me as owner, and one-fourth to me as skipper. Johnny +never complained. He’d never had so much wealth all at one +time in his life. Besides, I gave him a couple of the mate’s +old shirts. And I fancy the mate’s head is still there decorating +the canoe-house.”</p> +<p>“Not exactly Christian burial of a Christian,” Whiskers +observed.</p> +<p>“But a lucrative burial,” Slim retorted. “I +had to feed the rest of the mate over-side to the sharks for nothing. +Think of feeding an eight-hundred-dollar head along with it. It +would have been criminal waste and stark lunacy.</p> +<p>“Well, anyway, it was all beastly funny, over there to the +westward. And, without telling you the scrape I got into at Taki-Tiki, +except that I sailed away with two hundred kinky-heads for Queensland +labour, and for my manner of collecting them had two British ships of +war combing the Pacific for me, I changed my course and ran to the westward +thinking to dispose of the lot to the Spanish plantations on Bangar.</p> +<p>“Typhoon season. We caught it. The <i>Merry Mist</i> +was my schooner’s name, and I had thought she was stoutly built +until she hit that typhoon. I never saw such seas. They +pounded that stout craft to pieces, literally so. The sticks were +jerked out of her, deckhouses splintered to match-wood, rails ripped +off, and, after the worst had passed, the covering boards began to go. +We just managed to repair what was left of one boat and keep the schooner +afloat only till the sea went down barely enough to get away. +And we outfitted that boat in a hurry. The carpenter and I were +the last, and we had to jump for it as he went down. There were +only four of us - ”</p> +<p>“Lost all the niggers?” Whiskers inquired.</p> +<p>“Some of them swam for some time,” Slim replied. +“But I don’t fancy they made the land. We were ten +days’ in doing it. And we had a spanking breeze most of +the way. And what do you think we had in the boat with us? +Cases of square-face gin and cases of dynamite. Funny, wasn’t +it? Well, it got funnier later on. Oh, there was a small +beaker of water, a little salt horse, and some salt-water-soaked sea +biscuit - enough to keep us alive to Tagalag.</p> +<p>“Now Tagalag is the disappointingest island I’ve ever +beheld. It shows up out of the sea so as you can make its fall +twenty miles off. It is a volcano cone thrust up out of deep sea, +with a segment of the crater wall broken out. This gives sea entrance +to the crater itself, and makes a fine sheltered harbour. And +that’s all. Nothing lives there. The outside and the +inside of the crater are too steep. At one place, inside, is a +patch of about a thousand coconut palms. And that’s all, +as I said, saving a few insects. No four-legged thing, even a +rat, inhabits the place. And it’s funny, most awful funny, +with all those coconuts, not even a coconut crab. The only meat-food +living was schools of mullet in the harbour - fattest, finest, biggest +mullet I ever laid eyes on.</p> +<p>“And the four of us landed on the little beach and set up housekeeping +among the coconuts with a larder full of dynamite and square-face. +Why don’t you laugh? It’s funny, I tell you. +Try it some time. - Holland gin and straight coconut diet. I’ve +never been able to look a confectioner’s window in the face since. +Now I’m not strong on religion like Chauncey Delarouse there, +but I have some primitive ideas; and my concept of hell is an illimitable +coconut plantation, stocked with cases of square-face and populated +by ship-wrecked mariners. Funny? It must make the devil +scream.</p> +<p>“You know, straight coconut is what the agriculturists call +an unbalanced ration. It certainly unbalanced our digestions. +We got so that whenever hunger took an extra bite at us, we took another +drink of gin. After a couple of weeks of it, Olaf, a squarehead +sailor, got an idea. It came when he was full of gin, and we, +being in the same fix, just watched him shove a cap and short fuse into +a stick of dynamite and stroll down toward the boat.</p> +<p>“It dawned on me that he was going to shoot fish if there were +any about; but the sun was beastly hot, and I just reclined there and +hoped he’d have luck.</p> +<p>“About half an hour after he disappeared we heard the explosion. +But he didn’t come back. We waited till the cool of sunset, +and down on the beach found what had become of him. The boat was +there all right, grounded by the prevailing breeze, but there was no +Olaf. He would never have to eat coconut again. We went +back, shakier than ever, and cracked another square-face.