CHAPTER I

THE WOLF TRAIL

BY

ROGER S. POCOCK

AUTHOR OF "CURLY," ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

NEW YORK :: :: MCMXXIII

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

The author is deeply indebted to Mr. J. S. M. Ward for permission to

reproduce in this novel a passage from his work, _A Subaltern in

Spirit Land_, published by Messrs. William Rider & Son, Ltd.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. On London River

II. The Voyage of the "_Beaver_"

III. In British Oregon

IV. Kootenay

V. The Whole Armor

VI. The Ghost Trail

VII. The Holy Lodge

VIII. Rising Wolf

IX. The Striking of the Camp

X. The Translation

THE WOLF TRAIL

CHAPTER I

ON LONDON RIVER

I

"To make a dogsnose," the publican explained, "you spices the ale,

so. You laces it with a dash of rum, thus, then you proceeds to pour

it into this yere metal cone, this way"--he crossed to the

fireplace--"and shoves it in among the coals to mull."

"A great comfort is dogsnose," added Mr. Fright, "especially of a

Sunday after church. You clears the vimmen off to church, and then

you has the dogsnose."

Presently he took the cone from behind the bars of the grate, and

filled the glasses with mulled beer, distributing the same to his

guests.

With rolled-up shirt sleeves exposing brawny arms, a portly

waistcoat, leather breeches, and top boots, this publican might well

have posed for a portrait of John Bull, and yet his tavern, "The Fox

under the Hill," had other associations, accounting for the

landlord's artful sideways grin and a certain glint of humorous

foxiness. Moreover, a lifelong devotion to rum had made him more

ruddy than sunburned, his nose inclined to blossom, his eyes to

water, and his hands to tremble. "A short life, and a merry one!" so

Mr. Fright pledged the company. His guests appeared to be pleased

with the sentiment, excepting only his brother, Mr. James Fright, the

bargee, who crouched drunk in his window corner. Brief life was his

portion also, but a diet of gin, instead of making ruddy the face of

man, turns his complexion blue. The stuff is called blue ruin.

The bargee's only son, Bill, aged at that time eighteen, sat in the

ingle. He had something of his father's short pugnacious nose, and

chin thrust forward, but his hair was like wavy sunshine, and his

eyes bright blue. He had a humorous twisty mouth, a freckled,

weather-beaten ruddy skin, a sturdy strength, clean manliness, and

amazing directness both of eyes and speech. His dress was a raggy

blue jersey, torn slacks, and old sea boots; and he was busy mending

one of them, making a workmanlike job with awl, waxed end, and

bristles.

Warming his tails at the fire stood a guest of the house, a tall man

in pumps, seedy black tights, a frayed blue coat brass-buttoned, a

black satin choker, and his head so large and of such effulgent

baldness that he would have shone out remarkable in any company. He

was a Mr. Wilkins wanted by the magistrates for stealing pocket

handkerchiefs, and now awaiting a wherry which would convey him

presently to a coal boat, bound for Newcastle.

Of the company in the sanded bar parlor, perhaps only one other

person need be mentioned, Mr. Brown, valet to Isaac Disraeli,

Esquire, upon Adelphi Terrace.

The emigrant spoke feelingly of dogsnose as about to become, if he

might venture to say so, one of the tenderest and most endearing of

those beverages which the forlorn and desolate exile would have

to--ahem--go without, a reminder to the banished heart of that sacred

homeland whose blessed liberties and hard-won--ahem. The remainder

of the sentiment was confided with tears to a large red bandanna

handkerchief.

"Which liberties," said the publican sternly, crossing his bare

forearms on the bar, "ain't what they're cracked up to be.

Liberties! Liberties of the Fleet, the Marshalsea, and Newgate!

"It's terventy-one year since me and my brother James there, what's

sitting drunk in the winder, fought at Waterloo. It's nineteen year

come Lammas I been 'ere. Nineteen year--so to speak--I been the Fox

under the Hill which sees plentiful, 'ears much, smells a good deal,

but doesn't have nothing votever to talk abart. Vile I keeps my mask

shut, gennelmen, I saves my brush."

He paused for a reply, but there was none.

"You mark my vords. 'Ere of a Sunday, so to speak, vith my doors

closed during church, and none of you gennelmen being peelers, spies,

nor warmints, speaking to friends I says we's had a durned sight too

many Georges, and too many Villiams reigning over we--the same being

a pack of Germans."

The company seemed to be startled by such frankness.

"A durned sight too many lawyers, too many parsons, too many lords

and landlords, too many masters altogether, vich is a pack o'

willians, 'umbugs, and sponges eating of our wittles wot we earns.

The Prayer Book says as they'd ought to get their own living in that

state of life, whereas they gets most of my living in tithes, rent,

rates, taxes, and plundering of me on every cask of beer."

"Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!" cried a voice from the corner by

the clock. "Hoff vith their bleedin' 'eads!"

"The Froggies did that," said the landlord, "and to the best of their

knowledge and belief they 'ave their reapings and their 'arvest 'ome,

which is the Reign of Terror.

"Then under old Boneyparte, hup comes a new crop of rogues, and we

reaps them. The more rogues you crops the more comes up. These

Froggies is excitable, and comes up. But for us English, vich ain't

extravagent, one 'ead at a time says I, vether it be King Charles or

King Villiam."

Mr. Fright's nephew looked around grinning, to interrupt: "Or

Alexandrina Wictoria by the Grace----"

"Well," said the landlord, "if I was Princess Halexandrina Wictoria,

I'd rather 'ave my 'ead took off than sign all that lot of stuff when

I writes my name. She done no 'arm to me. Ven it comes to cropping

'eads, I wotes for Villiam the Fourth."

The nephew must needs interrupt. "Uncle," said Bill Fright, "does

your 'ead fit? It may come loose from talking of 'igh treason."

"At that rate," said Mr. Fright, "Jack Ketch vill 'ave 'is 'ands full

hanging the British public. The general public as a 'ole talks

treason.

"Now I don't say nothing. Silence is my 'obby. But if I ever took

to talking--you mark my vords, young feller. I was in India vith the

Dook--Sir Harthur Vellesley he vas in them days--ven he swiped the

Great Mogul, and sot down plump in Delhi. Dahn south in them days

vas the Dook's hown brother, the Markvis Vellesley, whopping them

Mahrattas, and setting plump on the Peishwa's nob at Poona. The Dook

and the Markvis conquers India--and vot does they do abart it?

"Now, young Bill," he turned upon his nephew, "what does them Roman

Generals in your schoolbooks do when they conquers anything?"

"Makes themselves Hemperors," answered Bill as usual, for this

question belonged to the formal proceedings of a Sunday.

"Didn't I say so?" The publican triumphed. "And does the Dook and

the Markvis make theirselves Hemperors of Northern and Southern

Hindia?"

Young Bill had finished the cobbling. He hauled on his thigh boot,

returned his palm thimble, glovers' needle, awl, waxed end, and

beeswax to his trousers pocket, then shifted his position a little to

watch his father, the drunken bargee in the window place. He always

felt uneasy when Uncle Thomas, whom he dearly loved, was spouting

treason in presence of his father. Bill did not trust his father,

who seemed to be watching, listening, spying, while he pretended to

be drunk as usual. The boy glanced up at his uncle anxious to warn

him, but Mr. Thomas Fright could not have been more aggrieved if he

had actually spoken.

"You shut your bleeding trap," growled Uncle Thomas. "I hain't said

nothing yet. Well, gemmen, as I vos saying vhen the lad interrupts,

I was vith the Dook in the Peninsula. His Lordship chases old Soult

and all his Froggies clear acrost Spain from Torres Vedras into

France, 'e did. Vot does 'e do next? Does the Dook declare for a

monarchy vith hisself as King o' Spain? Not on yer life 'e don't.

He got no use for Kings excep' them rotten Georges."

