Suddenly a white streak of foam appeared within a hundred yards. Scarcely

had we unshipped our oars, when the squall burst upon us with stunning

violence. The weather side of the boat was raised high out of the water,

and the rushing foam dashed over the gunwale in torrents. We soon trimmed

her, however, and, by hard bailing, got her clear of water. It is utterly

impossible to conceive the violence of the wind. Small as the surface

exposed to the squall was, we flew through the foaming seas, dragging the

dead body of the whale after us with incredible velocity. Thus situated,

entirely at the mercy of the wind and sea, we continued every moment to

increase our distance from the barque. When the squall abated, we came to

under the lee of the whale, and looked to leeward for the barque. Not a

speck could be seen on the horizon! Night was rapidly approaching, and we

were alone upon the broad, angry ocean!

“Ship your oars,” said the headsman; “we’ll not part company with old

blubber yet. If we can’t make the barque, we can make land somewhere.”

“Aye, aye,” said Tabor, with a sly leer, “and live on roast-beef and

turkey while we’re making it.”

With heavy hearts and many misgivings we shipped our oars, heartily

wishing the whale in the devil’s try-pots; for we thought it rather hard

that our lives should be risked for a few barrels of oil. For two hours

we pulled a long, lazy, dogged stroke, without a sign of relief. At last

Tabor stood up on the bow to look out, and we lay on our oars.

“Well, Tabor, what d’ye see?” was the general inquiry.

“Why,” said Tabor, coolly rolling the quid from his weather to his lee

cheek, “I see a cussed old barque that looks like Granny Howland’s

wash-tub, with a few broomsticks rigged up in the middle of it.”

“Pull, you devils!” cried our headsman; “there’s duff in the cook’s

coppers.”

“Yes! I think I smell it,” said Tabor.

It was nearly dark when we arrived alongside of the barque with our

prize; but what was our surprise to find that the starboard and larboard

boats had killed five whales between them! They were all of a small size,

and did not average more than fifteen barrels each.

That night not a breath of air ruffled the clear, broad ocean as it

swelled beneath and around us, forming a multitude of mirrors that

reflected all the beauties of the splendid canopy above. The moon arose

with unusual brilliancy. It was a night for the winged spirits of the

air. I enjoyed a melancholy pleasure in walking the decks beneath the

soft moonbeams, thinking of past times. Silence reigned over the deep.

The calm, broad ocean presented a beautiful simile of repose, and the

light, shadowy clouds floated motionless in the air, as if in awe of the

mighty wilderness of waters beneath them. A clear, silvery light beamed

over the glassy swell; and far away the moon’s rays, casting their soft

and delicate glow over the whole scene, gradually vanished in a dreamy

haze upon the horizon. I gazed with pensive feelings upon this scene; so

calm, so heavenly, so unrivaled in its loveliness; and I thought, with a

sigh, of the coming day: the fiery, tropical sun; the heat and smoke of

the try-works; and all the realities of a whaleman’s life. I have heard

of the solitude of the desert; but what can compare with that of the

ocean at such a time as this?

Never had the sea looked more beautiful than it did that night.

It was a source of pleasure to feel that, notwithstanding the wretched

life I led, there were still left a few of the better feelings of my

nature. A passage in the “Vision of Don Roderic” occurred to me as

singularly expressive of the checkered fortunes of a seafarer. Well might

I hope the light cloud which occasionally obscured the moon’s brightness

might prove a happy omen of my future fate:

“Melting, as a wreath of snow it hangs

In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes

The orb in richer beauty than her own;

Then, passing, leaves her in her light serene.”

—From “Etchings of a Whaling Cruise,” by kind permission of _Harper &

Brothers_, Publishers, New York.

THE MAN IN THE SHADOW

BY R. W. CHILD

The late afternoon sunlight slanted down into the busy street through the

trees of the Public Garden. It had been the sort of day which whispers of

other scenes, old faces, gentle memories and painted possibilities. Now

along the street came the ebb-tide of the day’s work swept out from the

business part of the city and jostling homeward.

Among the home-goers was a man distinguished a little from the rest by a

refined and patient expression. His shoulders sloped as if they had borne

much; his eyes were open in a stare as if astounded at the repetition of

life’s misfortunes; and his clothes, from his derby hat, shiny from his

wife’s endless brushings, to his shoes, flattened by the monotony of his

daily life, told of the practice of much respectable economy. Trouble had

felt of his throat, one would say, but never had succeeded in throttling

him. There was a quiet, reserved strength in the furrows of his forehead

and in the solidity of his chin, and the wrinkles at the corner of his

blue eyes declared that there was a fund of persistent hope in Carter

Clews.

Looking up suddenly he saw four men coming down the steps of a

hotel toward an open carriage which had drawn up to the curb. Three

were inclined to the stoutness of middle age, and all were laughing

prosperously, and chatting vociferously of Commencement dinners and

baseball games and class reunions; it was evident that they were four

successful men on a holiday and straining to be young again.

Carter Clews smiled with boyish pleasure, for one of them was “Newt”

Riggs, who used to row on the crew and was now a corporation attorney

in Chicago; and there was Billy Drowson, who used to flunk examinations

as easily as if he meant to do it; and the third was Joe Crane, who was

making his two hundred thousand a year in metal refining in Colorado; and

the little man was Lapham, the surgeon, who had been marshal of the class.

The last had just seated himself comfortably in the carriage, when Clews

succeeded in pushing his way into the gap they had left in the crowd.

Both Joseph Crane and Lapham, seeing him take a step toward them, opened

their eyes in innocent surprise; neither of them recognized him. He

stopped for a moment of embarrassed hesitation, and in that moment he

felt with the sharp old pang that he belonged among them no more. They

were successful men.

Carter Clews stepped back into the gray shadow of the portico. The

carriage started away with a laugh and the scrape of a wheel on the curb,

and Clews started on his way once more. His daily trudge to and from his

office was the result of a calculation that enough car fare each year was

saved to buy an extra gown for his daughter. Life had toyed with him,

showing her splendors and snatching them from his fingers; had taught him

culture and then laughed at him.

The rattle of his key brought his wife to the door, and the usual smiles

and kisses of welcome reminded him of the old duty of keeping his

feelings to himself.

“Was there any mail to-day?”

“There was a postal-card came to-day for you, dad. It had been to all of

the four places we have lived since we came back from Iowa, and so it

was late in getting here. It was the announcement of the twenty-fifth

anniversary dinner of your class; you’ll go, won’t you?”

“Where’s the postal?”

“Do go, dad, we don’t like to have you forgotten. It’s only six. The

dinner’s at eight. You’ll have plenty of time, father.”

Clews took the card, holding it under the light of the lamp on the

center-table. His fingers trembled a little as he read it.

“The last dinner I went to was in our Senior year, just before I

graduated and went West; I was toastmaster at that dinner. It was a

spring night like this. I remember a little crowd of us sat under a tree

in the college yard and talked until daylight. We promised each other,

half in fun, that the one who got to be forty-five years old and wasn’t

successful should jump into the river. And then we went up to my room

for a cold bath, and I built a fire and heated the poker and burned my

name into the mantel-piece.”

He tossed the card aside. His wife could see upon his face the

unmistakable sign that the accumulation of years of disappointment was no

longer to be contained in silence.

“I’ve been a miserable fizzle! Unknown and forgotten because I deserve

it!”

Edith looked straight at him. “That is not true,” she said softly.

“Perhaps it’s a bad dream! It’s been my fault. No wonder I’m forgotten!

Everybody flocks around a victor, but who cares where the man is who

failed to do big things? Once he marched in the front line promising a

great deal, and now he’s got to watch the procession from the sidewalk.

It would be better, if a man can’t make himself felt and has got to walk

around unknown—to keep his promise and—”

“Don’t, father.”

He looked up into his daughter’s face, and seeing the trembling of her

upper lip, drew a long breath and squared his shoulders.

“Well, perhaps we all have our compensations.”

“You are going to the class dinner, aren’t you?”

“No, I think I won’t go this time. Perhaps next year—”

“Oh, yes, for me! I’ll get your evening clothes. They’re put away.”

When he appeared in them a little later, he looked doubtfully at himself

in the mirror, then suddenly smiled.

“I’ve had them ever since we were married. Their style looks rather

quaint, doesn’t it? But I’ve had some very happy minutes inside the old

coat. Do you remember this tie, Alice?”

“Why, for mercy’s sake! That was the first thing I ever made you!”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he answered.

As he went slowly out into the hallway and down the noisy wooden stairs,

his wife and daughter leaned over the banisters looking at him anxiously.

At last he turned the corner into the avenue. As he looked, he saw a

little group of laughing men going up the steps; then he squared his

shoulders, and walked briskly across the street and up the steps into the

lobby.

The clerk leaned over the desk toward him. “Seventy-six?” Clews nodded:

“Yes, my class—Seventy-six.”

“Just down at the end of that corridor.”

There were others standing with him at the checkroom, who nodded to him.

“Did you go to the game?” asked one.

“No. How did it come out?”

“Great guns! don’t you know how it came out? Why, we beat ’em! My boy

plays first base. I go to all the games.”

“I wish I could. I wish I had gone to-day, but my work is rather

confining. I have a daughter, and, of course, if I had a son, he’d be out

there at the University too.”

“There are several prominent members of the class here to-night. Drowson

is here, and Crane is toastmaster. We’re late, I think.”

With his new acquaintance Clews followed a knot of men who opened the

door, exposing two large tables filled with diners. The noise within

burst out and drew the attention of several guests of the hotel, who

peered down the corridor with mild curiosity.

When the man who was with Clews hesitated for a moment, a dozen voices

rose up to greet him, and several men stood up to shout, “Oh, Billy,

here’s a seat!” or “Here you are, Lawton!”

Clews was lonely. Of the men who sat near him he remembered only two as

acquaintances of undergraduate days, and the old associations recalled by

their faces were so hazy that he was convinced that he had never known

either of them well. They certainly did not recognize him. He determined

grimly never to suffer another experience like this.

“The world likes success and sunlight,” he said to himself. “I’ll fight

it out alone after this, and in my own little corner.”

A waiter finally thrust a demi-tasse of coffee deftly over Clew’s

elbow. Crane had introduced Drowson with an accompaniment of cheers and

hand-clapping, and Drowson had made a speech which had impressed every

one, and Collingwood had been cajoled into singing an old song. Chairs

were gradually moved back a little from the table, the room became foggy

with the smoke that curled from the cigars, and a contented fullness and

laughter tugged at nearly a hundred waistcoats.

Crane, the toastmaster, was rapping for silence.

“Before we break up,” he said, “I want you to drink one more toast with

me. We have toasted ourselves and each other, but this toast is to a man

who is not here.”

The interest and curiosity of every one was aroused. Even Clews leaned

back in his chair to listen; it was plainly going to be a eulogy of some

classman who had died.

“Twenty-five years ago, after our last college dinner, there were six men

in our class sitting together under a tree in the yard and talking about

what we would do. We said we would all be successful at forty-five. If

not, we were going to jump into the river. I was one of those men—Billy

Drowson was another; Wright was there—he died the next year. Then there

was Lapham and Riggs. But there was another. He was a prominent figure in

our class—the smartest one of the six—very honorable and good-hearted.

I will not name him. He is not here. We all thought he would have a

brilliant career. He came out of college and was married, and his father

died and left him a mother and two sisters and an inheritance of debts.

That cut him off from the professional schools, and he went West, and I

have found out that he went into a business where there was no chance in

the world of advancement. But it had to be done because that offered a

way of bearing the burdens and obligations that were on him. It was just

like him. Then he had to take care of a wife and three others besides.

“His health became very bad—he used to work sixteen hours a day

sometimes, and when he was forty years old he found himself very much out

of order. Then he came back East. Part of his burdens had been removed,

but it was too late to start life as he might have started it once. He

had burned out in the service like a faithful, honest, well-made candle.

His light had been dim, but it had also been steady. I suppose he is

alive, although I don’t know. But all of us who knew him best are sure

that wherever he is, he is still putting up a good fight, and though he

hasn’t got the cheers and the lime-light, he’s pulling mighty well. I

know it!”

The room was very still while Crane paused.

“We’ve tried to locate him, but we lost the scent after we found he had

come back from Iowa. We had planned to go back to-night, Drowson and

Lapham and Riggs and myself and this other man, and sit under the tree

in the yard where twenty-five years ago we’d promised to reach success,

before we came back to attend this dinner. I feel sure that this missing

man—this lost member of the class, I might say, for I can’t find any

one who knows where he is—ought to be there. We think he comes as near

success as any one of us.

“We learned years ago at the University that faithful duty really

counted; the kind of success we are looking for isn’t always gilt-edged;

the band isn’t always playing for it to march by! When I looked up this

man I found a good, clean, honest story—a story of devotion and loyalty

and the kind of courage that holds out when nobody is looking on or

waving hats! I think we all ought to be glad he is a ‘Seventy-six’ man,

and that we are not so narrow or ignorant as to count him a lost cause

and a failure. I want you to drink a toast to him with me—gentlemen, to

the man who does his job in a shadow!”

