canter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was far ahead, had passed through the
crops, beyond the Police-posts, when all the guards were asleep, and
her mount was scattering the pebbles of the river-bed as Wee Willie
Winkie left the cantonment and British India behind him. Bowed forward
and still flogging, Wee Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and
could just see Miss Allardyce a black speck flickering across the stony
plain. The reason of her wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone
of too-hastily-assumed authority, had told her over night that she must
not ride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her own spirit and
teach Coppy a lesson.
Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee Willie Winkie saw the
Waler blunder and come down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear,
but her ankle had been severely twisted, and she could not stand.
Having fully shown her spirit, she wept, and was surprised by the
apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki, on a nearly spent pony.
“Are you badly, badly hurted?” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, as soon as he
was within range. “You didn’t ought to be here.”
“I don’t know,” said Miss Allardyce ruefully, ignoring the reproof.
“Good gracious, child, what are _you_ doing here?”
“You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,” panted Wee Willie Winkie,
throwing himself off his pony. “And nobody—not even Coppy—must go
acwoss ve wiver, and I came after you ever so hard, but you wouldn’t
stop, and now you’ve hurted yourself, and Coppy will be angwy wiv me,
and—I’ve bwoken my awwest! I’ve bwoken my awwest!”
The future Colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed. In spite of the
pain in her ankle, the girl was moved.
“Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, little man? What for?”
“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!” wailed Wee Willie Winkie
disconsolately. “I saw him kissing you, and he said he was fonder of
you van Bell or ve Butcha or me. And so I came. You must get up and
come back. You didn’t ought to be here. Vis is a bad place, and I’ve
bwoken my awwest.”
“I can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, with a groan. “I’ve hurt
my foot. What shall I do?”
She showed a readiness to weep anew, which steadied Wee Willie Winkie,
who had been brought up to believe that tears were the depth of
unmanliness. Still, when one is as great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie,
even a man may be permitted to break down.
“Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “when you’ve rested a little, ride back
and tell them to send out something to carry me back in. It hurts
fearfully.”
The child sat still for a little time, and Miss Allardyce closed her
eyes; the pain was nearly making her faint. She was roused by Wee
Willie Winkie tying up the reins on his pony’s neck and setting it free
with a vicious cut of his whip that made it whicker. The little animal
headed towards the cantonments.
“Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?”
“Hush!” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Vere’s a man coming—one of ve Bad
Men. I must stay wiv you. My faver says a man must _always_ look after
a girl. Jack will go home, and ven vey’ll come and look for us. Vat’s
why I let him go.”
Not one man, but two or three, had appeared from behind the rocks
of the hills, and the heart of Wee Willie Winkie sank within him,
for just in this manner were the Goblins wont to steal out and vex
Curdie’s soul. Thus had they played in Curdie’s garden (he had seen the
picture), and thus had they frightened the Princess’s nurse. He heard
them talking to each other, and recognized with joy the bastard Pushto
that he had picked up from one of his father’s grooms lately dismissed.
People who spoke that tongue could not be the Bad Men. They were only
natives, after all.
They came up to the boulders on which Miss Allardyce’s horse had
blundered.
Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child of the Dominant
Race, aged six and three-quarters, and said briefly and emphatically,
“_Jao!_” The pony had crossed the river-bed.
The man laughed, and laughter from natives was the one thing Wee Willie
Winkie could not tolerate. He asked them what they wanted and why they
did not depart. Other men with most evil faces and crooked-stocked guns
crept out of the shadows of the hills, till, soon, Wee Willie Winkie
was face to face with an audience some twenty strong. Miss Allardyce
screamed.
“Who are you?” said one of the men.
“I am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my order is that you go at once.
You black men are frightening the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into
cantonments and take the news that the Miss Sahib has hurt herself, and
that the Colonel’s son is here with her.”
“Put our feet into the trap?” was the laughing reply. “Hear this boy’s
speech!”
“Say that I sent you—I, the Colonel’s son. They will give you money.”
“What is the use of this talk? Take up the child and the girl, and we
can at least ask for the ransom. Ours are the villages on the heights,”
said a voice in the background.
These _were_ the Bad Men—worse than Goblins—and it needed all Wee
Willie Winkie’s training to prevent him from bursting into tears.
But he felt that to cry before a native, excepting only his mother’s
_ayah_, would be an infamy greater than any mutiny. Moreover, he, as
future Colonel of the 195th, had that grim regiment at his back.
