CHAPTER II.--HOW I BECAME DESTINED FOR T

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[Illustration: "WITH THE BOUND OF A TIGER HOLMES WAS ON HIS BACK."]

(_See page 492._)

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Vol. xxvii. MAY, 1904. No. 161.

THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

By A. CONAN DOYLE.

Copyright, 1904, by A. Conan Doyle, in the United States of

America.

_VIII.--The Adventure of the Six Napoleons._

It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to look

in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock

Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on

at the police head-quarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would

bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details

of any case upon which the detective was engaged, and was able

occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or

suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience.

On this particular evening Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the

newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his

cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

"Anything remarkable on hand?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes, nothing very particular."

"Then tell me about it."

Lestrade laughed.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there _is_ something on

my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business that I hesitated to

bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is

undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out

of the common. But in my opinion it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than

ours."

"Disease?" said I.

"Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness too! You wouldn't think there was

anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of Napoleon the

First that he would break any image of him that he could see."

Holmes sank back in his chair.

"That's no business of mine," said he.

"Exactly. That's what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary in

order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away from

the doctor and on to the policeman."

Holmes sat up again.

"Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details."

Lestrade took out his official note-book and refreshed his memory from

its pages.

[Illustration: "LESTRADE TOOK OUT HIS OFFICIAL NOTE-BOOK."]

"The first case reported was four days ago," said he. "It was at the

shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and

statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop

for an instant when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a plaster

bust of Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art upon the

counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road,

but, although several passers-by declared that they had noticed a man

run out of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any

means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless

acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was reported

to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast was not worth

more than a few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too

childish for any particular investigation.

"The second case, however, was more serious and also more singular. It

occurred only last night.

"In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson's

shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr. Barnicot,

who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of the Thames.

His residence and principal consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but

he has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles

away. This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his

house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Some

little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster

casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the French sculptor, Devine. One

of these he placed in his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the

other on the mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr.

Barnicot came down this morning he was astonished to find that his house

had been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save

the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been

dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splintered

fragments were discovered."

Holmes rubbed his hands.

"This is certainly very novel," said he.

"I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet. Dr.

Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and you can imagine

his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window had been

opened in the night, and that the broken pieces of his second bust were

strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to atoms where it stood.

In neither case were there any signs which could give us a clue as to

the criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you

have got the facts."

"They are singular, not to say grotesque," said Holmes. "May I ask

whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot's rooms were the exact

duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson's shop?"

"They were taken from the same mould."

"Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them

is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how many

hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London, it is too

much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast

should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust."

"Well, I thought as you do," said Lestrade. "On the other hand, this

Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and these

three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years. So,

although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it

is very probable that these three were the only ones in that district.

Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What do you think, Dr.

Watson?"

"There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania," I answered.

"There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have

called the 'idee fixe,' which may be trifling in character, and

accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read

deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary

family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such an

'idee fixe' and under its influence be capable of any fantastic

outrage."

"That won't do, my dear Watson," said Holmes, shaking his head; "for no

amount of 'idee fixe' would enable your interesting monomaniac to find

out where these busts were situated."

"Well, how do _you_ explain it?"

"I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a certain

method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr.

Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was

taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there

was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair

seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I

reflect that some of my most classic cases have had the least promising

commencement. You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of

the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which

the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can't afford,

therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be

very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any fresh

developments of so singular a chain of events."

* * * * *

The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and an

infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still

dressing in my bedroom next morning when there was a tap at the door and

Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:--

"Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.--Lestrade."

"What is it, then?" I asked.

"Don't know--may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the

story of the statues. In that case our friend, the image-breaker, has

begun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the

table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door."

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater

just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was one

of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings.

As we drove up we found the railings in front of the house lined by a

curious crowd. Holmes whistled.

"By George! it's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will hold

the London message-boy. There's a deed of violence indicated in that

fellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's this, Watson? The

top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow!

Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know

all about it."

The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a

sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly man,

clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was

introduced to us as the owner of the house--Mr. Horace Harker, of the

Central Press Syndicate.