Dangerous talk this. The bargee in drunken confidences had told his

son Bill plainly that he would peach to the new police and get Uncle

Thomas put away for treason. And yet Bill could not stop his uncle's

mouth.

Mr. Fright once more took up his parable.

"I vos the Dook's own sergeant trumpeter at the Battle o' Vaterloo,

so I'd ought to know, gents. Boneyparte believes in being a

Hemperor. The Dook hain't 'aving any. Vot does 'e do? Does 'e lead

Napoleon in chains through Lunnon? Does 'e declare hisself our

Hemperor--this 'ero who conquers India, Spain, and Boney? No, 'e

don't. Hand why? He hain't no Roman General hain't the Dook. He

don't believe in Kings no more nor I do, hand ven it comes to hanging

of 'em, gents, I wotes for Villiam!"

So Mr. Thomas Fright continued talking treason. He spoke of the

universal flogging, good for boys, but not for soldiers, seamen,

convicts, and the like; of merchant sailors kidnaped by the press

gangs to man the navy, of little children down in the coalpits

harnessed as beasts of burden to haul trucks.

Then Bill remembered what mother said about pit owners offending one

of these little ones. It would be better for such owners to have

millstones tied to their necks, and be flung into the sea.

Uncle Thomas talked of naked women at the anvil forging chains for

convicts; of citizens transported to Botany Bay for poaching a

rabbit, condemned to life imprisonment for a few pounds of debt, or

hanged outright for a five-pound theft. Such were the liberties for

which Englishmen were asked to give their lives in battle, such was

the Government demanding loyalty.

Bill had heard all that before. Treason was the religion of

low-caste Englishmen, sedition, privy conspiracy, and rebellion

articles of faith for all men oppressed who loved their country.

Strong yeast that which leavens a healthy state until men and women

are fit for freedom, until the slave becomes a disciplined citizen

trained to the sovereign power, able to heal the maladies of the

commonwealth. Masters and men alike will tell you any day this

thousand years back that the country is going to the Devil. All is

well. But, when they are content, look out for the first symptoms of

decay.

So England, mother of nations, was in labor then, in that year of

grace 1835. If she is still in sorrow, every drop of blood and every

tear is a seed sown for mankind. The harvesting shall be in new

achievements of freedom, new sciences, greater arts, enlarging

revelation.

Yet as respectable folk in church let their attention wander from the

sermon, so, while Uncle Thomas preached, Bill thought of other

things. Especially his mind concentrated upon his father. Time out

of mind the bargeman, like everybody else, enjoyed a drink when he

got a chance. Who didn't! Even mother said it was all right.

Mother always said that she managed father quite easily until Uncle

Joey got hold of him. And Uncle Joey never knew when to stop. The

pair of them took to drinking together, more, so said Uncle Thomas,

than was good for anybody.

They were mixed up in business, too, not father's trade of honest

smuggling with the barge between Margate and London, but something

downright crooked. Father's cargo was bought, but Joey's goods were

stolen.

Anybody could see that father didn't like it. When they were drunk,

father and Joey were always quarreling.

Then Joey was captured with stolen goods and everybody said that

father gave him away. Father certainly turned King's evidence

against his brother, so that, excepting Uncle Thomas, nobody would

speak to him. He drank alone. He drank harder than ever.

When poor Uncle Joey was hanged, the family in their Sunday clothes

attended the show at Tyburn in a hired wagon. The rain completely

spoiled their day.

From that time onward--a month it must be now, or even more--while

father was busy drinking himself to death, Bill always saw the

Shadow. It was not an ordinary shadow. It was not a shadow cast by

any light.

It was something awful, a blur in the air, shaped like a man, like

Uncle Joey. It went about with father, glided behind him, stooped

over him. Father drank because he was frightened of It; and when he

drank It sprang upon him from behind, wrapped Its legs and arms about

him, sucked at him. Then father craved and screamed for drink, and

drank, always with the awful Thing wrapped round him, sucking him.

Only when he was dead drunk the Shadow stood behind him watching,

waiting.

The ghost of Uncle Joey was murdering father. Every day the awful

Thing gained power, and sometimes there were horrible fits which

could not be prevented, could not be eased, or stopped. One could

only watch.

The Shadow was there now. While Uncle Thomas preached his usual

Sunday sermon of high treason, and father crouched there drunk, the

Thing was standing behind him in the window frame. It was stooping

over him. There was going to be another seizure!

"Uncle Thomas!" Bill cried to Mr. Fright, "Uncle Thomas! Father's

going to be took bad!"

Mr. Fright scowled at his nephew. Bill had taken of late to seeing

ghosts, or shadows--something unwholesome, anyway. The less one

noticed or encouraged him the sooner would he return to his natural

ways, and leave the whimsies to his betters, which can afford the

same.

Bill watched the Shadow stooping over father, nearer, nearer--Uncle

Joey's ghost wrapping long arms round father--riding him, and then

passing into him. There! The Shadow was gone in.

Bill cried aloud. "Oh, Uncle, can't you see? You--you are all

blind? Look! Look!"

Just as though the spirit of Uncle Joey had captured father's body,

so it seemed to be Joey who was waking up, yawning, stretching

himself, and rapping knuckles truculent on the table, while in a

hoarse whisper he ordered gin. Father's way would have been quite

different--a blinking of the eyes, an apologetic grin, a cordial good

morning to the gentlemen present, and a polite inquiry, "Did any one

say gin?"

Surely, any one with eyes in his head could see that this was Uncle

Joey taking a rousing pinch of snuff from the public mull on the

table. Father never touched snuff, but always chewed twist tobacco.

Father would have been amiable, but Joey was fierce, with a sharp

rasping voice demanding liquor even while he sneezed out the strong

snuff.

Yet nobody seemed to see the change, the menace. Mr. Fright was

expounding an argument to the bald customer, taking no notice

whatever of the deep-throated growl of the drunkard in the window

place, who now stood up shouting and threatening.

Bill turned to Mr. Fright. "Uncle Thomas!" he called. "Look

out!--look out!"

"Vot's up?" asked Uncle Thomas, and went on counting on his fingers

the heads of the argument. "And thirdly----"

"Look!" Bill screamed his final warning.

Father--or was it Uncle Joey?--had left his seat, was reeling

drunkenly across the room, then banging his fists on the bar,

demanding a bottle of gin, "and look sharp abart it, Marster!" Uncle

Joey used to call him "Marster," in sarcasm of his successful brother

the publican.

Uncle Thomas waved him away. "Not a drop," he said over his

shoulder; "you'd better have another sleep, James. As I was a

saying----"

The drunkard snatched a bottle of rum, splashed out a tumblerful, and

poured it down his throat, then dashed the heavy glass in his

brother's face.

Bill ran to interfere, to restrain his father, but somehow he was

terrified and dared not touch him. There was something uncanny,

horrible, from which he shrank.

The landlord's forehead showed a long bright gash, then spurting

blood which blinded him, even as he vaulted across the bar. But the

other, the maniac, had seized an oaken trivet stool, and laid about

him, screaming, froth at his lips, demoniac rage convulsing his

face--was it not Uncle Joey's voice, his face?--while he brought the

weapon down on his brother's head.

The door behind the bar had opened, and Bill's mother stood there, a

gaunt, gray, weather-beaten, haggard woman dressed in rusty black

silk, a poke bonnet, lace mittens, Sunday best; and in her hand was a

Bible stamped on the cover with a large gold cross. As she came

round the end of the counter, she held out that cross, as though it

could protect her from the maniac, who turned brandishing the stool

to beat her brains out. Without showing the least fear she held the

cross before his eyes, and at the sight of it he seemed to shrink

away. He even tried to protect himself with the stool. He, not the

woman, was afraid, and she pressed him backwards until he came

against the deal table which stood in the middle of the room.