“Are you going to carry us away?” said Wee Willie Winkie, very blanched
and uncomfortable.
“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur,” said the tallest of the men, “and eat
you afterwards.”
“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Men do not eat men.”
A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went on firmly—“And if you
do carry us away, I tell you that all my regiment will come up in a day
and kill you all without leaving one. Who will take my message to the
Colonel Sahib?”
Speech in any vernacular—and Wee Willie Winkie had a colloquial
acquaintance with three—was easy to the boy who could not yet manage
his “r’s” and “th’s” aright.
Another man joined the conference, crying, “O foolish men! What this
babe says is true. He is the heart’s heart of those white troops. For
the sake of peace let them go both, for if he be taken, the regiment
will break loose and gut the valley. _Our_ villages are in the valley,
and we shall not escape. That regiment are devils. They broke Khoda
Yar’s breastbone with kicks when he tried to take the rifles; and if we
touch this child they will fire and rape and plunder for a month till
nothing remains. Better to send a man back to take the message and get
a reward. I say that this child is their God, and that they will spare
none of us, nor our women, if we harm him.”
It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the Colonel, who made the
diversion, and an angry and heated discussion followed. Wee Willie
Winkie, standing over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely his
“wegiment,” his own “wegiment,” would not desert him if they knew of
his extremity.
* * * * *
The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, though there had been
consternation in the Colonel’s household for an hour before. The little
beast came in through the parade-ground in front of the main barracks,
where the men were settling down to play Spoilfive till the afternoon.
Devlin, the Color-Sergeant of E Company, glanced at the empty saddle
and tumbled through the barrack-rooms, kicking up each Room Corporal as
he passed. “Up, ye beggars! There’s something happened to the Colonel’s
son,” he shouted.
“He couldn’t fall off! S’help me, ’e _couldn’t_ fall off,” blubbered
a drummer-boy. “Go an’ hunt acrost the river. He’s over there if he’s
anywhere, an’ maybe those Pathans have got ’im. For the love o’ Gawd
don’t look for ’im in the nullahs! Let’s go over the river.”
“There’s sense in Mott yet,” said Devlin. “E Company, double out to the
river—sharp!”
So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled for the dear life,
and in the rear toiled the perspiring Sergeant, adjuring it to double
yet faster. The cantonment was alive with the men of the 195th hunting
for Wee Willie Winkie, and the Colonel finally overtook E Company, far
too exhausted to swear, struggling in the pebbles of the river-bed.
Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie’s Bad Men were discussing
the wisdom of carrying off the child and the girl, a lookout fired two
shots.
“What have I said?” shouted Din Mahommed. “There is the warning! The
_pulton_ are out already and are coming across the plain! Get away! Let
us not be seen with the boy!”
The men waited for an instant, and then, as another shot was fired,
withdrew into the hills, silently as they had appeared.
“The wegiment is coming,” said Wee Willie Winkie confidently to Miss
Allardyce, “and it’s all wight. Don’t cwy!”
He needed the advice himself, for ten minutes later, when his father
came up, he was weeping bitterly with his head in Miss Allardyce’s lap.
And the men of the 195th carried him home with shouts and rejoicings;
and Coppy, who had ridden a horse into a lather, met him, and, to his
intense disgust, kissed him openly in the presence of the men.
But there was balm for his dignity. His father assured him that
not only would the breaking of arrest be condoned, but that the
good-conduct badge would be restored as soon as his mother could sew it
on his blouse-sleeve. Miss Allardyce had told the Colonel a story that
made him proud of his son.
“She belonged to you, Coppy,” said Wee Willie Winkie, indicating Miss
Allardyce with a grimy forefinger. “I _knew_ she didn’t ought to go
acwoss ve wiver, and I knew ve wegiment would come to me if I sent Jack
home.”
“You’re a hero, Winkie,” said Coppy—“a _pukka_ hero!”
“I don’t know what vat means,” said Wee Willie Winkie, “but you mustn’t
call me Winkie any no more. I’m Percival Will’am Will’ams.”
And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into his manhood.
THE GOLD BUG
BY
EDGAR ALLAN POE
Poe was the first American short-story writer. Others had written
stories that were short, but he was the first to recognize the
short-story as having a form and an aim all its own. Moreover, he
was willing to admit the public to his laboratory and to explain his
process, for he discounted inspiration and emphasized craftsmanship.