[Illustration: "HE WAS INTRODUCED TO US AS THE OWNER OF

THE HOUSE--MR. HORACE HARKER."]

"It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade. "You seemed

interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be

glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver

turn."

"What has it turned to, then?"

"To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has

occurred?"

The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy face.

"It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life I have been

collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of news has

come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can't put two words

together. If I had come in here as a journalist I should have

interviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it is

I am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over to a

string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However,

I've heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll only explain

this queer business I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the

story."

Holmes sat down and listened.

"It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought for

this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from Harding

Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great deal of my

journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early

morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den, which is at the back

of the top of the house, about three o'clock, when I was convinced that

I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,

and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about five

minutes later, there came a most horrible yell--the most dreadful sound,

Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I

live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the

poker and went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window

wide open, and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the

mantelpiece. Why any burglar should take such a thing passes my

understanding, for it was only a plaster cast and of no real value

whatever.

"You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open window

could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This was clearly

what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door. Stepping

out into the dark I nearly fell over a dead man who was lying there. I

ran back for a light, and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his

throat and the whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his

knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my

dreams. I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must

have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman

standing over me in the hall."

"Well, who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.

"There's nothing to show who he was," said Lestrade. "You shall see the

body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now. He is a

tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is poorly

dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled clasp

knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon

which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not

know. There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save

an apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here

it is."

It was evidently taken by a snap-shot from a small camera. It

represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man with thick eyebrows, and

a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face like the muzzle

of a baboon.

"And what became of the bust?" asked Holmes, after a careful study of

this picture.

"We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the front

garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken into

fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?"

"Certainly. I must just take one look round." He examined the carpet and

the window. "The fellow had either very long legs or was a most active

man," said he. "With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach that

window-ledge and open that window. Getting back was comparatively

simple. Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr.

Harker?"

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

"I must try and make something of it," said he, "though I have no doubt

that the first editions of the evening papers are out already with full

details. It's like my luck! You remember when the stand fell at

Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and my journal

the only one that had no account of it, for I was too shaken to write

it. And now I'll be too late with a murder done on my own doorstep."

As we left the room we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the

foolscap.

The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a few

hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this

presentment of the great Emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic and

destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered in

splintered shards upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them and

examined them carefully. I was convinced from his intent face and his

purposeful manner that at last he was upon a clue.

"Well?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"We have a long way to go yet," said he. "And yet--and yet--well, we

have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this trifling

bust was worth more in the eyes of this strange criminal than a human

life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact that he did not

break it in the house, or immediately outside the house, if to break it

was his sole object."

"He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly knew

what he was doing."

"Well, that's likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very

particularly to the position of this house in the garden of which the

bust was destroyed."

Lestrade looked about him.

"It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed in

the garden."

"Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he

must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it

there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried it increased

the risk of someone meeting him?"

"I give it up," said Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

[Illustration: "HOLMES POINTED TO THE STREET LAMP ABOVE OUR HEADS."]

"He could see what he was doing here and he could not there. That was

his reason."

"By Jove! that's true," said the detective. "Now that I come to think of

it, Dr. Barnicot's bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr.

Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?"

"To remember it--to docket it. We may come on something later which will

bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?"

"The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to identify

the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When we have

found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a good start

in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night, and who it was

who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don't

you think so?"

"No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach

the case."

"What would you do, then?"

"Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way! I suggest that you go

on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and each

will supplement the other."

"Very good," said Lestrade.

"If you are going back to Pitt Street you might see Mr. Horace Harker.

Tell him from me that I have quite made up my mind, and that it is

certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic with Napoleonic delusions was

in his house last night. It will be useful for his article."

Lestrade stared.

"You don't seriously believe that?"

Holmes smiled.

"Don't I? Well, perhaps I don't. But I am sure that it will interest Mr.

Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate. Now,

Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and rather

complex day's work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could

make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six o'clock this

evening. Until then I should like to keep this photograph found in the

dead man's pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask your company

and assistance upon a small expedition which will have to be undertaken

to-night, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until

then, good-bye and good luck!"