"Get out, you beast--get out, I say--get out, Joey, thou

body-snatching devil!"

It seemed to the people as though James, her husband, died. The

stool crashed to the floor, the light went out of the man's writhen

face. The bargeman's body collapsed in a heap.

The woman sank down on the floor, shaking all over in abject terror,

sobbing hysterically. "Bill," she wailed, "go thou--warm

water--bandages--for Thomas----"

"All right, mother." Bill bent down, petting her. "Keep yer hair

on, mother."

She went off in screaming hysterics.

II

In due time Mr. Fright was bandaged and put in the feather bed

upstairs, Mr. James Fright, still unconscious, hoisted on board his

barge and dropped down the cabin hatch, then Bill and his mother

joined the family and their guests in the kitchen, where there was

Sunday dinner. It was a very proper dinner, of beef roast on the

spit, pudding served in the gravy, potatoes and cabbage in heaps, and

beer by gallons. Afterwards, while the slavey washed up, and the

diners slept it off, Bill took his mother in the wherry and pulled

across the Thames to the Southwark shore. It was but a mile walk to

Bedlam, and maybe another mile beyond to open country, but Bill, who

had eaten heartily and wore thigh boots, found it heavy going, while

the woman seemed only refreshed by the slight exercise. The golden

autumn sunshine, blue pools of shadow under elm trees, the cattle

standing drowsy in the shade, the buzz and murmur of the flies--here

was there peace. The mother took her seat against an oak tree, the

son lay at her feet, and while the lad was sleeping the woman watched.

III

By most urgent critics I am warned not to be a bigger fool than

nature made me, not to be abrupt where the story changes rhythm, and

by no means to take it for granted that the average reader is a

psychologist.

I promise faithfully, then, that I will not preach, use long words,

or be dull as one who takes himself too seriously. I only want to

make quite sure that every reader shares with me the tremendous

excitement, wonder, and glory of a theme splendid beyond example.

So please be kind, and glance at a few main facts.

A properly grown man has three bodies: the natural body, the soul (or

body of desires), and the spirit (or body of pure thought). These

have been likened to the vessel, the oil, and the flame of a lamp.

What, then, is life? That is the ray of Consciousness.

In sleep the ray lights up the natural brain but does not control it,

so that we have those funny, inconsequent dreams which we remember.

In deep sleep the ray leaves the natural body and lights the

spiritual body (soul and spirit), which is then free. The spiritual

body may go away and enjoy the most surprising, delightful

adventures--the dreams which fade out as we awaken. You see, the

natural body was left behind at rest, missed all the fun, and so has

nothing to remember.

In waking meditation and clear vision the ray lights up the spirit.

"I was in the spirit," says St. John, and so begins his Book of the

Revelation.

In the last deep sleep the spiritual body departs from the natural

body, and cannot get back into it. That shattered or worn-out

machine is scrapped, and the event is the birth of the earth-free

Man. We call it death.

Now as to the places we go to in deep sleep and at death. An

ordinary piano has seven octaves or forty-nine notes. Each of these

is a set of waves in the air, large and slow for the low note, small

and swift for the high note. We call these waves vibrations. You

can see the wires vibrate. The visible earth has three great chords

of vibration, known to us as land, sea, and air. But the visible

earth is rather like the stone or core of a fruit and the invisible

pulp of that fruit is arranged in layers like the flakes of an onion,

layer on layer, just as in the piano there are forty-nine layers of

vibration.

In deep sleep or at death we enter a group of layers, a world outside

our world, with land, sea, and sky which are clearly visible to the

eyes of the soul. The soul is keyed to its vibrations. That world

has many names, the Hades of the Greeks, the Purgatory of the

Catholic Churches, the Astral Plane of the Mystics.

Somewhere in its sixth layer is the country which we call Dreamland,

and close by in its seventh layer is Fairyland. They are just as

real as London or New York, and we are about to visit them in this

happy story.

Beyond the Astral World are the Heavens Spiritual and the Heavens

Celestial, where dwell spirits only, of just men made perfect, and of

the holy angels. These also are quite real, but we shall not see

them until we can believe.

How do I know all this? By reading books which are open to every

student. But with the deepest humility and the utmost reverence I

give my word of honor that I have seen enough for myself to know that

the books are honest.

Now at last may I speak quite clearly about two people of this story,

Mrs. James Fright the Quakeress, and Bill Fright her son? Both of

them were seers. They had the rare gift of "dreaming true," of

remembering the dreams of the deep sleep. The woman also had won by

clean living, prayer, and meditation the greatest of all human

faculties, the vision of the spirit, the keys of Heaven.

Take then a single example of meditation.

"Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will

refresh you."

The Quakeress took these words into meditation, repeating each phrase

over and over again, until its meaning deepened, broadened out, and

filled her, until she saw the golden aural light of other worlds,

until she entered that Peace which passeth all understanding and

looked out with the eyes of the Spirit upon the Plains of Heaven.

But the story must leave this holy woman, and follow the adventures

of her son.

The boy's body lay at her feet, but Bill himself had stolen away to

the frontier which is between Dreamland on the one side and Fairyland

on the other. There were certainly fairies about, for as he came

into the glade between the birch woods he hears them ringing the

bellflowers, weaving thin fine threads of blended melodies into one

rhapsody. The birch fairies, within their native trees, were swaying

to the air of the carillon. The flower fairies peeped from within

their blossoms, and several squirrels ran chattering down the path

ahead of him to say that he was coming, to tell his Dreamland

comrade, Rain, that he was on his way to keep his tryst with her.

He found Rain kneeling on a tuft of moss, an arrow set in her bow for

aiming practice, and at his coming she sighted directly at his heart.

"Stand!" she said.

He stood quite still.

"Stupid!" she said.

"Why?"

"To obey a maid, and make her think she's master."

"But with an arrow through me?"

"What's the odds? You left your animal body down there, didn't you?

This astral body cannot die." She drew the bow until the stone head

of the arrow touched the grip. "Say after me, I do believe in the

Great Spirit!"

"I does believe in Gawd!"

"And so you cannot die." She launched the arrow through his heart.

"You still believe?" she said.

"I does believe," he answered, laughing uneasily.

He turned about, and drew the arrow, which had lodged in a tree

behind him. He gave it back to her.

"Love has no fear," she whispered, and he kissed her.

"My Dream!" he said.

"My Dream!" she answered, and they sat down. She nestled in his

arms, and there was silence enfolding both of them.

Rain was Red Indian, of the Blackfoot nation, whose home is on the

plains beside the World-Spine. Maid she was, and yet her dress that

of a warrior, a deerskin hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins all

tawny golden, the leather cut in thongs, long fringes of them about

the shoulders, and along the seams. Quills dyed vermilion, violet,

and lemon were set in patterns of delicate embroidery upon the

breast, the shoulder straps, and the tongues of the soft skin shoes.

A fringed and broidered quiver of stonehead arrows was slung on her

back, a bag to hold a sacred talisman hung from her belt.

The dress was beautiful to illustrate youth, lithe, wholesome

strength and grace, the clear-cut loveliness of a face colored like

glowing bronze, the fearless gallantry of bearing, the spiritual

purity and power.

The maid lived in the uttermost solitudes of the mountain wilderness,

the lad was a bargee plying on London River. On earth they were

worlds apart, and had never met, but here in Dreamland were joined

together from earliest childhood in the strong bonds of a love

untarnished by the world.

Bill's Dreamland name was Storms-all-of-a-sudden.

"Storm," she said wistfully, "I was calling and calling you ever so

long."

"I had to wait," he answered. "After dinner on Sundays mother wants

me. We go into the fields, and she prays, while I sleeps. Then I

come quick."

"Storm," she said, "this is the last time that your mother will pray

in the fields down there on earth. The spirits are calling her home."

"She is to die, then?"

"Her animal body is to die, dear."

"Will she come here?"

"Not here, Storm. I may see her as she comes through Dreamland, but

she will be asleep, carried by the Radiant Spirits. She will wake up

in air which we could not breathe, light far too strong for us to

bear, love which outshines the sun. When you go back, will you tell

her?"

"I shan't remember. It all fades away when I wake down there--gone.

I remembers nothing."

"When you wake, seize both your mother's hands, and by her power you

will remember. Afterwards you will not be so lonely, because you

will remember. You will remember me." Her face became of a sudden,

wild, savage, ferocious. "When you meet other women there down on

the earth, you must remember me."

"Dost remember me, Rain, when you awake, down there on the Earth?"

"When men make love to me then I remember you." Her face had

softened now. "For you are mine, all mine, dear, and I am yours,

forever and forever, Storm, forever. But if any man or any woman

come between us two, then I shall kill."

"My mother says," he answered, "'thee shalt not kill.'"

"My mother says," she looked out steadfastly into Space, "that if a

woman will not defend her honor, with her weapons defend her honor,

with all that she is, all that she has defend her honor, then let her

not think that she shall dare the Wolf Trail. She shall not climb

the Wolf Trail which leads to the land of the Blessed Spirits, but

drift with the poor ghosts who have lost their way in the Sandhills."

"We doesn't call it the Wolf Trail," answered Storm. "Our people

always calls it the Milky Way."

There is no such thing as Time yonder in Dreamland. But down on

earth the bright day waned in England.

"I thinks old mother's calling me," said Storm.

"Go to her," answered Rain, "call to her, call as you go to her, and,

as you wake, clutch both her hands, let all her power pour through

you. So you shall remember."

He stood up. "Good-by," he said, then shouted as he turned,

"Mother!--mother!"

* * * * * * *

"Mother!"

"What's wrong with thee, son?"

Bill had awakened shouting, "Mother!--mother!" He reached up and

clutched her hands in both his own. "Rain says I got to tell!"

"'Rain says.' Who is this Rain?"

"I dreamed as she and me 'ave been together. We is Rain and

Storm--her and me in love since we was kids."

"Thee dreamest."

"Yes, in Dreamland, all our lives since we was kids. There's

Fairies, too. And she sends a message, mammie--a message to you."

"The Rain in Dreamland sends messages by the Storm, to me, dear?

What is this message?"

"Radiant Spirits, carrying of you, mammie, over the Wolf Trail."

"What is the Wolf Trail, son?"

He put his hands to his forehead thinking deeply. "I forget," he

said.

"Thee hast been dreaming, son."

"Aye, dreaming, that's all, mammie."

But he had not forgotten. His mother was to die.

IV

The barge lay at the land stage beside the tavern. Along the

causeway below Adelphi Terrace one entered the underground streets.

These winding tunnels beneath the Adelphi district have several exits

convenient for the thieves and occasional murderers who harbored

there, and the destitute who sheltered in that refuge. The streets

and cellarages were then a large stable for draught horses and the

milch cows of several dairies, in all a crowded, busy place with

about five hundred inhabitants by day whose custom went to "The Fox

under the Hill." From his earliest childhood Bill had frequented the

underground town; but when he had the time, as on that Monday

morning, waiting until the tide served, he loved the crowded Strand

up in the daylight. It was good to loaf there when he ought to have

been at work with sailor jobs on board.

The Strand was a game path once just at the edge of the crumbling

river bank, where the flints went rolling down unto the Thames. Roan

hairy elephants grazed there, loitering on their way to water in

Fleet Ditch. Later, along that pathway of the Mammoth, tame kine

went lowing homeward of an evening to the Brython's stockaded village

on Tower Hill. Afterwards respectable suburban Romans built their

villas there outside the walls of Augusta. A thousand years later

still the Strand was a stable lane behind the Thames-side palaces of

the Plantagenets. Then the mews became a cobbled Georgian street

linking the olden cities of London and Westminster, and to-day it is

the main artery of a world capital.

As a thoroughfare it may not claim comparison with the Grand Canal in

Venice or the exquisite Sierpes of old Seville. It is not, like

Princes Street in Edinburgh, part of a splendid landscape. It lacks

the spaciousness and verdure of Unter den Linden, the endless

perspective of the Nevski, the glittering wealth of the Rue de la

Paix, the astounding uproar of abysmal Broadway. Many a provincial

thoroughfare, as the Apollo Bunder in Bombay, or Collins Street in

Melbourne, would put the Strand to shame; yet, second to the Via

Dolorosa, it is a street of memories.

For if the Strand might speak it would tell us about Queen Boadicea

in her scythed chariot, perhaps of St. Paul as a ship's passenger

from Cadiz, of the English Emperor Hadrian on his way to Rome, of

Richard Lionheart home from captivity, the Black Prince leading John

of France his prisoner of war, of Henry V returning thanks for

Agincourt, of Cabot and Columbus, Erasmus, Holbein, of Peter the

Great and Handel and Voltaire, of Cochrane and Mazzini the

Liberators, of Drake and Shakespeare, Milton, Newton, Darwin,

Purcell, of Nelson and Wellington, of Gordon and Allenby, of ever so

many saints, heroes, conquerors and statesmen, discoverers,

explorers, adventurers, pioneers, in every field of service. How the

old pavements echo to the tramp of horsemen! Processions march here

of men from the ends of the Earth, bringing the glory with them of

young free Dominions, hundreds of feudatory kingdoms, barbaric states

in tutelage, and savage legions armed in the cause of Peace. So in

this olden highway it is very pleasant on a sunny day to watch the

passing traffic when one ought to be at work. And well may we envy

fellows like Bill Fright, who saw the Strand in October, 1835, when

still the shop windows were bowed with little panes of glass, and had

a couple of tallow dips of an evening to light up the modest stock;

when still men wore the dress becoming to their trade; big cargo

wagons, drawn by teams of ten, came rumbling over the cobbles; and

the gay mail coaches with a blare of horns set forth for Portsmouth

or for Liverpool.

There goes Tittlebat Titmouse, Esquire, with little mousy features

inflamed with drink, and bright green driving-gloves, perched in his

high gig. Here's Mr. Jorrocks, grocer and sportsman, attended by

James Pigg, jostling his way to buy a "hoss" at Aldridge's. Mr.

Pickwick, author of _Observations on Tadpoles in the Hampstead

Ponds_, comes beaming past us, escorted by his colleagues the poet

Snodgrass, the sportsman Winkle, and the loving Tupman. Time has

enlarged their waistcoats since the day, now seventeen years ago,

when they set forth upon their memorable journey to observe mankind.

This is the anniversary, and they are on their way to the Adelphi

Hotel, to dine most bountifully. Mr. Paul Pry, who lives close by at

11 Adam Street, may possibly look in, and say, with one eye round the

corner of the door, "I hope I don't intrude!"

Here comes the Iron Duke, on an Arab whose dam had carried him at

Waterloo. He has a seat in the saddle, this erstwhile flogging

martinet, and mellow tyrant. He is attended by a mounted servant.

There is Mr. Pendennis, bound from the Temple to the Courts at

Westminster; and behind him is Mr. Peter Simple, midshipman, guided

by Boatswain Chucks, on his way to report at the Admiralty.

Here are two or three more notables, the Count d'Orsay, and young Mr.

Disraeli the eminent novelist. What a pair of fops! Mr. Carlyle is

slouching past, the unkempt, observant historian of the French

Revolution, watching for another such upheaval here in England.

Watch here a day or two and one might see Turner the painter, whose

father's barber shop is just round the corner, Mr. Dickens, Mr.

Gladstone, Mr. Tennyson, and other blithe young fellows whose

troubles are still to come.

The vision fades, and one can only see a solitary figure leaning

against a post, a bareheaded youngster in a ragged jersey and sea

boots, Bill Fright, whose barge is laden down beside the Fox, ready

to clear with the ebb. So we must follow him as he slouches down Ivy

Lane to the barge.

V

The barge _Polly Phemus_ belonged to Mr. Thomas Fright the publican,

who found her a convenience for smuggling schnapps and cognac from

certain caverns at Epple Bay upriver to his cellars. Mr. James

Fright his brother was registered as master, but if entrusted with

the cash for port dues would invest the same in gin for his own

personal comfort. Now Mrs. Fright kept the cash account with

Quakerish precision, and an excessive frankness, making such entries

as "Bribe to peeler Addock, 2d.; squaring Mr. Wimpole, the Customs

Officer, 2/--; to Mr. Dyker for brandy smuggled, 206/-2d."

"If her account book were ever captured--my hat!" said Mr. Thomas.

In consideration for not broaching cargo, Mr. James had three bottles

of gin per voyage, duly shown in petit cash %. For abstinence from

pawning the anchor, sails, or ship stores he had two bottles of gin

per voyage. Yet shipments being in advance of his performance, when

he needed a little refreshment in port he pawned Bill's blanket, or,

on the present occasion, it being Monday, mother's Sunday bonnet. It

might have been observed that mother had some cotton wound round her

third left finger by way of a keeper to guard her wedding ring. If

that were pawned while she slept, she would not be a respectable

woman any more at all.

Concerning her husband, not a bad sort of fellow when he was sober,

the wife made no complaint. She remembered him as a gallant corporal

of horse, with the loveliest little fluffy whiskers and a fine red

coat. And her parents had objected to his persiflage. He said

"Damme!" To put them quite in the wrong, she married him. So had

she made her bed, and now must lie in it for better or for worse.

Still the slightest expression of sympathy would set her raving; but

then, the dressing of our wounds rather depends upon the sort of

nurse, and if Satan has a hospital in Hades, the publican's

daughters, Miss Fright and Miss Euphemia Fright, may be employed

there as chief and assistant torturers.

When Bill told Uncle Thomas about the stolen bonnet, the

publican--abed with a bandaged head--was not in the best of tempers.

He said it served the woman damn well right for her holy airs and

graces. "All the same," said he, "your father has most annoying

'abits, vich I resents his deportment of a Sunday, making a shindy in

my bar-parlor. The next time the press gang comes, Bill, I'll send

you away out of sight, and offer hup your father to the Navy. He'll

make a good thank offering, and you shall 'ave the barge."

"Mother won't like that," said Bill, somewhat aggrieved, "and I'd be

lonesome vithout no punching block to keep me hexercised. As to

thishyer _Polly Phemus_, you know my mother is master. Leave dad to

me--I'll pet him comfortable."'

Mrs. James Fright, as everybody knew on London River, was the real

master of the _Polly Phemus_. As Bill had grown up from childhood,

each year she found more and more relief from a job beyond her

strength, until now he left to her only a little steering at times

when he entered or left port, or made or shortened sail. The

sailorizing jobs of sennit and spunyarn, chafing gear, patching the

canvas, renewing rigging, or tarring down he did when he felt

disposed, which was very seldom, but therein father set an example by

doing nothing at all.

On the whole the lad was unselfish, keen, and able, and kept the Ten

Commandments, except the fifth. For when it came to honoring his

father, he would do so with a clip under the ear or a punch in the

jaw. Whenever the parent needed a slight hint on points of conduct,

Bill would oblige at once. So, drunk or partially sober, Mr. James

Fright found it was not expedient to speak unless he was spoken to,

for if he said too much Bill knocked him overboard. Being a Quaker,

Mrs. Fright would register a diplomatic protest against any sort of

strife; but, as Bill explained, it takes two persons to make an

argument, and the parent never got a word in edge-ways. One could

not call that even a disagreement, much less a violation of Quaker

principles. Mrs. Fright being very human, protested outwardly, but

loved Bill all the more because he rebuked an erring husband beyond

her own control.

She took the tiller for the run to Margate, not in her Sunday best,

but in an old sou'wester, a jersey, a homespun skirt, and sea boots.

To do her justice, never a bargee on London River, or even a deep-sea

bo's'n, could pass remarks or exchange amenities without being

presently floored by Mrs. Fright. Like theirs, her words were

scriptural, but the men were merely profane, whereas the lady's

fulminations were worthy even of the major prophets. Even so, they

could bear up manfully under her heaviest fire until she crossed her

words, and when she spoke of heathen raging furiously, she had them

furing ragiously in the abomination of detonation, bowling their

trails in the pist of the but.

The fact is she shocked the very worst of them, and it may be added

that Bill took kindly to her scriptural lessons. He plied a

sixteen-foot sweep to swing the _Polly Phemus_ into the tide while

mother steered until they shot the three bridges, Waterloo,

Southwark, and London. New built was London Bridge of granite

brought by sea from Aberdeen, and never a stone less than a ton and a

half in weight. To hit such masonry was bad for barges. Clear of

the arch Bill stepped the mast in haste, and loosed the brails so

that the big tanned mainsail filled, to give the _Polly Phemus_ her

steerage way. Then he set the topsail. Needed was that as she

threaded the narrow channel in the Pool, whence six abreast for miles

on either side the sailing ships lay berthed, and masts in uncounted

thousands formed a forest. Bill set the headsail and came aft to

take the helm, while mother cooked the belated dinner. Presently

Bill snuffed the savor of kippers and fried bread which came up out

of the cabin, filling his emptiness with a sort of anguish so greatly

he desired to be fed. The parent was dining on a bottle of gin,

squat in a corner, droning "Jump, Jim Crow," to the wheeze of his

concertina. Then he began a convict song, a twopenny broadsheet sold

at the street corners:

Come Bet my pet, and Sal my pal--a buss and then farewell,

And Ned, the primest ruffling cove--that ever nail'd a swell

To share the swag, or chaff the gab--we'll never meet again,

The hulk is now my bowsing crib--the hold my dossing ken.

Don't nab the bib my Bet, this chance--must happen soon or later,

For certain sure it is that trans--portation comes by natur'.

His Lordship's self upon the bench--so downie his white wig in,

Might sail with me if friends had he--to bring him up to priggin'.

And it is not unkimmon fly--in them as rules the nation,

To make us end with Botany--our public edication?

But Sal, so kind, be sure you mind--the beaks don't catch you

tripping;

You'll find it hard to be for shop--ping sent on board the shipping.

So tip your mauns[1] before we part--don't blear your eyes and nose,

Another grip my jolly hearts--here's luck! and off we goes!

[1] Shake hands.

Down Greenwich way, where fishing smacks were moored by dozens above

the Hospital, mother set out the dinner, handing the food and the

beer to Bill as he squatted on the tiller head. The southwesterly

wind made lively water, and the barge had a bone in her teeth as she

swept down the reaches. Chill was the air under the purple shadows

of the clouds, warm when the sun shone on the pale green river, the

dark green meadows, and trees in autumn russet or sere gold. Tall

ships were running free and shaking out more canvas. Little paddle

steamers crept along inshore sneaking through back-waters, or

crawling inch by inch where the ebb set against them at the

headlands. There were six hundred steamers in Lloyd's List, but

mother doubted if these would have God's blessing. They were not

mentioned in the Holy Scripture. As to railways, and there was one

which ran from Bristol to Paddington within a mile of London, there

could be no good in headlong gallivanting at twenty miles an hour,

disturbing the good kine, affrighting the birds whose songs in God's

great honor were changed to shrieks, and doing away with the horses

which England needs in her defense from the French and other savages.

Bill quite agreed, but all the same, when next they had a freight to

Whitsable, the driver of the Canterbury train had promised him a

journey, firing the engine.

Mother sighed. "The things of this yere world which shall perish,

draws thee away, my son, from them which endureth forever."

"But I can't see," he answered, "these yere things which ain't

wisible."

"Dost thee think," she answered, looking across the waters, far into

the distance--"dost think I like livin' aboard of this dirty boat,

with me 'ands filthy always, in the sty down there with that pig?

Thinkest thee as I enjoys doing work far past a woman's strength, and

cursing like a bargee when them sea-lubbers fouls me?"

"Don't you?" asked Bill. "Own up, mum!"

"Humph!" She glanced at him with one eye, trying not to smile with

that side of her mouth. "Perhaps," she said, "I be woman enough to

like the last word--and they don't get much change out of me--Christ

forgive a sinner! But smuggling hain't honest, either, Bill, nor

paying bribes. I'd like to be honest and live in a house. But them

as goeth down to the sea in ships and hoccupies their business in

great waters, them see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the

deep. Thinkest thee as I sees none of all them wonders, Bill? Enter

in by the gate of meditation, son, and thee shalt see as I does

things as no words can tell of. Canst thee not believe thy mother?"

"I never done till yesterday," said Bill, "but all wot I seen in that

dream, when I vos Storm, and Rain she showed me--mammie, I does

believe."

"Wilt be baptized?"

"Yes. S'elp me bob. But I'll make a rotten Christian 'cept you

helps me."

Standing with the tiller against his leg he bore up a little to clear

some Barking fishing smacks ahead, then looked down at his mother

where she sat beside the dinner plates and the scraps of food. The

lad was sensitive, psychic, clairvoyant, and he was conscious of a

strange light which surrounded his mother. He had grown and

prospered in that mysterious glory. Her faith, her love, and the

example of her holy life had given him some makings of real manhood.

And he loved her. He worshiped her. Aye, but it would be hard to

hand his worship over to a Deity he could not sense, or see, or love.

"She'll think," he said in his heart, "as I'm a bloody failure as a

Christian."

Then he realized he had got to keep a better lookout or he would foul

that smack on the larboard bow. The golden haze was gone, and down

in the cabin the parent was howling to him to come and drink with

him, to drink up manly. For the next half-hour, with a thickened

utterance and slurred words, he reviled his son for a mollycoddle, a

milk-sop, a mammie's darling, an 'oly prig, a sneak, a cur, a dirty

coward. It was unreasonable of mother to refuse point-blank when

Bill asked her to take the tiller while he gave the old man a

licking. The devoted parent downstairs knew he was perfectly safe

from being reproached. A string of blasphemies--all he could

remember--addressed to mother, brought his remarks to an end quite

inarticulate followed by loud snores.

Then mother read the Bible aloud. There were times when, having

fastened her teeth into Jeremiah or Leviticus, she would not let go

even to cook the meals until she had made an end. Then she was

obstinate and Bill was bored, but this day she read chapters from the

Gospel according to St. John. Rough was the voice, and many words

were not pronounced correctly. She blundered through as best she

could, and even so brought tears to the lad's eyes.

Few are the readers who can render the rhythm, the throbbing melody

of this great English text, and fewer still the seers who alone have

power to bring to light its modes of tender fun, of sparkling humor,

of love, of awfulness, abysmal deeps, and heights illimitable.

Wisdom and Understanding, Counsel, Power, Knowledge, Righteousness,

and the Divine Awe, the seven rays of one clear spectrum, blend in

the white light of this great revelation; and Time stands still, for

all the years of Earth are numbered, spreading like ripples on a pool

from this one message of the Word made Flesh.

The flaming sunset faded behind the smoke of London, the rose and

violet of the afterglow waned as the indigo of night veiled all

things earthly, and the heavens opened revealing high eternities of

light, while still the mother spoke to her son, and he sat at the

helm rapt, resolved to consecrate his life to her Master's service.

The wind slept in the high shoulder of the trysail long after the

deep calm fell upon the waters, and still the tide served under the

frosty starlight. Mother and son had their evening meal together on

the cabin hatch. Would he have tea? Why, it was twenty shillings a

pound! It could not be afforded to feed the likes of him. Still,

she insisted. And although tea was an effeminate stuff which working

men were ashamed to drink, Bill had some just for once. Nobody would

know. Besides, it was rather nice, but still he hated being a

mammie's pet.

Four miles short of Margate, with the lights of the town in the east,

the tide failed, so to the last of the westerly air Bill luffed, then

let the anchor go, brailed his trysail, took in the topsail and

staysail, and made all snug for the night. Mother had gone to bed

some time ago, and the parent was dead drunk before the sun set.

Bill stood for some time smoking his father's clay pipe, unbeknown to

mother, peering the while across the shallows to the loom of low

chalk cliffs in Epple Bay. Here were the caves from which on the

homeward passage the _Polly Phemus_ was to ship certain casks.

Smuggling, of course, and she thought it wasn't honest. It was a

famous place also for prize fights, and mother hated that also.

Inland, to the right, were one or two lighted windows in the village

of Birchington, and the church clock was striking eleven. By the

way, he must remember at Margate to warn mother about the port dues

on the Reverend Binks his harpsichord. Half the strings were

missing, and ninepence ought to be ample.

His boots crunched frost crystals all along the gangway as he went

forward, on the port side lest he should wake his mother. Then he

dropped down the fore hatch into his little private glory hole, and

pulled the cover close because, as mother said, the night air is so

dangerous. As to the savor from coils of tarry rope, tallow, damp

clothes, spare sail, and iron-rusted chain, rats' nests, and bilge

water--that was just homely. He pulled off his boots, said "Our

Father which," by way of a reminder of what was due to mother, turned

in under the spare jib and went to sleep.

A northerly air which cut like knives began to quicken, and little

bitter waves to smack the flanks of the barge.

VI

Storm came to the tuft of moss where he had tryst with Rain, but she

was not there, and though he whistled the love call, she did not

come. Indeed, the sun had risen then beyond the Rocky Mountains and

Rain was awake eating smoked venison for breakfast before she went to

her hunting. At such an hour she could not come to Dreamland. And

since she did not come, Storm felt aggrieved. He would worry the

Fairy Parson for lack of better sport.

He went up the bed of the sparkling brook which splashes but never

wets one, through the still pool whose ripples flash like rainbows,

and on past the fountain spring which croons a lullaby. It always

croons one song, but when the fairies tickle it has to chuckle. It

always chuckles too when the Padre preaches, as he does when he loses

his temper.

The adobe house, although absurdly small, is really most important,

the only parsonage in Fairyland.

The Padre used to be a monk, not by vocation, but by a mistake of his

mother who hoped he was religious, because he was really fit for

nothing else. Truly he was a born Unnaturalist, devoted from

childhood to Unnatural History, heraldic animals, story-book

monsters, sea serpents, nightmares, and of course all sorts of

elementals, especially the bad ones. He felt it must be enormous

sport to be a Fiery Dragon and hunt saints. Indeed he said so.

Moreover, he announced one evening in the refectory that the Abbot

was going to Heaven on Saturday. "Now God forbid!" said the Abbot,

but on Saturday he went to Heaven. "Perhaps!" quoth this unholy

monk, "I called it Heaven, because, you see, one must be polite to an

Abbot."

Afterwards the monks as a body resolved that this was a very

uncomfortable Brother, so he was ordered to go and convert the

heathen.

"Not that they ever did me any harm," said he, "but perhaps the

heathen may tell me stories, nice ones--about boiled monks--yes,

boiled with parsley sauce."

And thus among the Red Indians he became an eminent Fairyologist.

Nobody else but an eminent Fairyologist would have been so utterly

unpractical as to go hunting Fairies in the driest corners of the

Great American Desert. Everybody knows that Fairies like a moist

climate, superstitious inhabitants, and Mozart or Greig to play their

own tunes.

In Death Valley he found no moisture at all, no people whatsoever, or

any music except when the snakes played their rattles. There he

became very thirsty, lonely, and frightened, so altogether miserable

that one of the rattlesnakes gave him a bite just to cheer him up.

... And he came here to be the Chaplain in Fairyland. Here, you see,

no matter how badly he preached--and he preached badly even for a

clergyman--he could not possibly do any harm because nobody would

ever take the slightest notice of what he said except when he was

cross. Then the fountain chuckled.

He built his little adobe house beside the crooning spring, and that

was all right until a female Griffin, eighteen feet long, became his

lady companion for lessons in deportment. Whenever she was pleased

she wagged her tail, and when she wagged her tail the house came

down. That is why the new walls are unusually thick, and the inside

so small that the Griffin has to wag her tail outside. She has got

so far with her lessons that now she puts her paw before her

crocodile mouth before she sneezes--and then the clergyman is not

blown through the window.

She was out mousing when Storm paid his call. That is, the boy crept

in on all fours while the Padre was busy writing his book, which

nobody will ever read, on Fairyology. Storm got under the stool and

tickled the Padre's bare ankles with a feather.

"Bless the mosquitos!" said the holy man, "and send them a nourishing

maiden."

Storm tickled again, and the Padre stooped down to slap the

mosquitos, saying "Pax vobiscum."

Storm laughed, the fountain chuckled, and the Padre looked under the

stool.

"Hello!" said he. "That you?"

"No," answered Storm, "I'm not."

So of course as it wasn't he, the holy man went on with his writing.

Since Rain had warned him of his mother's death, Storm was uneasy,

and in his dream-life frightened of being alone. So as the Padre

could not be bothered with him he crept into a corner of the cabin,

where it was nearly dark, to brood upon this matter of his mother's

passing.

"When my meat-body," so ran his thought, "is tired out after a long

day's work, and can't be rode any longer, I turns it in for a watch

below. Sometimes I stays all night in my meat-body, and has funny

mixed-up dreams, the ones which I remembers afterwards. Sometimes I

gets out of the meat-body and comes straight into this here world

which Rain calls Dreamland. I've got my dream-body for life in the

dream-world--so that's all clear.

"But suppose my animal-body gets wore out, or dies, or happens to get

killed, so as I'm drove out, and can't get in again--that's what they

calls Death. It's bound to happen sooner or later, and it doesn't

matter anyway. The animal body won't be needed any longer, and so it

can be took away, and buried, or burned, or drowned, and there's an

end of that.

"I've got this dream-body, which is just as solid, and comfy. It

looks just the same, and is a deal more useful. If I've been good on

earth I'll have a fine time in this dream-world. If I've been bad

I'll have a rotten time, and it will serve me right. But as I've

promised mother to be good, and means to be good always, there's

nothing to be afraid of. So that's all clear.

"The next part ain't so clear. Rain knows all about everything, and

she says this: On Earth and in Dreamland we have a job, one job, to

grow a soul. That soul is another body made of thoughts and

feelings. It's called the spiritual body. It may be made of good

thoughts and good feelings like mother's, or of bad thoughts and bad

feelings like father's. When it is grown up, and all ready to sail,

it clears for the port where it belongs. It leaves this dream-body,

crumbled away into dust or gas, and it goes to the place where it

will be at home. It is spiritual. It goes to the home of bad people

in Hell, until it learns to pray, or of good people in Heaven.

Mother is going there, and I'm to be awful lonesome, because I can't

go with her, and I can't follow her there until I've growed a

spiritual body fit to be seen in Heaven by the angels.

"All that is what the Bible means, if we could only understand things

better. It's what Religion means. Mother's a Christian, and Rain's

a heathen, but whatever sort of lamp we has to light the way, it's

the same voyage. If we're good it's fine weather, if we're bad it's

storms, so if a fellow has any sense at all, he'll jolly well do his

best.

"That seems to be all clear."

"Have you quite finished?" asked the Padre. To look more impressive,

he put horn spectacles upon his thin, high nose, but in order to see

he had to glance over the top of them as he turned to bend his vision

upon Storm, like a reproachful rabbit surveying a rotten turnip.

"Because," he said peevishly, "if you had any sense at all, you'd

know that your loud thoughts disturb me at my work."

Storm had forgotten that here in Dreamland no thoughts can be hidden,

but all are heard by everybody who listens.

"I wants to go with mother," he answered sadly. "I comes to you for

help 'cause you're a parson."

"Can't be done," said the Padre. "You haven't got a spirit-body yet.

You're busy growing one and so am I. That's what we're here for."

"I see."

"I wish I could," sighed the Padre, taking off his spectacles. "Ah!

That's better. Well, young man, and how is your temporal body?

Well, I hope?"

"It's having its watch below."

"I mislaid mine"--the Padre seemed to be very unhappy about it--"down

in the southern desert. The eagles had it. Poor things! It was

mere skin and bone, not enough food for a mouse. And yet I sat on a

rock and watched them squabbling over it. Poor dears! I can't think

how they manage to get a meal."

"Ahem!" There came an affected cough, "Ahem!" outside the doorway.

"Ahem!" A colossal head appeared, like that of a crocodile, looked

in, and filled the door place. A red rag of a tongue lolled out on

the starboard side, while the port eye was cocked up, meekly

appealing to the Padre.

"May I come in?"

"No!" said the Padre. "Go, Julia, and practice deportment, or catch

mice."

"He called me Julia!" This with both eyes to heaven. Then the

creature wriggled in a few feet farther, and holding one paw

bashfully to her mouth, "Ahem! ahem! Deportment is so fatiguing, and

as to mice, you know they are so small. Oh!" Her snuff blew Storm

against the wall, and then she sniffed. "Ah! Do you know, I think I

could sit up and take a little boy." She smacked her lips. "Come

here, little boy! Come to its Julia, then."

"If she swallers this good little bo-hoy," said Storm, deriding her,

"I'll wager my sheath knife makes tripe of her blanked guts."

"G-o-o-od 'ittle b-o-oy, then ... Goo-oo----"

"Julia, shut up," said the Padre. "Boys are out of season. Surely

you must know there's an V in the month. For shame! Go away and

powder your face."

The Griffin retreated sobbing. "Nobody loves me!" Sniff! "No-body

loves me!"

"But all the same, young man," said the Padre, "if I were you, Storm,

I'd disappear. You'd really better go and look after your mother. I

think she may be needing you, at once."

Storm willed himself back to Earth, and he was there. He willed back

to the after cabin of the barge, and he was there.

VII

Still in his dream, Storm stood in the after cabin. He saw his

father held by evil men, struggling to escape, screaming for mercy.

The curved wall of the cabin, the bulkhead forward shutting off the

cargo hold, were like dark mist, form without substance, and through

them and within obscene and awful beasts crowded the air, their red

eyes gloating upon James Fright, who writhed and shrieked, trying to

get back to his body. That body of his lay sprawled upon the table,

face downwards, arms outstretched. Uncle Joey was riding father's

body, his legs locked round the loins, his arms with a strangle hold

about the throat, while he looked up at Storm as though disturbed by

his coming.

"Hello! mammie's darling!" he jeered. "Come to see the fun? And

then you'll go sneaking to mammie? Now you watch--all done by

kindness. One--two--three! There!"

Uncle Joey entered the vacant body, and father, held by his captors,

was shrieking blasphemies, calling Storm a coward because he did not

come instantly to the rescue.

Storm was not concerned for his father's worries. He knew that Uncle

Joey was returned from the dead to earth for no good purpose, that he

was dangerous, and that his own mother lay there asleep, helpless at

this demon's mercy. He sprang to the bunk to guard her, to save her,

but when he looked at the sleeping body he breathed most fervent

thanks to Heaven. Mother was away in Dreamland. Only her body lay

there tenantless. Should he call her? Nay, not into mortal peril.

He put forth the whole power of his will to keep his mother away,

then turned to fight the demon.

Uncle Joey, clad in the stolen body, rose from the table stiffly,

groping at the air, unable now to see the astral world, to descry

Storm on guard beside the bunk, or James Fright struggling in the

clutches of the men who held him, or the awful monsters of the Pit

which crowded in upon the nightmare scene. Only he whipped the

sheath knife from his belt and reeled across to the bunk where he saw

Mrs. Fright asleep. Storm tried to seize Uncle Joey, but his arms

clutched thin air. The re-embodied demon sprang straight through him

as though through mist, and yelling exultation, shouting with

laughter, he plunged the blade again and again into the woman's body.

Storm could do nothing. Sick with horror, he leaned against the

panels, but his arm went through them as though they were but mist.

Uncle Joey drew back, still laughing. "Can you hear?" he shouted.

"Did ye see that, Brother James, as I done your vife in? You as

brought me to the gallows! You as peached, and got me hanged. And

do you think as 'ow you're going to get back into this yere body what

I've stole? No! Damn you! No!"

He drove the knife straight at his own breast, the breast of the

stolen body, struck bone, and lunged again between the ribs.

The rigor of death clutching the hand to the hilt, the body reeling

towards the blow, the stained yellow eyeballs rolling up--that which

had been the living earthly habitation of James Fright went crashing

down.

And there was Uncle Joey, again discarnate, leering in Storm's face

beside the bunk.

"'Ow's that, umpire? 'Ow's that, Mollycoddle? Hain't that a proper

vengeance worth giving of one's life for? Hain't I got my own back

for being hanged, and damned before my time?"

But while he spoke, the fear grew in his eyes, the dawning sense of a

most awful doom, for the dense astral matter which encrusted his

spiritual body was crumbling to dust.

Storm watched, appalled, for now the man stood naked, black as coal,

but with a dull red glow of rage, of hate, demoniac, horrible, doomed

to perdition in the act of murder. But rage changed to terror, for

he was falling, falling down through space, lost in the bottomless

abyss upon whose overhanging, rocky verge Storm knelt, forgetting his

own peril in an agony of prayer for a fellow creature drawn shrieking

down to Hell.

"Mother!" he screamed--"help!"

Across the illimitable deeps of space Storm saw a white light like a

little star, grow nearer, brighter, human in form, gigantic in

stature, shining like the sun, filling the whole night with radiance,

blinding. He covered his face in awe in terrified reverence.

Beaten to earth by the tremendous rays, his eyes burned by the

splendor, he dared to look at the Angel, and saw his mother at rest

in the strong arms, sheltered against the breast.

Then he felt a hand extended over him; and a sense of blessedness, of

divine love, soothed all his fears, gave him to rest, to sleep.

VIII

In the fore cabin Bill sat up dazed, haunted, terrified by the sense

of something awful. He shoved the hatch aside, letting the starlight

into the dark forecastle of the barge, then pulled on his boots, and

scrambled up upon the white, dimly glittering frost of the deck.

Stiff with cold, he flogged his arms about his body until his fingers

tingled with pain, and stamped until he felt the blood returning into

his numb feet. Then he went aft, and opened the cabin hatch. He

took the flint and steel from his pocket, struck a brisk shower of

sparks into the tinder, kindled a sulphur match, and held the blue

light down. His mother lay in the bunk, stone dead. His father's

body lay stretched on the deck, a bloody sheath knife clutched in the

stiff right hand.

Now, of a sudden, the whole memory of the dream glowed in his brain,

and ghastly pale, sweating at the palms of the hands, and at his

neck, he realized the truth. He dared not go down into that place.

Even as Rain had warned him, he knew that his mother was dead.

Shuddering even at the touch of the woodwork which enclosed the tomb,

he closed the hatchway, then found the dinghy's painter, hauled in,

and dropped into the boat.

The flood tide swept him up the estuary, and the faint shadow of the

barge melted away in the mist under the frosty starlight.

IX

Mr. James Watt, a canny Scots body, ye ken, was the man who changed

the steam engine from a capricious plaything into a working servant

of mankind. He did not believe in railway locomotives, but his

marine engines were the pride and glory of Messrs. Boulton & Watt, of

Birmingham. Mr. Fulton, of New York, bought one of them, you may

remember, and used it to run a barge on Hudson River, the first to

ply with passengers, they say. Mr. Watt did not live to see the

little brigantine _Beaver_ engined at Blackwall yard in 1835, but

that was as good a job as any done by the famous firm. The boiler

had a steam pressure of seven pounds, and when in later years it

rusted through, the engineer would plug the holes with a pointed

stick and a rag. And yet that engine lasted and worked well for

fifty-two years, until the warship became a neglected tug and in 1889

was cast away in the cliffs of Stanley Park within the city limits of

Vancouver in British Columbia.

The _Beaver's_ registered tonnage was 110, so her size was that of a

second-rate wooden steam trawler in our modern fishing. She carried

four brass six-pounder guns, each small enough for a man to lift by

the trunnions. When she had business with savage tribes, to trade

with them or bombard their villages, she set out boarding nettings,

so she could not be rushed. The crew numbered thirty, sufficient for

the methods of lick, spit, and polish to which her lickspittle bully

of a Captain, Mr. David Home, devoted his whole soul.

A real live duchess christened the _Beaver_, and if I remember

rightly Mr. Brunel, the engineer, left his work, hard by in the

Thames Tunnel, to witness the cracking of the bottle. The owners

attended in force, the Governor and Company of Merchant Adventurers

trading into Hudson's Bay, all in top hats, white chokers, and

swallow-tails. Most likely they cracked quite a lot of bottles.

The engine was in position, but the sponsons, paddle boxes, and

paddles were stored in the forehold for the voyage under sail round

Cape Horn.

At Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River, the capital of Oregon, the

vessel was to be completed by her carpenters, and to be the first

steamer on the Pacific Ocean.

Long afterwards it was, in 1842, that the _Beaver_ carried the great

Sir George Simpson to the founding of Fort Camosun on Vancouver

Island. When, many years later, the _Beaver_ was sold to become a

tug, her log books were pitched into the loft of an old log barn, the

last remnant of Fort Camosun, hid in a backyard of the city of

Victoria, capital of British Columbia. I found the rat-eaten log

books there in 1889, and begged the Hudson's Bay Company to preserve

these precious annals. The memory of them helps my story-telling.

X

The flood tide swept Bill's dinghy up past the Roman fortress of

Reculver, on by Whitstable where oyster smacks lay moored, and thence

towards the Isle of Sheppey and the Thames. It was only to keep warm

that sometimes he would scull, oar over stern, athwart the stream,

northward to channels with a stronger tide. Numb with cold, his

heart like lead, not caring where he went, hour by hour he sculled

until he was tired, or rested until he froze, not caring at all what

happened. The new police would catch him if he went ashore, to

charge him with murdering his parents, and send him to the gallows;

or Uncle Thomas, his owner, would curse him for leaving the barge

derelict, the property in law of the first man who went on board.

Bill did not care now for Uncle Thomas, or anybody alive, but only in

a hard, dry, gnawing grief mourned and was silent. He did not

believe any more in God, who had allowed his mother to be murdered;

and as to spirits, they were only phantasms of nightmare. A sullen

hatred of the world, of men, of everything, of life itself, filled

the north wind, the dark spaces of seething water, and the

indifferent stars. And on towards dawn he sank down on his knees,

his face in his hands, hoping for death, an end of everything. Yet,

as he afterwards confessed, when the _Beaver's_ dolphin striker

knocked his cap off, and her clipper bows hove the boat's gunwale

under, so that she filled and sank beneath his feet, he fought for

life as keenly as anybody who enjoyed the same. Groping, so he said,

in the dark for hand and foot holds in the hanging wall, he found the

anchor astrip, and jumped upon the fluke, swarmed up the shank and

chain, then, getting a purchase with one toe in the hawse hole,

vaulted across the bulwark.

The lad on lookout squeaked, and ran for all he was worth, reporting

a ghost up on the starboard bow.