The whole class came to its feet together! Clews realized that toast

was to him. Had his head been cool, he would have arisen with the rest

unmarked and unknown—it was the old custom of remaining seated when so

honored that betrayed him. It left him a second behind the rest, and the

speaker’s big blue eyes were upon him at once. Crane lowered his glass

and exclaimed, “Good God!”

Clews stumbled back into his chair. “Seventy-six” raised its voice in a

great, generous roar. Clews looked up with wet cheeks and smiled like a

pleased boy. This was his class, cheering—and for him!

Later in the night Clews returned to his wife and daughter. Governor

William Drowson was with him.

“Alice,” said Carter Clews, “this is Billy. I roomed with him when I was

a freshman. He’s going to spend the night with me.”

A WINDSTORM IN THE FORESTS

BY JOHN MUIR

One of the most beautiful and exhilarating storms I ever enjoyed in the

Sierra occurred in December, 1874, when I happened to be exploring one

of the tributary valleys of the Yuba River. The sky and the ground and

the trees had been thoroughly rain-washed and were dry again. The day

was intensely pure, one of those incomparable bits of California winter,

warm and balmy and full of white sparkling sunshine, redolent of all the

purest influences of the spring, and at the same time enlivened with one

of the most bracing wind-storms conceivable. Instead of camping out, as I

usually do, I then chanced to be stopping at the house of a friend. But

when the storm began to sound, I lost no time in pushing out into the

woods to enjoy it. For on such occasions Nature has always something rare

to show us, and the danger to life and limb is hardly greater than one

would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof.

It was still early morning when I found myself fairly adrift. Delicious

sunshine came pouring over the hills, lighting the tops of the pines,

and setting free a stream of summery fragrance that contrasted strangely

with the wild tones of the storm. The air was mottled with pine-tassels

and bright green plumes that went flashing past in the sunlight like

birds pursued. But there was not the slightest dustiness, nothing less

pure than leaves, and ripe pollen, and flecks of withered bracken

and moss. I heard trees falling for hours at the rate of one every

two or three minutes; some uprooted, partly on account of the loose,

water-soaked condition of the ground; others broken straight across,

where some weakness caused by fire had determined the spot. The gestures

of the various trees made a delightful study. Young Sugar Pines, light

and feathery as squirrel-tails, were bowing almost to the ground; while

the grand old patriarchs, whose massive boles had been tried in a

hundred storms, waved solemnly above them, their long, arching branches

streaming fluently in the gale, and every needle thrilling and ringing

and shedding off keen lances of light like a diamond. The Douglas

Spruces, with long sprays drawn out in level tresses and needles massed

in a gray, shimmering glow, presented a most striking appearance as they

stood in bold relief along the hill-tops. The Madroños in the dells,

with their red bark and large, glossy leaves tilted every way, reflected

the sunshine in throbbing spangles like those one so often sees on the

rippled surface of a glacier lake. But the Silver Pines were now the most

impressively beautiful of all. Colossal spires 200 feet in height waved

like supple goldenrods chanting and bowing low as if in worship, while

the whole mass of their long, tremulous foliage was kindled into one

continuous blaze of white sun-fire. The force of the gale was such that

the most steadfast monarch of them all rocked down to its roots with a

motion plainly perceptible when one leaned against it. Nature was holding

high festival, and every fiber of the most rigid giants thrilled with

glad excitement.

I drifted on through the midst of this passionate music and motion,

across many a glen, from ridge to ridge; often halting in the lee of a

rock for shelter, or to gaze and listen. Even when the grand anthem had

swelled to its highest pitch I could distinctly hear the varying tones of

individual trees,—Spruce, and Fir, and Pine, and leafless Oak,—and even

the infinitely gentle rustle of the withered grasses at my feet. Each was

expressing itself in its own way,—singing its own song, and making its

own peculiar gestures,—manifesting a richness of variety to be found in

no other forest I have yet seen....

Toward midday, after a long, tingling scramble through copses of

hazel and ceanothus, I gained the summit of the highest ridge in the

neighborhood; and then it occurred to me that it would be a fine thing

to climb one of the trees to obtain a wider outlook and get my ear close

to the Eolian music of its topmost needles. But under the circumstances

the choice of a tree was a serious matter. One whose instep was not very

strong, seemed in danger of being blown down, or of being struck by

others in case they should fall; another was branchless to a considerable

height above the ground, and at the same time too large to be grasped

with arms and legs in climbing; while others were not favorably situated

for clear views. After cautiously casting about, I made choice of the

tallest of a group of Douglas Spruces that were growing close together

like a tuft of grass; no one of which seemed likely to fall unless all

the rest fell with it. Though comparatively young, they were about 100

feet high, and their lithe, brushy tops were rocking and swirling in

wild ecstasy. Being accustomed to climb trees in botanical studies, I

experienced no difficulty in reaching the top of this one, and never

before did I enjoy so noble an exhilaration of motion. The slender

tops fairly flapped and swished in the passionate torrent, bending and

swirling backward and forward, round and round, tracing indescribable

combinations of vertical and horizontal curves, while I clung with

muscles firmly braced, like a bobolink on a reed.

In its widest sweeps my tree-top described an arc of twenty to thirty

degrees, but I felt sure of its elastic temper, having seen others of the

same species still more severely tried—bent almost to the ground indeed,

in heavy snows—without breaking a fiber. I was therefore safe, and free

to take the wind into my pulses and enjoy the excited forest from my

superb outlook. The view from here must be extremely beautiful in any

weather. Now my eye roved over the piny hills and dales as over fields of

waving grain, and felt the light running in ripples and broad, swelling

undulations across the valleys from ridge to ridge, as the shining

foliage was stirred by corresponding waves of air. Oftentimes these waves

of reflected light would break up suddenly into a kind of beaten foam,

and again, after chasing one another in regular order, they would seem to

bend forward in concentric curves, and disappear on some hillside, like

sea-waves on a shelving shore. The quantity of light reflected from the

bent needles was so great as to make whole groves appear as if covered

with snow, while the black shadows beneath the trees greatly enhanced the

effect of the silvery splendor.... The sounds of the storm corresponded

gloriously with this wild exuberance of light and motion. The profound

bass of the naked branches and poles booming like waterfalls; the quick,

tense vibrations of the pine-needles, now rising to a shrill, whistling

hiss, now falling to a silky murmur; the rustling of laurel groves in the

dells, and the keen, metallic click of leaf on leaf—all this was heard in

easy analysis when the attention was calmly bent.

I kept my lofty perch for hours, frequently closing my eyes to enjoy

the music by itself, or to feast quietly on the delicious fragrance

that was streaming past. The fragrance of the woods was less marked

than that produced during warm rain, when so many balsamic buds and

leaves are steeped like tea; but, from the chafing of resiny branches

against each other, and the incessant attrition of myriads of needles,

the gale was spiced to a very tonic degree. And besides the fragrance

from these local sources there were traces of scents brought from afar.

For this wind came first from the sea, rubbing against its fresh,

briny waves, then distilled through the redwoods, threading rich ferny

gulches, and spreading itself in broad, undulating currents over many

a flower-enameled ridge of the Coast Mountains, then across the golden

plains, up the purple foothills, and into these piny woods with the

varied incense gathered by the way.

When the storm began to abate, I dismounted and sauntered down through

the calming woods. The storm-tones died away, and, turning toward the

east, I beheld the countless hosts of the forests hushed and tranquil,

towering above one another on the slopes of the hills like a devout

audience. The setting sun filled them with amber light, and seemed to

say, while they listened, “My peace I give unto you.”

As I gazed on the impressive scene, all the so-called ruin of the storm

was forgotten, and never before did these noble woods appear so fresh,

so joyous, so immortal.—From “The Mountains of California.” Copyright by

_The Century Company_, New York, and used by their kind permission.

AN UNEXPECTED ADVENTURE

BY JOHN MUIR

A wild scene, but not a safe one, is made by the moon as it appears

through the edge of the Yosemite Fall when one is behind it. Once, after

enjoying the night-song of the waters and watching the formation of the

colored bow as the moon came round the domes and sent her beams into the

wild uproar, I ventured out on the narrow bench that extends back of the

fall from Fern Ledge and began to admire the dim-veiled grandeur of the

view. I could see the fine, gauzy threads of the fall’s filmy border

by having the light in front; and wishing to look at the moon through

the meshes of some of the denser portions of the fall, I ventured to

creep further behind it while it was gently wind-swayed, without taking

sufficient thought about the consequences of its swaying back to its

natural position after the wind-pressure should be removed. The effect

was enchanting: fine, savage music sounding above, beneath, around me;

while the moon, apparently in the very midst of the rushing waters,

seemed to be struggling to keep her place, on account of the ever-varying

form and density of the water-masses through which she was seen, now

darkly veiled or eclipsed by a rush of thick-headed comets, now flashing

out through openings between their tails. I was in fairyland between

the dark wall and the wild throng of illumined waters, but suffered

sudden disenchantment; for, like the witch-scene in Alloway Kirk, “in

an instant all was dark.” Down came a dash of spent comets, thin and

harmless-looking in the distance, but they felt desperately solid and

stony when they struck my shoulders, like a mixture of choking spray

and gravel and big hailstones. Instinctively dropping on my knees, I

gripped an angle of the rock, curled up like a young fern frond with my

face pressed against my breast, and in this attitude submitted as best

I could to my thundering bath. The heavier masses seemed to strike like

cobblestones, and there was a confused noise of many waters about my

ears—hissing, gurgling, clashing sounds that were not heard as music.

The situation was quickly realized. How fast one’s thoughts burn in such

times of stress! I was weighing chances of escape. Would the column be

swayed a few inches away from the wall, or would it come yet closer?

The fall was in flood and not so lightly would its ponderous mass be

swayed. My fate seemed to depend on a breath of the “idle wind.” It was

moved gently forward, the pounding ceased, and I was once more visited

by glimpses of the moon. But fearing I might be caught at a disadvantage

in making too hasty a retreat, I moved only a few feet along the bench

to where a block of ice lay. I wedged myself between the ice and the

wall, and lay face downwards, until the steadiness of the light gave

encouragement to rise and get away. Somewhat nerve-shaken, drenched, and

benumbed, I made out to build a fire, warmed myself, ran home, reached

my cabin before daylight, got an hour or two of sleep, and awoke sound

and comfortable, better, not worse, for my hard midnight bath.—From “The

Yosemite.” Copyright by _The Century Co._, New York, and used by their

kind permission.

THE TORTURE OF THE STRAIT-JACKET

BY JACK LONDON

Have you ever seen canvas tarpaulins or rubber blankets with brass

eyelets set in along the edges? Then imagine a piece of stout canvas,

some four and one-half feet in length, with large and heavy brass eyelets

running down both edges. The width of this canvas is never the full girth

of the human body it is to surround. The width is also irregular—broadest

at the shoulders, next broadest at the hips, and narrowest at the waist.

The jacket is spread on the floor. The man who is to be punished, or who

is to be tortured for confession, is told to lie face-downward on the

flat canvas. If he refuses, he is man-handled. After that he lays himself

down with a will, which is the will of the hang-dogs, which is your will,

dear citizen, who feeds and fees the hang-dogs for doing this thing for

you.

The man lies face-downward. The edges of the jacket are brought as

nearly together as possible along the center of the man’s back. Then a

rope, on the principle of a shoe-lace, is run through the eyelets, and

on the principle of shoe-lacing the man is laced in the canvas. Only he

is laced more severely than any person ever laces his shoe. They call

it “cinching” in prison lingo. On occasion, when the guards are cruel

and vindictive or when the command has come down from above, in order to

insure the severity of the lacing the guards press with their feet into

the man’s back as they draw the lacing tight.

Have you ever laced your shoe too tightly, and, after half an hour

experienced that excruciating pain across the instep of the obstructed

circulation? And do you remember that after a few minutes of such pain

you simply could not walk another step and had to untie the shoe-lace

and ease the pressure? Very well. Then try to imagine your whole body so

laced, only much more tightly, and that the squeeze, instead of being

merely on the instep of one foot, is on your entire trunk, compressing

to the seeming of death your heart, your lungs, and all the rest of your

vital and essential organs.

I remember the first time they gave me the jacket down in the dungeons.

It was at the beginning of my incorrigibility, shortly after my entrance

to prison, when I was weaving my loom-task of a hundred yards a day in

the jute mill and finishing two hours ahead of the average day. Yes, and

my jute-sacking was far above the average demanded. I was sent to the

jacket that first time, according to the prison books, because of “skips”

and “breaks” in the cloth, in short, because my work was defective. Of

course this was ridiculous. In truth, I was sent to the jacket because

I, a new convict, a master of efficiency, a trained expert in the

elimination of waste motion, had elected to tell the stupid head-weaver

a few things he did not know about his business. And the head-weaver,

with Captain Jamie present, had me called to the table where atrocious

weaving, such as could never have gone through my loom, was exhibited

against me. Three times was I thus called to the table. The third calling

meant punishment according to the loom-room rules. My punishment was

twenty-four hours in the jacket.

They took me down into the dungeon. I was ordered to lie face-downward

on the canvas spread flat upon the floor. I refused. One of the guards,

Morrison, gulleted me with his thumbs. Mobins, the dungeon trusty, a

convict himself, struck me repeatedly with his fists. In the end I lay

down as directed. And, because of the struggle I had vexed them with,

they laced me extra tight. Then they rolled me over like a log upon my

back.

It did not seem so bad at first. When they closed my door, with a clang

and clash of levered boltage, and left me in the utter dark, it was

eleven o’clock in the morning. For a few minutes I was aware merely of

an uncomfortable constriction which I fondly believed would ease as I

grew accustomed to it. On the contrary, my heart began to thump and my

lungs seemed unable to draw sufficient air for my blood. This sense of

suffocation was terrorizing, and every thump of the heart threatened to

burst my already bursting lungs.

After what seemed hours, and after what, out of my countless succeeding

experiences in that jacket I can now fairly conclude to have been not

more than half an hour, I began to cry out, to yell, to scream, to howl,

in a very madness of dying. The trouble was the pain that had arisen in

my heart. It was a sharp, definite pain, similar to that of pleurisy,

except that it stabbed hotly through the heart itself.

To die is not a difficult thing, but to die in such slow and horrible

fashion was maddening. Like a trapped beast of the wild, I experienced

ecstasies of fear, and yelled and howled until I realized that such vocal

exercise merely stabbed my heart more hotly and at the same time consumed

much of the little air in my lungs.

I gave over and lay quiet for a long time—an eternity it seemed then

though now I am confident that it could have been no longer than a

quarter of an hour. I grew dizzy with semi-asphyxiation, and my heart

thumped until it seemed surely it would burst the canvas that bound me.

Again I lost control of myself and set up a mad howling for help.

In the midst of this I heard a voice from the next dungeon.

“Shut up,” it shouted, though only faintly it percolated to me. “Shut up.

You make me tired.”

“I’m dying,” I cried out.

“Pound your ear and forget it,” was the reply.

“But I am dying,” I insisted.

“Then why worry?” came the voice. “You’ll be dead pretty quick an’ out

of it. Go ahead and croak, but don’t make so much noise about it. You’re

interruptin’ my beauty sleep.”

So angered was I by this callous indifference, that I recovered

self-control and was guilty of no more than smothered groans.—From “The

Star Rover.” Copyrighted by _The Macmillan Co._, New York, and used with

their kind permission.

A SON OF COPPER SIN

BY HERMAN WHITAKER

Within his bull’s-hide tepee, old Iz-le-roy lay and fed his little fire,

stick by stick. He was sick, very sick—sick with the sickness which is

made up of equal parts of hunger, old age, fever and despair. Just one

week before his tribe had headed up for Winnipegoos, where the whitefish

may be had for the taking and the moose winter in their yards. But a sick

man may not travel the long trail, so Iz-le-roy had remained at White

Man’s Lake. And Batiste, his son, stayed also. Not that it was expected

of him, for, according to forest law, the man who cannot hunt had better

die; but Batiste had talked with the gentle priest of Ellice, and had

chosen to depart from the custom of his fathers.

And things had gone badly, very badly, since the tribe had marched.

North, south, east and west, the round of the plains, and through the

leafless woods, the boy had hunted without as much as a jack-rabbit

falling to his gun. For two days no food had passed their lips, and now

he was gone forth to do that which Iz-le-roy had almost rather die than

have him do—ask aid of the settlers.

“Yea, my son,” the old warrior had faltered, “these be they that stole

the prairies of our fathers. Yet it may be that Big Laugh, best of an

evil brood, will give us of his store of flour and bacon.”

So, after placing a plentiful stock of wood close to the old man’s hand,

Batiste had closed the tepee flap and laced it. At the end of an hour’s

fast walking, during which the northern sky grew dark with the threat of

still more cruel weather, he sighted through the drift a spurting column

of smoke.

The smoke marked the cabin of John Sterling, and also his present

occupation. Within, John sat and fired the stove, while Avis, his

daughter, set out the breakfast dishes, and his wife turned the sizzling

bacon in the pan.

“I declare,” exclaimed the woman, pausing, knife in hand, “if that bread

ain’t froze solid!”

“Cold last night,” commented Sterling. “Put it in the oven, Mary.”

As she stooped to obey, the door quietly opened and Batiste slipped in.

His moose moccasins made no noise, and he was standing close beside her

when she straightened. She jumped and gasped:

“Lor’ ’a’ mercy! How you do scare one! Why don’t you knock?”

Batiste stared. It was the custom of his tribe thus to enter a house, a

custom established before jails were built or locks invented. His eye

therefore roamed questioningly from one to another until Sterling asked:

“What d’ye want, young fellow?”

Batiste pointed to the frying pan. “Bakin!” he muttered. “The bakin of

Big Laugh, I want. Iz-le-roy sick, plenty sick. Him want flour, him want

ba-kin.”

The thought of his father’s need flashed into his mind, and realizing the

impossibility of expressing himself in English, he broke into a voluble

stream of Cree, punctuating its rolling gutturals with energetic signs.

While he was speaking, Avis ceased rattling her dishes.

“He looks awfully hungry, dad,” she whispered, as Batiste finished.

Now, though Sterling was a large-souled, generous man, and jovial—as

evidenced by his name of Big Laugh—it happened that, during the past

summer, a roving band of Sioux had camped hard by and begged him out

of patience. That morning, too, the threatening weather had spoiled an

intended trip to Russel and touched his temper—of which he had a goodly

share.

“Can’t help it, girl,” he snapped. “If we feed every hungry Injun that

comes along, we’ll soon be out of house and home. Can’t do anything for

you, boy.”

“Him want ba-kin,” Batiste said.

“Well, you can just want.”

“Iz-le-roy sick, him want ba-kin,” the boy pleaded.

His persistence irritated Sterling, and, crowding down the better feeling

which spoke for the lad, he sprang up, threw wide the door, and shouted:

“Get, you son of copper sin! Get, now! Quick!”

“Father!” pleaded the girl.

But he took no heed, and held wide the door.

Into Batiste’s face flashed surprise, anger and resentment. Surprise,

because he had not believed all the things Iz-le-roy had told him of the

white men, but had preferred to think them all like Father Francis. But

now? His father was right. They were all cold and merciless, their hearts

hard as their steel ax-heads, their tongues sharp as the cutting edge.

With head held high he marched through the door, away from the hot stove,

the steaming coffee, and the delicious smell of frying bacon, out into

the cold storm.

“Oh, father!” remonstrated his wife, as Sterling closed the door.

“Look here, Mary,” he answered testily, “we fed a whole tribe last

summer, didn’t we?”

“But this lad don’t belong to them,” she pleaded.

“All the worse,” he rejoined. “Do an Injun a good turn an’ he never

forgets. Give him his breakfast, an’ he totes his tribe along to dinner.”

“Well,” sighed the good woman, “I’m real sorry.”

For a few moments both were silent. And presently, as the man’s kindly

nature began to triumph over his irritation, he hitched uneasily in his

chair. Already he felt ashamed. Casting a sheepish glance at his wife, he

rose, walked to the door, and looked out. But a wall of whirling white

blocked his vision. Batiste was gone beyond recall.

“Where’s Avis?” he asked, returning to the stove.

“A-vis!” called her mother.

But there was no answer. For a moment man and wife stared each other in

the eye; then, moved by a common impulse, they walked into the kitchen.

There, on the table, lay the half of a fresh-cut side of bacon; the

bread-box was open and a crusty loaf missing; the girl’s shawl was gone

from its peg and her overshoes from their corner.

“Good God!” gasped the settler. “The child’s gone after him!”

They knew the risk. All the morning the storm had been brewing, and now

it thundered by, a veritable blizzard. The blizzard! King of storms! It

compels the settler to string a wire from house to stables, it sets men

to circling in the snow, it catches little children coming home from

school and buries them in its monstrous drifts.

Without another word Sterling wound a scarf about his neck, grabbed his

badger mitts, and rushed outside.

When Avis softly closed the kitchen door she could just see Batiste

rounding a bluff that lay a furlong west of her father’s stables. She

started after him; but by the time she had covered half the distance a

sea of white swept in between and blotted him from view.

She struggled on, and on, and still on, until, in spite of the seventy

degrees of frost, the perspiration burst from every pore and the scud

melted on her glowing face. This was well enough—so long as she kept

moving; but when the time came that she must stop, she would freeze all

the quicker for her present warmth.

This, being born and bred of the prairie, Avis knew, and the knowledge

kept her toiling, toiling on, until her tired legs and leaden feet

compelled a pause in the shelter of a bluff. She was hungry, too. All

this time she carried the bread and meat, and now, unconscious of a pair

of slant eyes which glared from a willow thicket, she broke the loaf

and began to eat. While she ate, the green lights in the eyes flared

brighter, a long red tongue licked the drool from grinning jaws, and

forth from his covert stole a lank, gray wolf.

Avis uttered a startled cry. This was no coyote, to be chased with a

stick, but a wolf of timber stock, a great beast, heavy, prick-eared,

strong as a mastiff. His nose puckered in a wicked snarl as he slunk in

half-circles across her front. He was undecided. So, while he circled,

trying to make up his mind, drawing a little nearer at every turn, Avis

fell back—back towards the bluff, keeping her white face always to the

creeping beast.

It was a small bluff, lacking a tree large enough to climb, but

sufficient for her purpose. On its edge she paused, threw the bacon to

the wolf, and then ran desperately. Once clear of the scrub, she ran on,

plunging through drifts, stumbling, falling, to rise again and push her

flight. Of direction she took no heed; her only thought was to place

distance between herself and the red-mouthed brute. But when, weary and

breathless, she paused for rest, out of the drab drift stole the lank,

gray shadow.

The brute crouched a few yards away, licking his sinful lips, winking his

devil eyes. She still had the loaf. As she threw it, the wolf sprang and

snapped it in mid-air. Then she ran, and ran, and ran, as the tired doe

runs from the hounds. For what seemed to her an interminable time, though

it was less than five minutes, she held on; then stopped, spent, unable

to take another step. Looking back, she saw nothing of the wolf; but

just when she began to move slowly forward, thinking he had given up the

chase, a gray shape loomed right ahead.

Uttering a bitter cry, she turned once more, tottered a few steps, and

fainted.

As, wildly calling his daughter’s name, Sterling rushed by his stables,

the wind smote him with tremendous power. Like a living thing it buffeted

him about the ears, tore at his breath, poured over him an avalanche of

snow. Still he pressed on and gained the bluff which Avis missed.

As he paused to draw a free breath, his eye picked out a fresh-made

track. Full of a sudden hope, he shouted. A voice answered, and as he

rushed eagerly forward a dark figure came through the drift to meet him.

It was Batiste.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Sterling was cruelly disappointed, but he answered quickly: “You see my

girl? Yes, my girl,” he repeated, noting the lad’s look of wonder. “Young

white squaw, you see um?”

“Mooniah papoose?” queried Batiste.

“Yes, yes! She follow you. Want give you bread, want give you bacon. All

gone, all lost!” Sterling finished with a despairing gesture.

“Squaw marche to me? Ba-kin for me?” questioned Batiste.

“Yes, yes!” cried Sterling, in a flurry of impatience.

“I find um,” he said, softly.

Briefly Batiste laid down his plan, eking out his scanty English with

vivid signs. In snow, the white man rolls along like a clumsy buffalo,

planting his feet far out to the right and left. And because his right

leg steps a little further than the left, he always, when lost, travels

in a circle. Wherefore Batiste indicated that they should move along

parallel lines, just shouting distance apart, so as to cover the largest

possible ground.

“Young squaw marche slow. She there!” He pointed north and east with a

gesture. “Yes, there!”

Batiste paused until Sterling got his distance; then, keeping the wind

slanting to his left cheek, he moved off north and east. Ever and anon

he stopped to give forth a piercing yell. If Sterling answered, he moved

on; if not—as happened twice—he traveled in his direction until they were

once more in touch. And so, shouting and yelling, they bore off north and

east for a long half-hour.

After that, Batiste began to throw his cries both east and west, for

he judged that they must be closing on the girl. And suddenly, from

the north, came a weird, tremulous answer. He started, and throwing up

his head, emitted the wolf’s long howl. Leaning forward, he waited—his

very soul in his ears—until, shrill yet deep-chested and quivering with

ferocity, came back the answering howl.

No coyote gave forth that cry, and Batiste knew it.

“Timber wolf!” he muttered.

Turning due north, he gave the settler a warning yell, then sped like a

hunted deer in the direction of the cry. He ran with the long, lithe

lope which tires down even the swift elk, and in five minutes covered

nearly a mile. Once more he gave forth the wolf howl. An answer came

close by, but as he sprang forward it ended with a frightened yelp.