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where he

stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been

purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be

absent until after noon, and that he was himself a newcomer who could

give us no information. Holmes's face showed his disappointment and

annoyance.

"Well, well, we can't expect to have it all our own way, Watson," he

said, at last. "We must come back in the afternoon if Mr. Harding will

not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised,

endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in order to find if

there is not something peculiar which may account for their remarkable

fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see

if he can throw any light upon the problem."

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's establishment. He

was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.

"Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir," said he. "What we pay rates and

taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in and break one's

goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.

Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot, that's what I make it. No one but an

Anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red republicans, that's what

I call 'em. Who did I get the statues from? I don't see what that has to

do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder and

Co., in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the

trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three--two and

one are three--two of Dr. Barnicot's and one smashed in broad daylight

on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don't. Yes, I do,

though. Why, it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who

made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a bit and gild and

frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last week, and I've heard

nothing of him since. No, I don't know where he came from nor where he

went to. I have nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two

days before the bust was smashed."

"Well, that's all we could reasonably expect to get from Morse Hudson,"

said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. "We have this Beppo as a

common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is worth a

ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder and Co., of Stepney,

the source and origin of busts. I shall be surprised if we don't get

some help down there."

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable London,

hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial London,

and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a

hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter and reek with

the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode of

wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we

searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry.

Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding.

The manager, a big blonde German, received us civilly, and gave a clear

answer to all Holmes's questions. A reference to his books showed that

hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of Devine's head of

Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year

or so before had been half of a batch of six, the other three being sent

to Harding Brothers, of Kensington. There was no reason why those six

should be different to any of the other casts. He could suggest no

possible cause why anyone should wish to destroy them--in fact, he

laughed at the idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the

retailer would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from

each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris

were joined together to make the complete bust. The work was usually

done by Italians in the room we were in. When finished the busts were

put on a table in the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was

all he could tell us.

But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the

manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his

blue Teutonic eyes.

[Illustration: "AH, THE RASCAL! HE CRIED."]

"Ah, the rascal!" he cried. "Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This has

always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that we have

ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was more than a

year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he came

to the works with the police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo

was his name--his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging

a man with such a face. But he was a good workman, one of the best."

"What did he get?"

"The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out

now; but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of his

here, and I dare say he could tell you where he is."

"No, no," cried Holmes, "not a word to the cousin--not a word, I beg

you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it the more

important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the sale

of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last year. Could

you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?"

"I could tell you roughly by the pay-list," the manager answered. "Yes,"

he continued, after some turning over of pages, "he was paid last on May

20th."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "I don't think that I need intrude upon your

time and patience any more." With a last word of caution that he should

say nothing as to our researches we turned our faces westward once more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty

luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced

"Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman," and the contents of the paper

showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print after all.

Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and flowery

rendering of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against the

cruet-stand and read it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

"This is all right, Watson," said he. "Listen to this: 'It is

satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of opinion upon

this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced members of

the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting

expert, have each come to the conclusion that the grotesque series of

incidents, which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy

rather than from deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration

can cover the facts.' The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution

if you only know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we

will hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding

Brothers has to say to the matter."

The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little

person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.

"Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr.

Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust some

months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder and Co., of

Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I dare say by consulting

our sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries

here. One to Mr. Harker, you see, and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of

Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of

Lower Grove Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this face which you

show me in the photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir,

for I've seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes,

sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I dare say they

might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There is no

particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it's a

very strange business, and I hope that you'll let me know if anything

comes of your inquiries."

Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding's evidence, and I

could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs

were taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we hurried,

we should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when

we reached Baker Street the detective was already there, and we found

him pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His look of importance

showed that his day's work had not been in vain.

"Well?" he asked. "What luck, Mr. Holmes?"

"We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one," my friend

explained. "We have seen both the retailers and also the wholesale

manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning."

"The busts!" cried Lestrade. "Well, well, you have your own methods, Mr.

Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them, but I

think I have done a better day's work than you. I have identified the

dead man."

"You don't say so?"

"And found a cause for the crime."

"Splendid!"