In “The Philosophy of Composition” he declares that every plot “must
be elaborated to its dénouement before anything is attempted with
the pen. It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that we
can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or causation,
by making the incidents and especially the tone, at all points,
tend to the development of the intention.” He also tells us that he
prefers beginning with an effect. Having chosen, in the first place,
an effect that is both novel and vivid, he decides “whether it can
be best wrought by incident or tone,” and afterward looks about “for
such combinations of events, or tone, as shall best aid ... in the
construction of the effect.”
In view of such explanations, it is interesting to study “The Gold
Bug” and to see how well the plot has been worked out and the tone
established. It is doubtful whether in this story the plot meant to
the writer what it means to the reader. The latter likes the adventure
with its ingeniously fitted parts, each so necessary to the whole.
But after the gold has been found—and that is the point of greatest
interest—the story goes on and on to explain the cryptogram. This,
no doubt, was to Poe the most interesting thing about the story, the
tracing of the steps by which the scrap of parchment was deciphered
and reasoned upon and made to yield up its secret. As to the time
and place, the strange conduct and character of Legrand, the fears
and superstitions of Jupiter, and the puzzled solicitude of the
narrator—all these aid materially in establishing and maintaining the
tone.
THE GOLD BUG[10]
“What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.”
—_All in the Wrong._
Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand.
He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy;
but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the
mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans,
the city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan’s
Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.
This island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than
the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at no point
exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the mainland by a
scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness of
reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh-hen. The vegetation,
as might be supposed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of
any magnitude are to be seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort
Moultrie stands, and where are some miserable frame buildings, tenanted
during summer by the fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be
found, indeed, the bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the
exception of this western point, and a line of hard white beach on the
seacoast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle, so
much prized by the horticulturists of England. The shrub here often
attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost
impenetrable coppice, burdening the air with its fragrance.
In the utmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern or
more remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a small
hut, which he occupied when I first, by mere accident, made his
acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship—for there was much in
the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him well educated,
with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject
to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. He had
with him many books, but rarely employed them. His chief amusements
were gunning and fishing, or sauntering along the beach and through
the myrtles, in quest of shells or entomological specimens;—his
collection of the latter might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In
these excursions he was usually accompanied by an old negro, called
Jupiter, who had been manumitted before the reverses of the family, but
who could be induced, neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon
what he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps of his
young “Massa Will.” It is not improbable that the relatives of Legrand,
conceiving him to be somewhat unsettled in intellect, had contrived to
instil this obstinacy into Jupiter, with a view to the supervision and
guardianship of the wanderer.
The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island are seldom very
severe, and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed when a
fire is considered necessary. About the middle of October, 18—, there
occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness. Just before sunset
I scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut of my friend,
whom I had not visited for several weeks—my residence being at that
time in Charleston, a distance of nine miles from the island, while
the facilities of passage and re-passage were very far behind those
of the present day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom,
and, getting no reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted,
unlocked the door and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth.
It was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw off an
overcoat, took an armchair by the crackling logs, and awaited patiently
the arrival of my hosts.
Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome.
Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some
marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits—how else shall
I term them?—of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown bivalve, forming
a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted down and secured, with
Jupiter’s assistance, a _scarabæus_ which he believed to be totally
new, but in respect to which he wished to have my opinion on the morrow.
“And why not to-night?” I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze, and
wishing the whole tribe of _scarabæi_ at the devil.
“Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said Legrand, “but it’s so
long since I saw you; and how could I foresee that you would pay me
a visit this very night of all others? As I was coming home I met
Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I lent him the
bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it until the morning. Stay
here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is the
loveliest thing in creation!”
“What?—sunrise?”
“Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color—about
the size of a large hickory-nut—with two jet black spots near one
extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the other. The
_antennæ_ are——“
“Dey aint _no_ tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a-tellin’ on you,” here
interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole-bug, solid, ebery bit of him,
inside and all, sep him wing—neber feel half so hebby a bug in my
life.”
“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat more earnestly,
it seemed to me, than the case demanded, “is that any reason for your
letting the birds burn? The color”—here he turned to me—“is really
almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You never saw a more brilliant
metallic lustre than the scales emit—but of this you cannot judge till
to-morrow. In the mean time I can give you some idea of the shape.”
Saying this, he seated himself at a small table, on which were a pen
and ink, but no paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none.
“Never mind,” said he at length, “this will answer;” and he drew from
his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty foolscap,
and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he did this, I
retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When the design
was complete, he handed it to me without rising. As I received it, a
low growl was heard, succeeded by a scratching at the door. Jupiter
opened it, and a large Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in,
leaped upon my shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown
him much attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over,
I looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a
little puzzled at what my friend had depicted.
“Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, “this _is_
a strange _scarabæus_, I must confess; new to me: never saw anything
like it before—unless it was a skull, or a death’s-head, which it
more nearly resembles than anything else that has come under _my_
observation.”
“A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand—“Oh—yes—well, it has something of
that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black spots look
like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth—and then
the shape of the whole is oval.”
“Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I must
wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea of its
personal appearance.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I draw
tolerably—_should_ do it at least—have had good masters, and flatter
myself that I am not quite a blockhead.”
“But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, “this is a very
passable _skull_,—indeed, I may say that it is a very _excellent_
skull, according to the vulgar notions about such specimens of
physiology—and your _scarabæus_ must be the queerest _scarabæus_ in
the world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a very thrilling
bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you will call the bug
_scarabæus caput hominis_, or something of that kind—there are many
similar titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the _antennæ_
you spoke of?”
“The _antennæ_!” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably
warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must see the _antennæ_. I made
them as distinct as they are in the original insect, and I presume that
is sufficient.”
“Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them;” and I
handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing to ruffle
his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken; his
ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the drawing of the beetle, there
were positively _no antennæ_ visible, and the whole _did_ bear a very
close resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a death’s-head.
He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple it,
apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at the design
seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant his face grew
violently red—in another as excessively pale. For some minutes he
continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he sat. At length he
arose, took a candle from the table, and proceeded to seat himself upon
a sea-chest in the farthest corner of the room. Here again he made an
anxious examination of the paper; turning it in all directions. He said
nothing, however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought
it prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by any
comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet, placed the
paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a writing-desk, which he
locked. He now grew more composed in his demeanor; but his original air
of enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as
abstracted. As the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed
in revery, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had been
my intention to pass the night at the hut, as I had frequently done
before, but, seeing my host in this mood, I deemed it proper to take
leave. He did not press me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my
hand with even more than his usual cordiality.
It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had seen
nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston, from his
man, Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look so dispirited,
and I feared that some serious disaster had befallen my friend.
“Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—how is your master?”
“Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought be.”
“Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain of?”
“Dar! dat’s it!—him neber plain of notin—but him berry sick for all
dat.”
“_Very_ sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at once? Is he confined
to bed?”
“No, dat he aint!—he aint find nowhar—dat’s just whar de shoe
pinch—my mind is got to be berry hebby bout poor Massa Will.”
“Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about.
You say your master is sick. Hasn’t he told you what ails him?”
“Why, massa, taint worf while for to git mad bout de matter—Massa Will
say noffin at all aint de matter wid him—but den what make him go
about looking dis here way, wid he head down and he soldiers up, and as
white as a gose? And den he keep a syphon all de time——”
“Keeps a what, Jupiter?”
“Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de queerest figgurs I ebber
did see. Ise gittin to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to keep mighty
tight eye pon him noovers. Todder day he gib me slip fore de sun up and
was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a big stick ready cut for to
gib him d——d good beating when he did come—but Ise sich a fool dat I
hadn’t de heart arter all—he look so berry poorly.”
“Eh?—what?—ah yes!—upon the whole I think you had better not be too
severe with the poor fellow—don’t flog him, Jupiter—he can’t very
well stand it—but can you form no idea of what has occasioned this
illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has anything unpleasant
happened since I saw you?”
“No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant _since_ den—’twas _fore_
den I’m feared—’twas de berry day you was dare.”
“How? what do you mean?”
“Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.”
“The what?”
“De bug—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere bout de
head by dat goole-bug.”
“And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?”
“Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sich a d——d
bug—he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch
him fuss, but had for to let him go gin mighty quick, I tell you—den
was de time he must ha got de bite. I didn’t like de look ob de bug
mouff, myself, no how, so I wouldn’t take hold ob him wid my finger,
but I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de
paper and stuff piece ob it in he mouff—dat was de way.”
“And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the beetle,
and that the bite made him sick?”
“I don’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What make him dream bout de
goole so much, if taint cause he bit by de goole-bug? Ise heerd bout
dem goole-bugs fore dis.”
“But how do you know he dreams about gold?”
“How I know? why cause he talk about it in he sleep—dat’s how I nose.”
“Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what fortunate circumstance
am I to attribute the honor of a visit from you to-day?”
“What de matter, massa?”
“Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?”
“No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;” and here Jupiter handed me a note
which ran thus: