The Cosmopolitan 1905-05: Vol 39 Iss 1

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1) /. OF MiCHE.« ss RESTLING? YE" UNTSU " OPO K ZK KDM<M ODI Editorial. Just to be Out of Doors. (Pozm.) Illustrated by George T. Tobin. CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN Frontispiece. William L. Jacobs The Philosophy of Staying in Harness. Iiustrated JAMES H. CANFIELD HY The Occultation of Florian Amidon, Itustruted by Or= iy son Lowell. HERBERT QUICK z A Subterranean Romance. Ilustrated by William L, Jacobs, KATHARINE PERRY American Wrestling vs. Jujitsu. Zéustrated H. F. LEONARD K. HIGASHI Dagonet. (Pozm.) LUCILE RUTLAND Hunting with a Camera. Illustrated J. MACLAIR BORASTON The Cook and the Captain. IuUustrated by George Gibbs MORGAN ROBERTSON The Solvent. IUustrated by Will Grefé INEZ HAYNES GILLMORE * A West Indian Cruise. IW@ustrated T. JENKINS HAINS Great Industries of the United States. X.—Coal. Jéus- trated. WILLIAM R, STEWART A Sucker, JWustrated by W. Glackens H. R. DURANT A Prayer. (roe&m.) WINFRED CHANDLER A Modern “Swiss Family Robinson” JOHN BRISBEN WALKER The Great Sieges of History.—Belgrade; Malta; Vienna. Tuustrated. cyRuS TOWNSEND BRADY Men, Women and Events. Jlustrated EDITED BY JOHN BRISBEN WALKER _ PRICE TEN CENTS

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FOR EVERYBODY AT HOME witty HAND ) SAPOLIO| : The Baby y because it is so soft and ae feb its oarnne siin. The 7 : | School Boy, | ee, § because its use en- sures him “perfect . mee in neatness. -' Big Sister, y because it a her + Ginkblex- fon and hands soft and pretty. - The busy Mother, ‘because it Keeps | her hands young | and pretty in spite | of housework and The Fat hi & i, because it helps him to leave behine the ha = Grane of oaey work. ‘eas: onan. . because it Keeps the pores open, re- ate U a S s t a moves all. stains, , softens. the sKin, and aids its nat-- ural changes. THE SAFEST SOAP in EXISTENCE Is HAND SAPOLIO SHOULD BE ON EVERY WASHSTAND Copyright, 1905,-by Cosmopolitan Publishing House Entered at the post-office at Irvington, New York,’ as second-class mail matter wt

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T HE Manager of every organization must expect blunders, oversights and neglect upon the part of some, as the con- stants of his problem, They are regular fences in the course which he has set himself to cover. The soldier might as well complain of bullets on the battle- field, as the Manager of errors upon the part of his associates, He is there to over- come them by his own force and foresight, and by patience, and above all by clear thinking. Blunders upon the part of subordinates are conditions of success, not excuses for failure; and to name them is to be ridiculous. Suggested by, and in part paraphrased from North’s Plutarch » oo. —JOHN BRISBEN WALKER

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EAE NEPA LIE 5 LPR LET TE OE ST oe Pape ist ct APART TE Sai ib ‘DOORS OF 5 ‘JO-BE-O sUsT Go it a ie ih ok ioe lesen

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. dal the el half: foreseen es unde ee wil orese Mf, hha ] ek ear ot vamwveisal keen, } ¥e 3 y TRI Oe hors! So still So green breathed air, illimitable, clean, i Sth soft, sweet scent of happy growin things, - e leaves’ soft elt sound ‘of Sudden wings,” = ‘Whe far faint hills, the water wide between. 4 a pen Fa: of the great earthmother! Bere we leah: th no cohventions hard to intervene, Content, with the contentment nature brings, st to be out of doors. 1 come to meat W, at th is Jovely ets th Q uncouted strings af us, an any d one cl cake na $ . dish ot doors.’ pi #

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ER, Drawn by William L. Jacobs “HIS HAND CLOSED IMPULSIVELY OVER MY GLOVED FINGERS” (See “A Subterranean Romance,” page 27)

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SIERO RRS ARE Ra res Vor. XXXIX MAY, THE COSMOPOLITAN From every man according to his ability; to everv one according to his needs 1905 No. I THE PHILOSOPHY OF STAYING IN HARNESS By JAMES H. CANFIELD ITH the air full of chatter about the value or lack of value of men at certain ages, with an uncom- fortable odor of chloroform appreciable by many who still feel eager for the fray, and with a very unreasonable de- mand from a pastureful of unbroken colts that a lot of both wheel-horses and leaders should get out of the har- ness to ‘“‘make way’’ for themselves, it is surely timely to dis- cuss the phi- losophy of staying in harness, and staying in strenuously. This thesis proposes to defend the proposition that a normal man simply cannot go out of the harness if he _ tries, until his nat- ural powers are rapidly and _ percep- tibly nearing exhaustion; and _ further, that he ought not to try. To get at the very bot- tom of this question, we MARSHALL FIELD, Merchant Born in 1835: head of the largest dry-goods business in the : i need to wun- world, with every detail of which he keeps in intimatetouch animalism to Copyright, 1905, by COSMOPOLITAN PUBLISHING HOUSE derstand the origin of human activity. This is neither the time nor the place to discuss a possible high estate from which man fell, or the accuracy of those various theories classified under the somewhat indefinite term, Evolution. It is sufficient to say that all the ac- cepted results of approved investiga- tion tend to the conclusion that, no matter where or how he began, at one time (some certain though un- known time, and not such a very remote time meas- ured by the earth’s age) man was very low, at the very bottom of the scale of human life as distin- guished from animal life, even if it was distinguished at all; and that then and there began and has con- tinued an ascent of man —an ascent through that which was only slightly higher than | | |

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THE PHILOSOPHY OF STAYING IN HARNESS THEODORE L. CUYLER, Minister Born in 1822; at eighty-three is active in temperance and philanthropic work and in the ministry at large savagery, through savagery in constantly though slowly changing intensity and form to barbarism, and gradually on and up through barbarism to what we call civilization — another very indefinite term. Whatever may have been the force at work at any one time to secure these results, it seems to have been reasonably continuous in its action, to have been quite as much from within as from without, and apparently is still at work—itself perhaps modified and intensified by the changes which itself has wrought. In the study of the upward movement of man, as in all sane and healthful study of any movement, that which is evidently peculiar and unusual or abnormal may be safely omitted. This may have its effect, more or less transi- tory, but in the long run it counts for but little. It is not the blinding bril- liancy of the lightning which forces vegetation, but the steady influence of the sun—even though sometimes clouded. What we wish to know, therefore, is that which has determined what may be called the habitual con- duct of man, why he has kept on doing certain things through all these cycles of generations. We are not so much interested in his asides as in the more important lines of the play; we care less about his occasional straying from the beaten path of the centuries, whether it was to stand for a moment on some lofty height, or to become be- wildered and lost in the maze of a forest, or to flounder in some morass of beastly filthiness—we care less about all this than about the beaten path itself, and why he kept it even as faithfully as he did. What led him to choose it? and why has he so persistently followed it? and whither is it leading him?—these are our questions. TEP NN RIL BIRR REN SLOTS AGEING I > i k MS s

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ATR a LOANS TARGET NR pe Dae y NPLATE TELE THE PHILOSOPHY OF STAYING IN HARNESS JOHN MARSHALL HARLAN, Jurist Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court since 1877; born in 1833 In trying to answer these questions, we shall find that man’s upward move- ment appears to depend upon an accu- mulation of experimental knowledge. This has been acquired slowly. That which he retains as valuable and helpful has been determined by a process of rejection, after many trials and after many painful experiences. Man comes to the truth only after throwing aside many falsehoods, all too late found to be false; he learns his strength only after much weakness; he finds his true place in the world—if he has already found it—only by and after trying many places. All human _ progress seems to have followed close upon this increase of man’s knowledge; and knowl- edge is something more than informa- tion, since it implies comparison and selection. Upon the increase of man’s knowledge of the world about him, and of his own nature, all progress depends. Indeed, all progress has followed so close upon this knowledge, has seemed such an inevitable concomitant of such knowledge, that the latter appears to be an imperative prerequisite of progress. Yet another factor in progress must be noted, a factor quite as important and quite as potent as knowledge itself. The wings of a caged bird are useless, the swiftness of feet which are weighted and shackled is unavailing, the hopes and desires and ambitions of a slave are sheer madness. Man must have free use of his accumulated knowledge if it is to bring him the highest and most lasting benefits. Much may be done for him by others, and in many ways there always has been and always must be a wise and proper mutual inter- dependence between man and man. There have always been and there al- ways will be leaders of men, and the weak owe much to the strong, and the foolish

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THE PHILOSOPHY OF STAYING IN HARNESS MELVILLE W. FULLER, Jurist Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court; born in 1833 to the wise. But man must at least make his choice of leaders, since only with free and intelligent following is a leader successful and strong. But men are not born into leading-strings, and are best developed—really are only developed—by going alone; even though they often fall most pitiably; yes, even though some fall never to rise again. So it is not the increase of knowledge alone which insures progress, but there must be the free use of knowledge. That it must also be an intelligent use, goes without saying. No other use is safe. Indeed, freedom without intelligence is absolutely dangerous. Freedom unchains all the forces of man and of society, the bad as well as the good, the foolish as well as the wise, the frivolous as well as the sober. There is no real freedom without this result. We may punish an abuse of freedom of both choice and action, and folly and frivolity always bring all too swiftly their own penalties; but there must be freedom to abuse and to be foolish or there is really no freedom at all. So it happens that to men and communities and nations, freedom is safe only when there is stern and intelligent self-control —and so it has ever been. It is in this intelligence, this mental development and power, this self-con- trol, that man shows superiority over animals and all animalism. For the advance from mere animal life, this knowledge, this intelligence, this self- control, offer the only pathway. Man has never been able to surpass or even to equal the larger and higher animals on the lines of bodily strength. Indeed, it seems almost necessarily true that a comparison of physical conditions will show that civilized, educated and refined man is comparatively weaker than man as an animal. Be that as it

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THE PHILOSOPHY OF STAYING IN HARNESS LEVI P. MORTON, Banker and Statesman Born in 1824; though retired from active politics, is still a force in financial circles may, he is surely weaker than other animals, muscular strength being the sole standard. This is why he falls be- low the animal in wage-earning power when he competes with animals on their own ground. Many a man is not worth so much per day in the labor market as a good horse, because the man has nothing to offer but his muscle, and the horse has more muscle than the man. Still further, with men of little or no intelligence efficiency can be secured only by obedience and faithful- ness; and such men are often neither so intelligent as the horse nor so obedient and trustworthy; which lessens their economic and productive value. To develop intelligence, therefore, must be the prerequisite to an advance from the mere animal life which man seems to have once led. To fail in this de- velopment is to remain on the animal level. It is entirely proper to say ‘“‘is’’ to remain, because the statement is just as true to-day as it must have been in all the past. But we are seeking the inherent force, the motive-power, which has driven man forward through all these ages. The conditions under which all advance can be made and has been made, have just been set forth; but something more is needed—the general proposition is still incomplete. Knowledge, and the free and intelligent use of knowledge, predicate activity and energy. Whence do these come? We wish to know what in the life of man has been the source of such irresistible and uplifting power. That which seems to be the impelling force in man is his desire. To satisfy desire he puts forth energy—from the feeblest and crudest manifestations by which he hopes to prolong mere animal existence, to the most exalted efforts of the human soul to understand the

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Copyright, 1901, by Burr McIntosh THE PHILOSOPHY OF STAYING IN HARNESS JOSEPH JEFFERSON, Actor Although now playing for only a few weeks a year he is still an enthusiastic painter; born in 1829 illimitable and to master the eternal plans of the Infinite. It may be ac- cepted as an unquestioned truth that through all the ages, since man first was, he has been led or has been driven by his desires. The three controlling desires of every normal man seem to be: First, to live. Not merely to exist. Almost any one can exist in these days, and especially in this country of ours. Indeed, it sometimes seems that the problem of existence is only too easily solved, and we wish that some persons found it a rather more difficult task. Mere existence is so easy and so common that a failure to secure this becomes noteworthy: the starvation of a single person in a population of nearly eighty millions becomes at once such an item of news that it is wired from one end of the country to the otherand is commented upon by the daily press under special headlines. But the normal man desires something more than existence. He desires to live, in the sense that he wishes his fair share of those things which give color and meaning to his century. His home must be more than a mere shelter; it must be convenient and attractive and satisfying. His cloth- ing must be more than mere covering; it must be such as to spare him the un- favorable comment of his fellows. Steam and electricity must minister to him, directly or indirectly. The current press must be at his reasonable command. Of libraries and art-galleries and museums he must have the privilege of use, and his necessary labor must not deprive him of the opportunity of enjoying that privilege. He must be able to make his house a home by adding a hearth— and there is no hearth for a man but

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‘ THE PHILOSOPHY OF STAYING IN HARNESS CHARLES H. HASWELL, Engineer Born in 1809; though ninety-six years old, is now consulting engineer of the Board of Public Improvements of New York the heart of a woman. In a word, he must be able to live as a breadwinner and husband and father and good citizen ought to live. This is not only his own right, but the rightful demand of the welfare of the entire community. Second, tobe aman among men. He is not to be content while he remains unrecognized and unknown. He is not simply a unit to be counted, but a man to be weighed and reckoned with. He wishes to stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellows, to look level in the eyes of other men with a sense of equality and power, to feel that his experience and his observation and his resulting opinions are of value to the world and that the value is recognized, that men hesitate as to certain undertakings until they know where he stands. He will not admit that he is only a fraction of a man, but insists that he is at least one of the full integers which make up the sum of life. He is not to be a flint that never strikes fire. His nature desires and demands the esteem and the regard and even the affection of his fellows. Third, to do that which will endure. He will have no part in oblivion, he is unwilling to be forgotten, he cannot abide the thought that his work is to perish, that all that to which he has given his time and strength and thought and power comes to an end simply be- cause his body dies. He wishes to pro- ject his temper and his purpose and his plans into the future, to find in this way and even here the beginnings of immortality, so to labor that at least a part of his finite product may be worthy to be woven in and in with the divine plan and thus become lasting and infinite. These three desires or groups of de- sires are found in every normal man. And in these three in each living being

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THE PHILOSOPHY OF STAYING IN HARNESS HENRY GASSAWAY DAVIS, Capitalist Born in 1823; displayed his activity in harness during the presidential campaign of 1904 is mirrored the whole history of the development of man, just as the whole landscape may be mirrored in a single drop of morning dew. Man has been driven or led, therefore, by these desires. In man, desire breeds desire. In fact, one of the chief dif- ferences between man and the brute is that the desires of the latter have neither increased nor changed, so far as can be determined. But the normal, legitimate desire of man seems to be without limit, feeds directly upon satis- faction, and grows more intense and more varied with the passing years. Abnormal, illegitimate desire burns it- self out within the lifetime of a single individual; its satisfactions become weaker and weaker until they finally turn to loathing, and the desire itself pitiably dies. Man’s activity, his willingness to put forth effort, depends largely upon his ability to satisfy these desires. That is, effort has always been conditioned upon, and has generally been commen- surate with, the results of effort and the certainty of these results. Hopelessness certainly means inertia. All training, whether that which comes with and from experience, or that which is in a sense more artificial and is the result of what we call educa- tion, quickens and multiplies desires, and by a sort of reflex action increases man’s efficiency to satisfy. This action and reaction of desire and satisfaction leads man to that state or condition which we now call civilization. This as we know it to-day is the direct result of desire in the many, of intelligent and effective desire in the many. And all this, marvelous as growth and change have been, is but the very beginning. Man’s ‘unsatisfied desires were never so many nor so powerful as to-day.

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THE PHILOSOPHY OF STAYING IN HARNESS THOMAS COLLIER PLATT, Politician Born in 1833; his leadership of the Republican party in New York state has not yet been successfully disputed The converse of all this, very simple indeed, is that in the normal man activ- ity will decline only as desire weakens, and will cease, can cease, only when desire dies. Satisfaction simply quick- ens and intensifies legitimate desire, so there is nothing in success which lessens activity. To most men there comes a time when the pleasure of satisfaction is overbalanced by the pain of effort, due to either mental or physical weari- ness and weakness. Whenever this occurs, it is Nature’s warning of the beginning of the end, and should be heeded. If Nature so speaks to a man in middle life, a period of rest and recreation (re-creation) may rekindle desire and stir activity anew. But when the warning comes late in life, further struggle is useless, and one may as well begin to gather the drapery of his last couch about him and prepare to lie down to pleasant dreams. But until this time comes, a normal man cannot get out of the harness —using these words to express intelli- gent and well-regulated activity, a def- inite purpose, methodical effort. With very rare and brilliant exceptions, he is necessarily and always a man of limited horizon, of narrow circle, whose entire time and strength go, lifelong, to his vocation. Every man should have at least one avocation, to which he may turn for that change of life-current which is far more restful than mere idleness. Some acceptance of civic responsibility, some form of public service, some in- tellectual diversion, should always be in hand; growing larger and more generous, more valuable, more engross- ing, with passing years. It may be that in middle life the avocation will claim quite as much time and strength as the vocation, and it may even happen that in later years the last shall be first and

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THE PHILOSOPHY OF STAYING IN HARNESS RUSSELL SAGE, Financier Born in 1816; is a director in no fewer than twenty-four large New York corporations the first shall be last, in interest and devotion. But the harness which en- ables one to pull his full share of life’s load, to render his full share of service, should never be taken off—can never be laid aside while any measure of de- sire and ability to satisfy desire re- mains. All this talk of ‘‘stepping out and giving the young men a chance’’ is supremest folly. The young men never have ‘‘a chance’”’ equal to the opportunity of working side by side with those rich in experience, in that wisdom which comes from practical trial. Volunteers under fire are steadied by veterans, and a shrewd man always drives colts with older horses. Counsel and action, wis- dom and energy, age and youth, mixed in proper proportions, secure the finest results. Men who have grown selfish and nar- row and stubborn and hard, and are ob- stacles in the path of all progress, may not be quoted to the contrary of this general contention, since these are ab- normal—are excrescences rather than a part of natural growth, and should be dealt with as such. But the rule should be and is that men grow sweeter as they ripen, larger with increase of days, and constantly of more value to themselves and to the world—and to themselves because to the world. This value should not be lessened and this service should not be minimized by any short-sighted, foolish sentiment about ‘“‘giving place to others.’’ The world has crying need of all men, with all their faculties and powers most wisely and intelligently and unselfishly and effectively active, through all possible length of days. There can be no overproduction in this direction. Any other than the most complete and long-continued development of the whole man, and of every man, weakens and impoverishes ali men.

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THE OCCULTATION OF FLORIAN AMIDON By HERBERT QUICK SYNOPSIS.—The opening instalment relates how Florian Amidon, banker in a small Western city, starts on a short journey in June, 1896, leaves the train at a junction and knows nothing more until he awakes in a sleeping-car approaching New York city, in February, 1901. He discovers that he has the clothes and other effects of a Eugene Brassfield, oil-dealer, of Bellevale, Pennsylvania. To add to the dilemma, in Amidon’s pockets are love-letters signed ‘‘Elizabeth.’’ Arriving in New York, he visits an ‘‘ occultist,’’ Mme. le Claire, and her father, Professor Blatherwick, who diagnose the case as one of dual personality and proceed to restore Amidon to the Brassfield consciousness in order to investigate the mystery. VI regarded by the masculine reader of the THE JONES PLANE OF MENTALITY unregenerate sort (though to such far be My lady’s eyes it from me to appeal!) as an operation Ensphere the skies, at all painful. But Mr. Amidon was Abound in lovely mysteries: not of the unregenerate sort. Behind their bars “Now,” said Mme. le Claire, ‘“‘sit Are pent the stars, x xi Ae 4 f Warm Venus’ glow, the shafts of Mars. down in the ar chair, and in a few minutes you will feel a sensation of ‘ ky ni g s : a re oe drowsiness. Soon you willsleep. Think Shut in my sight: , One glance revealed the source of light! with all your power that you are to Now, to be wise sleep.”’ Or gay, I rise, She was sitting in a very high chair, ing i lady’ s! ; REE SO Ss ee he in a low one, so that her eyes were —Song from The Oculist. . . above his. ‘The professor was blent with HE process of bringing the ‘Jones the shadows of some corner, in silent plane of mentality’? uppermost self-effacement, with a note-book in his in Mr. Amidon would not have been hand.

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Amidon tried to think with all his power that he was to sleep; but the lights and shadows and depths of the woman’s eyes drew all thoughts to them. Uncle Toby, looking for the mote in the eye of the Widow Wadman, must have felt as did our wandering Florian. Never before had he noted for more than a fleeting glance the light that lies in woman’s eyes. Now those limpid orbs met his in a regard, kindly, steady, eloquent of unutterable things. He noted the dark, arched, ebon sweep of the eyebrow, the long, dark lashes curved daintily upward, the shining whiteness in the corners, and the wondrous irises. The gray was dark like a moonlit sky; the other like the same sky flecked with clouds, and filled with the golden smoke of some far-off conflagration; and at the inner margin of both, the black of the dilated pupils seemed to spread out into the iris in. rays of feathery blackness. They seemed to him like twin worlds—great, capacious, mysterious, alluring, absorb- ing. Behind the feathery curtains of those irises lay all the lovely things of which he had ever thought or dreamed —the things which sculptors and poets and painters see, and seek to express. And without changing his gaze, he saw below the eyes the downy cheek, and the red lips so sweetly curved. A new thrill ran through the man, and a new light came into his eyes. Mme. le Claire blushed. “Are you thinking,’’ said she, ‘‘of going to sleep?’’ “I beg your pardon,” said he; “I was thinking—I am afraid I was not!”’ “Try again,’’ said she; ‘‘and please control your thoughts. Think that you —are—going—to sleep. To sleep Sleep! Sleep! Slee—ee—eep!”’ Now Amidon’s eyes sought hers again, and held there; and the twin worlds, sphered in some slowly turning orbit, seemed swinging in their native space. Now the cheeks and hair and mouth came out in their places, returning to distinctness like features of a face on a screen. Now the eyes became twin stars again, casting on him once more the effulgence of their binary glow. HERBERT QUICK—FICTION 17 And now eyes and face and hair, and Mme. le Claire—all passed away; and Florian Amidon became as naught, and the tigrine lady and the faded professor played with the thing which had been he, as upon a machine. The pillar of Hazelhurst society, the banker now five years lost, the bewildered wretch of the sleeping-car, was now, by his own act, given over as passively as some inert instrument, body and soul, to the guid- ance and manipulation of this shady “occultist’’ not four hours known to him —while outside droned the muffled roar of the human cyclone which sweeps and whirls and eddies through Manhattan. So stripped of stability was the pillar, that he was now a mere feather of humanity, self-abandoned to the clasp of the storm of the modern Babylon. Mme. le Claire questioned, Amidon an- swered (or Something answered for him), and Professor Blatherwick wrote in his book—wrote the data of ‘‘te Chones blane of mentality.”’ “Dis iss enough,’’ said the professor, “for vunce. Pring him to!’’ Mme le Claire leaned back, gave her subject a long look, and then, walking to him, took his head tenderly in her hands. With the left, she held his forehead; the fingers of the right crept insinuatingly among the curls resting upon his neck, swept thence over to his brow, and down across his eyelids, closing them; and Amidon sat, sense- less as a statue, and almost as still. “Right!’’ said Mme. le Claire, sharply. ‘““Wake!’’ Amidon opened his eyes wearily. ‘‘When are you going to begin?”’ said he. “Ve are t’rough,’’ said the professor. “Ve know it all.”’ ‘‘And Brassfield? Did I——?’’ ‘You have done him notting,’’ said the professor. ‘‘You are all recht. You need not fear e “And Elizabeth?’’ suggested Amidon, as passing to the thing of next impor- tance. “It is near morning,’’ said Mme. le Claire, ‘‘and you are prostrated. We are all very tired. Aaron must take you to your hotel. You must sleep. 2 1 i j

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Never fear, no harm is coming to you. When you wake, come to me, and I will tell you all about it—‘All Mysteries Solved,’ you know. Good night: you will sleep late in the morning.”’ VII ENTER THE LEGAL MIND The need of lucre never looms so large As when 'tis gotten in some devious way: It mitigates the blackness of the charge That every nether levél yielded pay. The man who dares e’en to the prison’s marge Should bring baek what he went for—or should stay! The need of lucre never looms so large As when 'tis gotten in some devious way. Men can o’erlook the stain upon the targe, If from its boss the jewel shoots its ray; Or blood upon the pirate’s sable barge Covered by silks’ and satins’ bright array— The need of lucre never looms so large As when ‘tis gotten in some devious way! —Rondels to R——r. Morning passed to noon, and the day aged into afternoon, before Amidon rose from the deep sleep which (according to Le Olaire’s prediction) followed his evening with her and the professor. With that odd sense of bewilderment which the early riser feels at this violation of habit, he went into the café for his be- lated breakfast. Impatient to finish the meal so that he might haste to the promised interview, he studied the menu, and with his eye scouted the room for a waiter—failing to bestow even the slightest glance on a man seated oppo- site. This fact, however, did not prevent the stranger from scrutinizing Amidon’s face, his dress, and even his hands, as if each minutest detail were vitally im- portant. He even dropped his napkin so as to make an excuse for looking under the table, and thus getting a good view of Florian’s boots. Finally he spoke, as if continuing a broken-off conversa- tion. “As I said a while ago,’’ he remarked, “Browning falls short of being a poet, just as a marble-cutter falls short of being a sculptor. You were quoting ‘Love Among the Ruins,’ as the trein stopped at Elm Springs Junction; or was it ‘Evelyn’ ig Amidon’s eyes, during this apparently

THE OCCULTATION OF FLORIAN AMIDON—FICTION

aimless disquisition, had been drawn from his meal to the speaker. He saw an elderly gentleman, clothed in the black frock-coat and black tie of the rural lawyer of the old school. His eyes shot keen and kindly glances from the deep ambush of great white brows, and his mouth was hidden under a snowy mustache. His features made up for a somewhat marked poverty of shape by a luxuriance of ruddy color, the culminating point of which was to be found in the broad and fleshy nose. His voice, soft and gentle when he began, swelled out, as he spoke, into something of the orator’s orotund. When Amidon looked at him, the speaker returned the gaze in full measure, and leaning across the table, pointed his finger at his audi- tor, and slowly uttered the words, ‘‘—as —the train—stopped—at—Elm Springs Junction!”’ “Why, Judge Blodgett!’ exclaimed Amidon, ‘‘can this be you!’’ “Can it be I?’’ exclaimed the judge. “Can it be me! No difficulty about that. Never mind the handshaking just yet—after a while, maybe. When it comes to the can-it-be part, how about you? How about the past five years, and Jennie Baggs keeping a place for you every meal for all this time, up to the present hour? I tell you, Florian, letting me down in that case of Amidon vs. Cattermole, without a scrap of evi- dence, and getting me licked by a young practitioner who studied in my office, was bad—was damnable ; but an only sister, Florian! and not one word in five years!’’ “She’s well, then, Jennie is?’’ “She’s as well, Florian, as a woman with the sorrow you’ve brought to her, and the mother of two infants, can be. But why do you ask?—why do you ask? —why is it necessary to go through the work of surplusage of asking?”’ “Children, eh?’’ said Florian. ‘‘Good for Jennie! And how’s Baggs?’’ “Oh, Baggs, yes—why, Baggs has come through it all with his health about unimpaired, Baggs has! But no Baggs court of inquiry is going to switch me off the examination I’m now con- ducting; and I tell you, Mr. Amidon,

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eras epee DENN BN EO you can’t dodge me. What double life took you away from home, and property, and everything?”’ “Judge Blodgett,’’ said Mr. Amidon, in that low voice which with the English language as the medium of communi- cation is known as the danger-signal the world over, ‘‘the term ‘double life’ has a meaning which is insulting. Don’t use it again.’ ‘Well, well, Florian,’’ said the judge, evidently pleased, ‘‘sustaining the mo- tion to strike that out, the question remains. You aren’t obliged to answer, Drawn by Orson Lowell “Elizabeth Waldron, .. . you know; but you know, too, what not answering it means?’’ ‘““Judge,’’ said Amidon, after a long pause, ‘‘to say that I don’t know where I have been, or what I have been doing, since June 27, 1896, until yesterday morning when I came to my senses in a moving sleeping-car, won’t satisfy you; but it’s the truth.’’ The judge looked off toward the ceil- ing in the manner of a jurist considering some complex argument, but was silent. “Now I have found a way,” said Amidon, “of finding out all about this. Come with me, and let’s find out. HERBERT QUICK—FICTION 19 There may be complications; I may need your help. You are the one man in all the world that I was just wishing for.’”’ “Complications, eh?’ said the judge. ‘“‘Well, well! Let us see!’’ And now he dropped into the old manner so well known to his companion as his office style. Piece by piece, he drew from Amidon his story. He dropped back to previous parts of the narrative, and elicited repetitions. He slurred over crucial points as if he did not see their bearing, and then artfully full of the wise unwisdom of Smith and twenty-three” assumed minute variations of the tale, but was always corrected. “The prosecution is obliged to rest its case,’’ said he, at last. ‘‘You’re not crazy, or all my studies in diseases of the mind have done me no good. Your story hangs together as no fiction could. To believe you, brands us both as luna- tics. Come on and let’s see what your mesmerist frauds have to say. Asa specialist in facts, I’m a drowning man catching at a straw. Come on: mes- merism, or astrology, or Moqui snake- dance, it’s all one to me!”’ Up the stairs again, this time with

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20 Judge Blodgett, warily snuffing the air, and shy of both Bohemia and Benares. Into the presence of Mme. le Claire, now gowned appropriately for the morning, and looking—extraordinary, it is true, with her particolored hair and luminous eyes, but—not so jungly as when she greeted the despairing sight of Amidon the night before. “Madam, and sir,’’ said the judge, “as Mr. Amidon’s friend and legal ad- viser, I am here to protect his interests.”’ “So! Goot!’’ said the professor. ‘‘Bud te matter unter gonsideration is psy- chical, nod beguniary. Howefer, if you are interested in te realm of te supliminal, if you care for mental sci- ence a “Sir,’’ said the judge, ‘I may almost claim to be a specialist (so far as a country practitioner is permitted to specialize) in senile and paretic de- mentia, since I had the honor to repre- sent the proponents in the will case of Snoke vs. Snoke. But it’s only fair to say that I regard hypnotism as humbug, only fair.’’ “Goot, goot!’’ said the professor, de- lightedly. ‘“To temonstrate to an hon- est andt indellichent skeptic, is te rarest of brifileches. Ve vill now broceed to temonstrate. Here is our friendt Herr Amidon avokened in a car after fife years of lostness; he has anodder man’s clotes, anodder man’s dicket, letters— unt all. He gomes to Mme. le Olaire andt Blatherwick. He is hypnotized out of te Amidon blane of being, andt into anodder. He is mate to gife him- self avay. Now ve vill broceed to dell aboudt his life since he vas lost—is it a dest, no?’’ ‘“‘AHuh!”’ snorted the judge. “Go on,’’ cried Amidon; ‘‘tell me the story!’’ “Vell,’’ said the professor, ‘for four veeks after you left Elm Springs Chunc- tion, you vandered—not, Clara?”’’ ‘‘Wandered,”’ said Clara, ‘‘and to so many places that I can’t remember them. Then you found oil, or traces of it—I can’t get that very plainly— on a farm at Bunn’s Ferry, Pennsyl- vania; and bought an option on the farm. Then you opened an office in THE OCCULTATION OF FLORIAN AMIDON—FICTION Bellevale, and have been there in the oil-business ever since.’’ ‘““How’s he been doin’ financially?’’ interjected the judge. ‘“‘He has made a fortune,’’ said Clara. “I believe him to be one of the principal men of the town, socially and in a busi- ness way. He didn’t tell me this, but we think the circumstances seem to indicate it.’’ “Te saircumstances,’”’ said the pro- fessor, filling a pause, ‘‘show it.’’ “How is it,’’ said the judge, ‘‘that no one has ever heard of his Bellevale career out in Hazelhurst, if he’s so prominent? We read, out there, and once in a while one of us goes outside the incorporation.”’ “His name,”’ said Mme. le Olaire, ‘‘in Bellevale is not Florian Amidon.’’ ‘What is it?’’ cried Amidon. ‘Tell it to me!”’ Mme. le Claire restrained him with a calm glance. “It is Eugene Brassfield,’’ said she. “It is your own clotes,’’ cried the professor gleefully, ‘‘your own dicket, your own gorrespondence!’’ Amidon was feeling in his breast- pocket for something. He withdrew his hand holding in it a letter, and looked from it to Mme. le Claire, ques- tioningly. “Oh, yes!’ said she, not quite in her usual manner, ‘“‘it’s yours. It’s from Miss Elizabeth Waldron, of Bellevale, your affianced wife.”’ “Aha!’’ said the judge. ‘‘Now will you get mad when I speak of a double life? Engaged, hey?’’ “T never saw the—the lady in my life,’’ was the reply; ‘‘so how can I be —can I be—engaged to her?”’’ ‘In te Amidon blane of gonsciousness,”’ said the professor, ‘‘you are stranchers. In te Brassfield pairsonality, you are— Gott in himmel, you are stuck on her, stuck on her—not, Clara? Vas he not gracey? Only Clara cut it short in te temonstration; but as a luffer, in te Brassfield blane, you are vot you call hot stuff.”’ “You had better read the gentlemen your notes,”’ said Mme. le Claire, coldly. ‘‘And please excuse me. I hope to see CARMA tt AEDST tis ta TS i ie NaR iay)

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Ree Meat Aw t i a ; y “ you both again.”” And with a sinu- ous bow, she swept from the room. Blodgett, keenly ana- lytical,lost no word. of the professor’s notes. Flo- rian sat with the letter from Miss Waldron in his hand, lost in thought. Sometimes his faese burned with blushes, sometimes it paled with anxiety. His eyes ran over the letter full of sweet ardors; and when he thought of replying to them— or leaving them unanswered—his brow went moist and his heart sick. What should he do? What could he do? When they returned to the hotel, the judge was in a fever of excitement. “T tell you, Florian,’’ said he, “I believe the professor is right about this. It seems that there are precedents, you know—cases on all fours with yours. Drawn by Orson Lowell “Vast and complex was the system of notes built up by the professor and the judge”’ When I went to the telephone, up there, I called up Stacy & Stacy’s and asked ’em to get me Dun’s and Bradstreet’s reports on your Bellevale business. It ought to be up here pretty soon. There may be something down there worth looking after, and needing attention.”’ ‘“‘Perhaps,’’ groaned Amidon. ‘Do you know that I’m engaged———”’ “One of the things I referred to,’’ said the judge. ‘“_to a lady, down there, whom I shouldn’t know if I were to meet her out in the hall? If I go back to Hazelhurst, she is put under a cloud as a deserted woman—to say nothing of her feelings. HERBERT QUICK—FICTION And if I go back to Bellevale—my God, Judge, how can I go back, and take my place in a society where every one knows me, and I know nobody; and be a lover to a girl who may be—anything, you know; but who has the highest sort of claims on me, and a nature, I’m sure, capable of the keenest suffering or pleasure—how can I?’’ ‘‘Message, sir, from Stacy & Stacy,” said a messenger-boy at the door. Judge Blodgett tore open the envelope, and read the telegraphic reports. ‘“M—m—m Y—e—es,’’ said he. “Tt’ll take diplomacy, Florian, diplomacy. But, if these reports are to be trusted, and I guess they are, you’ve got about ten times as much at Bellevale as you have at Hazelhurst. And, as you say, the lady has claims. As an honorable man—an engaged man, who has re- ceived the plighted troth of a pure young heart—and a good financier, this Bellevale life demands resumption at your hands. Prepare, fellow citizen, to meet the difficulties of the situation.”’

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22 THE OCCULTATION OF FLORIAN AMIDON—FICTION VIII POISING FOR THE PLUNGE Yea, all her words are sweet and fair, And so, mayhap, is she; But words are naught but moulded air, And air and moulds are free. Belike, the youth in charmed hall Some fardels sore might miss, Scanning his Beauty’s household all, Or ere he gave the kiss! —The Knyghte’s Discourse to his Page. Now it happened that at Bellevale, the young woman whom we—with the sweet familiarity of art—have had the joy to know as Elizabeth, moved about in unconsciousness, mostly blissful, of the annihilation of Eugene Brassfield. The mails might take to Mrs. Baggs at Hazelhurst vague letters from Judge Blodgett hinting at clues and traces of Florian, preparatory to the restora- tion of the lost brother; but Brassfield, never anything but a wraith from the mysterious caves of the subconscious- ness, was non-existent forevermore, except through the magic of Le Claire. But Elizabeth Waldron, just home from college, full of the wise unwisdom of Smith and twenty-three, and palpitating with the shock which had broken the cables by which she had so long, long ago moored herself in the safe and deep waters of the harbor of'a literary and intellectual celibacy, still dreamed of the bubble personality which had van- ished, although at times waves of anxious unrest swept across her bosom. For one thing, that epistle of hers, made for his reading on the train—how could she have written it! Elizabeth’s cheeks burned when she remembered it. Then she thought of the weeks of chaste dalliance between her acceptance of him and his departure, and of the élan with which he had entered that safe harbor of hers, and swept her from those moorings; and the letter seemed but a little return for the rites of adoration he had performed before her. But (and now the cheeks burned once more) why, why had he not written to her as soon as he reached New York? Was he one with whom it was, out of sight, out of mind? Or was he one of those business men who cannot place anything more delicate than _price- quotations on paper? Or—and here the cheeks paled—was he suddenly ill? She wished, after all, that she had not written it! And one day, when a special-delivery letter came and surprised her, she ran out in the winter sun to the summer- house where she had sat so much with him, and read it in quiet. Whereupon the unrest increased, because the letter seemed as unlike Eugene as if he had copied it from some Complete Letter Writer. Florian had agonized over this letter —had even tried the experiment of writing one while in the ‘‘Chones blane’’ under the influence of Mme. le Claire; but it was too incoherent for any use— and had done the best he could. Pro- fessor Blatherwick and Judge Blodgett were working out a code of behavior for Mr. Amidon when he should return to Bellevale. They kept him in the Brassfield personality for hours every day; but such a matter as this letter to Elizabeth, he could not entrust to them. Every day, though, he looked into the varicolored eyes of Clara and willed to sleep; and every day the operation grew less and less painful to him. Vast and complex was the system of notes built up by the professor and the judge. They told him all about his various properties and holdings of stock; they listed the clubs and social organizations to which he belonged, and the offices he held in each. They made a directory of names mentioned by him in his abnormal state, and compiled facts about each person. It must have been : very much like the copious information that we think we have about historical characters—elaborate, and the best thing possible in the absence of the real facts; but only the reflection of these people in the mind of some one else, afterall. Finally the judge brought the whole to his friend, neatly typewritten, paragraphs num- bered, facts tabulated, and all provided with a splendid index and system of cross-references. “Is this the guide by which I am to regulate my conduct in Bellevale?’’ asked he, after looking it over. ‘‘Well,’’ said the judge, “it may not creel

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Drawn by Orson Lowell ‘I’m not here to be jumped on, am I?’"’ be quite like remembering all about things; but anyhow it will help some, won’t it?’’ “T suppose I’m to carry it with me, and when an acquaintance accosts me on the street, I’m to look him up in the index and find out who he is, before I decide whether to shake hands with him or cut him, am I?”’ “Not éxactly that way,’ said the judge; ‘‘that wouldn’t be practical, you know; but it’s ten to one you'll find his name there. I tell you, that compilation——’”’ “Te tifision into gategories,’’ broke in the professor, ‘‘according to te brin- ciples of lotchick was te chutche’s itea. A vonderfully inchenious blan. It vill enaple you “Has it any plan of reference,’’ in- terrupted Amidon, ‘‘by which I shall be enabled to find out about a man when I don’t know who he is?”’ “N—no.” “Or, in such a case, to give me knowl- edge of my past relations with him, or whether I like him or hate him?’’ “Of course,’’ said the judge, ‘‘we only try to do the possible. The law requires no man to do more.”’ ‘Does this thing,’’ said Amidon, sha- king it in evident disgust, ‘‘tell where I HERBERT QUICK—FICTION live in Bellevale, whether in lodgings or at a hotel, or in my own house? Could I take it and find my home?”’ “Damn it, Florian!’’ said the judge, “T’m not here to be jumped on, am I? No one can remember everything all the time. We’ll get those things and put them into a supplement, you know.”’ “Not for me,’’ said Florian. ‘I’ve made up my mind definitely about this. I’ll not depend upon it. If I go back to Bellevale, I must have at hand at all times the means of connecting things as I find them with the life of this Brass- field. I must take with me the bridge which spans the chasm between Brass- field and Amidon—I mean our friend Clara. Without her, I shall never go back. I haven’t the nerve. I should soon find myself in a tangle of mistakes from which I could never extricate my- self—I’ve thought it all out. The Cretan Labyrinth would be like going home from school, in comparison.”’ “Pshaw!’’ said the judge, looking lovingly at Blodgett’s Notes on the Compiled Statements of Brassfield, ‘‘you could feel your way along very well— with these.”’ ‘‘Would you go into the trial of a case,” said Florian, ‘‘no matter how simple, in which not only your own future, but the

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24 THE OCCULTATION OF FLORIAN AMIDON—FIOTION happiness of others, might be involved, without even a speaking acquaintance with any of the parties, or one of the witnesses? I tell you, Judge, we must have Mme. le Claire.’’ The judge rolled up the notes and snapped a rubber band about the roll. He said no more until evening. ‘‘Then,’’ said he, as if he had only just made up his mind to concede the point, “let’s see if it can be arranged at once. Come over to the Blatherwicks’ with me.”’ “T think,’’ said Amidon, slowly, ‘‘that I’ll see her alone.”’ “Alone, yes—yes!’’ said the judge, changing an interjection into an assent. “By all means; by all means. Only don’t you think there may be things down there needing attention, Florian— money matters—and—and other things, you know, my boy—and that we ought to be moving in the matter? I would respectfully urge,’’ he concluded, using his orator’s chest-tones to drown Ami- don’s protest against his joking, “‘that no time be lost in deciding upon our course.”’ The judge had noted the increasing dependence of his client upon the fair hypnotist, and the growing interest that she seemed to feel in him, and therefore showed some coolness toward the pro- posal to take her to Bellevale. The.eyes inured to the perusal of dusty commen- taries and reports were still sharp enough to see the mutual tendernesses ex- changed in the unwavering, eye-to-eye encounters whereby Amidon was con- verted into Brassfield, and to note the softness of the feline strokings by which Florian’s catalepsy was induced or dis- pelled. He rather favored dropping the Blatherwick acquaintance: but he could not answer Amidon’s arguments as to their need for it. So it was that, about the time when Elizabeth Waldron sat in the summer- house at Bellevale, with tears of disap- pointment in her pretty eyes, holding peor Florian’s best-he-could-do but in- effective letter all crumpled up in her hand, the tigrine Le Claire rested her elbows upon a window-ledge in the atti- tude of gazing into the street (it was all attitude, for she saw nothing), and was disturbed by Aaron, who brought in Mr. Florian Amidon’s card. She gave a few pokes to her hair, of course, turned once or twice about before her mirror, and went into the parlor. “The judge and your father,’ said Amidon, “have got up a wonderful guide from notes of this man Brassfield’s talk.’’ ‘*Yes,’’ said she, with a smile; ‘‘they are wonderful.”’ “‘And perfectly useless,’’ he continued, “so far as my steering by them in Belle- vale is concerned.”’ “As useless,’?’ she admitted, ‘‘as can be.”’ “You knew that?” heinquired. ‘‘Then ‘ why did you let them go on with it?’ “That’s good,’’ said she. ‘I like that! I was nicely situated to mention it, wasn’t I?’’ “The fact is, OClara,’’ said he, ‘‘as you can see, that I’ve got to have you at Bellevale. I shall not go down there without you. I can’t do it. I’ve thought it all out is “So have I,’’ said she. ‘I knew that you’d have to have me—for a little while; knew it all the time. I was just thinking about it as you came up.” “Then can you—will you go?’’ “Can I stay, Florian?’’ she inquired, steadily. ‘‘Can I leave you like a just- cured blind and deaf man, and my work for you only begun? I must go! I was just thinking of that as you came up. We were just talking about our go- ing to Bellevale, as you came in, papa. Mr. Amidon will need us for a while when he first gets there.’’ “Surely, surely,’’ said the professor. “Te most inderesting phaces of dis case vill arise in Bellevale. I grave te brifi- letche of geeping you unter my opsair- fation until—until te last dog is hunk! Let us despatch Chutche Blotchett to spy out te landt. In a day or two he can tiscofer vere dis man Brassfield lifes, vere te fair fraulein Elizabeth re- sides, and chenerally get on to te logal skitivation. He vill meet up with us at .te train, and see that ve don’t put our foots in it. Ve vill dus be safed te mortification of hafing Alderman Brass- field, chairman of te street committee, asking te boliceman te vay to his

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lotchings; or te fiancé of Miss Valdering bassing her on te street vit a coldt, coldt stare of unrecognition. Goot! Let te chutche dake his tebarture fortwith. Clara and I vill be charmed and habby, my friend, to aggompany you. Suplimi- nally gonsidered, it vill be great stuff!’’ IX IN DARKEST PENNSYLVANIA The good God gave hands, left and right To deal with divers foes in fight; And eyes He gave all sights to hold; And limbs for pacings manifold; Gave tongue to taste both sour and sweet, Gave gust for salad, fish and meat; But, Christian Sir, whoe’er thou art, Trust not thy many-chambered heart! Give not one bow’r to Blonde, and yet Retain a room for the Brunette: Whoever gave each other part, The devil planned and built the heart! —In a Double Locket. Clara, Amidon and Blatherwick were on their way to Bellevale. The professor was in the smoking-car, his daughter and Florian in the parlor-car. Amidon, his nerves strained to the point of agony, sat dreading the end of the journey, as one falling from an air-ship might shrink from the termination of his. Mme. le Claire brooded over him maternally. “Of course,’’ said Amidon, ‘“‘this Brassfield must have adopted some course of behavior toward Miss Waldron, when wi ‘You must call her Elizabeth,” said Mme. le Claire, ‘‘and ” “And what?’? he inquired, as she failed to break the pause. ‘‘Have you found out — much —about it — from him?’’ “Not so very much,” she replied, “only she’ll expect such things as ‘dear- est’ and ‘darling’ at times. And occa- sionally ‘pet’ and ‘sweetheart’—and ‘dearie.’ I can’t give them all; you must extemporize a little, can’t you?’’ “Merciful heaven!’’ groaned Amidon; “T can’t do it!’ ‘“You have,’’ said Mme. le Claire; ‘‘and more—a good deal more.’’ “It was that scoundrel Brassfield,’’ said he, in perfect seriousness. ‘*More? What do you mean by ‘more’?”’ ‘Well, sometimes, you - ‘*‘He, not I!’ HERBERT QUICK—FICTION “You, I think we had better say— sometimes, when you were alone, your arm went about her waist; her head was drawn down upon your bosom; and with your hand, you turned her face to yours, and ' “Clara, stop!’’ Amidon’s bashful be- ing was wrung to the sweating-point as he uttered the cry. ‘I never could have done it! And do you mean to say I must now act up to a record of that kind—and with a strange lady? She— she won’t permit it———- Oh, you must be mistaken! How do you know this?” Mme. le Claire blushed, and seemed to want words for a reply. Amidon re- peated the question. “T want to know if you are sure,”’ said he. ‘‘To make a mistake in that direc- tion would be worse than the other, you know.” “Ah, would it?’’ said Clara; ‘‘I didn’t know that!’ “Oh! I think we may take that for granted.’”’ “You really don’t get a grain of good from your Brassfield experience,’’ said she, ‘for you’d know better.”’ “But, as to the fact,’’ urged Amidon, ‘how can you guess out any such state of things as you describe?”’ “Can’t you guess a little bit more once in a while? I know about it, from Mr. Brassfield’s treatment —of—of me — when I made him think—that I—was Elizabeth! Oh, don’t you see that I had to do it, so as to know, and tell you? Oh! I wish I had never, never begun this! I do, I do!’’ A parlor-car has no conveniences whatever for heroics, hysterics or weep- ing, so miserably are our American railways managed; and Clara winked back into her eyes the tears which filled them, and Amidon looked at her ten- derly. “Did I, really,’’ said, he confusedly “to you?” ‘“M’h’m,”’ said Mme. le Claire, nodding affirmatively; ‘‘I couldn’t stop you!”’ “It must have been dreadful—for you?’’ said Amidon. “‘Awful,’’ said she; ‘“‘but the work had to be done, you know.”’ “Oh, if it were you, now,” said he,

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26 THE OCCULTATION OF FLORIAN AMIDON—FICTION laying his hand on hers, ‘‘I could do it, if you didn’t mind. I—TI should like to, you know.” ‘“‘Now see here,’’ said Olara: ‘“‘if you’re just practising this, as a sort of rehearsal, you must go further and faster than a public place like this allows, or you’ll seem cold by comparison with what has passed. If you mean what you say, let me remind you that you’re engaged!”’ Mr. Amidon swore softly, but sincere- ly. Somehow, the pitiful case of the girl who had written that letter with which he had fallen in love, had less and less of appeal to him as the days drifted by. And now, while the duty of which he had assured himself still impelled him to her side, he confessed that this other girl with the variegated hair and eyes, and the power to anni- hilate and restore him, the occultist with the thrilling gaze and the strong, supple figure, was calling more and more to the aboriginal man within him. So, while he took Elizabeth’s letters from his pocket and read them, to get, if pos- sible, some new light upon her character, it was Clara’s face that his eyes sought, as he glanced over the top of the sheet. Ah, Florian, with one girl’s love-letter in your hands, and the face of another clasped in that avid gaze, can you be the bashful banker-bachelor who could not discuss the new style of ladies’ figures with Mrs. Hunter! And as we thus moralize, the train sweeps on and on, and into Bellevale, where Judge Blodg- ett waits upon the platform for our arrival. The judge stood by the steps to seize upon Amidon as he alighted. That gentleman and Mme. le Claire, however, perversely got off at the other end of the car. As they walked down the platform, Florian met his first test, in the salutation of a young lady in a tailor-made gown,. who nodded and smiled to him from a smart trap at a short distance from the station, where she seemed to be waiting for some one. “‘Any baggage, Mr. Brassfield?’”’ said a drayman. **Yes,”’ said Amidon; ‘‘take the checks.” “Do these go to the hotel, or The man waited for directions. “T don’t—that is,’’ said the poor fel- low, “‘I really Just wait a minute! Judge,’’ this in a whisper to his friend, who had reached his side, ‘“‘this is ter- rible! Where do I want to go?—and for the love of heaven, where does this hound take my luggage?’”’ “Your lodgings at the _ Bellevale House!’’ returned the judge. “To my lodgings at the Bellevale House,’’ announced Amidon. “And, say,’ said the judge, ‘‘don’t look that way; but the young woman in the one-horse trap across the way is your intended.”’ “No!”’ said Amidon. ‘I lifted my hat to her—she nodded to me, you know!” “The devil!’ said the judge; “‘TI’ll bet you didn’t put any more warmth than a clam into your manner. Well, you'll have to go over, and she’ll take you up-town, I suppose. Don’t stay with her long, if you can help it, and come to me at the hotel as soon as you can. She’s been driving over to see who got off every New York train ever since I came. Go to her, and may the Lord be merciful to you! Here are these notes, if you think they’ll help you any —I’ve added some to ’em since I got down here.”’ Amidon waved a contemptuous re- jection of the notes, and, casting a de- spairing glance at Mme. le Claire, walked over toward his fate. He could have envied the lot of the bull-fighter advan- cing into the fearful radius of action of a pair of gory horns. He would gladly have changed places with the gladiator who hears the gnashing of bared teeth behind the slowly opening cage doors. To have walked up to the mouths of a battery of hostile Gatlings would have seemed easy, aS compared with this present act of his. Which was nothing more than stepping to the side of a carriage in which sat a girl, for a place near whom any unattached young man in Bellevale would have placed his eternal welfare in jeopardy, (To be continued) AEe ie

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HE pros- pect of meeting a freshly refused suitor, whether pleasant or un- pleasant, is fraught with elements of ex- ‘. citement—and possibility. As I drove through a whitened world to Uncle Ambrose’ dance, my thoughts were busied with the probabil- ities of Leonard’s presence. I had spent all my waking moments since my return from the South, early the preceding day, in alternately wishing and unwishing him to be there; and had I been trying the: case by daisy judgment, I should have kept adding first a negative and then a positive petal until the dimensions of a prize chrysanthemum, at least, would have been reached. Later, trailing down the broad, bright stairs, I came to the final conclusion that I did not at all wish to see him on this occasion—only to have my heart jump a sudden and joyous contradiction as I recognized his ap- proach amidst the merry groups of cousins and kinsfolk. I had decided that if he felt as badly as he ought, a scene of gaiety would be distasteful; yet on the other hand, I argued, he knew it was more than probable that I should be there. These conflicting cogi- tations, and a consciousness of the keen eyes around us, gave a somewhat chastened fervor to my greeting. But Leonard was in no mood for subtleties of salutation. With barbarous direct- A SUBTERRANEAN ROMANCE By KATHARINE PERRY ness he attacked the intimate theme, making no effort to soften the trying outlines of the situation with the kindly draperies of conventionality. “But I can’t go into it with you here,”’ I expostulated. ‘‘I can’t discourse on hearts and souls and reasons why in the middle of a ballroom. Besides, I told you all about it in my letter.”’ “Not all about it, Patience,’’ said Leonard, uncompromisingly; and when he used my proper and dignified name, I knew that he was taking it very hard indeed, for he, and all who knew me well, usually called me ‘‘Patsy,’’ modify- ing the dull endurant virtue into some- thing more befitting my impulsive self. “Even that letter of yours, comprehen- sive though it was,’’ he continued, “‘left out one or two important points, and we'll find a suitable spot somewhere and talk it over. No, it cannot be put off, not even until to-morrow; it’s too instant and important to me, however postponable it may seem to you.’’ He led me and my misgivings through mazes of couples lustily two-stepping to the perennial swing of ‘‘The Torea- dor,’”’ out of the glare and the laughter, and down the long, half-deserted cor- ridor, until his searching eye discovered a small recess where a divan, with palms and shaded lights, and the distant faint- ness of the music, seemed, in their ap- propriateness, to have been improvised by his desire. “It’s quiet and secluded enough here,”’ his determined voice continued. ‘Now we can consider the question at closer range than by mail from Palm Beach to New York.’”’ His gray eyes were almost black, and his grave face looked strange- ly changed without the quizzical smile

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28 A SUBTERRANEAN of the old friend whom I had thought I knew so well. “But I said in my letter ’* T began, retreating to my paper defenses. “Confound your letter!’’ he swept them away. ‘I beg your pardon,” ke hurried, contritely, ‘but when a man has loved a girl like you, Patsy’’ (he lapsed), ‘‘so long and so hard—and when she seems beginning to tolerate him a little, and he gets up enough courage to ask her to marry him—and she puts him off and runs away to Florida with an accommodatingly ailing aunt—and two mortal weeks go by without a word from her, although he writes and writes, in spite of having promised he wouldn’t bother her—and at last he gets a letter full of negative psychology and hazy pessimism, ignor- ing plain facts’’—he paused from in- dignation and breathlessness —‘‘why, then that letter isn’t enough, by a good deal. And there’s considerable explana- tion, or just one simple statement, that I must hear before I can give you up.”’ “But, Len, why go over the reasons again?’’ I inquired, plaintively. ‘‘It doesn’t change them. And it was hard enough for me to write them in the first place’’-—his hand closed impulsively over my gloved fingers. ‘‘But if you must have it said all out in thoughts of one syllable before you can be con- vinced—then here itis. You remember I wrote I could never marry you be- cause it would have such harmful and demoralizing effects on us both?”’’ “T’m not likely to forget that sen- tence,’’ rejoined Len. ‘It’s rather a knock-down sort of thing to say to a man. And although I’m not over- egotistic, I don’t quite see how you make it out.”’ ‘“‘Well, you see, because you’re fond of me oy “T’m not fond of you—TI love you,”’ he corrected. “Then, for that reason, you would naturally consider me all right as I am —I should never have to strive for your approval.”’ ‘‘Absurd idea!’’ scoffed Len. perfection already.”’ **You’re ROMANCE—FICTION “That’s exactly where the trouble lies,’’ I pursued, eagerly. ‘‘Don’t you see that with you feeling like that, there would be no spur to make me live up to my better nature, to try and try to gain your approval and—and love? I’d have them already without trying. So the greatest incentive to effort after higher things would be taken away, and I should be satisfied with my mere, ordinary self, because you would be. And I should just—oh, just sag, and drop into horrid careless ways of mind and soul, and my spiritual possibilities would be perfectly ruined!’’ ‘‘Heavens!’’ exclaimed Len. ‘‘Would my loving you have that effect on you?”’ ‘‘TInevitably,’’ I continued, with gloom. “And then another reason,’”’ checking it off on my little finger. ‘It would make you so dishonest. If I liked a thing—to do or to have—you would say you liked it too, just to please mé, as you did about going to picture- galleries with me last fall.”’ “But I liked it immensely. Yoy know how anxious I was to go es “Not enough to go with Aunt Louise, you remember; I had her ask you on purpose,’’ and I sadly shook my head at such damaging evidence. ‘‘Or else,’’ resuming the main contention, ‘‘you would sincerely sacrifice your own tastes and convictions to suit mine—and so lose all individuality, which would be worse. Just look at Cousin Oliver and Phyllida, for instance. He used to have a good deal of determination and strength of character, but now, wher- ever she is concerned, he’s simply a mush of concession. And of course, he’s a nice sort of man, uncommonly nice, but he isn’t the St. George, Sir Galahad and Apollo Belvedere that she thinks he is. She has idealized him so that her critical perspective is—oh, absolutely deformed!’’ “T think I could stand a lot of ideali- zing—from you,’’ murmured Len. ‘‘While you, Patsy,’’ very softly, ‘‘wouldn’t need any.”’ “But it would bore you to the bone, I know, to have me so ridiculous about you. And I should loathe a man who had no mind of his own and agreed with

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KATHARINE PERRY—FICTION Drawn by William L. Jacobs ‘We entered the ballroom with elaborate nonchalance”’

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eraser nema cnsiene - . 80 A SUBTERRANEAN me. I’d rather be bullied,’ and I looked at him beseechingly. “Perhaps I could manage even that in time,’’ he returned, with the glimmer of a smile. Then, indignantly: ‘But what do these preposterous sophistries amount to, after all? If you don’t care for me, Patsy, say it outright—that’s an objection I couldn’t argue against.’’ “But that’s the point,’’ I maintained, obdurately. ‘‘We’re so particularly bad for each other on precisely that account —because we do care. Love ought to be a reward—something to work for——’’ “And how I have worked for yours!’’ he exclaimed, intensely. ‘“There would never be any danger of my being sure of it. It would seem so undeserved, I should always be striving to keep it —to be worthy. That would be enough of an object, for all time and eternity!’’ “You think so now,’’ with sad supe- riority, ‘‘but you wouldn’t after you got used to it. And I'm afraid,’’ I whispered, with averted eyes, ‘‘that I should make it so evident, you wouldn’t have to— struggle—much.”’ Now, in conversations of this kind, hands are no real argument, of course, but their contact is apt to disturb the cold processes of logic, so, to keep mine away from Leonard’s tendency to bring them into action, I had busied them with some small shining knobs that enlivened the wall-decorations above the divan. As I made the foregoing impulsive and damaging admission, I nervously fin- gered these little protuberances with an energy and preoccupation to indicate that my mind was centered upon them alone. But Len, surging tumultuously toward me, captured these industrious members as if I had surrendered. “No, no,’’ I cried, defensively. ‘I didn’t mean that—literally. It was only a—supposition——”’ ‘“‘Then make it a reality, dearest; let us have courage and face these ghostly perils of yours together, and ee “Oh, Len,’’ I protested, against these imperious methods, looking bravely up at him; “it’s impossible. Don’t you see Ra But my voice died away in stupefac- tion, as beyond his eager face I saw, not ROMANCE—FIOTION the cheerful vista of the brilliant hall that I had looked at a few moments since, but a rectangle of the most appal- ling and Stygian blackness I had ever gazed into. I jumped to my feet, but stood helpless before the strange sinking sensation that assailed me. ‘‘Leonard,’’ I gasped, shrinking toward him instinctively, all spiritual complica- tions forgotten in base material fear, “what has happened? Is it an earth- quake—or a landslide?’’ I was incon- sistently glad of his prompt arm around me, as the lights of our recess, in their rose-petaled globes, flickered and died out into the dark of the doorway. “Don’t be frightened,’’ comforted Len, close to my ear. ‘I think I can guess what the trouble is. From the sensations, I have an idea that this cozy place that we took for an alcove must be the new electric elevator that Uncle Ambrose has just had put in. I didn’t know it by sight, but I seem to recognize the description, for last week when he was telling me about it, he said, ‘Wonderful motion, my dear boy —runs itself, absolutely runs _ itself!’ And it appears to be running itself into the cellar with us now.’’ A wave of enlightenment broke over my stricken mind. ‘‘Then it was— it must have been my fault,’’ I stam- mered, in contrition; ‘‘those little knobs I was poking at when you—don’t you remember?—and then right afterward it happened! It’s I who have dragged you down, after all,’’ rather hysterically. “But will it crush us to pieces, or blow us up, or anything?”’ ‘‘Heaven forbid!’’ exclaimed Leonard, fervently. But even as he spoke, our cage was shaken by a series of startling shocks, and then struck bottom with a concussion that seemed to send my spine up through the innocent forget- me-nots that wreathed my hair. “Oh, Len,’’ I whispered, clinging desperately to him in the abysmal gloom, ‘“‘if anything should happen, if you get hurt or killed, I want you always to remember that I do—oh, I do care awfully, and when things get primitive and dreadful like this, those reasons don’t seem to count at all,”’ StS “BP. . en Res

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“Since you’ve said that, it doesn’t so much matter if I do get hurt or killed,’”’ rejoined Leonard, in a voice whose triumph defied the horrors of the unknown “But I don’t think there’s any real danger, Patsy, now the thing has landed,’’ he gently reassured me; for I was trembling cravenly, all the disgustful scrunchy details of elevator accidents in the papers rioting luridly in my mind. “**Out of the dark that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods there be For your indomitable soul!’ "’ I misquoted, with nervous flippancy. ‘“Haven’t you any matches in your pocket? That’s supposed to be a mascu- line advantage.”’ His careful fumblings were followed by a cheerful unmistakable click. ‘‘Five —no, six,’’ he announced. ‘I meant to refill it, but I was in such a hurry to see you.”’ ““You’d see more of me now, if you had,’’ I murmured, tangledly. ‘‘Now don’t be reckless with them; they may save our lives.”’ The wee, pale flame, mitigating the obscurity, showed us the gray cement floor of the cellar just over the sill at our feet, and faintly indicated furnace- pipes in the middle distance. Then the blaze flickered out a little spitefully, as if underground illumination was too much to expect of a feeble instrument made only to ignite tobacco. We stepped out gingerly, but thankfully, upon the safety-spot which it had disclosed. “Now,” said Len, ‘“‘I’ll call, Goethe, for ‘more light.’ ”’ “No, no,’’ I contradicted, vehemently. “You mustn’t call. To be found to- gether in the cellar like this—it would be too mortifyingly, wretchedly ridicu- lous. We’d never hear the last of it. No, we’ll just find the stairs, and come up into the lower hall, and then to the long corridor and back to the ballroom again, and no one will have the dimmest suspicion of anything unusual.’’ “Just as you say,’’ assented Len, ac- commodatingly. ‘‘ ‘No hurry,’ said the carpenter. I like it here myself—it’s so quiet and select. Only, where does Uncle like KATHARINE PERRY—FICTION 31 Oughtn’t they naturally to grow near the elevator?”’ “They do in shops and hotels, but they might not in cellars—it doesn’t always follow, like the little dog.”’ ‘The subterranean domestic variety,’’ Ambrose keep his stairs? sé announced Len, authoritatively, ‘“‘al- ways prefer corners as a habitat. Any- how, we’ll stalk them on that principle. Now I'll conflagrate another match, and you look to the right and I to the left for the shy, elusive things.”’ “There they are,’’ I cried, as the transient glow rose bravely—‘‘just ahead, close to that big dark thing,’’ and I plunged forward by faith and impulse as the light went out. Len seized me by the arm. ‘You mustn’t run away by yourself and get lost. It’s the first law of the ship- wrecked and castaway to keep to- gether.’’ So hand in hand we dared a dozen cautious steps without obstruction —half a dozen more, and I stumbled to my knees in an edgy, sliding mass which testified beyond a doubt that we were in the coal-bin. Len helped me scramble out, and with self-confidence as bruised and shaky as my locomotion, I watched him frugally use up another match, taking latitude and longitude the while. Our next short dash brought us up among barrels of apples and knobby bags of potatoes, tribute from Uncle Ambrose’ rural acres to which we could accord bucolic appreciation better at another time. Our fifth match revealed us framed in the picturesque cobwebby arch of the wine-vault, a sally from which ended in such a sudden halt and really unprintable exclamation from Len that I demanded: “What is it? Burglars?—a mouse?”’ “I think, from the feeling, it was the furnace-door,’’ in accents milder but still pained; ‘‘and the fire is drawing remarkably well.’’ *You’ve burned yourself cruelly,’’ I bewailed, ‘‘and all because I wouldn’t let you call for help. Don’t try any more experiments in this ghastly hole; just shout and be done with it!’’ “And spoil that graceful, unobtrusive entrée to the ballroom that you’re

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a TNC nar SS NOPE Semen A 32 counting on? Not while there’s one match or one hope left! It’s just pos- sible, however, that, as it’s a holiday, Uncle Ambrose has given his stairs a night out.” As our last beacon sizzled down to Len’s scorched finger-nails, we slowly realized that certain horizontal spaces, through which we were even then look- ing, proclaimed a flight of open iron steps under whose very slope we stood. And a belated angel from Jacob’s ladder could have been no more rejoiced than I at sight of that tangible connection with the brightness of a world above. But on the lowest step, Len turned and took me closely in his arms. “Patsy,’”’ he besought, ‘“‘when we get back to light and conventionalities and people, will you feel, just the same as you have down here in this blessed darkness, that you do love me and the objections don’t count?”’ “Len,’’ I spoke bravely, although I couldn’t help the break in my voice, “it’s a grovelingly weak and feminine confession to make, but I’d rather have you take care of me and run the risk of my soul sagging all to pieces, than soar to perfection without you!’ And with this he seemed satisfied, as we trod the upward path together on the cellar-stairs. Having been a mole so long, the sud- den dazzle of the lighted hall nearly blinded me, and I took but dim cog- nizance of staring servants and vague furniture, as I walked close beside Len, my blinking eyes half powerless. But I was upheld by the thought that the invisible turbulence. of my heait was the only testimony of our unpremedi- tated sojourn in the lower regions. We entered the ballroom with elabo- rate nonchalance, just at the close of a dance, when breathless couples were hunting seats or coolness near the door. As they caught sight of us, such a shout of surprise and derision went up, such jeers and roars of laughter, that my exalted’: mood changed to very mundane SUBTERRANEAN ROMANCE—FIOCTION wrath and chagrin. How could they know?—what made them so insolent? But as my eyes, slowly growing used to the light, fell on the long mirrored panel of the wall opposite, I saw the reason all too convincingly. The pale-blue chif- fon of my skirt was in tatters, and draggled from girdle to hem with re- minders of the coal-bin; one filmy sleeve I must have parted from entirely on some insidious nail, and the bold black prints of a large firm hand were every- where on my bodice. The blissful smile on Len’s dust-dotted features rode triumphant over raiment that a sweep might have discarded; five small, oblong smirches on his shirt-front made me look hastily down at my grimy gloves; while the other half of the same giant cobweb that draped my front hair waved jauntily from his close-cut mus- tache. No announcement was necessary, no attention was accorded to Len’s valiant explanations. His words, ‘‘ele- vator,’’ ‘‘mistake,’’ ‘‘cellar,’’ tossed like flotsam on the tide of glee, while all the flouting crew joined hands and danced madly around us, singing: ‘**Now you're married, you must obey, You must be true to all you say. You must be kind, you must be good, And make your husband chop the wood!’ ’’ “Young man,’’ said Uncle Ambrose, majestically breaking his portly way through the circle of his frolicking nieces and nephews, and with twinkling eyes shaking Len’s blistered hand—‘‘young man, I’m something of a match-maker myself, but on the word of a connoisseur, your method has outdone me in depth, grasp and local color. Let me be the first to congratulate you!”’ Awhile after, when we were driving home with calm and cleanliness but partially restored, I told Len that I would have no other wedding melody save ‘‘Lead, kindly light, amid the en- circling gloom.’”’ And he, agreeing with me, added that we could never live in an apartment, as we must have a cellar of our own. if. :

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FIG. 1 -BAR-HAMMER LOCK AND HALF-NELSON, USED IN WRESTLING TO BREAK AN ARM OR DISLOCATE THE SHOULDER AMERICAN WRESTLING vs. JUJITSU By H. F. LEONARD INSTRUCTOR IN WRESTLING AT THE NEW YORK ATHLETIC CLUB, AND . INSTRUCTOR OF JUJITSU ‘“T say with emphasis and without qualification that I have been unable to find anything in jujitsu which is not known to Western wrestling. So far as I can see, jujitsu is nothing more than an Oriental form of wrestling. It is a boast of the exploiters of jujitsu that through it any weakling could render helpless even a well-trained athlete, and that, too, without inflicting any injury whatever upon the victim. ‘It would be an entertaining day in my life indeed were I to see such a feat accomplished. ’’— Statement by Mr. Leonard after exhibition by Mr. Higashi. ‘* American wrestlers are strong—much stronger than any of us pretend to be in muscular strength. After all, however, wrestling is wrestling. Against jujitsu it is mere child’s-play. I have met a number of Western wrestlers, and they are as helpless as babes against the art of jujitsu. And no one versed in the art of jujitsu is mad enough to expect anything else.’’—.Statement by Mr. Higashé after exhibition by Mr. Leonard. R. LEONARD, Mr. Higashi,”’ said the seeker for a solution of the mystery of the difference between jujitsu and wrestling. The young master of jujitsu rose; he measured scarce five feet four, and you could see at a glance that the author of his being had a keen eye to the econo- my of space; in the physical making of him compactness rather than weight was emphasized. The hand he shook in friendly greeting belonged to one every inch of whose body seemed to say to you, “By these signs shall ye know wherein a strong man is enshrined.”’ ‘“‘What are the objects of wrestling?’’ the person who acted as a sort of mas- ter of the ceremonies asked of its ex- ponent, preliminary to the exhibition which was to take place. To which Mr. Leonard replied: “To make a man healthy—and in making his body healthy, the mental conditions are improved at the same time —to develop to the highest possible point his muscular strength, to teach him how to use it in a physical contest properly and to the best advantage against his opponent, to increase the steadiness of his nerves, to sharpen the keenness 2

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A ee 34 z of his vision and to teach him to read with despatch and accuracy, almost by instinct, the many and rapidly shifting conditions of the minds of men called moods—these are some of the main objects of wrestling.”’ ‘And what is jujitsu?’”’ Mr. Higashi—‘‘What we always keep in view as the end and aim of the art of jujitsu is quite distinct from wrestling. To be sure, all that has just been men- tioned is the goal toward which one aspect of jujitsu training also strives. But there are three stages in jujitsu. Between the first and wrestling there is not much difference. Wrestling, both in Nippon and in the West, has the dis- tinct ends in view that you have just described; it forms a distinct program of gymnastics in itself; it is not a part of something else—a means to an end. With jujitsu, the holds and tricks of wrestling are an elementary step to lead a man to something else. Naturally you have developed to a greater extent than we have done in the first and elementary stage of jujitsu, and to a higher state of perfection, those holds and tricks which are confined to wres- AMERICAN WRESTLING vs. JUJITSU tling. Whoever would understand the true meaning of the art of jujitsu must always keep this in mind—that the end of jujitsu is self-defense. The science and practice of jujitsu both end in dis- covering and attaining as effective and relatively perfect a means of self-defense as possible under all manners of attacks. “In jujitsu training many conditions are imposed upon us which are out of place with any other athletic sports. When you are attacked on the street, for instance, you would rarely find yourself or the assailant stripped to the skin, and so we require the students of jujitsu to go through their exercises in their street costume, and those of us who can hardly afford to spoil a suit every time we come upon the training- mat wear these jackets and girdles, which would take the place, to all practical purposes, of the street cos- tumes of Tokyo. This also is the reason why in jujitsu we do not put a fence about the style of tricks and attacks and call any of them foul. When you are abroad at night—and on such oc- casions it is that a training in jujitsu is most likely to serve you—you can FIG. 2—JUJITSU METHOD OF BREAKING THE ARM

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A RA RETAIN 3 -_. x i AMERICAN WRESTLING vs . JUJITSU FIG. 3—BACK STRANGLE HOLD, ONE OF THE MOST BRUTAL KNOWN TO WRESTLING hardly dictate the manner of attack to a thug. If effective as a method of self-defense at all, jujitsu. must train persons to be prepared for all imaginable methods of attack and assault. ‘“‘There are one hundred and sixty ‘hands,’ or tricks, in the three depart- ments of jujitsu. Besides these, and outranking them all, there are ten tricks which are so secret that they are almost sacred to the devotees of jujitsu. They are usually handed down from one master to another, much after the man- ner of family secrets. Now, a large majority of all these are considered foul in wrestling.”’ Mr. Leonard—‘‘But the dangerous tricks and holds which you speak of as being ruled out in our wrestling are, I am certain, thoroughly well known to all wrestlers worth the name in this country. And as for the claim of jujitsu in regard to its secret tricks, I have never seen them demonstrated against a thoroughly trained wrestler. I am not afraid of spooks, nor of the miracles attributed to the masters of jujitsu. And I am happy to,say that I am ina position to afford my statement some- thing a little more solid than mere words.”’ Mr. Higashi—“‘‘First, let me continue. Jujitsu is neither a sport nor a pastime; instead of on a mat, or in a sanded circle, as with wrestling, its arena is wherever an attack awaits you. As a matter of fact, the purely gymnastic feature of jujitsu is of a late develop- ment. Some two hundred years ago, in the city of Kyoto, there lived a mas- ter of jujitsu called Suzuki. There he opened a training-hall; and _ history

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FIG. 4—HALF-NELSON points to that as the beginning of scientific jujitsu in Nippon. In his days, he taught and practised only those tricks, or hands, which are now called serious tricks. He and his school confined them- selves to the first or the final stage of the three divisions of jujitsu as known at the present day. Samurai went abroad with their two swords at their belts, in those days, and the Kyoto master used to train his men with the two swords at their belts. When you were seized from behind and a pair of powerful arms held your weap- ons against your body so. that you could not draw them, he taught a trick which would set them at liberty. FIG. 5—HIP-LOCK. USED IN BOTH WRESTLING AND JUJITSU AMERICAN WRESTLING vs. JUJITSU ON LEG TO BREAK THE ANKLE ‘“Judo—as jujitsu is oftener called at home—spread all over the country; at Kumamoto was Hoshino, and at Kagoshima, Tsutsumi was the acknowl- edged master. And Tsutsumi, the Ka- goshima mas- ter, was the first who extended the sphere of judo and _ in- cluded therein many gymnas- tic exercises. And those holds and tricks which he taught have been from his day called the simple tricks. Mr. Kano, who is at the head of the Kano school of Tokyo to-day, took up judo where Tsutsumi left off, and added a num- ber of exer- cises. These largely form the simple tricks of the third depart- ment of judo.

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ct RRM TI ene “As you see, then, judo as it exists in Nippon to-day has three stages of development. It starts with the third, or the elementary stage, with simple gymnastic exercises. Between these simple tricks and the holds in wrestling there is a good deal of resemblance. Only, these simple tricks are a means to an end; they are modified to serve the specific end of self-defense, and under somewhat different AMERICAN WRESTLING vs. JUJITSU 37 be employed, why should jujitsu concern itself with athletics at all? I should very much like to see an exhibition of these mysterious powers. Can you not illustrate to me how these tricks are done?”’ Mr. Higashi—‘‘That would be impos- sible without incurring danger, which I am unwilling to do. A friend of mine once broke the arm of a student at an American college, and SEE aE 2 a RS a NE circumstances than those of wrestling. Moreover, these simple tricks are always ar- ranged with an eye to their serving as preliminary steps to the serious tricks. When meeting a wrestler on a mat, @ jujitsu-shi always em- ploys all these simple tricks, and also some of the simple tricks be- longing to the second division of judo. And in this department, there are only fifty tricks, whereas you have in Western wres- tling some two hundred different holds. To sum up, the end and aim of judo is, as I have tried to emphasize, self- defense. With the simple tricks of the third division, it is practically impossible to overcome an Amer- ican wrestler, as he is usually much superior in strength.”’ Mr. Leonard—‘‘As I understand it, then, the purely athletic, or gymnastic, holds which jujitsu teaches are in no wise different, in general, from the holds known to an ordinary wrestler, and it is only by its mysterious ‘secret tricks’ that jujitsu claims to be able to work its wonders. But if the aim and end of jujitsu is wholly self-defense, and no means are held to be too unfair to FIG, 6-HEAD-LOCK, BY WHICH AN OPPONENT MAY BE THROWN In fact, in a SO HEAVILY AS TO DISABLE HIM was in much danger of arrest. I do not care to run a similar risk. But I may ex- plain that the most essential element in the make-up of a good jujitsu master is the migd.* Will-power is the faculty of the mind that plays the most prominent part in theeart of judo. Then, nerves the center of equilibrium .« of which, so to speak, can hardly be shaken. Then, a_ pretty good knowledge of anatomy. After that, all is practice. Un- like wrestling, weight does not count in judo. number of cases, it would be easier to train a weak man to master judo than a strong one. A man naturally strong in muscular powers will, consciously or un- consciously, rely much upon his mere strength. In judo, it is essential that one learn to utilize the strength of his opponent against himself. The first thing which we try to teach is to attain as perfect a state of bodily passivity as

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38 possible. And this is the reason why in so Many cases women are better candi- dates for the mastery of judo than men. Another thing we try to teach is how to fall upon hard ground or a floor without hurting oneself. A drunkard who falls from a height is rarely seriously injured; you know the reason, of course; the degree of hurt is in proportion to the re- sistance offered by the system. If one could learn to make oneself perfectly passive, one would seldom get hurt. A number of masters of judo can break a pretty thick piece of marble tablet with a blow dealt by the edge of their open hands. It is not the strength that breaks the tablet; it is the rapidity of motion. A judo master ought to be able—I do not say every time, but nine times out of ten—to break the wrist of AMERICAN WRESTLING vs. JUJITSU a boxer, for example, with the edge of his open hand when the fist flies toward him. “‘As I have said, the number of tricks is comparatively small; it is not hard to learn them. It is not quite so simple, however, to train your eye and muscle to the proper speed. The rest is largely psychical.’’ Mr. Leonard—‘‘Does hypnotism play any part in the advanced stage of jujitsu?”’ Mr. Higashi—‘‘Not as such—that is to say, hypnotic influence as such has no place in the science of judo. Never- theless, I might say that hypnotism in a modified form certainly exists in judo. Judo believes in the mastery of one mind over another in a contest. I can quite understand how it is that to the Western eye, a number of feats of judo must appear little short of miracu- lous.”’ Mr. Leonard—‘“‘I have never seen any of those feats. Can you tell us some of those which are rather commonly practised? I should be interested to see some of these modern miracles.”’ Mr. Higashi—‘‘Take, for example, this case: If you or any one else would bring here two poles of bam- boo and let them be put upon the floor closely together, I would pillow my neck upon them in such a manner that the two poles would support the nape of my neck. After that, two more poles of bamboo might be brought and laid upon my throat in such a way that the poles would sandwich my neck both from the front and on the back. A pair of strong pieces of rope might then be taken and tied on either end of the bamboo poles, and rather forcibly, too. My neck would be, naturally, compressed by this tighten- ing. You might then place yourself with all your weight on the bamboo poles on one side of my neck, and you might ask one of your friends to do the same on the other side. These things done, all that I should ask you is to give me a signal and a second later I shall be out of the tight hugging of the poles. The FIG. 7—THE OCTUS; JOUNCING AN OPPONENT neck is a rather important portion WITH HIS OWN WEIGHT ON HIS NECK

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ROT ae eae oe oN REE REA ABET of the body, and all sorts of exercises are devised for its protection. “Another thing: In Nippon our ex- ercise-rooms are covered with padded mats, six feet by three in size. If a man happened to be sitting in one of these mat-covered rooms with me, and if it pleased his fancy to attack me, I could make one of the mats rise from the floor and fight for me against my opponent. x would simply kick one end of the mat between my opponent and myself, and send it flying at him so that the edge would catch him in the abdomen or his face or by his legs, as_ the case might be.” Mr. Leonard— “T have heard it said that you can, through ju- jitsu. kill a man and then bring him back again to life at your pleasure.”’ Mr. Higashi— “Oh, yes, you are speaking of katsu.* There are three prin- cipal katsu—no- katsu, kin-katsu and shime-katsu, according to the location where the reviving blow should be dealt, AMERICAN WRESTLING vs. JUJITSU 39 number of the tricks of judo are devoted. But the serious tricks almost altogether affect the very life of a man. Not to every one, however, are given the secrets of serious tricks. Before a man can receive them from his instructor, he must first of all prove to his satisfaction that he is a gentleman. No master of judo for one moment thinks of so rash a thing as teaching the serious tricks to one of his pupils who has not time and time again proved that he can command his temper under mercilessly try- ing conditions.’”’ Mr. Leonard— “At about what age is the train- ing of a young man in judo be- gun in your coun- try?” t Mr.Hi- Wa “At as early as seven or eight years. Prelimi- nary trainings in judo are ar- ranged in eight grades. There are a few excep- tional cases in which a_ begin- ner may success- fully climb up the eight within one year. After passing the and also accord- FIG. 8—ELBOW-AND-LEG HOLD, COMMON TO first grade, one ing tothe manner of bringing the unconscious back to life. Judo has no ambition to compete with professional men of medicine. Some- times one form of katsu is much more effective and much simpler than any means that medicine knows. Breaking an opponent’s arms, neck, back, legs, are some of the objects to which a large *The word katsu means “‘life.’’ WRESTLING AS WELL AS JUJITSU can be said to have begun to understand something of the art of judo. He then joins a class of beginners called shodan. It is a far cry from this stage of his at- tainment to the mastery of judo. It is the beginning of serious work; in the shodan stage a man usually learns the price which one must pay to become the master of his body. I suppose

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— 40 you do not commence the training in wrestling quite so early as that?’’ Mr. Leonard—‘‘No, we wait until they are older. Some boys are more mature at sixteen than others at eight- een. But seventeen is a good age; usu- ally it isat about that age that American boys take whole-heartedly to the train- ing and sport of wrestling, as well as to a number of other games. Is it abso- lutely imperative that one should begin as early as seven years of age in order to become a master of judo?”’ Mr. Higashi—‘‘It is better that a man should begin his schooling as early as possible. It is not absolutely essen- tial, however.” Mr. Leonard—‘If a man of, say, twenty-five or thirty years of age, one hundred and ten pounds in weight, of sedentary habits and delicate constitu- tion, were to come to you to receive your instruction, would you be able to train him so that he would find it an easy matter to defend himself against the attacks of a man of, say, over two hun- FIG. 9—-THE BUTTOCK; A HOLD USED BOTH BY WRESTLERS AND IN JUJITSU AMERICAN WRESTLING vs. JUJITSU dred pounds, powerfully built and well versed in the art of Western wrestling?”’ Mr. Higashi—‘‘Certainly. If the man happened to be a gentleman to the core, sober and sane in temper and high in principle, and if I only could be assured of this fact from the start, so that I should be in a position to entrust to his hands the secrets of serious tricks, six months would be ample time for him to become able to meet a man of twice his weight and three times his muscular strength and overcome him under all circumstances.’’ Mr. Leonard—‘“‘You interest me, but I am not convinced. Will you now show me some of the holds and tricks of jujitsu? Afterward I will show you some of the principal holds of wrestling. The serious tricks and the psychology I should be especially glad to have an illustration of, if that could be done.’’ Mr. Higashi—‘’As I said, that cannot be done except at a risk which I am not willing to take. I can, however, show you some holds by which we Overcome an opponent. By this hold (see Figure 2) I might break your arm over my left leg, gripping you rigidly to the floor by my right hand on your neck. Is it not so?’’ Mr. Leonard—‘“I doubt if you could get such a hold on a scientific wrestler. One of the cardinal principles of our wrestling is to keep the arms bent while in action, and this would make it very difficult for you to secure the hold you » have on the left arm. The y throat hold could easily be broken by turning to the left.”’ Mr. Higashi—‘‘That is a matter of opinion, and you might be able to break the hold, but I am sure I should break your arm.”’ Mr. Leonard—‘“I think I can show you a trick worth two of that. I have you on the floor, on your knees (Figure 83). I fling my left arm about your neck, grip it with my right hand, and choke you. That is called a back strangle hold; it is one of the most brutal known to wrestling. Here is another: You are still on your knees. I force you wen ameaemsbcnete a

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OME ACR flat on your face (Fig- ure 4), and with a half- Nelson on the leg, which venders you helpless, I strain your knee and break your ankle.”’ Mr. Higashi— ‘‘Very well. Here is how I can throw you over my back, heavily, stunning you”’ (Figure 5). Mr. Leonard — ‘‘Quite right. That is a hip- lock, well known to American wrestlers. And here (Figure 6) a AMERICAN WRESTLING vs. JUJITSU Sg ( Pe tile FIG. 10—BREAKING A LEG BY JUJITSU WHILE ON THE FLOOR is a head-lock, by which an opponent can be thrown to the floor with such force as to end the contest. Let me show you the octus (Figure 7). The punishment by this hold is effected by jouncing an opponent and forcing his own weight upon his neck. Another effective hold popular with wrestlers is the bar-ham- mer lock and half-Nelson (Figure 1), got by forcing the hammer-lock with the right hand. In this position, either the arm will be broken or the shoulder dis- located.”’ Mr. Higashi—‘“‘I will show you anoth- er way in which I might throw you’”’ (Figure 8). Mr. Leonard—‘‘The elbow-and-leg hold. We dlso practise it. It is a good hold.”’ Mr. Higashi—‘‘Here is another way (Figure 9) in which jujitsu teaches us to throw an opponent.”’ Mr. Leonard—‘‘Yes; that hold was early used by American wrestlers. We call it the buttock.” Mr. Higashi—‘‘Let me show how I might break your leg if I were on the floor and you about to spring on me (Figure 10). By a quick jerk for- ward of your right foot with my right leg, and a hard drive of my left against your knee, the weight of your body would be sufficient to snap your leg at the knee.’’ Mr. Leonard—‘‘I can hardly imagine such a result.”’ Mr. Higashi—‘‘Another way I might break your arm is in this fashion’’ (Figure 11). Mr. Leonard—“‘‘That position, it seems to me, would be almost impossible to secure. I do not see how a strong arm could be bent back so as to in- jure it. You Japanese are clever and

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eS ae crores DAGONET ma Tne FIG. 11—A WAY OF BREAKING THE ARM BY JUJITSU scientific; you evidently have the qual- America, and in some respects improve ity of muscle, upon which both you and upon.’’ we put no little emphasis. But I have Mr. Higashi—‘‘But I cannot show yet to see anything that you can show you our serious tricks.” me which we could not match here in Mr. Leonard—‘‘Ah!’’ DAGONET By LUCILE RUTLAND THE night King Arthur climbed the dismal stair At Camelot (forsaken by his queen And by his knights, without a hope to lean His grief upon or comfort his despair), About his feet within the darkness there A Voice clung with low words and sobs between— “To! Dagonet, thy fool, weeps here unseen, Who nevermore a smile shall make thee wear!” Alas for him who climbs the dismal steep Of life alone—who must endure the pain Of an o’erloving heart whose trust was vain ; To whom a Voice comes from the shadows deep— “To! I am Love, thy poor fool, and I weep Because I ne’er shall make thee smile again!” ea eee ~nO ee a SNA

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GREENSHANK, AN EASY MARK FOR THE HUNTER WITH A CAMERA HUNTING WITH A CAMERA By J. MACLAIR BORASTON HERE are three types of those who indeed by a few noble examples, but levy the blood-tax upon Nature. until now so rare in general practice as The old hunter slays for food, the mod- to come with some appearance of novelty. ern sportsman for pas- It was not strange time and the natural- that in this “return ist for knowledge. The to nature,’’ as some latter’s task is all but have called it, the done, and well done; birds should be the he has to a large ex- first to meet man by tent laid by his gun. the way. More numer- The knowledge thus ous and less shy than acquired, coordinated their furred or creep- and systematized, has ing brethren, they become diffused among readily take the eye the people, opening up by their sprightly to their view a new motions, and the ear world, the most salient by their curious calls features in which are, and sweet. singing. perhaps, the oneness They are with him at of life and the correla- his door-step; they are tion of all living forms. not absent from the Hence a new spirit in loneliest room. our times, or, if not a And again man comes new spirit, the diffu- as hunter, but this : e CAMERA DISGUISED BY LEAFY : ; sion of a spirit, old COVERING time armed with the

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4 HUNTING WITH A CAMERA double-barrel of the field-glass, his only shot the snap-shot of the camera. If any would know the last refinements of woodcraft, the breathless excitements of stalking in the open, and have his wits and patience put to proof in the framing of a hundred harmless snares to rob living beings of their images, let him lay aside his blunderbuss and try this sport of the lens. What mon- strous ‘‘bag’’ could ever yield its captur- ers a shadow of the still delight with which one watches the hard-won image of some wild creature gradually dawn upon the plate in the dim light of the dark-room—a thing not captured at fifty yards with a rain of shot sufficient to cover a barn-door, but peeled off the creature’s body, so to say, at arm’s length? As illustrating some of the methods employed in this pursuit of camera- hunting, let me explain my efforts to photograph a garden-warbler which I found nesting in a low bush in a dense wood. The first task was to assimilate SONG-SPARROW FEEDING ITS YOUNG the camera as far as possible to its sylvan surroundings, due regard being had to the confiding, close-sitting character of the bird in question. Inserting the camera-legs into a bush some six feet from the nest, I focused on the nest, set the shutter, opened the dark-slide, and finally pinned the ‘‘leaf-cover’’ about the camera-head. This being done, I joined some thirty yards of tubing to the pneumatic release, and leading the tubing between the bushes and the trees, secreted myself behind a tree-trunk, whence I could keep watch upon the nest with the field-glass. When the bird was seen to have returned to it, the shutter was released, and the ex- posure thus made without the near presence of the operator. Having worked from midday until near sundown, I found that the dense green of the foliage had so robbed the light of photographic energy that the images were ghostly- thin and useless. Returning to the spot with the most sensitive plates ob- tainable, I spent a second afternoon at A ne BN 5 i a

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— aS eR AAR the task. Setting aside failures through movement and underexpo- sure, two plates had no other defect than that the bird had taken into its head to sit for them end-on. As a lens magnifies the nearer portion of an object and re- duces in size the more distant one, I had one picture of the bird beak- on to the camera with abnormally swollen head, and another tail-on with this member equally enlarged beyond all proportion. To cut a long matter short, after spending a third afternoon at the nest, taking note of the position usually assumed by the bird upon return- ing to it, I exposed fourteen plates, running the time of exposure up to as much as five seconds: result, two plates fit to rank. In changing from the garden-warbler to the ringed plover, we pass from the woodland to the seashore, and from one of the least distrustful of birds to -one of the wariest. The eggs of the ringed plover are laid, as a rule, among the shingle above the high-water line, and it was in such a place that the nest shown in the pic- ture was found. Immediately upon sighting any one ap- proaching along the shore, the male bird, who keeps vigilant watch, pipes out a warning to the female sitting upon the nest, and she, hav- ing slunk down the shingle, is not unwilling to allow her- self to be observed tolerably closely when ata safe dis- tance from the nest. Here, manifestly, is no chance for an open attack by the pic- ture-hunter. Working in the open places usually selected by these birds as nesting- STARLING IN PUFF-TIPPED WINTER PLUMAGE THE RESTLESS REDPOLL, A DIFFICULT SUBJECT HUNTING WITH A CAMERA 45 sites, one’s only mode of attack is with the long tube, and then only if some object be suf- ficiently near to enable the operator to hide whilst re- taining in hand the release-bulb at the end of it, the cam- era having been disguised by piled- up shingle, sea- weed, and the like. The bird had nested on the shingle a few yards before a _ hedge- row that separated the beach from a field behind. A footpath ran beside the hedge on the field side, giving access to the beach by a stile some fifty yards far- ther along. Judging that this bird, being a wader, would be less critically dis- posed toward a new tree in the hedge- row than toward a bogus cairn suddenly erected on the smooth shingle-bank, I planted my camera, dressed in the “‘leaf- cover,’’ in the hedgerow, ran the long tube behind the hedge for fifty feet, and lay down there to watch through a con- venient gap. The bird returned at once, and an exposure was made, The plate was now to be changed, and the most obvious method of doing this L — ~ FOR THE CAMERA

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ee a wats er RED-EYED VIREO & ake NEST was from behind the hedge; but it is nearly certain that any attempt to conduct such operations from a foot- path upon which the birds were accus- tomed to see persons pass to and fro, but upon which they were not accus- tomed to see such persons pause to meddle with the vegetation immediately facing the nest, would have brought the cock over the hedge on a trip of inspection. If once he should get the idea that some one was secreted there, the game would be up. I there- fore rose, proceeded by the path to the stile fifty yards away, and came out upon the beach in orthodox fashion. Upon seeing me _ turn back alongshore in the direc- tion of the nest,. the cock-bird piped out, and I proceeded leisurely, so as to give the female ample time to slink away HUNTING WITH A CAMERA STALKING-CAMERA, WITH TWO LENSES without undue excitement down to the sand. Then, religiously avoiding the nest, and indeed refraining from glancing at it save through the camera, I brought the latter slightly for- ward from the hedge, reset the focus, changed the plate, ad- justed the leaf-cover, and turn- ing back retraced my fifty yards | along the shingle, went over the | stile with patently honest inten- tions, but, being over, crawled =* back to my old hiding-place, and i, took the bulb in hand to watch | again. I had not long to wait ere the female bird was back in her place, and a fresh exposure * 4 made. This little comedy was bs enacted time after time without -*. a hitch, the camera being gradu- ally advanced toward the nest until I reached the limit of my camera extension. It was evi- dent that a ringed plover’s botan- ical knowledge was sufficiently Saeed , PHOTOGRAPHED AT ITS’ wide toembrace ambulatory trees duly accredited by a green cope of arsenically tinted paper leaves, and capable of being brought to a stand by a mild-mannered gardener who came and went from time to time with the engaging simplicity of his kind. I, too, at times play the hamadryad, having a leaf-cover similar to that used upon the camera, but large enough to envelop me when seated. Pinning it like a shawl beneath my chin, and pulling forward the portion surrounding my face so as to form a deep ‘‘poke-bonnet’”’ in which my face is well hidden, I seat myself, generally upon the ground, to watch the shyer birds in their haunts. Birds lack humor —that is to say, humor of our kind. The dressed camera is absurd enough to look upon, but the dressed man is so ludi- crous an object that I would counsel no one to ccm: Aras cem ts eNOS aD RE 2 lath OR.

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Shines na SORA risk the imputation of insanity by adopt- ing this device in any but the loneliest places. Some people who once saw me “‘srowing’’ in an old quarry-pit, reported me at the first coast-guard station; for- tunately the coast-guard had known me in saner moments. It is often inconceivably droll to sit and watch the birds circle about the camera, examining it from all points of view. How significant it is of the limitations of birds’ faculties that they should be completely deceived by a clum- sy device of this kind HUNTING WITH A CAMERA 47 which to focus in anticipation of their arrival. In the absence of such a fixed focusing-point, the aid of a second lens is needed. This must be of the same focal length as the principal lens, and serves to throw an image on a small screen fixed in the same plane as the screen of the principal camera. An adjustable cover strung on elastic bands acts as bellows for the upper focusing arrangement, the screen of which is shaded by a projecting hood. When the double-lens camera is in use, the dark-slide in the principal camera is RINGED PLOVER ON NEST AMID THE SHINGLE OF THE SEASHORE The nest furnishes a naturally fixed point upon which to focus in obtaining pictures of sitting birds and of birds attending the nest; but when, as in winter, nests are no longer in use, birds may still be attracted by food to some spot upon which the lens has previously been focused, and pictures of them thus obtained. That of the starling in its puff-tipped winter plumage was secured by this means. Further, a little watching will at times serve to locate favorite perching-places of birds; when these, too, become fixed points upon always drawn, and the shutter set for exposure. This arrangement enables the operator to work, either in the open or in hiding, upon any bird coming within range; for, as he focuses on the object with the top lens, the lens in the principal camera is likewise brought into focus, so that at any favorable moment exposure may be made. The camera, so arranged, becomes also a “‘stalking’’ camera. Selecting the bird to be followed, the stalker approaches as near as possible without exciting it, then sets the camera down, one leg of

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EGGS AND NEST OF RINGED PLOVER the tripod being placed at the front, the two others right and left behind. All being ready, and the release-bulb in hand, set the front leg of the tripod well forward, quickly bring up the rear legs, refocus, and set forward again. Continue quietly and steadily thus to cause the tripod-to walk until the bird shows signs of restlessness, upon which, release the shutter if the image is worth it. Ata pinch, omit refocusing, and snap on the last focus. In working upon birds given to antics, it will be observed that such antics are to a large extent recurrent, the period of greatest repose usually follow- ing that of the greatest movement. Immediately the latter ceases, release in anticipation of the former. It is not possible to offer more than general ideas as to methods of attack in this class of work, so much depends upon knowledge of the temperaments of birds individually. Whilst a _ green- shank in its more reposeful moments will afford all the time that an operator conveniently hidden could desire, a linnet, perched, though sufficiently quiet in its deportment, must be caught be- tween the frequent, but periodical, openings of the bill to twitter; and the redpoll—that little pervert of a linnet with the restless soul and antics of a tit—must be treated—vwell, as one would snatch raisins from a flaming snapdragon. HUNTING WITH A CAMERA In conclusion, I may state not only that uncommon de- termination is required for this work, but that it involves an appalling expenditure of time. This time, neverthe- less, is not wholly sunk in the material result secured in the picture. Sport, as commonly conceived, is destructive only ; the sport of the camera is constructive. The close watching of creatures in their haunts involved in it, causes the observer to build up in- creasingly clear and accurate mental images of their very diverse characters. Begin- ners in the study of birds frequently express surprise that it should be possible to dis- tinguish one bird from another, so alike do many of them seem in their outward appearance; afterward, with fuller knowl- edge, they are equally surprised that creatures so distinct one from another should ever have been causes of con- fusion to them. As it is with the out- ward appearance of birds, so it is with their manifestations from within. The personality of each bird is distinct, characteristic. The little mind in it is ever at work in its own way, and, more- over, the little will is always uttering it- self after its kind. But a bird’s actions are the expressions of a mentality and a morality different from, though in some measure resem- bling, our own. MHence the perennial fascination for man in attempting to trace their workings; hence the sym- pathy that grows with increasing knowl- edge of them. When man comes to lay aside his gun, and desists from further destruction of beautiful and innoxious creatures, it will be because the sympathy that comes with widening knowledge will have revealed them to him as personali- ties, the destruction of which would bring with it something of the reproach of blood-guiltiness. This may seem heresy to-day; but the heresies of one age often turn out to be the creeds of the next. 3 27 ee SRR RE Pe — weirs

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By MORGAN E had towed down nearly to Sandy Hook before the steward, who had been busy in the cabin, dis- covered that his subordinate, the ship’s cook, had deserted at the dock, leaving an important incumbency unfilled. As Captain Sutherland informed me, a ship can go to sea without a mate or a skipper, but not without a cook; so it was manifestly necessary that we wait at anchor in the Horseshoe while he went back in the tug for another. He was like the ship he commanded —tall and well-proportioned. He had a full blond beard, and a shock of thick flaxen hair; he had a voice to waken the dead, and an eye that was hard to meet (it seemed to search into you—to hunt down and nail the lie you had not meant to tell); he was taciturn, but not ill-tempered, gentlemanly, of good address when he spoke, well-read and educated far above the requirements of seafaring—his education, it seemed, stopping only at the languages, an attempt to learn Norwegian, the tongue of his viking ancestry, as he informed me in our first interview, having signally failed. For the rest, he was an Ameri- can, and as he stepped down the side- ladder to the tug, clad in a sober business suit of gray, he looked like nothing so much as a prosperous manufacturer. His first mate resembled him in size, noisiness and professional efficiency, but differed from him in everything else. Mr. Rollins, when sober, was a capable first officer, but, drunk or sober, a brute—a ‘‘bucko,’’ as sailors call his THE COOK AND THE CAPTAIN ROBERTSON kind. He had offered to go up instead of the captain to ship the new cook. “No, Mr. Rollins,’’ said the captain, gravely. ‘‘I’d only have te follow and look for you. Besides, I’ve other busi- ness to attend to, that I’d forgotten. This will allow me to close it up. If I don’t come down with the cook in the tug, I’ll come down later by rail, and hail you from the government dock in- shore. Watch out for me.’’ ‘Curious man, doctor,’’ said the mate to me, as the tug steamed away. “This is my third v’yage with him, and I’ve never seen the inside o’ the after cabin.’’ “Why, is it usual,’’ I asked, idly— I did not like the fellow, but could not decline his society—‘‘for officers to have the run of the captain’s apartments?”’ “No,’’ he answered, ‘“‘not the run of them; but he won’t be called in bad weather. That’s his bargain with me— that I’m to be competent to shorten sail and take care o’ the ship without him. I’m that, all right, but skippers are usually overanxious. This one won’t come on deck till he wants to, and I’ve seen her hove down in a China typhoon, and him below. He sleeps daytimes a good deal, and noses round deck nights. ’Nother rule is, and I’ll give it to you: Don’t tramp over his head, starboard side aft.’’ I thanked him for the information and left him; for it had begun to rain, and as I was an invalid physician, taking a sea-voyage on my own prescription, I knew my room was the best place for me. It was off the dining-room, in the 4

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50 forward cabin, and I remained in it through that night and the following forenoon, nursing my rheumatism, and listening to the sound of rain increas- ing to the sound of storm, which by midday had become a gale from the west. Over the steady song of the wind, arose at intervals the louder roar of the mate on deck, cursing and berating the men in the pleasant task of breaking them in to his ways, and late in the afternoon a change of cadence in the roaring tones brought me on deck. The tug was coming, a dim shape on the port quarter, barely outlined in the smudge of rain and spoondrift. Along the rail were perched men with fenders, and forward on the forecastle deck Mr. Rollins was overseeing the job, and again bawling profanity at the men. Here he remained while a big, blond, limp and unsteady man in a gray busi- ness suit was assisted up the side amid- ships, and hurried into the galley by the waiting steward. Then Mr. Rollins came aft, peeping into the galley on the way, and joined me on the poop. “Did the skipper come aft?’’ he inquired. “No, if that was him. The steward seems to be taking good care of him.”’ ‘Hell of a how-de-do,’’ he grunt- ed, disgustedly. ‘‘Wouldn’t trust me to——’”’ The rest was lost as he walked away, but I sensed it, and while I shared the captain’s distrust of him, I also shared his disgust for the captain. A drink- ing officer may be kept sober at sea. Not so a captain. A man had climbed aboard, and now mounted the poop-steps and accosted Mr. Rollins. ‘‘You’re der mate, ain’t you?’’ he asked, producing a couple of documents. *“Yoost sign dis receipt for der cook— and here’s der ship’s articles der skipper gi’me.”’ Mr. Rollins took the papers. “Sign for the cook?’’ he said. ‘‘Where is he?’’ “Yoost passed him up. I’m _ der shippin’-master dat shipped der crew, and der skipper was busy this morning —yoost gi’me der articles and told me to sign and bring down a cook.”’ “This is the articles all right,’’ said THE COOK AND THE CAPTAIN—FIOCTION the mate, scanning the papers, “and this is a receipt for one Lars Hansen, cook. But you passed up the skipper, not a cook.”’ . “‘No,” said the shipping-master, ear- nestly. ‘‘He lcoks like der skipper, but he’s a Norwegian, like me, and a cook. He didn’t come out o’ der same house as der rest, but I shipped him ’fore der commissioner.”’ “I say, mate,”’ called the tug-captain from his pilot-house. ‘‘Going out with this good fair wind, or will you wait till he sobers up?’’ ‘‘Who’d you bring down,’ asked the mate—‘‘Captain Sutherland or a cook?”’ “Both, didn’t I? Skipper full as a goat, and the cook takin’ care of him.”’ “This fellow’s a crimp. Didn’t you bring a cook?”’ “Not unless he’s one. I thought he was the cook we went for.’’ “Get off this poop,’’ roared the angry officer. ‘‘Get over the side, blast you. This beats all my time—shanghain’ a skipper aboard of his own ship as cook. Get aboard that tug.”’ The mate pushed the shipping-master, threatened with his big fist, silenced his protesting voice in a torrent of pro- fane abuse, and bore him along by the very force of his masterful personality to the poop-steps, down which he followed him, still threatening and cursing him. The shipping-master, dazed by the out- pouring of wrath, sped to the rail and mounted it, chagrin and astonishment showing on his dull, flat face. “By der living Gawd,” he cried, ‘‘I’ll fix you for this. What der hell’s der matter wi’ you—hey? You’re crazy- house.’’ Mr. Rollins threw a belaying-pin at him, and he dropped down to the tug, where I heard him in angry altercation with the tug-captain. I was unused to such scenes, and left the deck; but I could hear through my stateroom win- dow the voice of the mate directing the tug-captain to hang on alongside until the captain came on deck or a cook came down, and the tug-captain’s pro- test that there would be a bill of de- murrage against the owners for the delay. Suamegragey. PE LE PMI PT OES LRT oP TIA IT

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RS: IRE SNES RPMI fi NOSES asked the overworked steward how the patient was getting on, and the tired man answered: ‘Drunk still, or doped —stretched out like a log in the cook’s room. I can’t get a word out of him, sir. I wish he’d wake up and do something. I can’t stand this much longer.” “Yes, steward,”’ answered the mate. “But you know his rule— that he’s not to be called. You did right to get him out of sight of the men,though. Let him take his time.”’ The steward opened his eyes and looked curi- ously at him, but said nothing, and soon left the cabin. “Tf he’s doped, Mr. Rollins,’ I ventured, ‘‘I think we ought to look at him.” “We will, after supper,’ he re- sponded. We did so. The steward, busy with a pile of pots and pans, received us at the galley-door, and pointed in through another to where, on a berth in a small adjoining room, lay the big, gray- clad figure that had come on board. We entered and stood by the berth. The gray suit was soiled and disfigured, the linen filthy, the breath reeking of whisky; but there was no dilation to the pupils Drawn by George Gibbs “The captain’’ MORGAN ROBERTSON—FICTION At a late supper, the mate facetiously regular breathing. 51 of the eyes—nothing abnormal in the It was Captain Sutherland, or his double, disgracefully drunk, but not drugged. “I wish he’d wake up and help,” said the steward, drying a huge pot with acloth. ‘I’m all tired out.”’ “Help?” said the mate, looking round at him. “Why, it’s the skipper.”’ “No, Mr. Rol- lins,’””’ answered the steward, ear- nestly. ‘‘I thought so when he came aboard, but this fellow can’t speak English.’’ “Too drunk, you blamed fool,’’ said the mate, contemptuously. ‘Don’t you s’pose I know the skip- per after two v’ages—and the clothes he wears? Why, I know the place he bought that suit in Liver- pool. See the English cut to the lapels?’’ “You’re mis- taken, sir,’’ pro- tested the stew- ard, backing into the galley with his pot. “That’s a Sou’wegian, the dead image of Captain Suther- land, I know; but he’s a cook. Why, drunk as he was, he knew’ where the cook’s berth was, and floundered right into it.” “If I didn’t know,” said the mate, eying him sternly, ‘‘that you’re a fool, and an honest man as fools go, I’d

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52 think you were in cahoots with that crimp. Let’s get out o’ here, doctor. Let him sleep, steward,’’ he said, as we left. Obviously, with the captain returned, drunk, and without a cook, nothing could be done; so Mr. Rollins set the anchor-watch with no reference to the dock inshore, and one result of this was that the steward wakened me about midnight by passing my door from the after cabin to the forward passage, and chuckling audibly, ‘‘Who’s the fool now?’? Then I heard him waken Mr. Rollins, whose room was on the port side of this passage, telling him that the captain wanted to see him in the dining- room. They both entered at about the same moment; and as my door was partly ajar, I took note of the captain. His face was clean, his eye clear, and his clothing a dark-blue pea-jacket and trousers, of pilot-cloth or beaver. - “Is the ship ready for sea, Mr. Rollins?’ he inquired, gravely, when the mate had rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Yes, sir—all but the cook. Has he come?”’’ ‘How do I know?”’ said the captain, impatiently. ‘‘I have just come off in a shore-boat, finding my hail unanswered; but the steward says he is come. Is there no anchor-watch here?’’ ‘*“Yes—-yes, sir,’’ stammered the aston- ished Mr. Rollins. ‘‘The cook came this afternoon, but—but, I was waiting— for you—for the cook to is ‘“‘Wake up,’’ interrupted Captain Suth- erland. ‘‘Take the ship to sea. You know better than to wait for orders. I thought you knew my ways.”’ “Very good, sir,’ said the mate, humbly, as he turned away. Both left the dining-room by opposite doors, and I rolled over in my berth, too content with its warmth to go on deck in the cold and rain to witness the getting under way of the big ship. But I heard most of the operation, beginning with a noisy dialogue between the mate and the tug-captain, in which the former averred that he never saw such a “hell- fired resemblance”’ in his life, and which he concluded by a request to send ‘“‘that damned, hell-fired, four-legged Sou’wegi- THE COOK AND THE CAPTAIN—FIOCTION an son of a ship-owner aboard, and he’d sign his receipt for the cook.’’ Then followed the clank of the windlass, the trampling of feet, the formless calls of sailors, the oaths and orders of the officers, the rattling of blocks and canvas, the swish and crash of water alongside, then quiet—and sleep. I was up at daylight; the watch on deck was washing down under the second mate; the steward, more tired and anxious-looking than ever, was flitting back and forth between cabin and galley; and forward near the fore- -hatch the new cook was sawing wood. ‘‘He seems to be some kind of a cook,”’ said the steward, when I had inquired about his assistant, ‘‘but he can’t talk English. I don’t know what I’m to do.”’ I strolled forward and inspected the cook. He smiled vacantly as I halted before him, but went on with his task, singing to himself a rollicking melody which occasionally broke into a refrain in English. It was laugh-compelling, the way the words rolled out, and the meaning they had—something about two old ladies gossiping, and at every second line indulging in the refrain, as follows: “‘Goodness gracious, gracious goodness, goodness gracious, gracious me.”’ I spoke to him, but he protested by signs that he did not understand. I knew that it is not difficult to learn and sing a song in a strange language, so I took no account of this. Though phys- ically—that is, in height, figure, color of hair and eyes, shape and fixed ex- pression of the features—he was the exact counterpart of Captain Suther- land, here resemblance ended. There was no intellect, no soul, showing in that vacant expression of face and eyes. He was an animate clod—a human brute barely removed from idiocy; there was nothing in common between him and the intelligent Captain Sutherland but physique and his parrot-like rendering of a song. Yes, there was one other point of resemblance. The gray suit was discarded, and he was in his shirt- sleeves—very dirty they were, too; but he wore dark-blue pilot-cloth trousers. - * s # zg Seer ARERR ORIN E ~

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MORGAN ROBERTSON—FICTION Drawn by George Gibbs ‘‘The cook whimpered in pain, shielding his face with his arms’’

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54 As I turned away, Mr. Rollins, just out of his berth, came forward. He halted before the cook and the pile of wood resting upon the unprotected deck, and turned loose a torrent of profane objurgation, the burden of which was his disapproval of men who knew no more than to scar up a good deck with newly sawed wood. The cook stopped singing, stopped working, and looked at him in stupid bewilderment; and as he did not immediately respond to the suggestion to pile the wood on the hatch, Mr. Rollins promptly seized the end of a rope, whirled it around, and struck him on the face with it. Still he did not understand, and he received another blow that nearly knocked him down. The cook whimpered in pain, shielding his face with his arms; but there was no resentment in the dull, expressionless features, and, understand- ing at last, more by the mate’s gestures than his words, he began piling the wood. I was a passenger, and though disgusted with the mate’s brutality, I could not interfere in anything con- cerning the management of the crew; but I determined, as I went aft, that Captain Sutherland should at least know of the proceeding, when he could take such action as he saw fit. How- ever, I soon forgot the cook and every- thing else but myself and the misery of seasickness; for as the ship left the lee of the land the seas rose, and as it still blew half a gale, these seas tossed the big vessel about in a manner that sent me to my berth. It was well on toward six bells of the first watch—eleven in the evening—before I again sought the deck, when I found a quiet scene—the sea comparatively smooth, a _ gentle breeze bellying the canvas, and the ship riding gently along with a full moon hanging over the port foreyardarm. Forward the watch paced up and down, or sat about in coils of rope hanging from the pins; Mr. Rollins stood by the break of the poop; and aft, near the man at the wheel, Captain Sutherland leaned against the house, gazing thought- fully over the sea. When he spied me, he beckoned, and I joined him, noticing that he still wore the blue clothes of the THE COOK AND THE CAPTAIN—FICTION night before. He led me up to wind- ward, out of earshot of the helmsman, and it was plain that there was some- thing on his mind. “Did you see the new cook, doctor?”’ he asked, softly. “Yes, captain,’’ I answered, resolved to inform him of the mate’s brutality, but waiting for an opening. He stared absently over my head a few moments, then said: ‘‘I hear he resembles me very much—so much that Mr. Rollins took him for me when he came aboard. Is that so?’’ “Yes, captain, he does—physically. He even wore a suit resembling yours, and this morning, blue trousers like yours.”’ “He did!’’ exclaimed the captain, suddenly; then, after a palpable effort at self-control, he said: ‘‘Mr. Rollins told me of his difficulty with him this morning. Did you see that?’’ “Yes, captain, I did.’’ I answered, warmly, ‘‘and a more cowardly, brutal attack on an inoffensive and unresisting man I never saw in my life. Why, he could not understand what the mate wanted of him, and for this he was mal- treated.” ‘‘Maltreated?”’ repeated the captain, with doubt in his voice. ‘‘And did he make no resistance at all?—a man as large as—as myself, I hear.’’ ‘‘He made none whatever, nor uttered a word except in pain.”’ “Strange,’’ muttered the captain; and even in the moonlight I saw that his face was ghastly, and that beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. ‘‘What kind of a man is he—mentally?’”’ “A dull, insensate human animal,” I answered, shortly, a little disappointed at his reception of my outburst; ‘‘yet a happy, harmless person, who, if not ill treated, will sing. He sang an Eng- lish song, though a foreigner.’’ ‘What was it? Do you remember?” he asked, eagerly. “The refrain ran like this,’’ I answered, and then sang: ‘**Goodness gracious, gracious goodness, good- ness—— re “Don’t,’’ gasped the captain. ‘‘Don’t sing that song.’’ He put his hands to

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orem TOR LAAN NR Tilah : . NNT ELE TTT ie 38 Sm ET his face, and his words came forth as though dragged from him against his will. Then he recovered himself and said: ‘‘That song is the curse of my life, doctor. It always preludes disaster to me. I heard the shipping-master sing it ashore—when I bargained with him for the cook. Don’t sing it again. Oblige me. I am afraid of it.’’ “Why, certainly, captain,’ I an- swered, wondering what dark mystery MORGAN ROBERTSON—FICTION 55 “Great song—that,’’ he remarked. ‘“‘He was singin’ it three minutes after I thumped him, and kept it up all day.”’ “Mr. Rollins,’”’ said the captain, stern- ly, “I have just explained to Doctor Fleming that the song is intensely dis- agreeable to me, that—in fact, it brings me bad luck. Suppress it aboard this ship. Let no man sing it, either in my hearing or out of it. Put that Sou’we- Drawn by George Gibbs ‘*But he only stood blinking at the light”’ in this man’s past was stirredup. ‘But, no doubt, the cook learned it of the shipping-master on the way down.” “No, no,’ he declared; then, chan- ging his tone with an effort, he added, “Yes, of course—very probable.”’ Mr. Rollins had come aft, peeped into the binnacle, criticized the helmsman, after the manner of mates, and had drawn close enough to hear the song, but not the conversation, gian—that double of mine—into your department, where you can have an eye upon him. Makeasailorofhim. With God’s help, I’ll have an end of this.’’ He had begun calmly, but concluded in a passion of excitement. Then he looked wildly at us for a moment, then calmed down. “Pardon me, captain,’’ I ventured, “but I am a medical man, entitled to ask impertinent questions, You are

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extremely agitated. Have you met this man before in your life?’’ He looked at me angrily, then said to the mate: ‘‘He is my worst enemy—on account of the resemblance, he has worked me incalculable harm—because he is my mental opposite. I now have him in my power. Make his mind like mine. Make him a sailor.”’ “T’ll make somethin’ of him, sir,’’ said the mate, coolly. ‘‘Shark-bait if you say so.”’ “No, no,’’ cried the captain, vehement- ly. ‘‘Not that, understand. You are not to injure him permanently, no mat- ter what the provocation. Protect him —even from himself. Do not go too far. Just make a sailor of him—and keep him out of the forecastle—away from the men. They’d drive him to suicide. Let him sleep in the cook’s berth just the same, and find a man who can cook among the crew to take his work. Understand?—you are simply to make a sailor of Lars Hansen—that’s the name on the articles—an incompetent and disrated cook.’’ “Yes, sir, I understand. There’s another Sou’wegian in my watch that can cook, he says. They were chinning together, and ‘“‘Send him aft.’’ A hulking Scandinavian sailor came aft at the mate’s behest, and shambled up the poop-steps. “Are you a cook?’’ asked the captain. “Yaas, sir,’’ answered the man. “I coo—oo—k mit my country ships.’’ “You will keep your bed in the fore- castle, but do your work in the galley under the steward’s orders. Is the cook a countryman of yours?”’’ “Aye, aye, sir. But—I dunno, sir. Dot fellar—he knows his name, but not ” his town. I ask him, Bergen, Trond- hjem, Christiansand——-_ I t’ink he isa Dane, sir; I t’ink he is——”’ The sailor touched his forehead. ‘No, he’s sane, and a Norwegian,”’ said the captain, unguardedly. ‘‘That’ll do,’’ he added, briskly. ‘‘Go forward. Remember,’’ he resumed to the mate, ‘‘what I said, Mr. Rollins. ‘You are to break that double of mine in to his work, but are not to injure him—not to dis- THE COOK AND THE CAPTAIN—FICTION figure him. Understand? There is a— an occult connection of some kind. He is my living image, and physical harm to him comes to me in some manner— that is, if you blacken his eyes, mine will become discolored through sympathy. That is all I can explain to you now. But—make a sailor of him. Good night —good night, doctor.”’ “Crazy?’’ murmured the mate, inquir- ingly, when he had gone. ‘‘Not necessarily,’’ Ianswered. ‘‘Such cases of syinpathy between doubles have been known.” ‘“‘Well,’’ said the mate, dryly, ‘I’m to make a sailor of him. Big job for one v’age, but I’ll try. Wonder what he did to the skipper to make him so sore?’’ I was busy myself with the same speculation, and could not inform him— that is, in language that he could under- stand. I went to sleep with my head full of obsessions, possessions, soul affini- ties, and such psychic problems, and when I came on deck in the morning I found that Lars Hansen’s tutelage had begun. Clad in the soiled gray suit, he was wielding a broom with the rest of the watch in the morning wash-down of the deck, and as I appeared on the scene, had just received a drenching from a bucket of water in the hands of the mate. “Didn’t I tell you,’’ roared the officer, “‘to shut off that song?’ He turned for another bucket of water, and Hansen shook himself like a dog, sober of face but not apparently angry. Then his vacant smile came to him, he resumed work with his broom, and the words rolled out: “‘Goodness gracious, gracious goodness———”’ This time he got bucket and all. The impact knocked him down, and he whined inarticulately, while every face but his and the mate’s worea grin. But he picked himself up, silent for the few moments I remained there, and scrubbed vigorously. He had no mind, though a giant able to crush the mate in his arms. It was a shame to ill-treat him, but I could do nothing but show my indignation by leaving the deck. His education proceeded on these lines

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A SLIT AERTS OTT LI I A TE St a eer for three days, to no appreciable result. He could master no details of a sailor’s work requiring the slightest exercise of judgment, and could not remember for more than a few moments the inhibition of the song. Indeed, the ruling worked against itself; for the crew picked it up, and whenever the mate was far enough away, a man would lift his head and sing, as loud as he dared, the ridiculous refrain, to the accompaniment of grins and jokes. During this time, Captain Sutherland remained below, leaving the navigation of the ship to the mate; and the steward, in response to my inquiries, informed me that it was no unusual thing—that he often kept his room for days, permitting no one to enter, and ordering his meals at rare intervals, and at any hour of the clock. My in- terest in a matter that neither the mate nor steward cared about was purely professional: as Lars Hansen now bore several scars and contusions on his face, I was curious to know of possible similar stigmata—such as he had hinted at—on the face of the captain. Mr. Benson, the second mate, a young fellow on his first voyage as an officer —hence not in strong sympathy with the abuse of Hansen—had informed me that the men forward were only waiting for the captain’s appearance on deck to bring the bruised and battered foreigner aft and make his complaint for him in English. And even as we talked on the poop, Captain Sutherland came out of the forward cabin door, and paced a few turns on the main-deck. ‘‘Been inspecting the log-book in the mate’s room, I suppose,’’ whispered Mr. Benson. “I hear he always does that first thing when he’s through hibernating.”’ I noticed that the watch forward had begun to move about; then, as the captain climbed the lee poop-steps, evidently with a wish to avoid us, one of the men came aft and called up to the second mate, ‘‘Hansen’s not in his bunk, sir, and we can’t find him.” Mr. Benson descended the steps and went forward with the man. Had the poor wretch been driven to suicide? With this as a pretext, though MORGAN ROBERTSON—FICTION 57 with other thoughts in my mind, I strolled aft and faced the captain near the binnacle. He looked at me and bade me a civil good evening, but his voice seemed changed. The strong, vi- brant, raspy intonation was gone from it; it quavered a little, and there was an air of drooping and despondency in his whole bearing. He seemed a sick man, and I would have addressed him professionally had I not seen marks on his face that called for other than mere medical diagnosis. Hansen had wound up the day with a black eye, a red and swollen nose and a lacerated upper lip. In a lesser degree Captain Sutherland bore these disfigurations; his eye was not black, but puffed, his nose only slightly swollen, and his lip nearly normal. Was it stigmata? ‘‘Pardon me, captain,’’ I said, ‘‘but— your face is marked. Is it possible that you are suffering the pain of another?’’ “T suppose so,’”’ he answered, wearily, moving away from the helmsman’s vicinity. I slowly followed, and he turned and faced me. ‘‘While I was below, ill in my berth,” he said, in a strained, unnatural tone, “‘my double has been struck in the eye, on the nose and on the mouth. There is no pain, only a puffed, itching sensa- tion. Have you studied these things, doctor?”’ “T have read of such transference of sensation, but it never came into my practice. If you can imagine the pain, you may know what the original victim has suffered at the mate’s hands. Cap- tain, it is inhuman; even the men are in- dignant, and have just told Mr. Benson that he is missing from his bunk—per- haps gone overboard to escape it.”’ “Damn them!” he growled; then, to me: “‘Dactor, if I dared—if I thought it would bring no harm to myself, I would welcome such an escape. Let it go at that.”’ Mr. Benson arrived at this moment with the news from forward—Hansen could not be found. ‘‘There’s a hatch from the galley leading down into the ’tween-deck, sir,’’ he said. ‘‘Perhaps he’s hiding down there, and put the hatch-cover on again,”’

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58 THE COOK AND THE CAPTAIN—FICTION ‘“‘No,"’ said the captain. ‘I know all about that hatch. Ue couldn’t do it from underneath. If he don’t show up to-morrow, he’s overboard. Don’t both- er me’’—his voice rose angrily—‘‘with such things. I’m a sick man.” “Very well, sir.”’ Mr. Benson moved away, and halted near the weather mizzen-rigging, evi- dently putting the matter from his mind very easily; for he had hardly placed himself before he began humming, louder as the melody progressed, the catchy, rollicking tune that the captain had forbidden to the first mate but not to him. The sick man was transformed. “Hell and damnation!’’ he yelled; “will you hush up that music? By God, if you were not an officer, I’d thrash you in your tracks. Didn’t I say I didn’t want to hear that infernal song?’’ ‘‘Not to me, sir,’’ said the young mate, with dignity. ‘‘I caught it from the men, but I didn’t know you objected to at." “I do. My God, oh, my God, I do! Don’t sing that song again.”’ His high-pitched, angry voice had sunk to a groan. He turned and fairly tottered to the companion, down which he went with stumbling feet. Mr. Ben- son looked at me in the moonlight. “His mind is affected,’’ I said, softly, and he nodded. But, though this settled Mr. Benson’s doubts, I still had my own. I remained up until eight bells, when Mr. Rollins came on deck and received Mr. Benson’s report that Hansen was missing. As first mate, Mr. Rollins could act on his own initiative. He ordered a search of the ’tween-deck with lanterns, and in spite of my rheumatism I went down that hatch with the party, carrying my own bull’s-eye lantern secreted in my pocket. And as Mr. Rollins, for reasons connected with his duties on deck and the temper of the men who went down looking for the missing ship- mate, remained above, it was easy to lose myself among the cargo while they searched around a square space under the hatch containing a reserve of coal and wood, for use in the galley. They soon gave it up and ascended; then my bull’s-eye disclosed what their lanterns had not—an opening among the boxes and cases of the cargo, high up near the beams, and on entering this I found that it enlarged and led aft, an irregular but clear passage above the cargo. I followed it, passing the mainmast, and later the mizzen. Knowing now that I was beneath the cabin, I found a soft spot, screened my lantern and waited. Not for long. Steps sounded above me; a hatch was lifted, letting down a flood of lamplight; then I heard the voice of the cook, cheerfully singing that fatal song; then the light was blocked by his body as, still singing, he dropped down beside me on the cargo. I turned on my bull’s-eye and flashed the light in his face. He screened his eyes with his hands, whimpered and drew back. “Captain Sutherland,’’ I said, sternly, ‘do you hear me? Wake up.” He whimpered again, then launched a volley of strange words at me—wNor- wegian or Danish, I suppose—but with a note of entreaty in them. But he only stood blinking at the light. I spoke kindly, advanced and examined him. He wore the gray suit, still damp from the drenching of the morning, and creased irregularly, as though he had slept in it. But the white shirt was clean and the underclothing dry. I shook him, commanded him to wake up, and spent about ten minutes at the task; then commanded him to go forward to the galley. “Galley,’’ he repeated, stupidly, and started. He had learned the meaning of this English word. I followed, saw him reach up and lift the hatch, in spite of his own statement that it could not be done, climb through and close it down; then I pondered for about an hour on what I had studied of the phases of somnambulism and the deeper stages—alternating personality. But I could not solve this problem. Parts of it were clear, however. In his normal mind Captain Sutherland knew of his infirmity, and had only en- deavored to conceal it by such means as were in his power—as, donning the gray suit before going to sleep in his cabin, so that he would be less likely to SETA AARNE RP TATE RAE BAe terrae ais SAO TTY

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PRETENSE Fo HA SORTED put on the blue again when he wakened as the cook; trying to mislead me with the suggestion of stigmata from another human being in psychic touch with himself; and assuming habits of retire- ment for days, contrary to all the habits of shipmasters and the usages of the sea. But why did the ridiculous song enrage him, and why did he so ardently desire that, as cook, he should be taught the work of a sailor? To bring about a similar mind-state between his two personalities? If he had studied psy- chology enough to learn of stigmata, he would hardly hope for a cure by such means; it would take three or four life- times. I gave it up, ascended the hatch easily, put it on, peeped in and saw the captain, or Lars Hansen, as he now was, asleep in the cook’s room, and went aft to my room without meeting any one. I wakened late, found a gray gale of wind brewing, and Mr. Rollins busy on the main deck, punishing Lars Hansen for “soldiering’’ through the middle watch. The poor wretch was prostrate on the deck, his face bleeding, and hands held tightly over his eyes and temples. He was crying inarticulately in his language, beseeching mercy, no doubt, from a brute that knew not the meaning of the word in his own. The mate, swearing bravely, was walking around him, shifting his position deliberately as he sought for an opening in the vic- tim’s defensive guard, and flourishing in his hand his favorite weapon—a rope’s- end. Forward, the men were gathered together, scowling viciously, a few of them with belaying-pins in their hands. Above, the growing gale whistled and sang, and, one after another, the three skysails left the bolt-ropes, and the flying jib went to ribbons; but the fatuous mate went on with his amusement. I resolved to stop it, even though half aware of the hidden design in it all. But, just as I had started to speak, and the men forward had begun a rush, Lars Hansem sprang to his feet, looking wildly about him, and received a glan- cing, carelessly delivered blow of the rope. The wild look left his face, and was followed by an expression of sudden, MORGAN ROBERTSON—FICTION 59 human resentment, while he drew back a fist bigger than the mate’s. But he did not strike out; instead, he glanced quickly and intelligently aloft and around, then at the indignant men flock- ing to his aid. Then he felt of his face. ” “All right, men,’ he said, calmly. “Go forward. I’m the captain of the ship.”’ He turned a steady, piercing eye on the dumfounded mate, who had dropped the rope to clinch his fist. “Much obliged, Mr. Rollins,’’ he said, “but I think I’ve had enough. Take in the canvas.’’ The mate stared vacantly at him. His jaw dropped and his fists unclinched. ‘‘Take in the royals and mizzen top- gallantsail, Mr. Rollins,’’ said Captain Sutherland, quietly, advancing a step toward the officer. It was too much for the intellect of Mr. Rollins. He uttered a _ hoarse shriek of terror, then turned and fied toward the poop-steps, where he halted and looked back. “Wait, Mr. Rollins,’’ called the cap- tain. ‘“‘I’ll explain.” He followed, and the mate sprang up the steps, raced aft, and looked for- ward from the taffrail. Then, as Cap- tain Sutherland climbed the steps, and the bloody face appeared to his view, his limited mind gave way entirely. With an incoherent yell, he jumped on the taffrail, and as the avenging vision called to him again, he dropped over- board. There was confusion much confounded for a while. The ship was hove to and a boat lowered, but the mate was not seen again, and the men returned just in time to save themselves and the ship. “T am an Icelander,’’ said Captain Sutherland, when he explained matters to me. ‘‘The song has the tune of an old saga put to music. I do not know the psychology, but it always threw me into that condition. I became a Sou’- wegian, though in my normal state I could not learn the language. I spent three years as a cook in Norwegian craft, before I shipped in an American ship and was hammered back by a Yankee mate. So, you see, I knew the remedy, and applied it,’’

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Drawn by Will Grefé she breathed | 3 Lan 9 Q qa o ee a oo a “ 3 ° A B oO 4 B| ‘**If you only

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NTE “HEY ate their dinner almost in silence that night. ‘‘Let’s come out into the park for a while,’’ Ordway suggested, excitedly, as they left the dining-room. ‘‘We sha’n’t have to start before nine.”’ The seat overlooking the river where, in the summer season, they had always preferred to exchange their daily con- fidences, was empty. Dwight Ordway threw himself into it with a sigh of re- lief, taking his hat off in welcome to the slight breeze that floated languidly over the water. His thin dark face was white with the fatigue of a long hot day, but a definite glow of happiness brightened his eyes and drew his lips into a constant succession of smiles. “Oh, have the flowers come?’ he asked. “Yes, this afternoon.”’ ‘‘Were they all right?”’ “Just what I wanted.” He laughed a little. “I do want everything to be all right to-night. I know you’re bound to make a sen- sation. -If they only see you once at your best, I know they’ll never for- get it. Cecilia, I can’t tell you how happy I am that the deadlock is broken. Aunt Anne’s dictum, you know, is final.’’ Cecilia’s brow contracted painfully as she looked into the glow of the sunset. “If you only knew how frightened I am,’’ she breathed. “That’s nonsense,’”’ her husband in- sisted, briskly. ‘‘All you need is a chance to let them know you. It’s lucky Aunt Anne invited us this year. I should never have given them another chance. I’d have taken you abroad.” Cecilia shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have gone,’”’ she asserted, tremulously. “I never should have been happy any- where until you had made up with your people. Never! Never!’ By INEZ HAYNES GILLMORE Ordway’s eyes grew tender as he looked at her. Then the laugh twinkled in them again. “TI went into the store to see the girls to-day,’ she said. “‘Yes.’’ Her husband’s tone was ab- sent. “‘They’d heard—I don’t know how— all about the invitation.”’ “There was something in the papers the other night,’’ Ordway said, frowning. Cecilia sighed. ‘Oh, I wish the papers would leave me alone. Some- times I think they will never get through with me. Other millionaires have mar- ried working-girls and been disinherited and after a while it’s been forgotten. But they never forget me.”’ “It’s because you are different.” “Tf hating it makes me different, I am different.’’ Her knitted brows smoothed themselves out. ‘‘The girls were all so glad for me. They sent every message they could think of to you. They asked me about a thousand questions. They made me promise that I’d come in and tell them all about it.’’ ‘““You must be sure to do it.”’ “TI sha’n’t forget. Oh—and, Dwight, I asked Delia Kelly to take up French with me next winter. She’s crazy to learn. She thinks she could work into a buyer’s position if she only knew French, and I guess she could. There’s going to be a vacancy sooner or later, and if she’s only ready———”’ “Why don’t you form a class and invite the whole five to join?’’ Ordway suggested. ‘‘I’ll pay the bills.’’ Cecilia’s eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, Dwight, would you? I never thought of any- thing like that. But I’d simply love to. I want so much to share! I’ve had so much—I don’t deserve it all. I don’t know whether they’d all care. But some of them will. I’ll go in to-morrow

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62 and tell them all about it. You dear, to think of such a sweet thing!’ Im- pulsively she bent over and _ kissed him. “They’re a bright set,’’ Ordway said. “‘They deserve a chance to But I’m not thinking so much of that as that they introduced me to you. I’d send them all through college to pay back that score. Well, I suppose we ought to be getting ready.”’ The happy look faded out of Cecilia’s eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’’ She arose slowly. By the time they had reentered their little apartment, her face was white and she was trembling in every limb. An hour later, the tremble had all gone, and a glinting glow, that trans- formed it, was playing over her face. She stood with her husband before her mirror and as frankly as he surveyed the reflection in it. Because her figure was a natural one, it seemed a little large, but it was both vigorous and womanly. The gold of her hair and the blue of her eyes were, at first, a little startling, but the sweet- ness of her expression, the tenderness of her sudden smile, made the difference between a handsome face and a beauti- ful one. Her gown was of a silk so thin and soft that it could be pulled through a ring—a lustrous, floating white. Her arms and neck were bare. Her only jewels were the pearls of a quaint neck- lace that fell away from her milky throat in a multitude of pendent strands. She held a huge bunch of sweet peas. “‘Oh, I am like them, I am like them!”’ she exclaimed, happily. ‘I’m not a bit afraid now, not a singie bit.’’ “T’m proud of you,’’ her husband said, briefly. “‘Oh,’’ she said later, in the car- riage, ‘‘you don’t know how I’ve tried these three years, Dwight!’’ Her voice vibrated with feeling. “T’ve never walked on the street once without study- ing the women—your kind, I mean— to see what was the difference. When- ever I’ve bought anything, I’ve made myself choose the simplest. And I’ve kept such a watch on myself; I’ve been so careful about bad grammar and THE SOLVENT—FICTION slang, my voice and even my laugh. I have a little book at home, and I put down everything I learn init. And I’ve listened so hard to all the things you’ve told me. Of course, the studying you’ve made me do was a great help, but my little book was a greater one. It’s full now. Oh, it’ssochildish; I was ashamed of it at first. I was so afraid that you might happen to find it. But now I love it.’ Ordway had taken her hand. He watched her kindled face emerge from the darkness and then sink into gloom again as the carriage plunged through the silvery shafts of light flung, in parallel rows, from the street-lamps. Cecilia was silent after the sudden pour of her long monologue. She held her husband’s hand the rest of the way, even after they had left the carriage and were walking down the long piazza of the huge old house. ‘‘Let’s not go in yet,’’ she begged, as they neared the flare of brilliant light and moving figures that indicated the doorway. ‘I want to look in one of the windows first. I want you to point out some of the people to me. I’ll be sure then to make no mistakes with the people who would mind—and there are so many of them. See—here’s a nice place.’’ Her voice had sunk to a whis- per. Ordway silently slipped beside her into the nook formed by half a dozen tubs of tall plants. The big room was asway in the vibra- tions that the dancers’ feet had un- loosed. Of these there were almost too many. Their beautiful gowns formed a maelstrom of color that the swift move- ment blended, then blurred. It con- cealed for intervals the row of stately chaperons watchfully encircling the dance. Through the closed window the strains of an inspiring two-step came dwindled and delicate. Suddenly these stopped, and the dance-hall, like a spent kaleidoscope, shook its scintillating units to rest against the confining walls. “Oh, there’s your aunt!’’ Cecilia ex- claimed. ‘‘Isn’t she stunning in that lilac? I’ve sold her gloves so many times. I wonder if she’ll remember me. They say her memory is wonderful.” '

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INEZ HAYNES GILLMORE—FICTION Drawn by Will Grefé ‘Cecilia caught her breath. Her husband turned to her”’

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64 “If she’s seen you twice, she’ll re- member you, you may be sure.”’ . “And there are your mother and sisters,’’ Cecilia went on. ‘‘How sweet they look! Oh, who is that pretty girl talking with them?’’ “The girl in blue? Oh, that’s Natalie Osborne. She’s engaged to that old duffer—the one that’s just stopped dancing near her. It’s an awful shame that they let her do it. But she had to—she hasn’t a penny, poor thing. She’s always been dead in love with Sears Winthrop, too, but he can’t afford to marry anybody.”’ ‘Do you mean to say she’s going to marry an old man because the one she really loves hasn’t money enough?” ‘“‘There’s nothing else for her to do. Sears hasn’t a sign of a prospect. Do you see that tall girl in green? She’ll be her stepdaughter. She’s five years older than Natalie.”’ “Oh, go to her,’’ Cecilia said, breath- lessly, ‘‘and tell her, Dwight, that you don’t need money to marry. Tell her how little we’ve lived on and how happy we’ve been.”’ Ordway smiled a little. ‘‘My child, she wouldn’t understand the language. She know’s what she’s doing—it’s all of her 6wn free will and accord. Do you see that pretty little dark woman? That’s Mrs. Tom Chantry.”’ “The one that was divorced?” “Yes. They’re both married again. He took the boy and she took the girl.’’ “Oh, why did they do it?” “Oh, they were just tired of each other. There was no special reason. I have heard that she wanted a bigger yacht.”’ Cecilia made a little inarticulate sound in her throat. Ordway looked round at her. Her eyes had narrowed perplexedly. Her cheeks had lost their blaze. ‘Who is that queer-looking, elderly woman—the one with all the emeralds?’’ she said, after a pause. “Oh, that’s ‘Antiqvity’ Ballant. She’s the second richest woman here. They say Sears will have to marry her sooner or later. She’s tired of putting up for him.”’ THE SOLVENT—FICTION “Oh, don’t let him; tell him, Dwight dear—how happy ’? Her voice fiut- tered a second. Then it deepened and lowered. “It’s so easy to be happy, and it doesn’t cost money.”’ “It’s awful, isn’t it? I didn’t realize. Somehow, it all seemed natural enough. I’ve always been accustomed to that sort of thing. But now, with you here im ‘Who is that handsome big woman in red?’’ Cecilia inquired next. ‘“‘Mrs. Mainwaring Maynard. She was a show-girl.. Maynard bought her from her husband, they say. I guess he’s paid for her more than once. She——’’ “Oh, don’t tell me any more about her. Who is that sweet little blonde girl?’’ “That’s Mrs. Richard Swain. That was a love-match. They were simply crazy about each other. But now they’ve changed. So many of them do. Everybody says they’ll be divorced before another year.” “What made you want to marry me?’’ “Because you were so different. At first I thought I couldn’t. It was being at the Swains’ and seeing their happiness that made me realize. That’s why I’m so sorry forthem. He gave up a fortune to marry her. She was a typewriter in Black, Mellen & Co.’s. They began to quarrel after his people took her up.”’ Cecilia caught her breath. Her hus- band turned to her. She stood stock- still, her lips parted tragically, as if she would never breathe again. And in probing entreaty, her glowing eyes gazed dumbly into his. “TI—don’t — want —to—lose— you — that—way,’’ shé said, her breath esca- ping between the words in a long stran- gling hiss. Ordway gazed back. As if an electric spark had lighted them from hers, his eyes fired, too. He moved and looked in the window again, his face changing. Then he turned to his wife and a smile sprang to his lips. Its fellow blos- somed radiantly in her eyes and mouth. Their hands clasped. Then he led her to their carriage and they drove home. ms

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RIOT FONE ‘“*Our best two tailors went to work at the torn canvas"' A WEST INDIAN CRUISE By T. JENKINS HAINS HE was not exactly a yacht, but she looked almost like one, and when the owners offered me the mate’s berth I knew that there was plenty of work ahead. Her rigging was modern, steel standing rigging and double lifts, and her hull had been off the stocks only a few months. She had been built espe- cially for the coconut trade, and she was now outward-bound for the tropics with generalcargo. A brigantine rig made her all that was desirable for offshore work, a full-fledged square-rigger forward and schooner aft. A man could toss a ship- made doughnut easily from her taffrail to her forecastle head, and she measured in the neighborhood of three hundred tons. She had no passenger license, but we soon learned that there were two who had found the captain’s favor and who would share the after cabin with him for a consideration—as his guests. For- ward, the crew of six able seamen, a cook and boy, waited about the galley- door for myself and the second to over- haul their dunnage and secure whatever we could in the way of smuggled spirits. The second mate was in his room trying to put up a proper appearance for clear- ing, for the tug was puffing in the stream close alongside. The crew were the usual mongrel set found upon South Street or in Ameri- can sailing-ships, and consisted of two Norwegians, a Swede, a cockney, an Irishman and a Curagao “‘nigger.’’ The “‘doctor’’ was a Fortune Islander, tall, muscular, and black enough to have the soot of the galley show upon him like chalk on a chain-plate. The boy was a nondescript little beggar who had sworn that his parents were unknown to him- self. The captain, known as the ‘“‘old man,’’ as in all American ships, was some ten years my junior, and by the time the second had cleaned up and appeared readv fov duty, he was on the poop bawling out to the tugboat to take our line. We cast off and started down the channel at a rapid rate. We towed $

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“The deck-load was enough to appal any nervous passenger ’’ down the bay and out past Sandy Hook, loosing the canvas as we went until we reached the lightship. There we cast off the line and roared out sundry mean- ingless farewells to out-tow, hauled the port tack aboard, jigged it down, braced our yards hard on the backstays for the easterly breeze, and then lay aft to the main-sheet to heave it in until it was flat as a board. Then we poked along to windward and to sea, at a rate that sent the foam snoring off to lee- ward. We were off. The first of our passengers to appear on deck after we were past Sandy Hook was a little fellow with long hair and a squeaky voice. ‘“‘When will we get there?’’ he squealed to me, as I came aft. ‘‘Where?’’ I asked, in astonishment. ‘“‘Why, where we are going, of course.”’ “T have no idea,’’ I answered. “Very strange, very strange,’ he mut- A WEST INDIAN CRUISE tered. “Don’t you’ ever know where you are going —and how far it is?’’ “Never with such a dan- gerous cargo as this,” I answered. ‘It wouldn’t do to let the men know about it. Some heavy rolling and the ship might go to pieces.”’ “Oh,’’ he answered, and his face paled a little. “I didn’t know there was any- thing irregular. Is_ there any danger?’’ “Not so long as we du" roll about much.”’ “T see, I see,” he an- swered. “What is the cargo —is that it on deck?”’ I shook my head and winked hard in the direction of the captain, and went off with an air of mystery. All ship-officers hate inquis- itive passengers and dread the first question they in- variably ask. And some- thing had to be done at the outset if we wanted peace aboard. The deck-load was enough to appal any nervous passenger, for the heavy spars lying full length were nasty things to get started in a sea. Beneath them, and jammed between the hatch- coamings, were barrels of oil, making the whole look remarkably untidy. The next day, it was squally; during the early afternoon, we blew away an old foret’gallantsail, but before night it worked more to the eastward and sent us reaching along in fine style. In the morning, we had run out of the bad weather and entered the blue Gulf Stream. How beautiful is the sea in that warm current! It was not the season for heavy weather, and the little Gulf clouds floated like puffs of steam over- head, while the deep-blue of the Stream was dotted here and there with bunches of weed. A man on the topsail-yard gazed long and lingeringly off over the beautiful ocean. He seemed to forget everything in the beauty of his

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| surroundings, and appeared lost to his sense of duty. The second mate allowed him to sit there, gazing out to sea, for fully five minutes be- fore calling his attention to the fact that he appreci- ated sentiment as well as he. That day we ran along merrily, and turned the poop into a sail-loft where our best two tailors went to work at the torn canvas. In the morning, our longi- tude showed us to be across the Stream, and our latitude south of Hatteras. We had made ten knots an hour, but now the wind was fail- ing and we were doing no more than four. The air was balmy, that soft salt air of the southern ocean which so stimulates and yet soothes. Full of the salt sea it is, and in the morning watch it is sniffed eagerly by the men. Oh, the hour, the last hour of the morn- ing watch, when the sun rises up from its ocean bed —not with a sound like thun- der, as some poets aver, but —with a faintly flickering light which deepens until the red ball swings clear of the dark-blue line. For several days we drifted slowly southward, doing from one to two de- grees of latitude daily, and all the time the weather was beautiful. The men at work upon the bowsprit-shrouds hung over the blue abyss, and kept a whale- iron ready for bonita and dolphin when they showed themselves. With hammer in hand, they would knock away the rust from the chains listlessly, and at the sight of a flashing fin would grab the iron and dart it furiously. Once they sent it deep into the back of a porpoise, and tailing it into a snatch- block, we started to heave the prize aboard. But the iron drew out, taking a piece of the animal with it, and we lost him. What is the glamour of a sea-life? A WEST INDIAN CRUISE ‘‘The men at work upon the bowsprit-shrouds”’ What is it that makes a man stand the terrible dull monotony of beautiful tropical weather? Day after day, the sea smooth and the trade-wind blow- ing briskly, there is something unde- finable which attracts the human mind. Oh, the dull monotony of the ship’s routine! Day after day the same work of mending gear, rubbing down decks with sand and canvas, cleaning up, and setting and taking in sail. There is no change in that blue circle. But if it is hard on an officer, what is it to a pas- senger who has nothing at all to do? And yet there is a fascination in that vast ocean which calls loudly to many souls. Even the men forward are satis- fied with it. The dirty forecastle, the rough food, the stinks of the tropic ship, even the smell of the tar in the gear, appeal strongly to them. They look with respect at the ignorant fellow

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A WEST INDIAN CRUISE “For several days we drifted slowly southward ’”’ who can take the sun’s meridian alti- tude, as though he were a god. The very mystery of the simplest problems in navigation fills them with a craving and a hope that some day they may be able to take the sun for latitude, a problem any schoolboy may learn in ten or fifteen minutes. The human is a strange thing, and as I watched one of the passengers, who was an old man, yapping around trying to tell of his vast experience, I wondered at the stupendous ignorance that experience affords. The other passenger wrote several sonnets to the weather, which he read to the captain at the dinner-table. As on all deep-water ships, the captain and his first officer ate together, and the second and steward afterward, so I had the enjoyment of literary skill, mani- fested in the works of this passenger. Afterward, in the evening dog-watch, he went forward and with a bunch of musicians to set forth. Gus, a Swede with a ‘‘squeezer,’’ and John with an old fiddle, did much to relieve the hours between day and night. The forecastle was in the deck-house, just forward of the galley, and by struggling along over the heavy spars on the main-deck the pas- sengers soon realized that they could gain an entrance and see typical sea- life for a very small outlay. It is need- less to say that the men were flattered by their attentions. The two boats lying overhead, keel upward, offered shelter to the galley cats, and they often joined in as a chorus when the squeaking of the fiddle became unbearable. On the ninth day out, we ran in close to Bird Rock, the Bahamas, and had a good look at the low, hot, sandy shores. When one gets used to seeing an island two or three times a month, it is not so interesting as it is to those who are at vile cigars bribed our two

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ee ee sea on their maiden voyage and who sight it for the first time in their lives. Our passengers were much interested, and gazed longingly at the tall light- house that the British government keeps for the benefit of the civilized sailor. Under the land, the sea was as smooth as glass, and the deck-load which had given us trouble stopped its creaking, and the little A WEST INDIAN CRUISE 69 length, and were held in place by chains and wedges. During a particu- larly heavy roll, one of the chains snapped or slipped, and the huge tim- bers started adrift. All hands were called to get them fast again, but for half an hour it was a question whether the spars would take charge or not. Finally we secured them again, and as I went aft poet’s nerves were at rest. He begged the captain to anchor un- der the land and allow him ashore for a few hours. But the master was obdu- rate. He was bound south, and would not alter his course or de- lay the voy- age unless for a considera- tion. We held along under the land, ma- king six knots an hour with the brisk wind on our quarter, and soon the is- land faded in the dim dis- tance. The next morning, the high moun- tains of Cuba rose to the southward about forty miles distant, and all day we pushed along for the Windward Passage, pass- ing the great Inagwa Bank and getting the heavy roll of the northeast sea from the trade-wind. Our deck-load of spars, consigned to Port Antonio, Jamaica, now began to give serious trouble. They rested fore and aft along the brig’s ‘“‘A man on the topsail-yard gazed long and lingeringly off over the beautiful ocean ’”’ the poet’s head ap- peared at the cabin com- panion. “Are we saved?” he asked. “Every- thing is all right,’’ I an- swered. ‘How long will it take to - But I beat a hurried re- treat to the break of the poop, and managed to get very busy. Through the Wind- ward Passage we tore at the rate of twelve knots an hour, leaving a wide wake in the glis- tening blue. We left a white road straight away to the northward, and headed for the most beautiful island in the Amer- ican tropics.. The wind held steady, and the following day we raised the high peak of Green Mountain in Jamaica, standing in under all sail until the little white lighthouse of Port Antonio bore south about half a mile distant. Here we backed the foretopsail and

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flattened in the main-sheet, heaving the brig to while we set the ensign for a pilot. In less than half an hour a boat was alongside, four inky sons of Jamaica rowing and one steering, all in sailor uniform, the after man wearing a pith helmet. Quickly he clambered up our low side, and greeting us, announced himself ready to pilot us in through the narrow entrance between the coral reefs. There is no bar at Port Antonio, the harbor opening directly to the north- ward and to sea, but as soon as the entrance is made, there is a sharp turn to the westward and the channel is narrow, turning south again into the pocket which forms the inner harbor. With a strong trade-wind blowing out- side the entrance, the navigator usually feels sure of running in between the reefs, but, as in all high tropical islands, there is often a tendency for the gale which is whitening the ocean half a mile to seaward to fall suddenly to a dead calm, or back off from the hills, leaving the sailing-ship in a bad place and without way enough to clear the rocks. We ran in finely, and just as we reached the turn in the channel the wind fell flat, took our head-sails to leeward and A WEST INDIAN CRUISE CURAGQAO FROM A SHIP’S DECK IN THE HARBOR then came flat aback, bringing our top- sails with a slat against the mast. It was now hurry for all hands to get her free, the black pilot standing on the break of the poop yelling for us to look out and get her filled away on the port tack, before we struck. Our poet ap- proached him to ask some question, but was rudely thrust aside with a wave of the arm. We drifted sidewise to- ward the reef and could look down through the clear water and see the rock beneath us, rising tier upon tier, covered with brown and red weed. Just before we touched our keel, a puff of wind sang through the rigging, striking us fair and bellying the cloth out as taut as a drumhead. In a moment the little ship responded, and almost sprang for- ward, making a gurgling bow-wave. The puff only lasted five minutes, but it gave us headway and we came running into the inner harbor, where it was dead calm, at the rate of four knots, clewing up our topsails as we came. We an- chored, and started the deck-load of spars in less time than it takes to tell it. Near us, a fruit-ship was loading bananas, the loading being done entirely by women, who carried the bunches upon their heads and deposited them MTR EAS ca ae Sele ROR ST weer

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aboard. We were in an English port, in the best-policed and best-kept island in the tropics, but in spite of this we witnessed the strange evil of the rigid British law. The women were the workers and they would not marry. As THE MAN AT British law gives a husband the right to appropriate his wife’s property, the Jamaica women soon found that the climate did not encourage ambition in the men, even after the fruit-companies offered inducements. Consequently, now the women are not ashamed of families A WEST INDIAN CRUISE 71 of children whose fathers are but vaguely distinguished. Getting rid of our deck-load, we took the pilot aboard again and stood to sea, heading offshore a little, and then south- east one-half east, across the Caribbean ~ THE WHEEL to our destination several hundred miles away. We were to discharge at Curagao and load the bulk of our cargo there. Across the blue sea we went merrily, the northeast trade-wind holding steady and full. It was a beautiful run, and the days passed rapidly.

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72 The steady routine of ship’s duty be- gan to bore even the most amiable of the company. The regular washing down of the decks in the morning watch is followed by coffee. Then breakfast, and a watch below, for the tired officer who has stood from four in the morning until eight, while his mate takes up the work about the decks until noon. At that hour, the meridian altitude is taken and the latitude marked down in the ship’s log. There is no order-book, and a traverse- table is seldom worked. The course cease. one yes « A WEST INDIAN CRUISE order-book for the course and distance run during his watch before he has even stepped upon the bridge of the ocean- steamer. No matter where the big liner goes, it must be a straight and short run, generally, in the log. In the little West Indiaman, navigation is of the schoolboy order, but the ship gets in about as certainly, although not so fast. Faith in the slow navigator is not misplaced. In the words of the poet, both seaman and passenger must “Fear not but trust in Dollinger, And he will see you through.” AH “At that hour, the meridian altitude is taken’"’ is given, and steered as close as the wind permits, and if a change is made it is noted by the captain, who pricks the course and distance upon his chart. Everything is easily, though not care- lessly, done. The first officer calls off the time-sights before eight in the morning, the same as in passe”ger- steamers, but there is no great rush to get the sight worked out and written down. The captain may take two hours to work his longitude, or may even wait until noon and work both together. Many a time is a mate asked to sign an Our chronometer had changed its rate a little, but in spite of this we made our landfall within a few miles of where we expected, the desolate Dutch island rising from the blue sea and showing at a great distance. We ran in under the land, while ‘‘Know-it-all,’’ as the men had christened our old passenger, held forth upon the Dutch and their govern- ment. Our poet was quiet until we ran into the entrance of Santa Anna harbor and came in sight of the city of Curacao, and then he dived below and was seen no more until the vessel docked,

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DRILLING BY COMPRESSED AIR IN A PENNSYLVANIA ANTHRACITE-MINE GREAT INDUSTRIES OF THE UNITED STATES X.—COAL By WILLIAM HREE hundred and seventy million tons of coal were mined in the United States during last year. The entire rest of the world produced only one-third more. In ten years, at the same rate, the product of American coal-mines if spread evenly over a sur- face to a depth of a foot would cover completely the states of Connecticut and Rhode Island, with a few hundred thousand tons to spare. By no other sets of facts is the future industrial predominance of the United States so convincingly foreshadowed as by the statistics of coal-production and coal-supply here and abroad. Seiz- ing the primacy from Great Britain in 1899, the United States now mines more than a hundred million tons in excess of that country, and double the R. STEWART output of Germany, which stands third as a coal-producer. Comparing the growth of the industry with the increase of our population, it is found that where- as the latter shows an increase of 235 per cent. since 1850, the production of coal has increased 4180 per cent. The transfer of commercial and in- dustrial supremacy from Great Britain to the United States has been coincident with the latter’s passing of the former as a producer of coal. More and more as machinery plays its increasing role in the workshops of production, it is certain that that nation which possesses the largest supply of accessible coal will dictate the economic policy of the world. The United States not only possesses the greatest coal-areas, but by the em- ployment of the newest labor-saving

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74 devices in the mines, obtains its product at a cost greatly below that of Europe. Abroad, the price of coal per ton at the pit’s mouth varies from about one dollar and eighty-five cents in Great Britain, to two dollars and forty cents in France. In the United States, the average price last year was one dollar and sixteen cents. As coal is the material energy of industry, the manu- facturing advantage which the United States possesses in its comparatively cheap supply will influence enor- mously the future commercial history of the world. It is even probable that, in view of the gradual exhaustion of European mines, this country soon will practically control the _ coal- markets of Europe, as it has for many years the market for cereals. Six hundred thousand men and boys are employed in the coal-mining industry of the United States at present. The yearly value of the coal which they handle is, at the pit’s mouth, about five hundred and twenty million dol- lars. Measured by GREAT INDUSTRIES OF THE UNITED STATES or more of fixed carbon, and very little ash, sulphur and moisture, whereas bitu- minous coal contains only from 50 to 75 per cent. of fixed carbon and 25 to 380 per cent. of volatile hydrocarbons. The conditions under which coal is mined in the United States differ widely from those obtaining in Europe. In Europe, the veins near the _ surface have been worked out and deep shafts have had to be sunk to reach the lower areas. In this coun- try, on the other hand, there are very few deep coal- mines, and in many workings the car- loads of coal are brought from where they are mined to the breaker, or tipple, simply by wreavity. Tie greater expense of operating by means of a shaft, perpen- dicularly through earth and rock until the vein has been reached, as compared with drift- and slope- mining, needs no illustration. In many of the deep- est European coal- mines it has been necessary to intro- duce steel props, which have added to the general cost of operations. Some of the mines the price at which BREAKER-BOY ON HIS WAY TO WORK exceed three thou- AT 6:30 A.M. it ultimately reaches the retailer, the value would be more than two billions of dollars. Of the total coal output last year, about 80,000,000 tons were anthracite and 300,000,000 tons bituminous and lignite. The distinction between the two kinds is that the anthracite contains 84 per cent. sand feet in depth. The introduction of labor-saving ma- chinery in American coal-mines has been a notable feature of the past few years, and has added to the advantage which the American producer has over the foreign. Within ten years the number ot coal-cutting machines in

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HAULING use in this country has increased over 600 per cent., reducing the cost of mining by from fifteen to thirty cents a ton. In 1904, there were more than seven thousand undercutting machines in use in the bituminous districts. The effect of the greater use of machinery in in- creasing the output per man in the mines, is seen in the fact that, while the COAL FROM MINE BY ELECTRIC MOTOR average production per day in the an- thracite region in 1890 was 1.85 tons, and in the bituminous region 2.56 tons, in 1903 the average production was 2.41 tons and 3.02 tons respectively. The great and continuous increase in the production of coal in the United States illustrates strikingly our indus- trial development. In 1850, with a

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SA NS A OR annie: GREAT INDUSTRIES OF THE UNITED STATES population of 23,191,876 persons, 6,445,- 681 tons of coal were mined, the pro- duction per capita being 0.278 ton. In 1903, with an estimated population of 81,000,000, the production was 357,356,- 416, or 4.4 tons per capita. In the ten years between 1894 and 1904 the coal output of the country more than doubled. Pennsylvania is the great coal-mining state of the Union, its anthracite and bituminous products each exceeding the total combined output of any other state. About 142,000,000 tons were mined in Pennsylvania in 1904, and 35,000,000 in Illinois, which stood second on the list. The eastern part of Pennsylvania pos- sesses almost a monopoly of the anthra- cite-bearing areas, the only other such areas in the United States being in Gunnison County, Colorado, and in Santa Fé County, New Mexico. The bituminous areas are scattered widely over the United States, and comprise altogether more than 335,000 square miles. The most productive of these is the Appalachian system, embracing parts of western Pennsylvania, Ohio, Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, Ten- nessee, Kentucky, Georgia and Alabama. As compared with these vast areas, as yet only slightly touched, it is interesting to note that the coal-areas of Great Britain, France, Germany, Belgium and Spain, combined, are equal to only 15,800 square miles. The extent of the coal-fields at present opened to mining in the United States is more than five times as great as that of the coal-fields of all western Europe. The earliest record of coal-production in the United States was in 1814, when, it is chronicled, 22 short tons of anthra- cite were mined in Pennsylvania. The first shipments from Pennsylvania were made in 1820, since which time the total anthracite production of that state has amounted to approximately 1,700,000,000 tons. The earliest known production of bituminous coal in the United States came from the Richmond basin, in Virginia, in 1822. The earliest producers among the states west of the Mississippi were Missouri and Iowa, where coal-mining began about 1840. The first discovery of coal on the Pacific coast was made in what is now the state of Washington, in 1852. STABLE IN A COAL-MINE, THREE HUNDRED FEET UNDERGROUND

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Ss MARRERO APA IAT SRL RES HAULING METHOD OF THE PAST A coal-mining town is different from any other community on earth. The prospector seeking gold wherever a strike may be found is a peripatetic individual whose home moves with him. The silver-miner, copper-miner, nickel- miner, lead-miner, all know that their continuance in one place depends on the vagaries of uncertain veins and ore-pockets. So they make their homes places of but transient abode, pre- pared at any time to break housekeeping and move to another part of the conti- nent. But a coal-mine never gives out. From year to year the great drifts and shafts and slopes run a little farther and deeper into the earth, re- quiring longer haulage and more machin- ery, but the coal is always there. And the coal-miner becomes a fixture, work- ing year after year in the same mine, rearing a family, the boy members of which will follow in the footsteps of the father, waxing old in the same town where years before he, a boy, had begun, perhaps, as his own sons will begin. CARS BY WIRE ROPE: THE From breaker-boy to breaker-boy: that is the life-history of the coal-miner. At the age of eight or ten, sent to the breaker to pick the slate from the coal as it comes from the mine; at ten or twelve, a door-boy, working in the mine; at fourteen or sixteen, a day- laborer, with a day-laborer’s pay; later, as he acquires strength and skill, a full- fledged miner; then, as age comes on, and he is weakened by some disease incident to mine-work, the start back is begun, rung by rung, over the same humble ladder by which he has risen— first, a miner’s helper; next, a mine- laborer once more; then, a door-boy; and, in the last stage, a picker on the breaker, earning the same wage that he started with at the age of eight. The methods of mining coal come under two general heads—open work- ing, when the seams of coal are exposed, or quite near the surface; and closed working, when the depth of the over- burden is so great that the mining must be conducted underground. The

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INDUSTRIES OF THE UNITED STATES Cerne mcrae neh mining of exposed seams of coalis simply ‘These are known as the room-and-pillar i ¢ a process of excavation, or quarrying, and the same kind of machines used in quarrying are employed. In opening up underground coal-seams access must be secured to them by means of shafts, slopes or tunnels. Shafts in the United States are usually made square or rectangular in form, timber being used for the lining, whereas in Europe round or oval shafts generally are employed, with linings of brick, iron or masonry. The shafts commonly are divided into four compartments, in two of which is installed the elevating machinery, and one reserved for the exhaust or drainage pipes and one for ventilation. Over the shaft is erected a building with iron framework which supports the mechanism for hoisting and lowering the cages. Probably the largest coal-mining shaft in America is situated at Wilkesbarre, Pennsylvania. It is 1,060 feet in depth, 12 by 52 feet in diameter, and has five compartments. The coal-seams having been reached by either tunnel or shaft, one of two systems may be employed in mining the coal. and the long-wall systems. By the former the coal is first mined from a num- ber of comparatively small places, called rooms, chambers, stalls, et cetera, which are driven either square from or at an angle to the haulageway, pillars being left to support the roof. In the long-wall method, the entire face of the coal-seam is taken out, no coal being left behind, and the roof being allowed to settle as the excavation progresses, the haul- ageways only being preserved through the falling material. The coal is cut from the seam by hand or by some form of coal-cutting machine, machines being now very extensively employed in this country The subterranean passages of a coal- mine are laid out with the greatest precision, outrivaling in this respect the most regularly planned streets of a city overhead. The main thorough- fare generally is seven or eight feet high, and about eighteen feet wide, with two tracks side by side for the passage of the coal-cars. At right angles to the main entry, the headings, or side-streets, are

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Hee PA ITIRTEIEMETS PRR ERTS RET pI EN ETE driven, and on both sides of these are the rooms, or workshops, of the miners. A condition of the underground city which presents a problem not encoun- tered in laying out streets on the surface, is the necessity for an adequate system of ventilation. Mechanical ventilation by means of fans and blowers is usually employed, the air being admitted into the mine through a special opening and circulating through the various headings and into the rooms. Auto- matic doors are placed at the point where the headings join the main entry, in order to prevent the interruption of the air circuit. The modern coal-mine possesses a mechanical equipment of considerable proportions. Apart from all the de- vices of mining enginery, there are sanitation, drainage and electric-lighting systems of great perfection, telephones, electric conveyances, and a fire-depart- ment that would reflect glory on many an incorporated city. The in- troduction of new machinery has changed the whole aspect of the subterranean commu- nity. In contrast with the old hand-cutting practice of a few years ago, mighty electric or compressed-air cutters, with their endless belts of glittering teeth, now gnaw rapidly into the black strata of the mine. Mechanical drills pound out, in a fraction of the time once consumed, the holes for the cartridges of black powder, and compressed-air or electric loco- motives haul the long trains of coal to the surface. The use of dumping-cages has of late years greatly lessened the ex- pense of haulage. These take the loaded car at the foot of the shaft and automatically dump it without removal at the head, doing away with the greater part of the large force formerly required for handling the empty and loaded cars. As the coal comes from the mines, it is in all varieties of COAL 79 sizes and shapes, and goes immediately to the breakers, where it is first dumped on a screen made up of bars about six inches apart. The coal passing through these six-inch spaces then goes over lower bars with three-and-one-half-inch openings, the coal passing over both of these being hand-picked to remove the impurities. The hand-picking arrange- ments are so designed that the coal passes the pickers regularly, so that any doubtful piece can be stopped for ex- amination or separation. From the bars, the lump-coal passes to a series of rolls for a first breaking down, and thence, after further picking, goes to the second rolls, which break it to ‘‘broken’’ size and under. The rolls which break the large lumps of coal are constructed in the form of toothed cylinders driven together by gearing, the sizes, spaces and forms of teeth being suited to the coal to be broken. The screens by which the coal a ; : i ~ MOUTH OF A SHAFT, WITH * ELEVATOR FOR MINERS -

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80 is sized after coming from the rolls are either round screens, shakers or gyrators. After sizing, the coal still contains large amounts of impurities, and it is in the elimination of these by means of mechanical pickers that one of the greatest advances in the handling of coal has been made. The slower- moving character of the slate affords the basis for the design of these pickers. About sixteen per cent. of the material which enters the breaker is waste product. As prepared for market, anthracite coal is in the following sizes: over 6 -inch bars. GREAT INDUSTRIES OF THE UNITED STATES been more than sufficient to offset the cost occasioned by the great extension of all collieries, both longitudinally and in depth. In mining methods the main improve- ments have been in the line of better and closer mining and more thorough recovery of the coal. Boring-machines in the anthracite and undercutting- machines in the bituminous districts have contributed to these results. In transportation, the mule has given way to electric or air-driven engines, and all-steel cars with fast and loose wheels, which permit the taking of very sharp 34-inch bars through 6-inch bars. 44-inch square mesh through 6-inch bars. 2}-inch mesh through 44-inch sq. mesh or 34-inch bars. 2 -inch 1%-inch $-inch 4-inch }-inch 4-inch ‘ 1-16-inch se 2j-inch 2 -inch “* lg-inch “ %-inch ‘ 4-inch }-inch 4-inch A brief summary will indicate in out- line the chief improvements in methods of mining, inside transportation, pump- ing, hoisting, preparation, et cetera, which have been introduced in the coal- industry in recent years, and which have curves, have replaced the oak cars of a decade ago. In hoisting, first-motion engines, directly connected to large drums, and steel shaft dumping cages, have marked the advance from the wooden non-dumping cages, which UNDERMINING BY THE OLD METHOD i me

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Ve required a large head force for han- dling. Pneumatic keeps, whereby the cage lands on a piston upheld by a spring and sinking into a cylinder the air in which escapes through a small opening, permit also of more rapid handling without dangerous jars. In elevating and conveying apparatus there have been many important im- provements, A pivoted bucket - con- veyer, which consists of two long-pitch steel chains carrying a series of pivoted buckets arranged continuously, is one of the most interesting. The buckets are fed by means of a steel apron or belt actuated by the conveyer, so that the buckets can be loaded automat- ically. The un- loading is also done automatic- ally, being ac- complished by means of pairs of shoes operating eccentrically in the path of the buckets, the shoes being en- gaged by the rollers at the end of each recep- tacle, which thus is tilted and allows the ma- terial to run out. The endless trough is still another improvement in conveying sys- tems. This is arranged with two strands of long-pitch chain, having attachments on one side, to which corrugated plates are belted, and provided also with overlapping sides, thus forming an end- less open trough. The weight of the conveyer and its load is carried by flange rollers which travel on a track. The roller-scraper conveyer (shown in the illustration on page 78) is a method now extensively used in handling coal over long distances. This form of con- veyer is composed of a single-strand COAL 81 steel chain roller, the rollers, which are attached to the scrapers, traveling on an angle iron track placed beside the trough. The conveyer may also travel upon shoes or wearing-blocks in place of rollers. The improvements in rolling and screening at the breakers have already been briefly referred to. One form of improved screen, of the double revolv- ing type, is made with both an inner and an outer jacket of cloth or of perforated metal. This screen is constructed with a shaft running through the center, by means of which it is operated, the shaft being attached to cast- iron hubs con- nected in turn to wrought-iron arms and bands. In the use of steam, com- pressed air and electricity at the power-plants there has been almost a revolu- tion, and it is in this direction— the application of power — that the chief econ- omies of the future in coal- production largely will lie. The transpor- CARRYING CARTRIDGES OF BLASTING- tation of coal POWDER INTO THE DRIFT from the place of its mining to all parts of the country for final use is a business of much mag- nitude. In its accomplishment there is brought into play not only the execu- tive genius of the heads of the great rail- road and steamship companies engaged in the traffic, but also the inventive talent of the engineer in the devi- sing of labor-saving and speed-increasing appliances. Six thousand tons of coal recently were loaded upon a coal- steamer at Baltimore in six hours, or at a rate of a thousand tons an hour. Ten years ago not half that 6

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82 GREAT INDUSTRIES OF THE UNITED STATES rate of speed could have been at- tained. Bituminous coal is transported by water at surprisingly low cost. On the Great Lakes the charge is thirty cents a ton a thousand miles, and an average load of 7,000 tons is readily put on board one of the boats in an ordinary working-day of eight hours. Railroad-cars loaded with forty tons are lifted bodily by great cranes and their contents dumped into the vessels. The unloading requires only about. the same length of time. There are probably as Many as a hundred and twenty-five coal-steamers of from 5,000 to 8,000 gross tons capacity in the Lakes service. From Pittsburg to New Orleans bituminous coal is carried by water for fifty cents a ton. As shown in one of the accompanying illustrations, the coal is. loaded into barges, which then are joined together in the form of a great raft, and in this way are taken down the Mississippi. Occasional barges are dropped off here and there at cities and towns along the route to which consign- ments may have been made. ' Anthracite coal, not being all of one grade, like bituminous, and requiring extra handling at the point of loading as well as at the point of shipment, is carried at a higher average rate. Of this grade fully twelve per cent. is used at and about the mines for steam-raising and other local purposes. The tonnage of the coal arriving at the various principal cities affords an idea of the importance of the trans- portation side of the coal-industry. Of the Lake ports, Buffalo last year handled about 8,300,000 tons; Cleveland, about, 5,500,000 tons; Toledo, 6,700,000 tons; Erie, 1,800,000 tons; Ashtabula, 1,500,000 tons; Milwaukee, 1,800,000 tons; Duluth-Superior, 3,900,000 tons, and Chicago, 10,000,000 tons. Of the cities on the Mississippi and its tributa- ries, Pittsburg handled about 26,000,000 tons; Cincinnati, about 3,000,000 tons; St. Louis, 4,700,000 tons; Louisville, 1,600,000 tons, and New Orleans, 2,500,- 000 tons. There were loaded at ship- ping-ports on the Atlantic: Hampton Roads, about 4,900,000 tons; Balti- more, about 4,700,000 tons; Philadel- phia, 13,000,000 tons, and New York ports, 17,000,000 tons. Boston got 4,- 700,000 tons, and Providence, 1,800,000 tons. poe CARS IN THE MINE

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nn sortase By H. R. \ NLY twenty-four hours ago he was a champion, the best man in his class, and now—now he was the cham- pion still, but probably with a price on his head. What did ‘‘Spike’’ O’Brien want to die for, after he had put him away with that easy tap on the jaw? He looked at the sleeping infant in his arms and roundly cursed his bad luck. Just when he and Maggie and the kid were slipping away from the big city, those fly-cops had to show up, and he barely escaped by ‘‘jumping’’ a freight- train. He didn’t even have time to leave the baby with her. Here he was in an unknown city, hunted like a wild animal, and with a helpless baby. He skulked along, keep- ing in the shadow of the houses, torn with his longing for man’s help and his fear of capture. Maggie would go clean crazy about the child. He stood there in the darkness and the whirling snow, fairly desperate in his impotent rage. “T’ve got to get rid of the kid,’’ he finally muttered. ‘I’ve got to.’’ He retraced his steps till he reached the nearest house. It was an old- fashioned dwelling, in the rear of which was an ell facing the street, and attached to the ell was a veranda with a door leading into the kitchen. Out of the kitchen-window a bright light shot golden rays through the falling snow. Inside, a man passed in front of the light at intervals. To the shivering man outside, the thought of the good cheer and the comfort in the warm kitchen was maddening. He made his way haltingly to the veranda, and then stopped. Drawing the thick wool- en shawl from the infant’s face, he pressed the soft baby cheek against his heavy jaw, and then—he sobbed softly, without restraint. “T’ve got to have somethin’ to re- member yer by, kiddy,’’ he whispered, and after fumbling with the bundle for A SUCKER DURANT a moment, he continued, ‘‘I’ll take this, *cause you'll soon be too big fer it.’’ Placing the child on the door-step, he turned and ran toward the street. This was how Samuel W. Brown, bachelor and recluse, came to adopt a waif which he had found on his door- step. The Waterburg police investigated the matter and made a spasmodic search for those who had abandoned the child, but they discovered only one clue, which ended where it was found. The night that Mr. Brown heard the baby crying outside his door, a track-walker near the Waterburg depot came upon the lifeless body of a man lying between the rails. He had been struck and killed by the cars. Tightly clenched in one hand was a baby’s tiny shoe. Nobody appeared to claim the found- ling, and it is doubtful if Mr. Brown would have given up the child without a legal fight if some one had. All the starved affection of his lonesome years arose and went out to this cooing, rugged baby—for rugged he surely was. He had scrimped and saved all his life, but now he bought for the child with a lavish hand. He heard of a young and intelligent Irishwoman, a widow by the name of Mrs. Margaret Regan, who admirably fulfilled the dual rdle of nurse and housekeeper. The baby was christened James, and under Mrs. Re- gan’s constant care he throve wonder- fully. Mr. Brown thought she could not have been more devoted if the child had been her own flesh and blood. She seemed to understand his nature in- tuitively, and pointed out his peculiar traits to her master. Therefore, it was very easy for Mr. Brown to see that his adopted child was far more clever and brighter than any other in the neigh- borhood. It was she who called his attention to the infant’s peculiar position when sleeping, and wherein it differed from all other babies. ree

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84 “Don’t you see,’’ she asked, proudly, “how he keeps his hands crossed in front of his face? Well, I never saw a baby who slept like that. They all keep their hands like this,’’ and she held her arms above her head. The boy grew up to be a sturdy youngster, with shoulders, neck and chest like a little gladiator, and a temper which was simply frightful until he was taught that a fiery temper was some- thing to be enjoyed but not displayed. When boys fight, they usually swing their arms wildly in the air like a wind- mill, howl with rage, and claw and scratch. If lucky, sometimes they hit their opponent on top of the head. But not so with Master James. In his schoolboy fights he never whim- pered. He seemed to have but oneidea of fighting, which was to punch as fast as he could and send _ every blow from the shoulder straight as a die. Small wonder that he was never ‘‘sassed’’ by the boys who knew him, and there was every prospect that he would develop into a full-fledged bully; but here Mrs. Re- gan took him in hand. She told him that the fact of his being able to beat the other boys was the very reason why he should be gentle with them; that it was best to think of the other boy first and himself last; that he must 4g Ses live more for o Drawn by W. Glack others and less ene jackens for himself, and muttered. ‘**T’ve got to get rid of the kid,’ he finally A SUCKER—FICTION that a desire to fight anybody was the very worst thing which any boy could feel. “But s’pose he makes me fight and I just got to?’’ he asked her, on one oc- casion. ‘‘Well,’”’ she said, evasively, ‘‘if you’ve got to, why—why—you’ve got to,’’ and then she hugged him affectionately. Mrs. Regan’s Celtic blood would show itself at times in spite of herself. When James was fourteen years old, his benefactor died, and it was then he learned from Mrs. Regan that he was a waif. Up to that time he had been taught to consider Mr. Brown as his uncle, and Mrs. Regan as his mother. He put his head on her shoulder and cried as if his heart were broken. “Tt isn’t so much because Uncle Bob isdead,’’ hesobbed, “or because I’m a foundling, but just because you’re— you’re not my real mother.” Mr. Brown willed his all to the boy, and it was suffi- cient to send him to the high school, and keep up the little property while he was learn- ing a trade in a blacksmith-shop. Mrs. Regan ran the house for him and ministered to his wants with loving care. In one thing only did she an- tagonize him. It was in regard to boxing. Waterburg boasted of several athletic clubs, where it was legal to hold boxing- exhibitions pro- vided that only I’ve got to’”’

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oo PRS RTA TW ECT IEE NET TSETRRTIE I members attended. As everybody who bought a ticket was a member, according to the constitution and by-laws of the club, on some nights the clubs numbered fully two thousand members each. The principal organization was the National Athletic Club, and in it Jimmy was a prime worker. However, he never had a real bout with any one, al- though at times he had an insane desire to go on in a preliminary. When the other boys boxed, Jimmy sat there, mentally stopping or ducking every blow which fell. When he told Mrs. Regan that he had been made president of the National Athletic Club, she said it was a fine thing; but when he added that he might go on some night to fill up the card, she turned deadly-pale and would have fallen but for his support. Then she clung to him in wild terror, and said, in an agonizing voice, ‘Oh, Jimmy, you won’t ever box anybody, will you, darlin’?’’ And he promised he never would, at least without her consent. “But why not? Ishouldn’t get hurt,” he asserted, stoutly. “Oh! I know—I know,”’ she replied, “but you might—you might—hurt some- body else.’’ When he was twenty-one years old, the balance of Mr. Brown’s estate, in cash, amounting to five thousand dollars, was placed in a bank to his credit by the executor, and then he promoted the boxing-bouts at the National Athletic Club on a larger scale. Exhibitions were held every two weeks, and Jimmy became manager of ‘‘Cyclone’’ Miller, who was the best welter-weight in Waterburg. Jimmy became convinced that. ‘‘Cyclone’”’ could best any one-hun- dred-and-forty-two-pound man in the state, and he issued a sweeping challenge to all boxers. One evening, ‘‘Paddy’’ Keating, whom the small boys of Waterburg pointed out with awe as the trainer of ‘‘Cyclone’”’ Miller, saw Jimmy and told him, ‘‘There is a guy workin’ in the gun-shop who will take on ‘Cyclone’ at one hundred and forty-five pounds, ringside, pro- vidin’ you will bet two hundred and fifty on the outside. ’ H. R. DURANT—FICTION © 85 Jimmy jumped at the offer, and the next afternoon the managers and prin- cipals met in the office of the ‘‘Exam- iner.’’ The man from the gun-shop was introduced as Larry Mulligan, and, much to the surprise of Jimmy and his friends, John O’Rourke appeared as his backer. O’Rourke was the proprietor of a poolroom, and very wealthy. For years he had been the owner of noto- rious gambling-establishments, and his reputation for honesty, truth and verac- ity was still to be fully proved. It was arranged to hold the bout in thirty days; the weight was to be one hundred and forty-five pounds at the ringside, and they were to box the usual fifteen rounds. When it came to the side-bet, O’Rourke twitted ‘‘Cyclone’s”’ manager about the amount. Jimmy answered hotly that five hundred dollars would suit him better, and the gambler snapped up the boy quickly. It was stipulated in the articles of agreement that if either boxer did not appear, or was above the weight limit, he should forfeit his entire stake; and it was fur- ther agreed that either manager had the option of substituting a man if he desired, but such substitute must be a resident of Waterburg. All through the interview, O’Rourke sneered at Jimmy and badgered him, until he lost his temper entirely, and when the gambler further taunted him, Jimmy’s passion rose to a white heat. “If I thought you was game,” said O’Rourke, maliciously, ‘‘I’d give you a chance to put somethin’ on that meal- ticket of yourn.”’ “Well, let’s hear you talk,’’ said Jimmy, hotly. “Tl lay you a thousand even that my boy stops ‘Cyclone’ inside the limit, and if your boy is on his feet at the end of the fifteenth round, I lose,’’ said O’Rourke. ‘Make it five thousand dollars and you’re on,’’ said Jimmy, coolly. His face was pallid, though it was not fear, as the onlookers thought, but his insane temper, which caused his pallor. ‘Bah!’ sneered O’Rourke. ‘‘Where’s your money?”’ “T’ll have it here in half an hour,’’ said - . a ~ . me tite ne aero ac

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86 “Now, you strong-arm man, ? Jimmy. if you mean business, put up In thirty minutes both were there with the cash, and almost before Jimmy realized it, all the money he had in the world was in the hands of the sporting editor of the ‘‘Examiner,’’ who had been selected as stakeholder. “Cyclone’’ had been training less than a week, when Paddy Keating went around to the blacksmith’s shop and asked Jimmy to go back in the wagon-room with him. “Jimmy, we’re done!’’ said Keating, in a choked voice. ‘“‘How?’”’ demanded Jimmy, excitedly. “O’Rourke and his bunch had you marked for a sucker and they’ve landed you,”’ said Keating, with a curse. ‘‘What are you drivin’ at?’’ “Ever since O’Rourke made you put up that money—and I seen him when he conned yer into it, all right, all right —lI’ve been leary of his game. When he gets aboard with his coin, he comes pretty near layin’ wise money. Well, I had a man come up from New York and look this Larry Mulligan over, and who der yer s’pose he is?’’ ‘‘Who?”’ ‘Oh, nobody but ‘Kid’ Wilson, that’s all,’”’ cried Paddy, throwing his hands in the air. “**Kid’ Wilson!’’ gasped Jimmy, falling back involuntarily. ‘‘How the deuce is that?”’ ‘Kid’? Wilson was the acknowledged welter-weight champion of the country, and a man who had never lost a decision. “Oh! easy enough,’’ answered Keating. ‘“‘Ever since O’Rourke heard yer had a piece of money, he’s been layin’ to put it in his own bank-roll. He makes his livin’ off suckers, and he’s got a peach in you. He frames yer up for this job, and plants Wilson in the gun-shop under the name of Mulligan. He works there a couple of months, and then O’Rourke lands you. They certainly have made a first-class, ace-high sucker out of you.”’ Jimmy untied his leather apron and rolled down his sleeves silently. After the first shock of the disclosure had passed away, his old faith in his man returned, and he said: ‘‘Oh, I don’t A SUCKER—FIOCTION know! Mr. Champion won’t have 4 cinch.”’ “Why, ‘Cyclone’ ain’t got a chanst on earth,’ said Keating, disgustedly. “Well, what are you going to do about it?’’ he continued. “Do? What am I going to do?’ re- peated Jimmy. ‘‘Do you think I’m going to lay down now? Not on your life! ‘Cyclone’ ’ll fight him to a finish, and when Wilson beats him you’ll never hear a squeal from me.”’ He hunted up ‘‘Cyclone”’ at the club- house, but there was no work-out for “Cyclone”? that day. Jimmy was in- formed that his boxer did not feel well and had gone home. When Miller did not appear the next day, Jimmy went to his house and found him in bed. He remained in bed two days, and then Jimmy asked what the matter was with “Cyclone.’’ The physician replied, ‘“Ty- phoid.”’ Jimmy left without a word, and reached his own home with a heavy heart. Mrs. Regan saw by his face that something had happened. It did not take long to learn the state of affairs. He told her the whole story from begin- ning to end, and did not spare himself. When he spoke of the money he had bet, she was completely dismayed; but evidently the thought of losing all of his money did not affect him so much as the way he had been taken in. “Oh, but I was an easy mark!” he said, moodily. ‘I can get over losin’ the money, but I’ll never get over bein’ made a sucker of.’’ His pride was sorely wounded, but he found ready sympathy in Mrs. Regan. “Can’t you get some one else in Water- burg to take Miller’s place?’’ she asked. “No,”’ he answered. ‘‘Why, there ain’t nobody here who could stay two rounds with Wilson.”’ One might believe from his attitude that he was completely dejected, but the set of his jaw, his father’s jaw, and his eyes which gazed out with a fixed look, belied this. Over Mrs. Regan’s face her strong emotions ran riot. First, a nameless fear for the handsome boy; then an undying love, and then—a set- tled determination.

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Speer ERSTE THe Ss (SORES ONRORRRR EER Oa RIE ENE Drawn by W. Glackens H. R. DURANT—FICTION ‘“** Well, let’s hear you talk,’ said Jimmy, hotly ”’ ‘How much do you weigh, Jimmy?”’ she asked, abruptly. “Oh, about a hundred and fifty-five,” he said, vacantly. She moved a step toward him. ‘Can you take off ten pounds in three weeks?”’ He stood up and looked her straight in the eyes. “Yes. Of course—why?’’ he almost whispered. “Then fight him yourself.’’ “Do you mean it?’’ he cried, with tears in his eyes. “‘Yes,’’ she answered, and going to the stove, she reached down, gave the grate a terrific rattle, straightened up, and added with a glare—‘‘and lick him.” She was braver than he knew. The lovers of boxing in Waterburg, and there were many among its fifty thousand inhabitants, were wild with excitement when it became known that Jimmy Regan was going to box Larry Mulligan, alias ‘‘Kid’’ Wilson the cham- pion. Most of the devotees of pugilism were frantic at O’Rourke on account of his trickery, and the backer of the champion took good care that he was not seen on the streets at night. Keat- ing sent to New York and secured ‘‘Red’’ Kelley, who was an old-time pugilist and the best trainer in the country. Kelley’s pug-face and _ close-cropped, fiery hair had graced many prize-rings, and consequently his judgment of box- ing material was worth something. He entered into his work with vim, and after he had given Jimmy his first lesson remarked: ‘‘Why, yer ain’t such a dub, after all.”’ To Keating he said privately, ‘‘He handles himself like he’d been in the game before,’’ and was greatly sur- prised to learn that Jimmy had never boxed anybody. A strictly moral life and abstemious habits had given Jimmy a perfect constitution, and his athletic life, together with his work at the anvil, had furnished him with a physique to be envied. Kelley marveled at his ability to hit straight, but he wouldn’t have done so had he known who Jimmy’s ne

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88 father was. One day, after the training had gone on vigorously for a week, Kelley said, as they got ready for a work- out: ‘‘We’ll go a bit faster to-day, Jimmy. Come to me as fast an’ as hard as yer like, an’ let me see what yer kin do.’’ They had sparred less than a minute when Jimmy knocked his trainer down with a right flush on the nose. He jumped up and punched Jimmy until the latter was staggering, and then something very peculiar occurred. Jim- my assumed a _ crouching position, crossed one arm over his face, put the other in front of his body and kept close to Kelley. The pugnacious teacher dropped his hands and exclaimed: ‘“‘Where did yer git dat defense?’’ “T don’t know,”’ replied Jimmy. “Yer don’t?’ snorted Kelley, in- credulously. ‘‘Well, if yer kin block like dat and kin keep yer head, I’m damned if Wilson kin put yer away in- side de limit.”’ From then on, Kelley continued his training with new courage. He secured two more boxers, and this gave Jimmy an excellent ‘‘stable’’ of ‘‘try-out’’ fighters. Jimmy developed wonderfully, but his greatest advantage was in being able to withstand punishment. All of the boxers took turns in trying to knock him out with punches on the jaw, and though he was knocked down often, the punishment seemed to have no visible effect upon him. “T don’t know what to make of it,’’ said Kelley, one day... ‘‘I never seen anybody what wouldn’t go groggy if I copped him on de chin. I s’pose some people is like a turtle. Yer kin pound dem on de shell and still nothin’ doin’. -Now if yer’re game, yer’ll be all right, but I can’t tell ’bout dat un- til I sees yer gettin’ a good trimmin’. Yer want to remember dat what we do is nothin’ like what Wilson’ll do to yer. He’ll find out damned quick dat wallops in de jaw ain’t goin’ ter hurt yer much, and den he’ll try an’ close yer lamps, but yer’ve got to keep goin’ at him even if yer can’t see. I heard of a brakeman onct dat caught his foot in a frog. A train is comin’ down on A SUCKER—FICTION him an’ he sees he’s got no chanst, so he just waits to be put away fer good. If I’d been him, I’d butted dat engine when it got near ’nough. Ketch on?’’ Jimmy was taught that he must box with one object in view—to stay the fifteen rounds. Kelley strongly im- pressed upon him the fact that if he forced the fight at any stage, he would surely be defeated. “No matter how much he punches yer,’’ said Kelley, ‘‘don’t lose yer head. When he rushes, leg it an’ stall him off. When he hurts yer—laugh at him. If yer should happen to hit him a punch an’ make him break ground an’ yer t’inks he’s dopy, keep away from him, ’cause he may be only kiddin’.’”’ From Wilson’s quarters came the information that he was taking things easy. He did very little training except to reduce his weight. “Why, it’s a cake-walk,’”’ said he. “T’ll hand that stiff a couple of pokes and it’ll be all over. It’s too bad that such a nice young feller has got to have his block knocked off,’’ and he yawned. Half an hour after the doors of the club-house were opened, the building was packed to suffocation. The cham- pion was a prohibitive favorite and con- sequently there was very little betting. It was two to one that Jimmy wouldn’t last five rounds. In the center of the building stood the postless ring on a platform, and the electric lights over- head threw a blinding glare on the enclosure. In the private boxes around the edge of the ring was gathered the cream of the sporting world. Diamonds flashed from expansive shirt-bosoms, and big, fat, black cigars sent clouds of smoke to the dingy ceiling. O’Rourke and his friends filled one box. The gambler leaned back with a self-satisfied smile and mentally figured how many thousand dollars he would make by his crookedness. What did he care whether or not he ruined a boy? According to his way of thinking, a sucker was born every minute, but clever men like him- self were few and far between. The great crowd sat impatiently while two preliminary bouts were fought, and then all leanod forward expectantly as

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DURANT—FICTION Drawn by W. Glackens ‘*O’Rourke started to climb through the ropes, the scales were placed in the ring. Wil- son and Jimmy soon made their appear- ance. The scales were fixed at one hun- dred and forty-five pounds, and each stepped on. Neither of them moved the beam, while the crowd watched breath- lessly. There was another wait while the boxers were given their final rub-down. but was pulled back and thrown on the floor” A loud cheer greeted Jimmy’s appear- ance, and he was forced to stop many times and shake hands with his well- wishers. Wilson stood inside the ropes, with his hands in the pockets of his long dressing-gown, and nonchalantly scra- ping his feet in the powdered rosin. Jimmy jumped up on the platform,

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It was all over”’ ‘‘A right-hand hook had landed squarely on the point of his chin. erremre Vy TF APEC ROTO stepped between the ropes and sat down on the chairin his corner. Wilson came over to Jimmy, extended his hand, and said: “T’ll try an’ put you away, young feller, without cuttin’ you to piecés. It’s a corkin’ big house, ain’t it?’’ ‘You'll never have as big a house as this to see you fight again,’’ retorted Jimmy, with a peculiar smile, and Wil- son went back to his corner. In the center of the ring four gloves lay on a piece of wrapping-paper. Kelley selected two of them, and one of Wilson’s handlers did likewise. The announcer shouted the conditions of the match in an ear-splitting tenor voice, and then the referee called both men from their corners to give them final instructions. “You'll box straight Marquis of Queensberry rules,’’ said he. ‘‘Break when I tell you, and protect yourselves in the break-away.”’ Both men stood in their corners waiting for the signal. They were apparently well matched physically, but of the two Jimmy seemed to have the better development. On his back and shoulders his strength was shown by huge knots, and his stomach appeared to be corrugated with muscles. He surveyed the crowd coolly, and his eye fell upon O’Rourke leaning back con- tentedly in his chair. O’Rourke caught Jimmy’s eye, and what he saw there made the sneer fade from his face. At the clang of the bell, Wilson moved swiftly toward Jimmy, and then tried to draw him out by feinting, but the latter paid no attention to his feints. Then Wilson rushed, sending a right and left for the head quickly; but to his surprise, Jimmy blocked and then clinched. They separated, and once more Wilson rushed, this time leading left and right for the body; but again he was blocked prettily. Then Wilson tried a straight left for the head three times, but scored only once. He started a left for the fourth time, and then, quick as a flash, swung his right to the jaw, and Jimmy toppled over on his back. The champion laughed as Jimmy slowly got to his feet, and rushed at H. R. DURANT—FICTION 91 him viciously. However, a_ straight left stopped him suddenly, and then a wicked right-hand swing missed his jaw by the fractional part of an inch, The force of the attempted blow turned Jimmy around, and before he could put up his guard the champion had knocked him down with another right flush on the jaw. He arose quickly, and they were punching each other terrifically when the bell rang. ‘“‘W’at d’ yer mean by takin’ th’ fight to him dat way?’’ asked ‘‘Red,’’ hotly, as he sponged off his face. ‘Why, if yer do dat, he’ll murder yer. He’s got to lick yer—yer haven’t got to lick him.”’ “That’s all right,’’ replied Jimmy. ‘“‘He can’t hurt me, and if he’s going to beat me anyway, you bet I’ll have some fun while he’s doing it.’’ Wilson fought more cautiously in the second round. He was a beautiful judge of distance, and at long range landed his blows with wonderful ac- curacy. In this way he scored often, but he made a mistake when he again rushed at Jimmy, because the latter bent forward with his head on the champion’s chest and beat such a tattoo upon his body that Wilson was glad to clinch and save himself. A hard right swing cut a gash over Jimmy’s left eye, and the blood trickled down his cheek. Another one in the same place knocked him down, but he rose quickly and clinched when the champion rushed. It seemed now that Jimmy must surely lose, because no human being could withstand such punishment. “Tf yer’ll only ‘tin can’ a little,’’ said Kelley, when the second round was over, ‘an’ keep away from him, yer got a chanst, but never in God’s world as long as yer keeps goin’ to him.”’ The third, fourth and fifth rounds were little different from the second. Intuitively, time and again, Jimmy as- sumed his peculiar crouching attitude, but the champion administered fearful punishment in spite of his blocking and footwork. He was bleeding from the mouth and nose, and his left eye was closed. He was knocked down re- peatedly, and it seemed a question

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92 © whether or not he could last another round, but his father’s famous defense saved him when all seemed lost. The champion was without a mark. Jimmy hung on desperately in every clinch now, and the referee had hard work tearing them apart. This sixth round was more disastrous for Jimmy than the others, and his punishment was so severe that the crowd began to yell: “Shame! Shame! Take him off! Take him off!’’ For several rounds Jimmy had simply tried to defend himself, and now, at the end of the eighth round, he was stagger- ing. As he kept hold of the champion in a clinch and looked over his shoulder, O’Rourke laughed at him, and Jimmy walked to his corner a perfect madman. Half of the audience were on their feet yelling to the referee: ‘‘Stop it! Stop it! Don’t let it go on!’”” Jimmy was being so badly beaten that it dis- gusted them. ‘“‘T’m going out this time to fight him,”’ said Jimmy. ‘I’m sick of being punched all over the ring. I ain’t going to take it for ten times the money.”’ When the ninth round opened, Wilson started in to finish his man, but his first rush was met by a fearful right- hand hook in the body, and a left, de- livered with telling force in the same spot, made him retreat for the first time during the fight. Jimmy went after him with the fierce’viciousness of a bull- dog, and then the crowd became frantic. A wild yell arose from two thousand throats, hats went sailing in the air, and from every side epithets and curses were hurled at the champion. He had beaten Jimmy until those hardened ring-followers turned away from the sickening sight, but now he was actu- ally on the run. Wilson punched back valiantly, but was forced to clinch for protection. Jimmy literally fought him- self free, and then knocked his opponent down with a frightful left-hand swing on the ear. As soon as he arose, Jimmy dropped him again with a right to the body. The blow was perfectly fair, but the referee shook one finger at him and said: “One more punch like that, Regan, A SUCKER—FICTION It was too and I’ll disqualify you. low.”’ All voices were stilled as he cautioned Jimmy, but as soon as the full purport of his words fell upon the spectators, they shouted, ‘‘Liar! Thief! Robber!’’ at him without stint. During the moment’s rest between the rounds, the sporting editor of the ‘‘Examiner’’ stood up in the press box, shook his fist at the referee -and shrieked, ‘‘Do it, do it, you yellow dog, and I’ll put you out of business!’’ In Jimmy’s corner, the seconds were working over him desperately. Kelley gave him a generous whiff from the ammonia-bottle, and then whispered hoarsely in his ear: ‘‘O’Rourke has done business with dat mutt of a referee. I seen him bat his eye at O’Rourke jest *fore he called yer down. It’s no use now—he’s sure to give a decision again yer in dis round, damn him!” “Going to throw it into me, is he?’’ gasped Jimmy. ‘Then he’ll have to do it quick,’’ and he sprang from his chair as the bell struck. The fearful body-punches had made the champion weak. He went to a clinch quickly as Jimmy rushed, and hung on until the referee pushed his way between them. Once more Jimmy closed in on his antagonist relentlessly, and sent him staggering back with a perfect hurricane of blows, until he was glad toclinch. Again the referee walked between them. This was repeated three times, and on each break-away Jimmy swung viciously but missed. Wilson was staggering now. He lay against his opponent and clutched him. “Break!’’ said the referee. ‘‘Break, I tell you!’’ he repeated, and putting a hand on each boxer, started to shove them apart. The champion stepped back, there was a sound of a heavy smack as a five-ounce glove landed on the referee’s jaw, and then—flat on his back lay that official, limp and unconscious. Jimmy had made his usual swing at Wilson on the break- away, and the referee had stopped it. A perfect bedlam arose. O’Rourke started to climb through the ropes, but was pulled back and thrown on the

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floor. In the ring, the champion was trying to ward off the deadly blows of an infuriated opponent. The referee never moved. ‘‘Red’’ Kelley was scream- ing advice with the voice and face of a maniac, but in the fearful din his words were as a whisper. Back and forth the two men fought, hugged and twisted each other in mad desperation. A left swing to the body made Wilson lower H. R. DURANT—FICTION 93 “And I,’”’ said the jubilant sporting editor, ‘‘award the money to the win- ner,’”’ and walking round to Jimmy’s corner, he handed Kelley a fat envelope. A cheering, frenzied horde swooped down on Jimmy and carried him bodily to his dressing-room. He was bathed and massaged tenderly. While they were putting on his clothes, somebody called Kelley from the room. He re- Drawn by W. Glackens “** Oh, no, Jimmy, not that—not that!’ she whispered’’ his guard and sway slightly; then he pitched forward, fell flat on his face, and lay motionless, with his gloved hands outstretched on either side. A right-hand hook had landed squarely on the point of his chin. It was all Over. The referee sat up as Wilson was dragged to his corner. Then he arose, grasped the rope, and said, unsteadily, “I award this fight to Wilson on a foul.”’ turned shortly, his face white with anxiety. Others came in, held whispered conversations, and went out quietly. Gradually the spirit of mirth faded, and the atmosphere became so chilled and depressing that Jimmy noticed it. ‘“‘What’s the matter with you fel- lows?’’ he asked, with a painful smile on his battered face. ‘‘You’d think it was a funeral here.’’ Keating burst through the _ door.

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94 Nobody spoke. Slowly Jimmy grasped the situation. “Did I do it?’ he asked, piteously. “Oh! oh! I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, boys; you know I didn’t!’’ And then, breaking down, he cried, ‘‘What will she say?”’ Kelley was the first to recover him- self. ‘‘Here,’’? he shouted, ‘‘we’ll put yer out de winder. If dey pinch yer, it means time in de _ penitentiary.”’ They almost dragged the dazed boxer to the window and lowered him to the ground. Once outside, he could hear the steady muffled roar from within, which gradually lessened in volume till it was hushed altogether. ‘‘They’ve just found it out,’’ he thought, and he started on a run for his home. Mrs. Regan was waiting for him, and when she gazed at his swollen countenance, she instinctively stretched her hands toward him. ‘“‘Never mind, dear, if you didn’t win,”’ she said, soothingly. ‘‘He was the champion, anyway.”’ He backed away from her and groaned: *“You don’t know what I’ve done! You don’t know what I’ve done!”” He sank into a chair, and then tossed the bulging envelope on the table before her. One glance and she saw what it was. ‘“‘What?—you didn't win?’’ she gasped, breathlessly. He nodded his head. A PRAYER ‘“‘My God, he’s dead!’’ he cried, huskily. ; “Well, what’s the matter?’’ She staggered back in horror and placed a hand to her heart. ‘Oh, no, Jimmy, not that—not that!’ she whispered. Again he nodded. “Oh, my God!” she cried in agony— “the sin of his father!’’ In an instant the full significance of her words dawned uponhim. He sprang to his feet, placed his hands on her shoulders and forced her to look at him. ‘“‘Now I know it—I’ve always felt it!’ he said, brokenly. ‘‘You are my moth- er!’ and then he burst into tears. Sud- denly there came the sound of footsteps running up the walk. “Quick, Jimmy, in here! Don’t let them get you!”’ she cried, but too late. The door fell open with a crash and “Red”? Kelley, Paddy Keating and a crowd of boisterous men came piling in. ‘“‘Wilson’s all right,’’ shouted Kelley, with a whoop of joy. ‘‘Dey tort he wuz dead, but he come back in good shape and de doctor says he’ll be O. K. to-morrer.”’ Jimmy had collapsed into a chair. “But what I want to know,’’ de- manded Keating, ‘“‘is, did—did yer hand out one to de referee a-purpose?”’ Jimmy screwed his disarranged coun- tenance into the faintest semblance of a grin, closed his remaining good eye with a diabolical wink, and asked: “Did you really think I was a sucker?”’ A PRAYER By WINFRED CHANDLER Gop pity him whose eyes, beguiled with peace And pleasure of requited love soon spent, Behold on happiness eternal lease, And take for lasting bliss his weak content. God pity him, and temper to the wind, When his poor fleece of blinded dreams is shorn. His dreamed-of joy is not for humankind. God strengthen him against the waking morn.

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A MODERN “SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON” THE STORY OF THE SHIPWRECK OF A GREAT PACIFIC STEAMER WITH ITS DISTINGUISHED COMPANY OF PASSENGERS—HOW THEY LIVED FOR THREE YEARS ON AN ISLAND, AND THEIR FINAL RESCUE By JOHN BRISBEN WALKER XII ALSTON and Edith Warden had ridden along in silence. Both were in a mood of deep content. The mis- understandings which had caused their separation for so long a period were now in the far past. Ralston felt that in accepting his invitation to ride, Edith Warden had restored the old basis of companionship. He was determined that on this morning uncertainty as to their future relations should be brought to an end. But there was no hurry. The bright sun filtered through and was tempered by the overhanging branches; the birds sang; all nature seemed to be attuned to a divine har- mony. Both felt that no more perfect hour than this would ever come into their lives. Ralston was confident of the answer to the appeal which he would make to the woman he loved; and for that reason he prolonged the intervening minutes. Presently they came to a point from which they could obtain a view covering a vast expanse of island and ocean. There was a sheer descent seaward. Dis- mounting, he secured his animal to a tree, then led his companion’s horse forward to the edge of the cliff. No more romantic place was ever selected for the telling of the world’s oldest story— the calm and silence of the endless sea, broken only by the gentle murmur of the waters at the foot of the cliff. Ralston had loved Edith Warden from the first moment her presence had be- come known to him on shipboard. Theirs had been one of those singular affinities that nature sometimes creates, which from the very first seem irresistible. Happy the couple where the attributes of mind are in harmony with this phys- ical attraction. When one reflects upon the endless variety which chance places around heredity, early environment and education, the wonder is that the com- bination of two human lives in a perfect harmony is ever possible. But three years is a long time in the lives of lover and sweetheart, and there had been ample opportunity to discover that not only did there exist that subtle attraction which had first brought them together in their ac- quaintance, but a correspondence in thought, a parallel of ideals, and a sympathy in their desires that almost insured their walking hand in hand for the time to come. For five minutes the lithe, erect figure on the horse sat with gaze turned upon the distant ocean. Ralston stood silently holding the bridle. Suddenly Edith turned and looked down into her companion’s eyes. ‘*My love.’’ ‘‘Most precious one.”’ It was the woman who had made the declaration. Then for another five minutes there was silence between them, until Ralston, turning her horse’s head back toward the road, said: ‘‘We must be going; they will be, waiting for us.”’ If the world had seemed bright awhile ago, creation was still more wonderful now, and all too soon the lovers arrived at the caves. Suzuki and Merryweather were wait- ing to greet them. Suzuki saw at once upon the countenance of Edith Warden that an event of importance had oc- curred, and a frown covered his face. Since the day of the capture in the caves, he had been a jealous and persevering lover. It mattered nothing that he had received no encouragement. His PEA Sn SBAGLRE SCE AIG Sr DAS SIE SOO BL A a A

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96 patience seemed to grow with each suc- ceeding month. The man who had for years been intent only upon his metal- lurgical discoveries, no longer showed an interest in affairs. He took long walks through the woods. He disappeared to be gone sometimes for days; and upon his return made ingenious opportunities to be thrown in Miss Warden’s company. The plan for to-day’s excursion had been of his preparing; but he had not counted upon her accompanying Ralston. The trip on horseback was an after- thought. As Miss Warden had-ridden up, his face had lighted, and before Ralston could dismount, or Merryweather make a move, he was at her saddle-girth offering his hand to assist her to alight. She had entered the cave at his side. The trip belowground, under Suzuki’s direction, was full of interest. The bright Japanese told the story of its original discovery; of the piece of ore so largely charged with radium that it gave out a glow; of his hunt for similar ores; of his long experiments in the way of reduction; of the discovery of a vein bearing free gold, and of the building of his crude smelter and little stamp- mill. The party could not help express- ing their admiration of the engineer’s ingenious contrivances, and of the way in which he had overcome one difficulty after another of a character that would have daunted the average metallurgist. After an hour’s journeying under- ground, the party returned to the great chamber and were admiring the soft glow of the radium lights, when a low rumble broke on their ears. Suzuki started: he alone of the party knew fully what the noise portended. Twice before in the island there had been a volcanic disturbance. The natives had predicted that if the cave of their god were entered, that divinity would destroy the island. When they had found Su- zuki occupying the cave, they had been terror-stricken; but with the passing of months and years the tradition had lost its portent. As the party looked at one another, the low rumble came again, this time changing into a grinding, crunching noise which seemed to fill the A MODERN “SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON”—FICTION cave. Parama, Suzuki’s assistant, came running out of one of the side-tunnels. At this moment a great boulder was dis- lodged, and, falling, crushed his poor body until it was hidden from view. “Come quick!’’ Suzuki called above the din, and they followed him out of the great chamber into the darkness. He had seized Miss Warden’s hand in both of his and rushed her with frantic haste through the passageway, the others following as best they could. Even in the midst of the danger, Edith Warden felt the passion of the man in his grasp, and knew that the heart she had enslaved existed but for her. When the party came safely into the sunlight, Suzuki pressed his lips to Miss Warden’s hand. “I must go back,’’ he exclaimed. ‘‘In the cave is stored my five years of work. I will rejoin you in a minute.’’ And he disappeared. As they waited, they felt the earth again tremble. This time, the force was terrific. On the mountainside great trees were suddenly uplifted, falling to the right and left, and a chasm ap- peared. Fortunately, the party was standing on a little piece of open ground untouched by the giant uplifting which passed with mighty shock across the island. Then another tremor crept over forest and mountain, this time less violent than before. Happening to look to the top of Wreath Mountain, Ralston no longer saw there the wreath, but a volume of smoke ascending to the sky. They waited for Suzuki, but he did not come. Merryweather declared that the shocks were now probably over and that he would go back to look for their compan- ion. Miss Warden insisted that she did not require company, and Ralston went with Merryweather. The three en- trances to the caves of which they had knowledge were all closed. It was pos- sible that Suzuki might have escaped through one or the other of the two passageways leading to the beach, but it would be necessary to send a boat to make this exploration. The seismic undulation which had crept across the island had fortunately missed the colony’s houses. But the 6

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TT RENT TTC several shocks, although doing but slight damage to buildings, had never- theless been such as to cause great con- sternation. The power-boat, manned by friends of Suzuki’s, was at once despatched to the seacoast entrance to the caves. One of the two entrances was completely closed. Through the other rushed a volume of water more than a foot in depth. Notwithstanding this, the party succeeded in penetrating, in some places wading almost up to their necks in water, until they reached the great chamber. Here immense masses of rocks had fallen, crushing smelter and stamp-mill until they were no longer visible. The side-tunnels were closed, and they called in vain for Suzuki. Doubtless the treasure which he had sought to recover had been somewhere near his smelter, and this great pile of rocks was now the tomb of both man and gold. Death had come with the kiss of Edith Warden’s hand fresh upon his lips—with a sensation in his heart as near akin to happiness as a hopeless lover may ever know. It was nightfall when the little boat started on its return journey. Merry- weather sat at the stern, helm in hand, alternately watching the dark coast and the brilliant firmament. This island which he had come to regard as an Eden was no longer what he had imagined it tobe. He recalled reading the horrors of Krakatoa. What if this great moun- tain held within its bosom forces suffi- cient to rend the island itself in twain? Undoubtedly these peaceful waters of the Pacific had once been witness to Titanic upheavals; perhaps other islands just as beautiful as this had been de- stroyed in the making of this land. As he watched and meditated in the silence of the night, an idea suddenly came to him: ‘‘Was it not possible to refloat their great ship?’’ He was not a hydraulic engineer, but his education and his general reading had given him some notion of the problems which surround the floating of a great ship. He recalled that about thirty feet of the bow of the ‘‘Manchu’”’ had been smashed in upon the rocks on the night when she struck; but, as he remembered it, no JOHN BRISBEN WALKER—FIOTION 97 other portion of the ship’s hull had been injured. She apparently rested upon a bed of sand which extended out from the rocks. ‘‘Why not?’’ he asked himself. XIII The following morning, Merryweather, making his report to the Assembly, ended by asking that he should be em- powered to attempt the floating of the ‘“‘Manchu,”’ and should be given a force of men to be used in such experiments as he should make with this end in view. The idea of restoring the ‘‘Manchu’”’ to the ocean had not occurred to any one. A twenty-four-thousand-ton ship with her bow high up on the rocks, and stove in for thirty or forty feet, had been dismissed from everybody’s mind as anything but a scrap-heap, destined slowly to rust out her iron plates in the waters of the Pacific. It was true that two of the engineers had remained in charge of the machinery, oiling it and keeping it in good repair; but this was mainly with the idea that at some future time the serviceable parts might be removed to the island and there used in some manufacturing process. Merryweather spent a couple of days examining his ship, the cove, and the rock upon which she had struck. The forward part of the vessel, except at the very bow, seemed to rest upon a sandy beach. Careful measurements convinced him that there was ample depth of water from amidships aft, but that the bow would have to be lowered fully fourteen feet before reaching the normal water- line. It was true that great quantities of stores had been removed from the vessel, and that this would in all prob- ability make a difference of four or five feet. But counting upon the full depth, a lowering of no less than fourteen feet would be required. His plans fully matured, Merryweather set to work in good earnest. Two expert blasters were found amongst the crew of the vessel. There was no dynamite on board, but a supply of gunpowder was found. Merryweather was of the opinion that the rock could be removed without the vessel settling, inasmuch 7 ae

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98 as the forward part of the ship would still rest upon the sand; and this proved to be the case. From day to day, masses of rock were blasted out, until it became necessary to build a coffer- dam so that the blasting might still go on below the level of the ocean. The plates in the bow of the ‘‘Manchu”’ were found to be so badly smashed that it was thought best to remove them, and after flattening them out, substitute a set of false ribs, and rebuild the bow with the sharp lines of cleavage, as origi- nally existing, lost. Six months were consumed in this work, until finally Merryweather’s mind was satisfied that a sufficient depth had been cut in the rock to permit the vessel settling, providing the sand beneath, and on which she was then resting, could be removed. Meanwhile, extensive ap- paratus had been rigged for hoisting sand and conveying it from beneath the sides of the ship to a convenient point on the rocks beyond. The ship was well supplied with large steam-pumps, and these were brought into use, so that after hoisting the sand by endless chain to a given height, it would be carried off by means of a strong stream of water to the dump- heap. Occasionally members of the colony came down to inspect the work, but there were only half a dozen persons who took much stock in the ultimate success of the scheme. In fact, Merryweather was not without his critics, and there were those who thought his work a pure waste of labor. The sand-pumps had been put in operation early in April of the third year of the colony. It was late in May before the ship began to settle into the water. Merryweather was filled with delight, and his confidence renewed in the work- ing out of his plans. He had sounded beneath the ship’s sides and everywhere had found loose sand, with occasionally a boulder. He had calculated the num- ber of cubic yards to be removed, inclu- ding that which would settle around the ship as the immediate bed was taken out, and figured that early in October his ship would float on her own bottom. A MODERN “SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON”’—FICTION Week by week the great hulk of iron settled down. For some time there had been no further indications of earthquakes, and the incident in which poor Suzuki had lost his life had been almost forgotten. But in September this memory was rudely awakened by another shock, not severe, and leaving the colony village untouched as before. A repetition of this toward the close of the month de- stroyed half a dozen of the log houses, and created marked alarm. On the 5th of October there was anoth- er shock, accompanied by a violent eruption from Wreath Mountain, great quantities of lava being cast out, and, plowing down into the ocean, creating an atmosphere of steam which hung over the entire island. Then the colonists became awake in good earnest. The heads of the several committees went to inspect the ‘‘Man- chu,” and became convinced that in all probability Merryweather would suc- ceed in floating the ship. Merryweather himself urged that immediate action should be taken with a view to embark- ing the colonists and islanders. For nearly a week the committees were in session debating this question. The increasing violence of the eruption hurried their decision, and orders were issued for all to be in readiness to embark. A conference was held with the chiefs of the native tribes and they were urged to abandon their homes and seek safety on board the ‘‘Manchu.”’ Nightly meetings were held in the villages; but without arriving at a conclusion. Within a few days, the flow of lava changed to the north side of the moun- tain, and as it no longer fell into the ocean, the steam which had covered the island cleared away. Merryweather and Ralston went to the villages for a final conference, but were unable to persuade the chiefs and their people to leave the island. On the 15th of October, Merryweather, who had had a force of engineers and stokers busily at work for some weeks putting the machinery in shape, gave the order to get up steam. For the first time in nearly three years, fires were

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made under the boilers, and with every precaution pressure was put on the disused gages. On the following morning, Captain Robinson, who had come aboard and taken command, gave the order to start the engines slowly astern. A great crowd of the colonists had assembled to witness the consummation of Merryweather’s work. As the propellers began to churn the water, they looked on with doubt. Then the signal was given, ‘‘Full speed astern.’’ Three, four, five minutes elapsed, and no sign of motion. The hearts of the lookers-on fell. But sud- denly a slight motion was detected. A great cheer arose. Yes, the ship was moving, and almost before the engines could be stopped she had glided out more than two hundred feet from her resting-place, and was floating safely on the waters of the little bay. Not all of the colonists were willing to leave this land in which life had been such a harmony for the past three years. Notwithstanding the ominous signs from Wreath Mountain, they felt content to risk the outcome rather than return to a world in which they recalled so much of fierce competition, of hardness, of in- gratitude, of inhumanity and suffering. Some of the sailors had married native wives and had removed to the villages. A few persons who had no ties at home believed that the eruption would be like that of Vesuvius, and that in alittle while the mountain would settle down to quiet and the land be once more a paradise. In all, there were some sixty colonists who decided to remain. Between these and those who were to set out for home many friendships existed, and there was much sadness in the hours during which the ship was being made ready for de- parture. Provisions and goods were once more moved back to the great iron hulk. Nothing was taken which would in any way lead to the damage-of the remaining colonists—only those things which were necessary for the voyage—including an additional supply of coal, which had been brought down from the mines and which was now lowered from the cliffs into the hull of the ‘‘Manchu.”’ JOHN BRISBEN WALKER—FICTION 99 On the evening of October 2lst, the order was given that all must be on board by four o’clock of the 23d. When that hour arrived, not only the colonists who were to remain, but almost every mem- ber of the native villages, had gathered to bid farewell to those with whom they had lived in such friendship. Ralston and his wife remained on the cliffs making their good-byes to their many friends, and were, in fact, the very last to be lowered. But instead of four o’clock, the various delays had carried the time forward until it was nearly dusk before the great whistle of the ‘‘Manchu’”’ hoarsely sounded its farewell greeting, and the ship moved slowly and cautiously out into the open sea. The flags of many nations flew from the tall pole raised on the cliff, as well as from every mast of the ‘‘Manchu.”’ Along the rails of the vessel stood, hand- kerchief in hand, those for whom this island had been such a beautiful home for the past three years. And many were the doubts felt as to the future holding in store any such quiet and peace as they had found in this happy island. As the ship moved off, shouts of fare- well came from the cliff and were sent back with interest from the ship’s sides, until the island cheers could no longer be heard in the growing darkness. Mov- ing out to sea, the sight presented by the lava flowing from the summit of Wreath Mountain made a glowing picture which seemed to grow more magnificent as the darkness descended. Few went below at the call for dinner. The ship’s decks were still crowded with the watchers intent upon the scene on Wreath Mountain, when suddenly the whole landscape seemed to split apart, and a vast, bril- liant curtain climbed into the heavens. At this moment the ship was nearly twenty miles from the island. Then, while the passengers stood gazing in horror, a second great cataclysm oc- curred. Across the waters came a thun- derous, all-pervading roar, resembling no sound with which human ears are familiar. At the second cataclysm, half of the island seemed to disappear into the Pacific, and in its place rose a great column, now fire, now steam.

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100 The passengers were not given long to bemoan the fate of their friends. Cap- tain Robinson, it so happened, had vis- ited the Straits of Sunda shortly after the catastrophe of Krakatoa in May, 1893. He felt sure that such a rending asunder would be followed by a great tidal wave, and preparations were made immediate- ly to meet it. The ship was put under full steam, so that it might get as far as possible from the center of the disturb- ance. Hatches were closed, passengers were sent below and the most minute precautions taken. And none too soon, for these were scarcely completed before the ship was swallowed up by a wave of such gigantic height that it swept over decks and for a moment threatened to bear the vessel down into.the depths by sheer weight of water. Nor was the vessel fairly relieved from this first danger before another wave, even more terrific than the first, arrived. The ship’s bridges were twisted, heavy port-windows were smashed, and every loose thing went over the side. The pilot-house was so jarred that Cap- tain Robinson for half a minute thought it would go by the board. Crew and passengers, when they felt the shock, feared their hour had come. But so great a ship has within her marvelous strength, and the ‘‘Manchu’”’ rose safely after each succeeding shock, and presently the danger had passed. Then, after consultation with the heads of the committees, Captain Robinson put his ship about and steamed slowly toward the island. It was deemed right that, at whatever danger, an attempt should be made to rescue the islanders, if any should remain alive. Nor was the risk a slight one. Showers of pumice- stone descended upon the decks. The atmosphere had become intolerably hot THE A MODERN “SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON ’’—FIOTION and sulphurous. Thunderous explosions continued to be heard. The dreadful night was passed in wake- fulness by all on board. With the com- ing of the day, Captain Robinson dared to steam closer to the shore in the hope that he would find some signs of life. But as the ship approached the land, they could perceive through their glasses that the island with which they had parted in the evening, so glorious in its verdure, had been dismantled. That portion which had contained Wreath Mountain, lying west of the great bay, had utterly disappeared. Not a living thing could anywhere be seen; all was desolation — everywhere the charred stumps of trees. For two days the ‘‘Manchu”’ sailed slowly around the island in semidark- ness, in widening circles because of the increasing heat. All hope had been abandoned the first day, but Captain Robinson had felt it his duty to risk every danger in behalf of those who might be alive. Now, however, his conviction as to the death of all on the island was complete, and when this de- cision had been reached also by the committees, the ‘‘Manchu’’ was headed once more to the east and steamed rapidly away. * * * * All will recall the return of the ‘‘ Man- chu’’ to San Francisco. For three years she had been given up as lost, and when one bright day she sailed unexpectedly into the harbor, great was the rejoicing. It is impossible to estimate the number of columns of interviews given out with the passengers of that famous expedition. Nor is it possible to estimate the maga- zine articles and books which will in future appear telling of the adventures on this island.

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ae PRINCE EUGENE OF SAVOY He defeated the Turks with awful slaughter before Belgrade THE GREAT SIEGES OF HISTORY BELGRADE; MALTA; VIENNA By CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY ELGRADE.—At the confluence of the Save and the Danube lies the city of Belgrade, now the capital of Servia. Not satisfied with Constanti- nople, the ambition of the Turk was the conquest of Europe. He had gained the capital of the Empire of the East. He would fain plant his calif in the seat of the supreme pontiff of the religion he hated. Belgrade wasonthe way. Like Acre, from its foundation it had been marked for siege. In three hundred years of its history it was taken and re- taken no less than half a dozen times. Mohammed the Second attempted it, but was thwarted by the valor of John Hunyady, the great Hungarian. It was seized in 1521 by Solyman the Magnificent, five years before the terrible battle of Mohacs. The Austrians took it in 1688. The Turks retook it in 1690. In 1717, Prince Eugene of Savoy, one of the great captains of an age which boasted Turenne, Marlborough, Vendéme and Villars, sat down before it with some seventy thousand men. Every one is familiar with the famous alliterative verses beginning: “An Austrian army awfully arrayed Boldly by batteries besieged Belgrade.”’ The force of Hugene extended from river to river along the base of a triangle, with Belgrade at the apex. In Belgrade were thirty thousand soldiers. The sultan immediately sent an army of two hundred thousand men to raise the siege. The Turks found the Austrians protected by two lines of intrenchments (lines of circumvallation and counter- vallation), extending from river to river,

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THE GREAT SIEGES OF HISTORY PRINCE EUGENE ATTACKING BELGRADE, 1717 one toward the town, the other toward the open country. Pitching a camp and fortifying it elaborately, the Turks began a slow advance toward the Austrians behind their trenches. Belgrade was subjected to a fearful bombardment from Eugene’s batteries, placed upon both sides of the river opposite it, and from the ships of his fleet. It was crumbling into ruins under the terrible hammering, but was desperately held by the garrison in the hope that the vast army would cause the siege to be raised. Sickness, as always in every ancient army and in many modern ones, raged fearfully in Eugene’s camp. It was borne home to him that if he waited long enough the Turks would get him easily, as he would have no army left. His only salvation was to disperse the Turks. The situation was desperate and demanded desperate remedies. Accordingly, starting at midnight on the 16th of August, he marched out from his ramparts and defiled into the ditches parallel to the Turkish lines, intending to attack at dawn. As usual, things did not work with the machine-like precision desired, and daybreak found the troops not yet in their appointed positions. Premature knowledge of the attack on the part of the Turks would have involved the imperial army in certain defeat. Fortunately, just be- fore the sun rose, a heavy fog settled over the rivers. Under this cover the prince completed his dispositions. As the morning sun dispersed the fog, he delivered his attack. He had in his battle-line less than forty thousand effectives, but such was the dashing valor of the assault, which he himself led in person, coupled with the carefully devised plans of the general, that the Turks were put to rout with awful

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slaughter. Belgrade thereupon fell into his hands. The city was restored to the Turks by the Peace of Belgrade, in 1739. It was taken again, in 1789, by the Austrians; once more restored, in 1791, to the Turks; and finally seized by the Servians under the lead of Kara George, in 1804. They have retained it to this day. It was in this city that the pretorians of the Servian army assassinated King Milan and Queen Draga a short time since, replacing a descendant of Kara George on the soiled and reeking throne. Two other sieges in this Ottoman group require attention: Malta.—After the fall of Acre, the Knights of St. John, commonly called the Hospitalers, were established on the island of Rhodes. Here they sustained a famous siege of six months, resulting in the capture of the island in 1522. So impressed was the sultan Solyman with their valor and constancy, that he spared their lives. The order was next reestablished on the island of Malta, then a bleak and sterile rock in the Mediterranean. Here it sustained one of the most famous sieges in history. The harbor of Valetta is divided into two portions by a long, narrow, rocky promontory. The shores of the two harbors so formed are indented like gigantic saw-teeth. At the extremity of the promontory stood the little Castle of St. Elmo. Opposite it to the east- ward, on the end of one of the peninsulas, stood the Castle of St. Angelo. On the BELGRADE; MALTA; VIENNA 103 next peninsula stood the Castle of St. Michael. In the port between these two peninsulas lay the ships of the order, protected by a boom and chain. The place was defended by some seven hun- dred knights and about nine thousand attendants, men-at-arms and hastily drilled Maltese peasants. The Turks attacked it on the 18th of May, 1565, with thirty thousand men, a great siege- train of sixty-three heavy guns and a fleet of over two hundred ships. They received accessions from Morocco and Tripoli, during the siege, of half as many men again, with many ships. The ground was too rocky for trench- ing, but by wooden walls, bags of earth and fascines, the assailants carried their lines of attack against the Castle of St. Elmo almost to the walls. The defense of the castle was heroic. Jean Parisot de la Valette, the grand master of the knights, was the animating spirit of the whole affair. He was an old man at the time, in his sixty-eighth year, but he displayed courage and hardihood that put the younger soldiers to shame. So hard pressed were the defenders of the little castle of St. Elmo on one occasion, that they entreated permission to aban- don it and retire. La Valette said that he would permit them to leave and he would put them in a convent where they would be unharmed, while he regar- risoned the point with men who were not afraid to die. This adroit com- munication naturally put new spirit into the garrison, and they clamored to

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THE GREAT SIEGES OF HISTORY JOHN SOBIESKI He crushed the last attempt of the Turks to invade Europe be left where they were. With singular incapacity, the Turks did not carry their line of investment to the water’s edge, and communication between the Fort of St. Angelo and the shattered castle on the promontory remained open. Succors were sent in from time to time, and the wounded were replaced with fresh men. The arrival of a celebrated Barbary corsair, named Dragut, changed all that. By his directions, the landing- place was covered with a heavy: battery, Turkish ships were brought into the harbor on that side of the peninsula, and henceforth there was no communi- cation with the garrison. After a month of the most terrible fighting ever re- corded, the janizaries entered the tower, now reduced to a heap of untenable ruins. The garrison, which had resisted with unheard-of valor, was slaughtered to a man—with the exceptions that the Barbary corsairs held ten knights for ransom, and one or two soldiers escaped by swimming across to St. Angelo. With a recklessness which can be explained only by fanaticism, the Turks for two months assailed Forts St. Michael and St. Angelo. They breached the walls of the bastion of Castile, which protected St. Angelo; they battered St. Michael until it was completely in ruins; they effected a lodgment in the town of Borgo, in front of St. Angelo. But,: try as they might, they could not take either place by storm. The viceroy of Philip II of Spain in Sicily at last approached with a large fleet, and landed some twelve thousand men on the island on the 6th of September. The Turks, alarmed by the advent of this force, which rumor magnified tre- mendously, hurriedly raised the siege and embarked in their ships. When they learned, however, the number of the Christians, they landed again and attacked the relieving force. The sol- diers of Mustapha, who had hitherto fought with the courage of heroes, went to the last battle unwillingly, and the trained and disciplined Spanish soldiers, fresh for the encounter, put most of them to the sword. This time the survivors embarked in earnest and sailed away. They left thirty thousand dead men on the shore, or washing in the sea which thunders upon those rocky walls. But one other fact in the story of Malta is of much interest to the historian. The knights had been organ- ized for a definite purpose, the defense of Christian Europe against the East, but the defeat of Suleiman’s armada and the great naval battle of Lepanto, with the stout fighting of the Poles and Austrians on land, had removed all danger from that source and left the Knights of St. John no raison d’étre. The order therefore rapidly deteriorated. Instead of the stern pursuit of arms, it gave itself up to luxury and pleasure. When Bonaparte on his way to Egypt appeared before it on the 9th of June, 1798, with his vast armada, it fell into his hands at once. The resistance offered his soldiers was purely nominal. Treachery, suborned by French gold, caused it to be yielded to him without a struggle. “T captured Malta,’’ he said afterward, “‘while at Mantua.’’ The great captain had the supremest contempt for its effeminate defenders. “The Order of the Knights of Malta,’ he remarked at St. Helena, ‘‘was absurd.

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The knights did nothing but enjoy their revenues. They did no fighting.’’ The grand master had wit enough to stipulate for a pension of six hundred thousand francs and a German principality, for himself. The other knights, especially those of French birth, were also suitably pensioned, and the organization ceased to exist as an order. The fortifications of Malta were formidable in the extreme and they might have held even Bona- parte at bay for weeks; in which case he would never have seen Egypt and the decisive battle of Abukir would have ASSAULT ON VIENNA been fought under the walls of Valetta. When the French took possession of the works and saw their strength, General Caffarelli said to Napoleon: “It is well, General, that there was some one within to open the gates for us; we should have had more trouble in making our way through, if the place had been empty.”’ The booty, largely in the shape of bullion, was immense. The most of it was put on the flagship ‘‘L’Orient’”’ and now reposes in the shallow waters of Abukir Bay, having gone down with BELGRADE; MALTA; VIENNA 105 that unfortunate ship in the battle of the Nile. Bonaparte left a garrison of several thousand men under General Vaubois on the island. After the col- lapse of the Egyptian campaign, the English blockaded Malta on September 26, 1798. The inhabitants of the island rose against the French garrison under the Neapolitan flag, and completed the investment of Valetta on the landward side. The English, most of the time under Sir Alexander Ball, one of the best of Nelson’s great captains, main- tained a rigorous blockade for nearly BY THE TURKS, 1683 two years, at the same time supplying the Maltese troops with money and arms. The brave Vaubois, hoping vain- ly for succor, defended himself until September 4, 1800. He was literally starved into surrender on that date. His men were dying at the rate of one hundred a day. When he hauled down his flag, there were no provisions of any sort left in Valetta. The English took possession, and al- though, by the peace of Amiens in 1802, they promised to surrender the island to the remaining Knights of asx Er SR a ae

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106 St. John—which the Czar Paul of Russia was endeavoring to revive—they did not keep that promise. Through all the Napoleonic wars they retained the island, and the peace of Paris in 1814 confirmed it to them. To-day it is one of the greatest fortresses and naval stations in the world. With Gibraltar, it gives the English control over the Mediterranean. Vienna.—The last great irruption of the Mohammedans in Europe was checked at Vienna. Withan army of two hundred thousand men, the vizier Kara Mustapha invested the Austrian capital on the 14th of July, 1683. The emperor Leopold had fied like a craven, and with him had gone sixty thousand of the THE GREAT SIEGES OF HISTORY willing hands and stout hearts to the de- fense. They would inevitably have been captured, however, in the end. I have observed in studying the sieges of the world that capture is certain unless the besieged are relieved by outside inter- vention, provided the besiegers are sufficiently determined. The outside intervention in this case was supplied by that iron soldier, John Sobieski, the King of Poland. With an army of seventy thousand men, including his terrible Polish horsemen, he fell upon the Turkish camp like a storm on the 12th of September, while the Turks were as- saulting the walls. In spite of all they could do, the Turks were routed with ter- SOBIESKI CHARGING THE TURKS AT VIENNA inhabitants who were able to get away. There were left within the walls twenty thousand soldiers and sixty thousand poor people. The Turks sat down before it and began a regular siege. The city suffered terribly under the rain of shot that was poured upon it, but never did people labor more zealous- ly in defense of their homes than in that fair capital. The soldiers, under Riidiger, Count Starhemberg, made sallies and repulsed attacks with de- voted valor. The inhabitants—even the women and children aiding—under the leadership of their burgomaster Von Liebenberg, rebuilt the walls, repaired the breaches and rendered the aid of rible slaughter. The army was disinte- grated, then cut to pieces under the relentless pursuit of the incomparable Polish cavalry, and Kara Mustapha fled to Belgrade, to die by the bowstring with which the sultans usually rewarded the unfortunate. That was the last great attempt of the Turks to invade Europe. The services that Sobieski and his Polish knights rendered civilization on that day ought surely to have been long re- membered by Christendom, and espe- cially by Austria, and the integrity of Poland should have been forever pre- served, if for no other reason than that of gratitude for so great a deliverance.

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THE NEUTRAL I know a promi- nent business concern that by the very force of its directness and excellence has incurred the enmity of many rivals. In fact, there is a very general conspiracy to put the institution down and out. In talking with a young man in the employ of this house, he yawned and said, ‘‘Oh, iti this quarrel, I am a neutral.”’ “But you get your bread and butter from this firm, and in a matter where the very life of the institution is con- cerned, I do not see how you can be neutral.’’ And he changed the subject. I think that if I enlisted in the Japa- nese army, I should not be neutral. Business is a fight—a continual strug- gle—just as life is. Man has reached his present degree of development through struggle. Struggle there must be and always will be. The struggle began as purely physical, and as man evolved, it shifted around to the mental, psychic and spiritual, with a few dashes of eave-man proclivities still left. But, depend upon it, the struggle will always be—life is activity. And when it gets to be a struggle in well-doing, it will still be struggle. When inertia gets the better of you, it is time to telephone to the undertaker. The only real neutral in this game of life is a dead one. Eternal vigilance is the price not only of liberty, but of every other good thing. A business that is not safeguarded on every side by active, alert, attentive, vigilant men is gone. As oxygen is the disintegrating principle of life, working night and day to dissolve, separate, pull apart and dissipate, so is there a some- thing in business that continually tends to scatter, destroy and shift possession from this man to that. A million mice nibble eternally at every business ven- ture. The mice are nct neutrals, and if enough men in a business’ house are neutrals, the whole concern will eventu- ally come tumbling about their ears. ELBERT HUBBARD * * * * LETTING HIMSELF LOOSE | As Reginald pre- pared to join his parents in the wilderness, he naturally be- thought himself of the proper equipment. “The wild life of the. woods,’’ said Reginald, ‘‘should be entered into re- gardless, this being at present the best form.”’ So saying, he purchased a sixty-dollar bamboo rod, an assortment of flies—in neutral colors, as becomes a gentleman— and a smart shotgun with a watered-silk barrel; also a rifle, with scented bullets. “The primitive man within me,”’ said Reginald, curling his mustache fiercely, “rebels at the hot air of cafés and club- rooms, and longs once more for a state of nature. Nevertheless, although wild- ly impatient to cut loose, I must really hold myself together long enough to gather up a few necessit‘es.”’ So saying, he stopped into his hatter’s and ordered a pot-hat for morning ae ie ee tee Spal iets ieee i een

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nec mi ita ida ee OREN DT aaa MEN, WOMEN AND EVENTS gatherings, a riding-hat €) for horseback, several lounging-caps for walk- ing and when the ladies were not present; into his bootmaker’s and ordered several styles in tops and patent-leathers; into his tailor’s and ordered a new dress-suit, tuxedo, fancy waistcoats; into his haber- dasher’s and ‘**The primitive man within me,’ renewed his silk said Reginald, . .. ‘rebels’’’ : pajamas; and then, having sent his rings to the jeweler’s to have them cleaned, and purchased a neat but extremely useful manicure-set, Reginald exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction: ‘“‘And now for the glad, free, primeval life of papa’s Adirondack camp!’ ADDISON FOX, JR. A PASTORAL BY THE POET BOARDER (Annotated by the landlord, who ts a confirmed realist) In Arcadie a shepherd* straying "Midst nymphs and swains afield, a-maying, * He means the farm-hand whom I’m paying Good board-wages during haying. Espied the buxom Amaryllis With arm entwined about young Phyllis.* * And this refers, perhaps, to Annie, The scullery-maid; the other’s Fanny. So, pausing where the willows weep Abeve the brooklet’s mirror* deep, * Here I identify the drain, : A sluggish swamp, just after rain. The shepherd overhears the pair Their preferences coy declare.* * That is to say, the lurking sneak Was listening to hear them speak. Young Phyllis sighed, and ’gan complain Of one, a flinty-hearted * swain, * **Butter-fingered,” I should say- He played short-stop the other day. Who was ne’er moved by maidens’ smiles, Nor to be caught by Cupid’s wiles.* * This doesn’t sound just like what Ann Would say about the hired man! She prayed that Amaryllis fair, She of the gleaming auburn* hair, * Fanny, the cook, it should be said Has locks that we cal! “ carrot-red.” Would teach her, Phyllis, by what art She might ensnare that vagrant * heart. * Poetry and fact for once agree!— “Vagrant heart”—yes, toa T! Moved by the gushing girlish tears, The older nymph assuaged * her fears. * Which means that Annie sniifed, you know, And Fanny said, ‘* Don’t take on so!’”’ “‘Sweet Phyllis, since you feel the smart Of Cupid’s keen, envenomed dart,* * Of all this stuff he never heard, I'll take my oath, a single word! ‘‘Come list the tale of perfidy,* Of how that swain was false to me. * Of course she put it just that way— Precisely what the cook would say. “I was a young * and tender maid When first to me his vows were paid, * If she were young, those vows must be The vintage of, say, sixty-three. And that would make this “swain” sedate A well-grown bird of fifty-eight. ‘“‘And I believed his promise true When for my favor he did sue; So to his suit I lent an ear, While those false lips were bent anear.* * Say!—‘“‘lent an ear’’ is rather good With ‘bent anear.” Like Thomas Hood. “But men are false, and oaths forsworn, And all too soon, alas!*—forlorn * Turn down the footlights very low, And let the fiddlers all play slow. ‘I mourned my heartless, faithless swain, And swore I ne’er would love again.* * Affecting! —but prosaic men Prefer to call the word again. “‘So, Phyllis, never fix thine eye On one who like the butterfly * * This hits Jabez to a dot— A butterfly?’—well, I guess—not. ‘‘Flutters anew from bower to bower To linger * but one fleeting hour— *“Linger” is just the fitting word— Jabez can “linger,” like a bird! I should not feel the least surprise ‘To see him win the “‘linger” prize. ‘“‘Nay, dry your tears and come away, Love will return * another day!”’ * If this is poetry, I’m a dunce! I'd like just to get at him once! He won’t return, I’m free to say, So long as that board-bill’s to pay. And all I have for what he ate 1s poems, assorted, underweight, Such as this Amaryllis stuff. There’s more—but we've al] had enough. TUDOR JENKS

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MEN, WOMEN AND EVENTS 5 Oe THE GRAND DUKE CONSTANTINE, OF RUSSIA, AND HIS FAMILY A MODERN DRAMA The characters in this little drama are: A Large City. A Modern Man. A Modern Woman. A Kind Friend. A Rushing Business. Architects, Builders, Educational Sys- tems, Butchers, Bakers, Grocers, Rail- roads, Automobiles, and others. Now, in order not to bore the reader with the dramatic form, which reads usually something like this: Mrs. Jones. “‘It’s a fine day.’’ (Gazes rapturously at tissue sky.) Mr. Smith. ‘Yes. But it looks like rain.”’ (Points to barometer.) —we are going to put our drama in the narrative form, just as if it were some- thing that really happened. As, to wit: It was early morning in the large city. The modern man, having rushed through his breakfast, and in the min- utes he had set aside for this purpose not having been able to make his auto- mobile go, was on his way to his busi- ness, fuming at the delay. At this moment he was greeted by a kind friend. ‘‘You are in a hurry,”’ said the kind friend. “T am always in a hurry,”’ said the modern man, ‘‘and I always expect to be.”’ **Do you ever stop to consider whether it is worth while?’’ asked the kind friend. The modern man smiled a smile of unusual warmth. “Well, I should say I had stopped to consider it,’’ he exclaimed. ‘‘My dear fellow, doubtless without knowing it, you have unconsciously touched upon my secret hobby; I say secret, because I shouldn’t have dreamed of airing my peculiar views if you hadn’t spoken of the matter first. Of course, this life of ours isn’t worth while. I was reading the other day a book by an Oriental, and do you know I really felt ashamed that our boasted civilization, with all of its apparent material advantages, had so little to offer the mind. What good does my automobile do me? It merely caters to the already overwrought tension of my nervous system. What is my estab- lishment really worth to me, with its servants, its social demands, its cease- less friction? To keep it up, I am obliged to wear myself out, with no time

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ARP eemDangeReaeEeaEERESEEEET 110 MEN, WOMEN to develop that calmness of soul that ought to be a sacred privilege. I don’t believe in stopping work, of course. My Oriental critic wouldn’t advise that. But if I could only cut down, be content to live on the cheaper and more superior things of life, give up a lot of senseless conventionality—oh, what a heaven on earth that would be!”’ The friend nodded sympathetically. ~ “T see,”’ he said, ‘“‘that you understand it all. And now, tell me, why don’t you do it? Why don’t you break loose and follow your own conclusions?”’ The modern man looked around fear- fully, lest he might be overheard. As if there was any danger, amid all that bustle and excite- ment! He took the kind friend confidentially by the arm. His voice lowered. “It’s my wife,” he whispered. “If I should suggest that we go off some- where and live quiet, peaceful, simple, natural lives, she would think that what little mind I had left was leaving me. She’s the one! A nice woman, but she can’t rise above the age we live in. And so I doit all to please her. I—hello! here’s my car. Good-by, old man! Must break away! Great rush! See you later. Ta-ta!’’ - And he was gone. The kind friend, left alone, pondered for a while in deep thought. Here was a chance for him to perform a kind office. Here was a possible opportunity to save two lives. He went up to the modern man’s house, rang the bell and asked to see the modern man’s wife. In a moment she came bustling down, with her hat and one glove on. Her manner was nervous. She had something on for every hour of the day. ALEXIS NIKOLAIVITCH you understand, | HEIR TO THE EMPIRE AND AUTOCRACY OF ALL THE RUSSIAS He will be nine months old on May 12th AND EVENTS ‘‘Busy?”’ asked the kind friend, taking on her monosyllabic manner, even in anticipation. “Awfully. Rushed todeath. Glad to see you, of course. No tickets to sell, I hope.”’ ‘‘None,’’ said the kind friend. ‘I was merely getting up a little story about the stress and strain of the age we live in, and knowing you to be a thoroughly up-to-date woman, thought you might help me out.”’ The modern. woman motioned him into the drawing-room. “Sit down,’’ she said. ‘“‘Now, I'll tell you frankly, that if it had been any subject in the world but this, I simply couldn’t have spared the time to talk. But you know’’ — she _ low- ered her voice per- ceptibly—“‘this is a great secret hobby of mine. Yes, it’s all wrong. We are using up our ener- gies to no purpose. What we should do is to be satis- fied with less, and we would really get more.”’ The kind friend surreptitiously re- ferred to his notes. “‘What you should do,’’ he continued where she left off, ‘‘is to go off somewhere and live quiet, peaceful, simple, natural lives where you can develop that calm- ness of soul that ought to be a sacred privilege. Isn’t that right?”’ ‘“‘Yes—of course.’’ “Then, why don’t you?”’ “Well, you know, it’s my husband. He could never doit. He a The kind friend jumped to his feet. “As I thought,’ he exclaimed. ‘‘How glad I am to be the means of uniting two lives. Prepare yourself for the best. I have just left your husband, and he says the same thing. You have been living together all this time without

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MEN, WOMEN XK Ge ‘* Her face was flushed with unusual excitement "’ knowing each other’s views. But, my dear madam, you don’t seem surprised.’’ The modern lady also arose. She put on the other glove. “Not a bit,’’ she replied, calmly. ‘‘Al- though we never mention the matter to each other—only to our friends, you know —we each know what the other says.’’ “Then if you agree, why don’t you break loose?”’ The modern lady stepped to the win- dow and waved to her coachman. ‘You dear old unsophisticated med- dler,’’ she exclaimed, ‘‘don’t you know that my husband and I only like to talk about it to others? We could do it if we wanted to, but neither of us really wants to.”’ TOM MASSON "bce oe HE ROSE TO Tipton sat in his THE OCCASION : study, pensively smoking his after-dinner cigar, with slip- pered feet lying at ease before him on a convenient foot-rest. The evening paper had slipped from his hand, and in that delicious reverie that comes to us at odd moments, he lay back somnolently, at peace with all the world. In the region below him was the faint sound of distant voices, now rising, now falling, that, only partly penetrating to his half-entranced consciousness, con- veyed no warning of the crisis that was rapidly approaching. Suddenly the door opened and Mrs. Tipton came in. Her face was flushed with unusual excitement. ‘“‘“My dear,’’ she said, “I wish you would go down-stairs immediately and tell that cook what you think of her. 111 AND EVENTS She has been impudent, and I want you to give her a piece of your mind.”’ Tipton started up in sudden astonish- His heart sank within him. ‘Why, what shall I say?’’ he ex- claimed. ‘‘I don’t know the woman.”’’ ‘Well, that doesn’t make any differ- ence. You’ve got to uphold me. This is a case for @ man.”’ Tipton shuddered. “But, my dear,” he said, ‘‘what shall I say? I don’t know anything about the circumstances. I———’’ ‘You don’t need to know. She’s a horrid, ungrateful, deceitful thing; and you tell her so.”’ The wretched man before her arose. He put down his cigar. He knew his time had come. In the twinkling of an eye he had been transported from the heights of an enraptured fantasy to the depths of despair. He wavered. ‘‘Well,’”’ cried Mrs. Tipton, ‘‘what are you waiting for? Can it be possible that you are not going to uphold me in my own house? And you call yourself a man!” Tipton gave a smile—a cunning, con- ciliatory smile. He advanced in his most ment. affectionate manner. ‘“‘Now, darling,’’ he said, ‘‘let’s listen to reason. Perhaps there has been a ‘‘He rattled the pots and pans with all his niight’’

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MEN, WOMEN RT. HON. WALTER HUME LONG New British Chief Secretary for Ireland, who succeeded Hon. George Wyndham slight misunderstanding. Perhaps a few ” gentle words—— Mrs. Tipton glowered at him. “Don’t darling me!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘And so this is the way I am treated in my own house. There’s absolutely no one to stand up for me. My cook can say anything she pleases and my husband hasn’t got spunk enough to do the only thing possible. A few gentle words! Bah! You poor, miserable—thing!”’ At this instant, Tipton, inspired al- most by second-vision, happened to glance out of the window into the night. The heavenly rays from the lamp-post in front shed their welcome light on the path that led from his back door to the sidewalk. And as he absently gazed and saw a short, dumpy figure, with a huge bundle under one arm, waddling rapidly away, he recognized the form of their late cook and knew that she had lost no time in taking her departure. He sprang toward the door. He brandished his arms in the air. “Forgive me!’’ he cried. ‘You are right! For the moment, I did not take in the significance of what you said. AND EVENTS But your words have fully aroused me. She is indeed a vile wretch! I’ll teach her! Our honor shall be avenged!’’ And snatching up a long poker from the fireplace, he rushed from the room and down-stairs into the kitchen. Once in that deserted amphitheater of a recent tragedy, he sprang upon the table like a madman. He slammed the chairs upon the floor, he rattled the pots and pans with all his might, and then he closed the outside door with a convul- sive bang, and slowly, with a military tread, marched back up-stairs again like a conquering hero, on his face a quiet smile of easy virtue. Mrs. Tipton met him at the head of the stairs. Her face was pale. “Darling!’’ she exclaimed, half re- proachfully, ‘‘ have you killed her?’’ “T only about half killed her,’’ replied Tipton, as he nonchalantly resumed his unfinished cigar. ‘‘She threatened to have the law on me, of course. But what do I care for a little thing like that? For when it comes to defending you from such a miserable creature as she is, you can count on me every time.”’ BRIGHTON SMITH COM. H. G. HEBBINGHAUS Special representative of the German emperor in arranging for the cross-Atlantic yacht- race to be started May 16th

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