"We have an inspector who makes a speciality of Saffron Hill and the

Italian quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round his

neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from the

South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His

name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the greatest

cut-throats in London. He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you

know, is a secret political society, enforcing its decrees by murder.

Now you see how the affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is

probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the

rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the

photograph we found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not

knife the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house,

he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own death

wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

"Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!" he cried. "But I didn't quite follow

your explanation of the destruction of the busts."

"The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After all,

that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is the murder

that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am gathering all

the threads into my hands."

"And the next stage?"

"Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian quarter,

find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on the charge

of murder. Will you come with us?"

"I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can't

say for certain, because it all depends--well, it all depends upon a

factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great

hopes--in fact, the betting is exactly two to one--that if you will come

with us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the heels."

"In the Italian quarter?"

"No; I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him. If

you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I'll promise to go

to the Italian quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be done by

the delay. And now I think that a few hours' sleep would do us all good,

for I do not propose to leave before eleven o'clock, and it is unlikely

that we shall be back before morning. You'll dine with us, Lestrade, and

then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In

the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an express

messenger, for I have a letter to send, and it is important that it

should go at once."

Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old daily

papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at last he

descended it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said nothing to either

of us as to the result of his researches. For my own part, I had

followed step by step the methods by which he had traced the various

windings of this complex case, and, though I could not yet perceive the

goal which we would reach, I understood clearly that Holmes expected

this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts,

one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our

journey was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the

cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the evening

paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could continue his

scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that I

should take my revolver with me. He had himself picked up the loaded

hunting-crop which was his favourite weapon.

A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a spot

at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was directed to

wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed with pleasant

houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light of a street lamp

we read "Laburnum Villa" upon the gate-post of one of them. The

occupants had evidently retired to rest, for all was dark save for a

fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single blurred circle on to

the garden path. The wooden fence which separated the grounds from the

road threw a dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was

that we crouched.

"I fear that you'll have a long wait," Holmes whispered. "We may thank

our stars that it is not raining. I don't think we can even venture to

smoke to pass the time. However, it's a two to one chance that we get

something to pay us for our trouble."

It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes had

led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In

an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his coming, the garden

gate swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an

ape, rushed up the garden path. We saw it whisk past the light thrown

from over the door and disappear against the black shadow of the house.

There was a long pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very

gentle creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The

noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was making

his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside

the room. What he sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the

flash through another blind, and then through another.

"Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,"

Lestrade whispered.

But before we could move the man had emerged again. As he came out into

the glimmering patch of light we saw that he carried something white

under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence of the

deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he laid down his

burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a sharp tap,

followed by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was

doing that he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot.

With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later

Lestrade and I had him by either wrist and the handcuffs had been

fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with

writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I knew that it was

indeed the man of the photograph whom we had secured.

But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention.

Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining

that which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of Napoleon

like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been broken into

similar fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the

light, but in no way did it differ from any other shattered piece of

plaster. He had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew

up, the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund figure

in shirt and trousers, presented himself.

[Illustration: "THE DOOR OPENED, AND THE OWNER OF THE HOUSE

PRESENTED HIMSELF."]

"Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?" said Holmes.

"Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note

which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you told

me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments. Well,

I'm very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen,

that you will come in and have some refreshment."

However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so

within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four upon

our way to London. Not a word would our captive say; but he glared at us

from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my hand seemed within

his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at

the police-station to learn that a search of his clothing revealed

nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of

which bore copious traces of recent blood.

"That's all right," said Lestrade, as we parted. "Hill knows all these

gentry, and he will give a name to him. You'll find that my theory of

the Mafia will work out all right. But I'm sure I am exceedingly obliged

to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in which you laid hands upon

him. I don't quite understand it all yet."

"I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations," said Holmes.

"Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off, and

it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end. If

you will come round once more to my rooms at six o'clock to-morrow I

think I shall be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the

entire meaning of this business, which presents some features which make

it absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you to

chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee that you

will enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure of the

Napoleonic busts."