</p> +<p>“The next day the cook announced that he would rather take +his chance with dynamite than continue trying to exist on coconut, and +that, though he didn’t know anything about dynamite, he knew a +sight too much about coconut. So we bit the detonator down for +him, shoved in a fuse, and picked him a good fire-stick, while he jolted +up with a couple more stiff ones of gin.</p> +<p>“It was the same programme as the day before. After a +while we heard the explosion and at twilight went down to the boat, +from which we scraped enough of the cook for a funeral.</p> +<p>“The carpenter and I stuck it out two days more, then we drew +straws for it and it was his turn. We parted with harsh words; +for he wanted to take a square-face along to refresh himself by the +way, while I was set against running any chance of wasting the gin. +Besides, he had more than he could carry then, and he wobbled and staggered +as he walked.</p> +<p>“Same thing, only there was a whole lot of him left for me +to bury, because he’d prepared only half a stick. I managed +to last it out till next day, when, after duly fortifying myself, I +got sufficient courage to tackle the dynamite. I used only a third +of a stick - you know, short fuse, with the end split so as to hold +the head of a safety match. That’s where I mended my predecessors’ +methods. Not using the match-head, they’d too-long fuses. +Therefore, when they spotted a school of mullet; and lighted the fuse, +they had to hold the dynamite till the fuse burned short before they +threw it. If they threw it too soon, it wouldn’t go off +the instant it hit the water, while the splash of it would frighten +the mullet away. Funny stuff dynamite. At any rate, I still +maintain mine was the safer method.</p> +<p>“I picked up a school of mullet before I’d been rowing +five minutes. Fine big fat ones they were, and I could smell them +over the fire. When I stood up, fire-stick in one hand, dynamite +stick in the other, my knees were knocking together. Maybe it +was the gin, or the anxiousness, or the weakness and the hunger, and +maybe it was the result of all of them, but at any rate I was all of +a shake. Twice I failed to touch the fire-stick to the dynamite. +Then I did, heard the match-head splutter, and let her go.</p> +<p>“Now I don’t know what happened to the others, but I +know what I did. I got turned about. Did you ever stem a +strawberry and throw the strawberry away and pop the stem into your +mouth? That’s what I did. I threw the fire-stick into +the water after the mullet and held on to the dynamite. And my +arm went off with the stick when it went off. . . . ”</p> +<p>Slim investigated the tomato-can for water to mix himself a drink, +but found it empty. He stood up.</p> +<p>“Heigh ho,” he yawned, and started down the path to the +river.</p> +<p>In several minutes he was back. He mixed the due quantity of +river slush with the alcohol, took a long, solitary drink, and stared +with bitter moodiness into the fire.</p> +<p>“Yes, but . . . ” Fatty suggested. “What +happened then?”</p> +<p>“Oh,” sad Slim. “Then the princess married +me, of course.”</p> +<p>“But you were the only person left, and there wasn’t +any princess . . . ” Whiskers cried out abruptly, and then +let his voice trail away to embarrassed silence.</p> +<p>Slim stared unblinkingly into the fire.</p> +<p>Percival Delaney and Chauncey Delarouse looked at each other. +Quietly, in solemn silence, each with his one arm aided the one arm +of the other in rolling and tying his bundle. And in silence, +bundles slung on shoulders, they went away out of the circle of firelight. +Not until they reached the top of the railroad embankment did they speak.</p> +<p>“No gentleman would have done it,” said Whiskers.</p> +<p>“No gentleman would have done it,” Fatty agreed.</p> +<p>Glen Ellen, California,<br /><i>September</i> 26, 1916.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE RED ONE ***</p> +<pre> + +******This file should be named tred110h.htm or tred110h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, tred111h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tred110ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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