Through a break in the drift he spied a moving figure; then a swirl swept

in and blotted it from view.

But he had seen the girl. A dozen leaps and he was close upon her. Just

as he opened his mouth to speak, she screamed and plunged headlong.

When consciousness returned, Avis was lying on her own bed. Her mother

bent over her; Sterling stood near by. All around were the familiar

things of life, but her mind still retained a vivid picture of her

flight, and she sprang up screaming:

“The wolf; oh, the wolf!”

“Hush, dearie,” her mother soothed. “It wasn’t a wolf, but just the Cree

boy.”

Batiste had told how she screamed at the sight of his gray, snow-covered

blanket, and the cry had carried even to her father. But when she

recovered sufficiently to tell her story, the father shuddered and the

mother exclaimed:

“John, we owe that boy more than we can ever pay!”

“We do!” he fervently agreed.

Just then the latch of the other door clicked, and a cold blast streamed

into the bedroom. Jumping up, the mother cried:

“Run, John; he’s going!”

“Here, young fellow!” shouted the settler.

Batiste paused in the doorway, his hand on the latch, his slight body

silhouetted against the white of the storm.

“Where you going, boy?”

“To Iz-le-roy,” he answered. “Him sick. Bezhou!”

Sterling strode forward and caught him by the shoulder. “No, you don’t,”

he said, “not that way.” Then, turning, he called into the bedroom:

“Here, mother! Get out all your wraps while I hitch the ponies. And

fix up our best bed for a sick man.”—From “The Probationer,” copyright

and used by the kind permission of author and publishers, _Harper &

Brothers_, New York.

SOMBRE[7]

BY WILLIAM WETMORE STORY

Long golden beams from the setting sun swept over the plains of

Andalusia, and fell upon the Geralda tower of the great cathedral of

Sevilla, many miles in the distance. In their path they illumined a

stretch of vast pastures enclosed by whitened stone walls, and dotted

with magnificent cattle. In a far corner of one of the enclosures the

figure of a young girl passed through an arched stone gateway. As she

paused to look upon the scattered groups of grazing beasts, the level

rays played in lights and shadows upon the waving masses of dark chestnut

hair, richly health-tinted young face, creamy neck, and large, lustrous

eyes now painfully dry, as if tears were exhausted. She gazed from group

to group, calling eagerly, “Sombre! Sombre!”

A pair of long, gleaming horns rose abruptly amid the browsing herd, and

a magnificent bull came towards her at a brisk trot. The sunbeams glinted

upon his dark coat as it swelled and sank under the play of powerful

muscles. His neck and shoulders were leonine in massive strength, the

legs and hind-quarters as sleek and symmetrical as those of a race-horse,

but his ferociousness was held in check by that devoted love dumb animals

express for those who love them.

In a moment the young girl’s white arms were thrown around the animal’s

dusky neck, and her cheek was lain against the silken skin. “Oh, Sombre!”

she murmured, “do you know what they are going to do with you? Papa wants

to send you to the Plaza de Toros! I have begged him in vain to spare

you. Does he think after Anita has brought you from a tiny calf to be

such a beautiful, dear toro that she can give you to the cruel matador to

be tortured, made crazy and killed?”

She was sobbing bitterly, and the devoted beast was striving vainly to

turn his head far enough to lick the fair neck bending down upon his.

Presently the sobbing ceased, and she stroked the strong shoulders with

her small hand.

“Never fear, Sombre, if they take you to Sevilla Anita will find a way to

save you! Now, say good night.”

Sombre thrust out his huge tongue and licked the little hand and arms.

Then she bent forward and kissed him on the frowning, furry forehead and

departed.

Anita’s path homeward lay through another field where a herd of cattle

were being driven. A young herdsman, riding a strong horse at a brisk

canter, saw the young girl enter from the adjoining pasture. With joyful

exclamation in English he rode towards her calling, “Anita, have you seen

the posters?”

Waiting until he reached her side, with bated breath she asked, “Is—is

Sombre advertised?”

“Yes, on the outer gateway. But here, I have a poster in my pocket.”

_Plaza de Toros de Sevilla

May 17.

Anniversary of the King’s Birthday,

Six Bulls to be killed,

The two magnificent brother bulls

Sol and Sombre,

and others very ferocious,

against

The intrepid Matadores,

Lariato, the American, and

Amador, of Sevilla._

“It is cruel of them, cruel! (Reading) ‘Lariato, the American.’ Why, that

is yourself! You will spare him! You will spare my Sombre!”

“They do not permit me to fight Don Alonzo’s bulls, for I raise them and

they would not fight me. Amador will fight Sombre.”

“No, no! You must fight Sombre. That wicked Amador will kill him!”

“But so would I, Anita, or be killed by him!”

Anita was silent for a time; suddenly she exclaimed: “Orlando, do you

love me well enough to put faith in a promise which will seem impossible

of fulfillment?”

“God knows I do!”

“Then listen; if Sombre goes to the Plaza de Toros, you must fight him

and spare him even though they hiss and jeer at you.”

“Death is easier. Perhaps the managers will let me fight him, for you

have raised him, and I can tell them that I have scarcely seen him. I

will fight him, Anita, and for your sake I will let him kill me!”

“No, no, Orlando, for this is my promise, even in the last extremity

Sombre shall not harm you!”

“And then, Anita!”

“Then I will leave my father’s house and go with you. We will buy Sombre

and go to those plains in your country you love so to tell about. You

will become a ranch hero, and Sombre shall be the patriarch of our herd!”

“I have tried that once and failed!”

“Ah, but you had neither Sombre nor Anita then!” And waving him a kiss

she ran off across the field.

On the 17th of May, in the Plaza de Toros, there was a murmur from

thousands of throats like the magnified hum of bees. Amador of Sevilla

had killed several bulls and now there was a short intermission. In a

stall of the lowest tier sat Anita alone. Presently a band of music

began a stately march, and under a high stone archway a long procession

advanced. First, gaudily caparisoned picadors on blindfolded studs, two

by two, separated and came to a halt, facing the center, with long lances

abreast. Then red-coated toreadors carrying long barbs, with brilliant

streamers of ribbon, grouped themselves near the heavy closed doors of

the bull-pen; finally, the capeadors in yellow satin, carrying flaming

red capes on their arms, filed around like the mounted picadors and stood

between their studs.

The music ceased, the murmur of voices died away, and the gates of the

bull-pen were thrown open. At a quick trot, a great black bull dashed in,

receiving in his shoulders as he passed the toreador’s two short barbs.

Anita gripped her chair and gasped, “Sombre!”

Coming from a darkened pen, Sombre had trotted eagerly forward,

expecting to find himself once more in his loved pastures, but he

paused, bewildered in the glare of light. Hither and thither he turned

in nervous abruptness, his head raised high, his tail slowly lashing his

flanks. Then he lowered his grand head and sniffed the earth, and then

he smelled fresh, warm blood, the blood of his own kind. With gathering

rage he lowered his keen horns close to the ground and gave a deep,

hoarse bellow of defiance, flinging clod after clod with his forefeet

high above his back. Then there flaunted toward him a red object at which

he charged, but it swept aside, and a new sting of pain was felt in his

neck, and warm blood was trickling over his glossy skin. Again and again

he charged, but each time the red thing vanished and there was more pain,

more torturing barbs that maddened him.

Presently a horseman advanced with lowered spear. Surely horse and rider

could not vanish. Ah, no! Sombre found that it was not intended that they

should. Rushing upon them he struck them with such a blow that they were

forced backwards twenty feet and both gave a scream of pain. The picador

was dragged away with a broken leg, and the horse lay lifeless, for

Sombre’s horn had pierced its heart. Instantly a great cry went up from

that crater of humanity, “Bravo! Bravo, Toro! Bravo, Sombre!”

More than once he earned that grand applause, then his tormentors

disappeared and through one of the archways advanced a young man tall and

athletic. On his left arm hung a scarlet mantle, and in his right hand he

carried a long, keen sword. Passing under the archway, the matador swept

his sword in military salute, then with lowered point he stepped into

the arena and faced his antagonist. Upon all fell an awful silence, for

Lariato and Sombre were met in a struggle to the death!

For a time the combatants stood motionless, eyeing each other intently.

Then came stealthy movements, hither and thither, then thundering,

desperate charges, and graceful, hair-breadth escapes. At last in one

great charge, Sombre’s horn tore the mantle from Lariato’s arm and

carrying it half around the ring, as a flaming banner, the bull ground

and trampled it in the dust. A slight hissing was heard in the audience

which turned to thundering applause when Lariato contemptuously refused a

new mantle! The audience became breathless, the man alone was now the mad

beast’s target!

Sombre, dripping with blood and perspiration, his flanks swelling and

falling in his great gasps for breath, his eyes half blinded by the dust

and glare of the arena, gave the matador one brief glance, then with

head low down, charged upon him. Lariato’s long keen blade was lowered

confidently to its death-dealing slant.

Just as the murderous sword-point seemed about to sink through the bull’s

shoulders, into his very heart, a despairing woman’s cry reached the

matador’s ears. Then a mighty hiss, interspersed with hoots and jeers,

went up from the exasperated spectators, for the bull thundered on,

with the sword scarcely penetrating the tough muscles, standing upright

between his shoulders, while Lariato stood disarmed.

Coming to a standstill far beyond his antagonist, Sombre shook his huge

neck and the sword spun high into the air and fell toward the center of

the ring. Lariato took several steps toward it, but tottered and fell

upon the ground in a swoon, for he had been severely bruised.

With an exultant roar, the bull rushed back to complete his victory; the

hissing and the hooting was hushed, and groans of horror filled the air.

Suddenly, just as the animal had gained full headway in his murderous

charge, a slight, white figure glided into the ring, and a clear voice

cried “Sombre!”

At the sound of that voice, the charging beast came strainingly to a

halt, threw up his head, and gazed eagerly about, then turned and rushed

toward the girl! Capeadors hurried forward flaunting their red capes, but

she waved them back.

“Go back! You shall torment him no more, my poor, tortured, wounded

Sombre!”

In a moment the great beast was beside her, licking her dress and

arms and hands. As she deftly extricated the barbs from his neck and

shoulders, the thousands of throats around them shrieked out a vast

pandemonium of bravos. Blood was covering her hands and staining her

dress, but Anita was blind to it. Meanwhile Lariato had struggled to his

feet and hurried towards her. “God bless you,” he was saying, but she

pushed past him with a glad smile, saying, “Wait, I have something to say

to them!”

Standing in the middle of the ring, Anita waited for silence. Delaying

until not a sound was heard, she said in a clear voice that reached every

ear:

“Jeer not at Lariato; he spared my pet, my Sombre, because he loved me.”

No matador ever gained such applause as followed. Bouquets, sombreros,

scarfs, and full purses showered into the ring, and as that strange group

stood facing the ovation, “Bravo, Lariato, Bravo, la Señorita de Toros,

Bravo, Sombre!” rang out and reëchoed over the distant housetops.

A COMBAT IN THE ARENA

BY GEORGE CROLY

A portal of the arena opened, and the combatant, with a mantle thrown

over his face and figure, was led into the surroundery. The lion roared

and ramped against the bars of his den at the sight. The guard put a

sword and buckler into the hands of the Christian, and he was left

alone. He drew the mantle from his face, and bent a slow and firm look

around the amphitheater. His fine countenance and lofty bearing raised

a universal shout of admiration. He might have stood for an Apollo

encountering the Python. His eyes at last turned on mine. Could I believe

my senses? Constantius was before me.

All my rancour vanished. An hour past, I could have struck the betrayer

of the heart—I could have called on the severest vengeance of man and

heaven to smite the destroyer of my child. But to see him hopelessly

doomed, the man whom I had honored for his noble qualities, whom I had

even loved, whose crime was, at the worst, but the crime of giving way

to the strongest temptation that can bewilder the heart of man; to see

the noble creature flung to the savage beast, dying in tortures, torn

piecemeal before my eyes, and his misery wrought by me, I would have

supplicated earth and heaven to save him. But my tongue cleaved to the

roof of my mouth. My limbs refused to stir. I would have thrown myself

at the feet of Nero; but I sat like a man of stone—pale—paralyzed—the

beating of my pulse stopped—my eyes alone alive.

The gate of the den was thrown back, and the lion rushed in with a roar

and a bound that bore him half across the arena. I saw the sword glitter

in the air; when it waved again, it was covered with blood. A howl told

that the blow had been driven home. The lion, one of the largest of

Numidia, and made furious by thirst and hunger, an animal of prodigious

power, crouched for an instant, as if to make sure of his prey, crept

a few paces onward, and sprang at the victim’s throat. He was met by a

second wound, but his impulse was irresistible. A cry of natural horror

rang round the amphitheater. The struggle was now for an instant, life or

death. They rolled over each other; the lion, reared upon his hind feet

with gnashing teeth and distended talons, plunged on the man; again they

rose together. Anxiety was now at its wildest height. The sword now swung

round the Christian’s head in bloody circles. They fell again, covered

with blood and dust. The hand of Constantius had grasped the lion’s mane,

and the furious bounds of the monster could not lose his hold; but his

strength was evidently giving way—he still struck his terrible blows, but

each was weaker than the one before; till, collecting his whole force for

a last effort, he darted one mighty blow into the lion’s throat and sank.

The savage beast yelled, and spouting out blood, fled howling around the

arena. But the hand still grasped the mane, and the conqueror was dragged

whirling through the dust at his heels. A universal outcry now arose to

save him, if he were not already dead. But the lion, though bleeding from

every vein, was still too terrible, and all shrank from the hazard. At

last, the grasp gave way, and the body lay motionless on the ground.

What happened for some moments after, I know not. There was a struggle

at the portal; a female forced her way through the guards, rushed in

alone, and flung herself upon the victim. The sight of a new prey roused

the lion; he tore the ground with his talons; he lashed his streaming

sides with his tail; he lifted up his mane and bared his fangs. But his

approaching was no longer with a bound; he dreaded the sword, and came

sniffing the blood on the sand, and stealing round the body in circuits

still diminishing.

The confusion in the vast assemblage was now extreme. Voices innumerable

called for aid. Women screamed and fainted, men burst into indignant

clamors at this prolonged cruelty. Even the hard hearts of the populace,

accustomed as they were to the sacrifice of life, were roused to honest

curses. The guards grasped their arms, and waited but for a sign from the

emperor. But Nero gave no sign.

I looked upon the woman’s face; it was Salome! I sprang upon my feet. I

called on her name; called on her, by every feeling of nature, to fly

from that place of death, to come to my arms, to think of the agonies of

all that loved her.

She had raised the head of Constantius on her knee, and was wiping the

pale visage with her hair. At the sound of my voice, she looked up, and,

calmly casting back the locks from her forehead, fixed her eyes upon me.

She still knelt; one hand supported the head—with the other she pointed

to it as her only answer. I again adjured her. There was the silence of

death among the thousands around me. A fire dashed into her eye—her cheek

burned—she waved her hand with an air of superb sorrow.

“I am come to die,” she uttered, in a lofty tone. “This bleeding body

was my husband—I have no father. The world contains to me but this clay

in my arms. Yet,” and she kissed the ashy lips before her, “yet, my

Constantius, it was to save that father that your generous heart defied

the peril of this hour. It was to redeem him from the hand of evil

that you abandoned your quiet home!—Yes, cruel father, here lies the

noble being that threw open your dungeon, that led you safe through the

conflagration, that, to the last moment of his liberty, only sought how

he might preserve and protect you.” Tears at length fell in floods from

her eyes. “But,” said she, in tones of wild power, “he was betrayed, and

may the Power whose thunders avenge the cause of his people, pour down

just retribution upon the head that dared—”

I heard my own condemnation about to be pronounced by the lips of my own

child. Wound up to the last degree of suffering, I tore my hair, leaped

upon the bars before me, and plunged into the arena by her side. The

height stunned me; I tottered a few paces and fell. The lion gave a roar

and sprang upon me. I lay helpless under him, I heard the gnashing of his

white fangs above me.

An exulting shout arose. I saw him reel as if struck—gore filled his

jaws. Another mighty blow was driven to his heart. He sprang high in the

air with a howl. He dropped; he was dead. The amphitheater thundered with

acclamations.

With Salome clinging to my bosom, Constantius raised me from the

ground—the roar of the lion had roused him from his swoon, and two blows

saved me. The falchion had broken in the heart of the monster.

The whole multitude stood up, supplicating for our lives in the name of

filial piety and heroism. Nero, devil as he was, dared not resist the

strength of popular feeling. He waved a signal to the guards; the portal

was opened, and my children, sustaining my feeble steps, showered with

garlands and ornaments from innumerable hands, slowly led me from the

arena.

KAWEAH’S RUN

BY CLARENCE KING

As I walked over to see Kaweah at the corral, I glanced down the river,

and saw, perhaps a quarter of a mile below, two horsemen ride down our

bank, spur their horses into the stream, swim to the other side, and

struggle up a steep bank, disappearing among bunches of cottonwood trees

near the river.

They were Spaniards—the same who had swum King’s River the afternoon

before, and, as it flashed on me finally, the two whom I had studied so

attentively at Visalia. Then I at once saw their purpose was to waylay

me, and made up my mind to give them a lively run.

I decided to strike across, and jumping into the saddle threw Kaweah into

a sharp trot.

I glanced at my girth and then at the bright copper upon my pistol, and

settled myself firmly.

By this time I had regained the road, which lay before me traced over

the blank, objectless plain in vanishing perspective. Fifteen miles lay

between me and a station; Kaweah and pistol were my only defense, yet at

that moment I felt a thrill of pleasure, a wild moment of inspiration,

almost worth the danger to experience.

I glanced over my shoulder and found that the Spaniards were crowding

their horses to their fullest speed; their hoofs, rattling on the dry

plain, were accompanied by inarticulate noises, like the cries of

bloodhounds. Kaweah comprehended the situation. I could feel his grand

legs gather under me, and the iron muscles contract with excitement; he

tugged at the bit, shook his bridle-chains, and flung himself impatiently

into the air.

It flashed upon me that perhaps they had confederates concealed in some

ditch far in advance of me, and that the plan was to crowd me through at

fullest speed, giving up the chase to new men and fresh horses; and I

resolved to save Kaweah to the utmost, and only allow him a speed which

should keep me out of gunshot. So I held him firmly, and reserved my spur

for the last emergency. Still we fairly flew over the plain, and I said

to myself, as the clatter of hoofs and din of my pursuers rang in my ears

now and then, as the freshening breeze hurried it forward, that, if those

brutes got me, there was nothing in blood and brains; for Kaweah was a

prince beside their mustangs, and I ought to be worth two villains.

For the first twenty minutes the road was hard and smooth and level;

after that gentle, shallow undulations began, and at last, at brief

intervals, were sharp, narrow arroyos (ditches eight or nine feet wide).

I reined Kaweah in, and brought him up sharply on their bottoms, giving

him the bit to spring up on the other side; but he quickly taught me

better, and, gathering, took them easily, without my feeling it in his

stride.

The hot sun had arisen. I saw with anxiety that the tremendous speed

began to tell painfully on Kaweah. Foam tinged with blood fell from his

mouth, and sweat rolled in streams from his whole body, and now and then

he drew a deep-heaving breath. I leaned down and felt of the cinch to see

if it had slipped forward, but, as I had saddled him with great care, it

kept its true place, so I had only to fear the greasers behind, or a new

relay ahead. I was conscious of plenty of reserved speed in Kaweah, whose

powerful run was already distancing their fatigued mustangs.

As we bounded down a roll of the plain, a cloud of dust sprang from a

ravine directly in front of me, and two black objects lifted themselves

in the sand. I drew my pistol, cocked it, whirled Kaweah to the left,

plunging by them and clearing by about six feet; a thrill of relief came

as I saw the long, white horns of Spanish cattle gleam above the dust.

Unconsciously I restrained Kaweah too much, and in a moment the Spaniards

were crowding down upon me at a fearful rate. On they came, the crash of

their spurs and the clatter of their horses distinctly heard; and as I

had so often compared the beats of chronometers, I unconsciously noted

that while Kaweah’s, although painful, yet came with regular power, the

mustangs’ respiration was quick, spasmodic, and irregular. I compared

the intervals of the two mustangs, and found that one breathed better

than the other, and then, upon counting the best mustang with Kaweah,

found that he breathed nine breaths to Kaweah’s seven. In two or three

minutes I tried it again, finding the relation ten to seven; then I felt

the victory, and I yelled to Kaweah. The thin ears shot flat back upon

his neck; lower and lower he lay down to his run. I flung him a loose

rein, and gave him a friendly pat on the withers. It was a glorious

burst of speed; the wind rushed by and the plain swept under us with

dizzying swiftness. I shouted again, and the thing of nervous life under

me bounded on wilder and faster, till I could feel his spine thrill as

with shocks from a battery. I managed to look round—a delicate matter of

speed—and saw, far behind, the distanced villains, both dismounted, and

one horse fallen.

In an instant I drew Kaweah into a gentle trot, looking around every

moment, lest they should come on me unawares. In a half-mile I reached

the station, and I was cautiously greeted by a man who sat by the barn

door, with a rifle across his knees. He had seen me come over the plain,

and had also seen the Spanish horse fall. Not knowing but he might be in

league with the robbers, I gave him a careful glance before dismounting

and was completely reassured by an expression of terror which had

possession of his countenance.

I sprang to the ground and threw off the saddle, and after a word or two

with the man, who proved to be the sole occupant of this station, we fell

to work together upon Kaweah, my cocked pistol and his rifle lying close

at hand. We sponged the creature’s mouth, and, throwing a sheet over him,

walked him regularly up and down for about three-quarters of an hour,

and then taking him upon the open plain, where we could scan the horizon

in all directions, gave him a thorough grooming. I never saw him look so

magnificently as when we led him down to the creek to drink: his skin was

like satin, and the veins of his head and neck stood out firm and round

like whip-cords.—From “Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada.” Copyright

and used by kind permission of the publishers, _Chas. Scribner’s Sons_,

New York.

A HERO OF THE FURNACE-ROOM

ANONYMOUS

The duty of the boiler-makers on warships is of the most dangerous

nature. In action, between actions, and out of action the repairs that

they are called upon at a moment’s notice to effect are sufficient to

send a chill of fear through the hearts of most men. They will creep

right inside a boiler or furnace which had but a few moments before been

full of boiling liquid or hot coals. They will screw up nuts and fasten

bolts or repair leaking pipes or joints in places that other men would

consider impossible to approach. While the ship’s big guns are making the

vessel tremble, and the enemy’s shells are bursting in every direction,

these men, with positively reckless fearlessness, will venture down into

the bowels of the fighting ship, amid roaring machinery, hissing steam,

and flaming fires, to rectify an accident which, unrepaired, might send

the ship and all her human freight to the bottom more easily and more

surely and more quickly than shell or shot from the best guns of the

enemy. These men are heroes.

The _Castine_, when she went to work to batter the walls of San Juan,

carried on board three of these boiler-makers, Fish, another, and one

Huntley, of Norfolk, Virginia. The _Castine_ went into action under full

steam, her triple screws revolving at the fullest speed, and her battery

of eight guns started her quivering with excitement and the fierce

delight of battle. The furnaces were heated almost to white heat, and the

forced draught was urging the flames to greater heat, the boiling water

to the higher production of steam, the engines to increasing revolutions.

Suddenly, without expectation, without warning, far down in the furnace

hole, unheard by officer or man, amid the din of battle, the thundering

reverberations of exploding gun-powder, there arose a fierce hissing

noise right inside one of the furnaces; and all those who heard it

trembled as no guns or shot or shell had power to make them tremble.

A socket bolt in the back connection at the very farthest interior

extremity of the furnace had become loose. A leak had been sprung; the

steam was pouring in upon the fire, threatening in a few moments to put

it out and stop the progress of the ship if it did not have the more

awful effect of causing a terrible explosion and annihilation!

The faces of the men below, in that moment of terrible suspense, blanched

beneath the grime that covered them. None knew what to do save to wait

the awful coming of the shock they knew must come.

None? Nay, but there was one! The first to pull himself together, the

first to whom returned the fear-driven senses, was boiler-maker Huntley.

His name does not appear on the navy list. Even his first name was

unknown to his confrère, Fish. Only boiler-maker Huntley, of Norfolk,

Virginia. But that is enough, and the annals of fame whenever and

wherever the story of the United States and her navy is told.

One instant of startled horror—then, without hesitation, without

trepidation, with stern-set jaws and fierce, devoted determination on

every line of face and form—

“Turn off the forced draught!” he cried.

“Goodness, Huntley, what are you going to do?”

“Bank the fire! Quick!”

“It’s certain death!”

“For one—unless, for all! Turn off the draught! Bank the fire!”

The orders were carried out feverishly.

“Now a plank!”

And before they could stop him this hero had flung the plank into the

furnace, right on top of the black coal with which it was banked, and had

himself climbed and crawled over the ragged mass, far back to where the

steam was rushing like some hissing devil from the loosened socket.

For three minutes he remained inside that fearful place, and then the

work was done—the ship was saved—and his friends drew him out at the

door. The forced draught went to its work again, and in an instant the

furnace was once more raging.

But what of Huntley? Scorched, scalded, insensible, well-nigh dead, he

lay upon the iron floor of the furnace room, while around him stood

his mates dousing him with water, and using every known means for his

resuscitation. He did not die, but when once more he opened his eyes, and

was able to be carefully lifted into daylight, there arose such cheers

from the throats of those dirty, grimy mates as never greeted taking of

city or sinking of fleet.

The story is briefly chronicled in the log of the _Castine_, and Huntley

simply claims that he “did his duty.” But while the United States remains

a nation; so long as the banner bearing the silver stars on the field

of blue, above alternate stripes of red and white, remains the symbol

of purity, bravery, and patriotism to American hearts the whole world

over; so long, when her heroes are spoken of, one name should never be

omitted—that of Boiler-maker Huntley, of Norfolk, Virginia.—From _The

Toledo Blade_.

THE DEATH IN THE WHEAT

BY FRANK NORRIS

S. Behrman soon discovered his elevator. It was the largest structure

discernible, and upon its red roof, in enormous white letters, was his

own name. Thither, between piles of grain bags, halted drays, crates

and boxes of merchandise, with an occasional pyramid of salmon cases, S.

Behrman took his way. Cabled to the dock, close under his elevator, lay a

great ship with lofty masts and great spars. Her stern was toward him as

he approached, and upon it, in raised golden letters, he could read the

words, “_Swanhilda_—Liverpool.”

He went aboard by a very steep gangway and found the mate on the quarter

deck. S. Behrman introduced himself.

“Well,” he added, “how are you getting on?”

“Very fairly, sir,” returned the mate, who was an Englishman. “We’ll have

her all snugged down tight by this time day after to-morrow. It’s a great

saving of time shunting the stuff in her like that, and three men can do

the work of seven.”

“I’ll have a look ’round, I believe,” returned S. Behrman.

“Right-o,” answered the mate with a nod.

S. Behrman went forward to the hatch that opened down into the vast hold

of the ship. A great iron chute connected this hatch with the elevator,

and through it was rushing a veritable cataract of wheat.

It came from some gigantic bin within the elevator itself, rushing down

the confines of the chute to plunge into the roomy, gloomy interior

of the hold with an incessant, metallic roar, persistent, steady,

inevitable. No men were in sight. The place was deserted. No human agency

seemed to be back of the movement of the wheat. Rather, the grain seemed

impelled with a force of its own, a resistless, huge force, eager, vivid,

impatient for the sea.

S. Behrman stood watching, his ears deafened with the roar of the hard

grains against the metallic lining of the chute. He put his hand once

into the rushing tide, and the contact rasped the flesh of his fingers

and like an undertow drew his hand after it in its impetuous dash.

Cautiously he peered down into the hold. A musty odor rose to his

nostrils, the vigorous, pungent aroma of the raw cereal. It was dark. He

could see nothing; but all about and over the opening of the hatch the

air was full of a fine, impalpable dust that blinded the eyes and choked

the throat and nostrils.

As his eyes became used to the shadows of the cavern below him, he began

to distinguish the gray mass of the wheat, a great expanse, almost liquid

in its texture, which, as the cataract from above plunged into it, moved

and shifted in long, slow eddies. As he stood there, this cataract on

a sudden increased in volume. He turned about, casting his eyes upward

toward the elevator to discover the cause. His foot caught in a coil of

rope, and he fell headforemost into the hold.

The fall was a long one and he struck the surface of the wheat with

the sodden impact of a bundle of damp clothes. For the moment he was

stunned. All the breath was driven from his body. He could neither move

nor cry out. But, by degrees, his wits steadied themselves and his breath

returned to him. He looked about and above him. The daylight in the hold

was dimmed and clouded by the thick chaff-dust thrown off by the pour of

grain, and even this dimness dwindled to twilight at a short distance

from the opening of the hatch, while the remotest quarters were lost in

impenetrable blackness. He got upon his feet only to find he sunk ankle

deep in the loose packed mass underfoot.

“Hell,” he muttered, “here’s a fix.”

Directly underneath the chute, the wheat, as it poured in, raised

itself in a conical mound, but from the sides of this mound it shunted

away incessantly in thick layers, flowing in all directions with the

nimbleness of water. Even as S. Behrman spoke, a wave of grain poured

around his legs and rose rapidly to the level of his knees. He stepped

quickly back. To stay near the chute would soon bury him to the waist.

No doubt, there was some other exit from the hold, some companion ladder

that led up to the deck. He scuffled and waddled across the wheat,

groping in the dark with outstretched hands. With every inhalation he

choked, filling his mouth and nostrils more with dust than with air.

At times he could not breathe at all, but gagged and gasped, his lips

distended. But search as he would, he could find no outlet to the hold,

no stairway, no companion ladder. Again and again, staggering along in

the black darkness, he bruised his knuckles and forehead against the iron

sides of the ship. He gave up the attempt to find any interior means of

escape and returned laboriously to the space under the open hatchway.

Already he could see that the level of the wheat was raised.

“God,” he said, “this isn’t going to do at all.” He uttered a great

shout. “Hello, on deck there, somebody. For God’s sake.”

The steady, metallic roar of the pouring wheat drowned out his voice. He

could scarcely hear it himself above the rush of the cataract. Beside

this, he found it impossible to stay under the hatch. The flying grains

of wheat, spattering as they fell, stung his face like wind-driven

particles of ice. It was a veritable torture; his hands smarted with it.

Once he was all but blinded. Furthermore, the succeeding waves of wheat,

rolling from the mound under the chute, beat him back, swirling and

dashing against his legs and knees, mounting swiftly higher, carrying him

off his feet.

Once more he retreated, drawing back from beneath the hatch. He stood

still for a moment and shouted again. It was in vain. His voice returned

upon him, unable to penetrate the thunder of the chute, and horrified, he

discovered that so soon as he stood motionless upon the wheat, he sank

into it. Before he knew it, he was knee-deep again, and a long swirl of

grain sweeping outward from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming pyramid

below the chute, poured around his thighs, immobilizing him.

A frenzy of terror suddenly leaped to life within him. The horror of

death, the Fear of The Trap, shook him like a dry reed. Shouting, he tore

himself free of the wheat and once more scrambled and struggled towards

the hatchway. He stumbled as he reached it and fell directly beneath the

pour. Like a storm of small shot, mercilessly, pitilessly, the unnumbered

multitude of hurtling grains flagellated and beat and tore his flesh.

Blood streamed from his forehead and, thickening with the powder-like

chaff-dust, blinded his eyes. He struggled to his feet once more. An

avalanche from the cone of wheat buried him to his thighs. He was forced

back and back and back, beating the air, falling, rising, howling for

aid. He could no longer see; his eyes crammed with dust, smarted as if

transfixed with needles whenever he opened them. His mouth was full of

the dust; his lips were dry with it; thirst tortured him, while his

outcries choked and gagged in his rasped throat.

And all the while without stop, incessantly, inexorably, the wheat, as

if moving with a force all its own, shot downward in a prolonged roar,

persistent, steady, inevitable.

He retreated to a far corner of the hold and sat down with his back

against the iron hull of the ship and tried to collect his thoughts, to

calm himself. Surely there must be some way of escape; surely he was not

to die like this, die in this dreadful substance that was neither solid

nor fluid. What was he to do? How make himself heard?

But even as he thought about this, the cone under the chute broke again

and sent a great layer of grain rippling and tumbling toward him. It

reached him where he sat and buried his hand and one foot.

He sprang up trembling and made for another corner.

“My God,” he cried, “my God, I must think of something pretty quick!”

Once more the level of the wheat rose and the grains began piling deeper

about him. Once more he retreated. Once more he crawled, staggering to

the foot of the cataract, screaming till his ears sang and his eyeballs

strained in their sockets, and once more the relentless tide drove him

back.

Then began that terrible dance of death; the man dodging, doubling,

squirming, hunted from one corner to another; the wheat slowly,

inexorably flowing, rising, spreading to every angle, to every nook and

cranny. It reached his middle. Furious and with bleeding hands and broken

nails, he dug his way out to fall backward, all but exhausted, gasping

for breath in the dust-thickening air. Roused again by the slow advance

of the tide, he leaped up and stumbled away, blinded with the agony in

his eyes, only to crash against the metal hull of the vessel. He turned

about, the blood streaming from his face; he paused to collect his

senses, and with a rush, another wave swirled about his ankles and knees.

Exhaustion grew upon him. To stand still meant to sink; to lie or sit

meant to be buried the quicker; and all this in the dark, all this in the

air that could not be breathed, all this while he fought an enemy that

could not be gripped, toiling in a sea that could not be stayed.

Guided by the sound of the falling wheat, S. Behrman crawled on hands and

knees toward the hatchway. Once more he raised his voice in a shout for

help. His bleeding throat and raw, parched lips refused to utter but a

wheezing moan. Once more he tried to look toward the one patch of faint

light above him. His eyelids, clogged with chaff, could no longer open.

The wheat poured about his waist as he raised himself upon his knees.

Reason fled. Deafened with the roar of the grain, blinded and made dumb

with its chaff, he threw himself forward with clutching fingers, rolling

upon his back, and lay there, moving feebly, the head rolling from side

to side. The wheat, leaping continuously from the chute, poured around

him. It filled the pockets of the coat, it crept up the sleeves and

trouser legs, it covered the great, protuberant stomach, it ran at last

in rivulets into the distended, gasping mouth. It covered the face.

Upon the surface of the wheat, under the chute, nothing moved but the

wheat itself. There was no sign of life. Then, for an instant, the

surface stirred. A hand, fat, with short fingers and swollen veins,

reached up, clutching, then fell limp and prone. In another instant

it was covered. In the hold of the _Swanhilda_ there was no movement

but the widening ripples that spread flowing from the ever-breaking,

ever-reforming cone; no sound, but the rushing of the wheat that

continued to plunge incessantly from the iron chute in a prolonged roar,

persistent, steady, inevitable.—From “The Octopus.” Copyright and used by

kind permission of the publishers, _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York.

DIALECT SELECTIONS

BOY WANTED

BY MADGE ELLIOT

One 24th of December, Mr. Oscar Blunt, who kept a large hat store in the

lower part of Broadway, was writing at his desk, which was at the very

end of the store, when somebody touched his elbow softly, and, looking

up, was much astounded to see a ragged boy, whose old broad-brimmed hat

almost hid his face, standing beside him. He was so much astonished, in

fact, that he dropped his pen upon his paper, and thereby made a blot

instead of a period.

“Why, my lad, how came you here?”

“I slid past some of the fellers. Wot a woppin’ big store dis is, and wot

lots of fellers it takes to stan’ ’roun’, an’ I cheeked some an’ I tole

de odders I had somethin’ most awful partiklar to say to de big boss.”

“And what have you most awful particular to say to me?” said the “big

boss” in a kinder voice than that in which he had spoken at first, for

there was something in the boy’s dark gray eyes that made him think of a

darling little son he had buried only a year ago in the same grave where

he had buried his wife the year before.

“Well, I seen in yer window a sigh wot reads, ‘Boy Wanted.’ An’ I’m a

boy; an’ as nobody never wanted me yet, sez I to myself, sez I, ‘Dusty,

ole feller, p’r’haps there’s _your_ chance at last,’ sez I, an’ in I

comes.”

“Sorry, but you won’t suit at all, my boy.”

“How do you know ’fore you try a feller? I know I ain’t worry pooty, nor

I hain’t got no fashnoble clothes, but I’m smart, I am. I’ve been to

night-school two winters, I have, an’ got a sixth ’ward of merit, I did,

wunst, an’ I kin read readin’ fust rate wen it’s only two syllabubbles

an’ I kin spell it out wen it’s three syllabubbles, an’ I kin speak

some four syllabubbles, an’ I can read writin’ wen it’s print-letters,

an’ I kin wissel you or any oder man in des ’ere tre-men-yu-ous (four

syllabubbles) old hat-box outer his boots.” And he began to whistle a

lively tune so loudly, clearly and sweetly that everybody in the large

store turned in amazement toward the desk, and listened.

“Yes, yes, I see you whistle remarkably well, but we don’t want a boy to

whistle.”

“I kin dance too. I danced for Johnny Sniffs ben’fit when he fell inter

wun of dem cole-holes in de sidewalk, and broke his leg off short, I did,

’midst thunders of applause.” And cutting a double shuffle he went off

into a rollicking break-down, his big shoes wobbling about, and the broad

brim of his hat flopping up and down at every step.

“Stop, stop! I tell you! I don’t want a boy to dance. You won’t do, my

boy; you won’t do, as I’ve told you before. Here’s a quarter for you, and

now go away.”

“I don’t want de quarter; nor I don’t want to go ’way,” persisted the

boy. “I didn’t come ’way from Fishhead Alley to dis swell street to go

’way so soon. I want a sit-u-wa-tion (four syllabubbles), I do. An’

de fust thing I seen, wen I comes round de corner, was dat sign, ‘Boy

Wanted.’ ‘An’ dat’s good luck,’ sez I. ‘Go in, Dusty ole feller,’ sez I.

An’ I ain’t tole you haff what I kin do. Jess yez hole on a minnit. I kin

see a cop furder nor any our gang; an’ wen one comes in de front door

arter you, I kin give you de wink, quicker’n lightenin’, an’ out de back

door you pops. An’ I kin speak pieces, I kin—‘A hoss! A hoss! my kingdom

fer a hoss! Dere’s sixty Richmons in de field to-day, an’ I’ve killed

every wun of dem. A hoss—’”

“Silence!” commanded Mr. Blunt; and then in spite of himself he burst

into a fit of laughter and laughed until he shook again, and there was a

great deal of him to shake—two hundred pounds at the very least. “Tell me

something about yourself, my boy, but mind, no more performances of any

kind. What is your name, and where do you live, to begin with?”

“Dusty’s my name. I don’t know no odder. One feller, he’s from the

country, he is—calls me ‘Dusty Miller’; he sez ’cause dey’s a flower wot

dey calls ‘Dusty Miller’ dare. I believe he’s foolin’. But if I’m de boy

wot’s wanted, I must get a nobbier name dan dat. Wot’s your name, boss?”

“Mr. Oscar Blunt.”

“Well, you might call me dat, too, without de mister. It soun’s werry

nice—‘Hoss car Blunt,’ or you might keep de Hoss car, an I’d be de

El-e-wa-ted (four syllabubbles) Road Blunt. Any way you’ve mind to. You

pay your money, and takes your choice. An’ I lives roun’ anywhere sence

Aunt Kate died.”

“Aunt Kate? And was Aunt Kate your only relation? Have you no father and

mother?” asked Mr. Blunt.

“Nope; never had none, ’cept Aunt Kate. An’ I ain’t no frien’s, ’cept

Straw Hat. He keeps a paper stan’, he does; an’ onst he giv a party, he

did, in a charcoal-box. I wos dere, an’ it wuz bully, you bet. An’ I’ve

got a little brudder.”

“A little brother?”

“Yep, sir. He wuz my cousin wunst, ’fore dey took Aunt Kate away; but

he’s my brudder now, an’ I got to take care of him. He jess gobbles bread

and milk, an’ dat’s w’y I’m lookin’ for a sit-i-wa-tion—’nother four

syllabubbles. Crackey! I’m as full of big words as a diction’ry, I am.

An’ Straw Hat he sez to me, sez he, ‘If you want me to say you’re honest

an’ sober an’ ’dustyous, I’ll say it,’ says he. He’s a bully good feller,

he is, an’ I ain’t givin’ taffy, neider. He’s took care of me an’ my

little brudder sence Aunt Kate died—dat’s lass week—but he can’t do it

forev’r’n’ever.”

“And where is this little brother now?”

“Sittin’ on your stoop, waitin’ till I come out.”

“Sitting on my stoop? Why he must be half frozen, poor little fellow. Go

and bring him in directly.”

The boy flew, and in a moment returned, leading by the hand a wee child,

who could just walk, and whose very small nose was blue with cold, and

who was wrapped in an old shawl, the ends of which dragged behind him.

“He’s a boy too, an’ he’s real pooty, an’ if he’s the kind of boy yer

want, you may have him; but you must be awful good to him, an’ let me

come and see him. Say, boss, to-morrer’s Chrismus day!”

“Well, and what then?”

“Wen folks all gits presents, an’ fellers wot’s got stockin’s hangs ’em

up, an’ spose, boss—jess fer fun—you let me an’ my little brudder be your

Chrismus present?”

“Done!” said Mr. Blunt, conquered at last by the boy’s patient and

persistent coaxing. “I’ll make believe I found one in each stocking. But

mind, Dusty, you must be the best of boys, and stop using slang, or I

won’t keep you.”

“You kin bet you bottom dollar I’ll do everything you want me to. Horay!

ain’t dis a bully racket? I’m de boy wot’s wanted in dis es-tab-lish-ment

(four syllabubbles) an’ I mean to be in-wal-u-a-ble—five syllabubbles,

by gracious! Mind my little brudder a minnit till I run an’ tell Straw

Hat.” And before Mr. Blunt could say a word, the crown of the hat was on

his head, and he was out of the store and away.

And when he returned with Straw Hat the baby was sitting in the lap of

the good natured colored woman who kept the store clean, as happy as any

baby could be who had just eaten four sugar cakes and a stick of candy.

And Dusty E. Road proved himself to be, as he himself said he would be,

the very boy wanted in that establishment.

THE HIEROGLYPHICS OF LOVE

BY AMANDA MATHEWS

The mother of Teodota sat in the doorway with a bowl of meat in her lap.

Her greasy black dress wrinkled latitudinally about her shapeless figure.

Her countenance was smooth, blank, and oily. As she cut the meat into

bits for the tamales, an impotent dribble of monologue flowed from her

flabby, pendulous lips. While awake, talking was a function as natural

and continuous as respiration or digestion, and was interrupted only when

her present husband exerted himself to beat or kick her into a brief

interval of sniffling repression. On this particular afternoon Señor

Garcia was not interested in damming the sluggish but endless current of

his wife’s conversation, for he lay in drunken sleep on a filthy blanket

in a corner of the rough board pen, a Mexican Caliban, swart, lowbrowed,

bestial.

Teodota knelt behind the metate grinding corn to be mixed with chile

in the pungent tamales. She had dragged the clumsy stone implement

to a position where she could see that her stepfather still slept,

notwithstanding his frightful inarticulate gulps and growls. A thin,

flat-chested slip of a girl was Teodota, with great, piteous brown eyes,

high cheek bones, small, pointed chin, and a complexion of tan satin.

She was not beautiful; rather was she an intaglio of beauty with hollows

where there should have been roundness. Her untidy black braids had been

slept on many times since they had known a comb; the scant, tattered

calico gown fell away from the upturned leathery soles of her bare feet.

She guided the heavy stone roller with languid, perfunctory movements,

while some clockwork in her brain prompted the periodical “Si, madre,”

that fully satisfied her mother’s conversational requirements.

The real Teodota was back in Old Mexico. Certainly she was not driven

thither by any lack of familiar environment in the Mexican quarter of Los

Angeles. Nor would it seem necessary for Teodota to keep tryst in Mexico

with a lover who had not preceded her to the United States, but they had

not found each other yet and she could meet her Pablo only at the plaza

fountain in Texcoco.

Suddenly into the dream, but not of it, a white folded paper fluttered

through the open window and lay on the floor beside the metate. The girl

examined it curiously.

“What is it, daughter?” inquired the elder woman.

“I do not know, mother. It looks like drawing; I am sure it isn’t

writing.”

“I can use it to light my cigarette.”

“No, mamacita, I want it.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

The girl hid the paper where billows of a not overclean chemise escaped

at long gaps between buttons, and returned to her labor, but the

apparently trifling incident had taken a certain hold on her listless,

stunted intelligence. Recklessly, she pushed a handful of corn off the

end of the metate and edged about on her knees as if to pick it up, in

order to study the document with her back to her mother. The unlettered

brain, not accustomed to flat symbols for the appearance of things,

was slow to find any significance in the lines. Very gradually did she

achieve recognition of a railway train and the human figures, male and

female.

As her stepfather pulled himself into a sitting posture she thrust the

paper back into her bosom, trembling lest he had seen it, and still more

lest he beat her for the unground corn.

“_Caramba!_” he growled. “May the roof fall upon the Labor Union.”

Mother and daughter exchanged glances of relief that, so far, the object

of his wrath was remote and intangible.

“They told me in Mexico,” he continued, “of a fine thing here in America

called the Labor Union that pays a man when he does not work, that throws

stones at him if he is such a fool as to desire work, and calls him—calls

him—a pest overtake their speech that is hard as rocks in the mouth—”

“Scabe, _padre_,” supplied Teodota, timidly.

“I come here with my innocent family. I seek out this Labor Union and

say, ‘Here am I, Juan Garcia, who is no—no—’”

“Scabe, _padre_,” ventured the girl again.

“But hates work like the very devil. Do they embrace me? Do they put

money in my hand? Ah-h-h!”

His memory of the rest of that painful interview, when a muscular labor

leader chose to consider that he was being trifled with, vented itself in

a shrill howl of rage.

Teodota caught up a brown earthen pitcher, and slipping out as though to

bring water from the hydrant, hid herself behind a scrubby red geranium

in the angle between the last tenement and the high board fence. At

first she crouched in wretched fear of being dragged forth to receive a

beating, or witness one bestowed upon her mother, but the minutes slipped

by without pursuit.

It was not because she needed to exercise her reposeful wits during this

period of hiding that she fell to studying the paper again, but rather on

account of a pleasant stir in some rudimentary faculty that under happier

circumstances might have been imagination. Man, boy, woman, train, mules,

she identified with growing ease and satisfaction. For her, it was a

notable mental achievement when she perceived relations among the members

of the groups of objects.

That man was kissing the hand of the maiden with a water-jar on her

shoulder. Even so had Pablo kissed her hand under the _portales_ that

last morning, and when she inquired saucily if she were his grandmother,

he snatched her to him and kissed both cheeks and called her _queridita_.

In the next square the same girl was being flogged. Even so had she been

used by her stepfather, who wished her to have no lover, but to continue

making tamales for his support. Her beloved had left for the United

States in just such a train.

This was a communication from Pablo! That supreme illumination in her dim

intellect was a blessed miracle of love. She kissed the picture-letter

and rocked back and forth, hugging it, while her heart nearly leaped

out of her joy. Then she fell to studying it anew. The square showing

forth a man driving a team of mules hitched to a scraper was beyond her

comprehension, as she was unfamiliar with grading camps.

At the bottom of the sheet the boy with the shirt-waist and simulated

fur cap was receiving a letter, running with it, and in the last square,

delivering it to the maiden. Dear Pablo evidently believed that this boy

was the messenger between them, whereas it must have been the angels

or the saints, for had she not seen the boy looking as innocent and

indifferent as you please?

When Teodota returned to the squalid room her stepfather had a more

immediate grievance.

“You impudent, lazy hussy! You _sin verguenza_! I’ll teach you to leave

your work and gad about the court!”

“If you touch me again,” blazed the girl, “you’d better keep awake. I’ll

kill you if I ever catch you asleep!”

A rabbit at bay is at least a surprise, and the brute’s jaw dropped, the

upraised arm fell back, and cursing and blustering, he strolled forth

into the court. With a champion hovering near, there had suddenly come

to the girl the power to hate bravely. Heretofore she had feared her

stepfather as the savage who dares not hate the evil powers moving in the

darkness lest they perceive his hatred and smite him afresh.

“Daughter! daughter!” wailed the frightened mother, “that was not a

respectful manner to address a parent. When I was a girl it was the

custom—”

“_Si, madre_,” responded Teodota, patiently, as she indited her answer

to her lover with a burnt match on a scrap of wrapping paper. Roughly,

but eloquently, she sketched two little imploring hands, and flung the

epistle from the window with childlike confidence that whatever powers

had brought Pablo’s letter would convey her reply.

It was a transformed Teodota that stood just out of the heavy wooden

gates of the court the next morning, apparently loitering in idle

contemplation of the street, where Latin infants disported themselves on

the sidewalks, and soft Spanish speech was heard in every doorway, but

in reality her whole body was charged with excitement and impatience.

Personal neatness in a board pen devoted chiefly to the manufacture

of tamales could not be expected to attain any high standard, but her

appearance this morning bore eloquent testimony to the civilizing power

of love. Her abundant black hair, moist and glossy, rippled on her

shoulders, with a red geranium glowing in its shadows. The billows of

chemise between the distant buttons were snowy white, the worst rents

in the tattered pink gown had been roughly mended, and even the blue

_rebozo_ lying across her shoulders had taken on a faded purity.

As though to set the seal of heavenly approval on such cleanliness,

another communication from Pablo was found pinned to the _rebozo_ when

she drew it in from the window where it had swung to dry. That the small

boy was not in sight was ample proof that it had come by supernatural

agency.

This last letter said more eloquently than mere words could have done: “I

await thee at the tunnel.” Yet with seeming nonchalance, Teodota watched

the squat, receding figure of her stepfather abroad on the only tasks

compatible with his dignity and tastes—the delivery of the tamales to a

dealer down the street, and the collection of the revenue therefrom. The

very instant, however, that he disappeared into a doorway, she was off in

the opposite direction, wrapping her _rebozo_ about her head as she went,

and giving the end a final fling over her shoulder.

At the Mexican end of the tunnel, just beyond the Chinese laundry, but

before one enters the cavernous chill and shadow, stands an unroofed

adobe[8] hovel close to the highway. Teodota, hurrying by this ruin,

thrilled from head to foot to hear her name.

“Pablo!” she gasped. Her soul rode the wave of joy to its crest; then

dropped back into the trough of despair. “I took you for _gente decente_!

How fine you are! How elegant! A grand señor!”

The tall, handsome Aztec looked down complacently at his black suit and

the ends of his red tie, not displeased at the impression he made.

“Didst think, _queridita_,” he laughed, kissing her cheeks as he had done

under the _portales_, “that here in America I would be wearing white

cotton trousers and leather sandals? No, indeed! This is another day.”

“But I, Señor—”

“Call me not ‘Señor,’ but Pablo and thy sweetheart,” he cried, swinging

her to the top of a crumbling wall, where she was obliged to cling to him

most deliciously.

“You will be ashamed of me.”

“Nay, little one, we will soon mend thy distress. I know of a store not

far from here with a sign—I cannot speak the strange word, but it looks

thus.” With a pencil he scrawled on a bit of plaster still clinging to

the adobe: RUMMAGE SALE.

“This is a strange country, Teodota. At home it is the poor who sell

their clothes—mostly in the pawn-shops, though my uncle had six serapes

bought off his back by gringo tourists. Here, it is the aristocrats who

sell their garments to the poor, and very cheap, though, of course, one

offers the half. Poor rich, to lose their pretty clothes, but I suppose

the rents are high where they live, and they must have plenty to eat,

being so accustomed. I can buy thee silk and velvet and thou shalt be a

grand señora, as I am a grand señor.”

“Dear Pablo, you are as good as the blessed saints who brought me your

letters.”

“It was a little boy, Teodota, whose father works in the same camp.”

“He seemed not to be concerned in the matter, and I was sure it was the

saints. I must go back now or my stepfather will beat me.”

“Back, little one? Never! Come with me instead. The beast shall never

beat thee again.”

“But the tamales?”

“I like tamales. You shall make them for me.”

“What would my poor mother say?”

“We can let her know later, and she will be glad to have thee free from

that _cochino_. Listen, _lindita_: Beyond this tunnel is a big red house

that they say is the National Palace of Los Angeles, and here one must

get a permit to marry, though the priest really does the work. Let us

seek the red house.”

“Oh, Pablo! Now?”

“Yes, _querida_.”

Hand in hand, the lovers left the adobe, and the somber echoing tunnel,

with the electric wires seen like a spider’s web across its farther end,

was to them an underground passage to Paradise.

—Copyright, and used by kind consent of the author.

Note.—Spanish words are pronounced according to the continental

pronunciation, and each vowel is given a syllable. “Si Ma-dre,”

pronounced See Ma´dray, yes, mother. “Ma-ma-ci-ta,” pronounced

Ma-ma-cee-tah, little mother. “Sin Ver-gu-en-za,” pronounced Seen

Vehr-goo-ain´tha, shameless. “Que-ri-di-ta,” pronounced Kay-ree-dee´tah,

little love. “Por-ta-les,” pronounced Por-tah´lays, covered sidewalks.

“Gente decente,” pronounced Hen´tay day-then´tay, the aristocracy.

“Coch-i-no,” pronounced Co-chee´no, pig. “Lin-di-ta,” pronounced

Leen-dee´ta, pretty. “Que-ri-da,” pronounced Kay-ree´da, beloved.

THE INTERVENTION OF PETER

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

No one knows just what statement it was of Harrison Randolph’s that Bob

Lee doubted. The annals of these two Virginia families have not told us

that. But these are the facts:

It was at the home of the Fairfaxes that a few of the sons of the old

Dominion were giving a dinner, and a brave dinner it was. The courses

had come and gone, and over their cigars they had waxed more than merry.

In those days men drank deep, and these men were young, full of the warm

blood of the South and the joy of living. What wonder then that the

liquor that had been mellowing in the Fairfax cellars since the boyhood

of their revolutionary ancestor should have its effect upon them?

It is true that it was only a slight thing which Bob Lee affected

to disbelieve, and that his tone was jocosely bantering rather than

impertinent. But sometimes Virginia heads are not less hot than Virginia

hearts. The two young men belonged to families that had intermarried.

They rode together, hunted together and were friends as far as two men

could be who had read the message of love in the dark eyes of the same

woman. So perhaps there was some thought of the long-contested hand of

Miss Sallie Ford in Harrison Randolph’s mind when he chose to believe

that his honor had been assailed.

His dignity was admirable. There was no scene to speak of. It was all

very genteel.

“Mr. Lee,” he said, “had chosen to doubt his word, which to a gentleman

was a final insult. But he felt sure that Mr. Lee would not refuse to

accord him a gentleman’s satisfaction.” And the other’s face had waxed

warm and red and his voice cold as he replied: “I shall be most happy to

give you the satisfaction you demand.”

Here friends interposed and attempted to pacify the two. But without

avail.

Each of the young men nodded to a friend and rose to depart. The joyous

dinner-party bade fair to end with much more serious business.

* * * * *

“You shall hear from me very shortly,” said Randolph, as he strode to the

door.

“I shall await your pleasure with impatience, sir, and give you such a

reply as even you cannot disdain.”

Peter, the personal attendant of Harrison Randolph, stood at the door as

his master passed out, and went on before him to hold his stirrup. The

young master and his friend and cousin, Dale, started off briskly and

in silence, while Pete, with wide eyes and disturbed face, followed on

behind. Just as they were turning into the avenue of elms that led to

their own house, Randolph wheeled his horse and came riding back to his

servant.

“Pete,” said he sternly, “what do you know?”

“Nuffin’, Mas’ Ha’ison, nuffin’ ’t all. I do’ know nuffin’.”

“I don’t believe you.” The young master’s eyes were shining through the

dusk. “You’re always slipping around spying on me.”

“Now, dah you goes, Mas’ Randolph. I ain’t done a thing, and you got to

’mence pickin’ on me—”

“I just want you to remember that my business is mine.”

“Well, I knows dat.”

“And if you do know anything, it will be well for you to begin

forgetting it right now. Take Bess around and see her attended to. Leave

Dale’s horse here, and—I won’t want you any more to-night.”

Pete turned away with an injured expression on his dark face. “Bess,” he

said to the spirited black mare, as he led her toward the stables, “you

jes’ better t’ank yo’ Makah dat you ain’t no human bein’, ’ca’se human

bein’s is cur’ous articles. Now you’s a horse, ain’t you? And dey say you

ain’t got no soul, but you got sense, Bess, you got sense. You’s a high

steppah, too, but you don’ go to work an’ try to brek yo’ naik de fus’

chanst you git. Bess, I ’spect you ’ca’se you got jedgment, an’ you don’

have to have a black man runnin’ aftah you all de time plannin’ his head

off jes’ to keep you out o’ trouble. Some folks dat’s human bein’s does.

Yet an’ still, Bess, you ain’t nuffin’ but a dumb beas’, so dey says.

Now, what I gwine to do? Co’se dey wants to fight. But whah an’ when an’

how I gwine to stop hit? Doan want me to wait on him to-night, huh! No,

dey want to mek dey plans an’ do’ want me ’roun’ to hyeah, dat’s what’s

de mattah. Well, I lay I’ll hyeah somep’n’ anyhow.”

Peter hurried through his work and took himself up to the big house and

straight to his master’s room. He heard voices within, but though he

took many liberties with his owner, eavesdropping was not one of them.

It proved too dangerous. So, though he lingered on the mat, it was not

for long, and he unceremoniously pushed the door open and walked in.

With a great show of haste, he made for his master’s wardrobe and began

busily searching among the articles therein. Harrison Randolph and his

cousin were in the room, and their conversation, which had been animated,

suddenly ceased when Peter entered.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want you any more to-night.”

“I’s a-lookin’ fu’ dem striped pants o’ yo’n. I want to tek ’m out an’

bresh ’em; dey’s pintly a livin’ sight.”

“You get out o’ here.”

“But, Mas’ Ha’ison, now—now—look-a-hyeah—”

“Get out, I tell you.”

Pete shuffled from the room, mumbling as he went: “Dah now, dah now!

driv’ out lak’ a dog! How’s I gwine to fin’ out anyt’ing dis way? It do

’pear lak Mas’ Ha’ison do try to give me all de trouble he know how.

Now he plannin’ and prijickin’ wif dat cousin Dale an’ one jes’ ez

scattah-brained ez de othah. Well, I ’low I got to beat dis time somehow

er ruther.”

He was still lingering hopeless and worried about the house when he saw

young Dale Randolph come out, mount his horse, and ride away. After a

while his young master also came out and walked up and down in the soft

evening air. The rest of the family were seated about on the broad piazza.

“I wonder what is the matter with Harrison to-night,” said the young

man’s father, “he seems so preoccupied.”

“Thinking of Sallie Ford, I reckon,” some one replied; and the remark

passed with a laugh. Pete was near enough to catch this, but he did not

stop to set them right in their conjectures. He slipped into the house.

It was less than two hours after this when Dale Randolph returned and

went immediately to his cousin’s room, where Harrison followed him.

“Well?” said the latter, as soon as the door closed behind them.

“It’s all arranged, and he’s anxious to hurry it through for fear some

one may interfere. Pistols, and to-morrow morning at daybreak.”

“And the place?”

“The little stretch of woods that borders Ford’s Creek. I say, Harrison,

it isn’t too late to stop this thing yet. It’s a shame for you two

fellows to fight. You’re both too decent to be killed yet.”

“He insulted me.”

“Without intention, every one believes.”

“Then let him apologize.”

“As well ask the devil to take Communion.”

“We’ll fight then.”

“All right. If you must fight you must. But you’d better go to bed, for

you’ll need a strong arm and a steady hand to-morrow.”

“I’m going to write a couple of letters first,” he said; “then I shall

lie down for an hour or so. And, by the way, Dale, if I—if it happens to

be me to-morrow, you take Pete; he’s a good fellow.”

The cousins clasped hands in silence and passed out. As the door

closed behind them a dusky form rolled out from under the bed and the

disreputable, eavesdropping, backsliding Peter stood up and rubbed a

sleeve across his eyes.

“It ain’t me dat’s gwine to be give to nobody else. I hates to do it; but

dey ain’t no othah way. Mas’ Ha’ison cain’t be spaihed.” He glided out

mysteriously, some plan of salvation working in his black head.

* * * * *

Just before daybreak next morning three stealthy figures crept out and

made their way toward Ford’s Creek. One skulked behind the other two,

dogging their steps and taking advantage of the darkness to keep very

near to them. At the grim trysting-place they halted and were soon joined

by other stealthy figures, and together they sat down to wait for the

daylight. The seconds conferred for a few minutes. The ground was paced

off, and a few, low-pitched orders prepared the young men for business.

“I will count three, gentlemen,” said Lieutenant Custis. “At three, you

are to fire.”

At last daylight came, gray and timid at first, and then red and bold as

the sun came clearly up. The pistols were examined and the men placed

face to face.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?”

But evidently Harrison Randolph was not. He was paying no attention to

the seconds. His eyes were fixed on an object behind his opponent’s back.

His attitude relaxed and his mouth began to twitch. Then he burst into a

peal of laughter.

“Pete,” he roared, “drop that and come out from there!” and away he went

into another convulsion of mirth. The others turned just in time to see

Pete cease his frantic grimaces of secrecy at his master, and sheepishly

lower an ancient fowling-piece which he had had leveled at Bob Lee.

“What were you going to do with that gun leveled at me?” asked Lee, his

own face twitching.

“I was gwine to fiah jes’ befo’ dey said free. I wa’n’t gwine to kill

you, Mas’ Bob. I was on’y gwine to lame you.”

Another peal of laughter from the whole crowd followed this condescending

statement.

“You unconscionable scoundrel, you! If I was your master, I’d give you a

hundred lashes.”

“Pete,” said his master, “don’t you know that it is dishonorable to shoot

a man from behind? You see you haven’t in you the making of a gentleman.”

“I do’ know nuffin’ ’bout mekin’ a gent’man, but I does know how to save

one dat’s already made.”

The prime object of the meeting had been entirely forgotten. They

gathered around Pete and examined the weapon.

“Gentlemen,” said Randolph, “we have been saved by a miracle. This old

gun, as well as I can remember and count, has been loaded for the past

twenty-five years, and if Pete had tried to fire it, it would have torn

up all this part of the country.”

Then the eyes of the two combatants met. There was something

irresistibly funny in the whole situation, and they found themselves

roaring again. Then, with one impulse, they shook hands without a word.

And Pete led the way home, the willing butt of a volume of good-natured

abuse.—From “Folks from Dixie,” copyright by _Dodd, Mead & Company_, New

York, and used by arrangement.

PART THREE

Melodious Reading

Conversational elements: Pitch, Inflection, Color, Stress, Pause,

Movement, Time. Separate discussions and illustrations with number of

exercises for the pupil to practice. Melody in verse and in prose.

EXPRESSIVE SPEECH[9]

BY ROBERT LLOYD

’Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear,

’Tis modulation that must charm the ear.

When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan,

And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone,

The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes

Can only make the yawning hearer doze.

_That_ voice all modes of passion can express

Which marks the proper word with proper stress;

But none emphatic can the reader call

Who lays an equal emphasis on _all_.

...

He who in earnest studies o’er his part

Will find true nature cling about his heart.

The modes of grief are not included all

In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl.

A single look more marks the internal woe

Than all the windings of the lengthened O!

Up to the face the quick sensation flies,

And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes.

Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair,

And all the passions, all the soul is there.