* * * * *

When we met again next evening Lestrade was furnished with much

information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo,

second name unknown. He was a well-known ne'er-do-well among the Italian

colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest

living, but he had taken to evil courses and had twice already been in

gaol--once for a petty theft and once, as we had already heard, for

stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk English perfectly well. His

reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown, and he refused to

answer any questions upon the subject; but the police had discovered

that these same busts might very well have been made by his own hands,

since he was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of

Gelder and Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew,

Holmes listened with polite attention; but I, who knew him so well,

could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a

mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which he

was wont to assume. At last he started in his chair and his eyes

brightened. There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard

steps upon the stairs, and an elderly, red-faced man with grizzled

side-whiskers was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an

old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?"

My friend bowed and smiled. "Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?" said

he.

"Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late; but the trains were awkward.

You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession."

"Exactly."

"I have your letter here. You said, 'I desire to possess a copy of

Devine's Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one

which is in your possession.' Is that right?"

"Certainly."

"I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine how

you knew that I owned such a thing."

"Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very

simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you

their last copy, and he gave me your address."

"Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?"

"No, he did not."

"Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave

fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that

before I take ten pounds from you."

"I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have named

that price, so I intend to stick to it."

[Illustration: "I BROUGHT THE BUST UP WITH ME, AS YOU ASKED ME TO DO."]

"Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up

with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!" He opened his bag, and at

last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust which

we had already seen more than once in fragments.

Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon the

table.

"You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of

these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible

right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you

see, and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank

you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good

evening."

When our visitor had disappeared Sherlock Holmes's movements were such

as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white cloth from a

drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly acquired

bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting crop

and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure

broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered

remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph, he held up one

splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a

pudding.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "let me introduce you to the famous black pearl

of the Borgias."

Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous

impulse, we both broke out clapping as at the well-wrought crisis of a

play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes's pale cheeks, and he bowed to

us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It

was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning

machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The

same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain

from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by

spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

"Yes, gentlemen," said he, "it is the most famous pearl now existing in

the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain of

inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna's bedroom at

the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of

the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder and Co., of

Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the

disappearance of this valuable jewel, and the vain efforts of the London

police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case; but I was

unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the maid of the

Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a brother

in London, but we failed to trace any connection between them. The

maid's name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that

this Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been

looking up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the

disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of

Beppo for some crime of violence, an event which took place in the

factory of Gelder and Co., at the very moment when these busts were

being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you see

them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented

themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have

stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro's confederate, he may

have been the go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no

consequence to us which is the correct solution.

"The main fact is that he _had_ the pearl, and at that moment, when it

was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the factory

in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in which

to conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be

found on him when he was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were

drying in the passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo,

a skilful workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the

pearl, and with a few touches covered over the aperture once more. It

was an admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo

was condemned to a year's imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six

busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which contained his

treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell

him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl

would adhere to it--as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and

he conducted his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance.

Through a cousin who works with Gelder he found out the retail firms who

had bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson,

and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.

Then, with the help of some Italian _employe_, he succeeded in finding

out where the other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker's.

There he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible for

the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which

followed."

"If he was his confederate why should he carry his photograph?" I asked.

"As a means of tracing him if he wished to inquire about him from any

third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I

calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his

movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so

he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could

not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker's bust. I had not even

concluded for certain that it was the pearl; but it was evident to me

that he was looking for something, since he carried the bust past the

other houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp

overlooking it. Since Harker's bust was one in three the chances were

exactly as I told you, two to one against the pearl being inside it.

There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the

London one first. I warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid a

second tragedy, and we went down with the happiest results. By that

time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the Borgia pearl that we

were after. The name of the murdered man linked the one event with the

other. There only remained a single bust--the Reading one--and the pearl

must be there. I bought it in your presence from the owner--and there it

lies."

We sat in silence for a moment.

"Well," said Lestrade, "I've seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.

Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than

that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very

proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow there's not a man, from the

oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to

shake you by the hand."

"Thank you!" said Holmes. "Thank you!" and as he turned away it seemed

to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions than I

had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical thinker

once more. "Put the pearl in the safe, Watson," said he, "and get out

the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If

any little problem comes your way I shall be happy, if I can, to give

you a hint or two as to its solution."

_The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt._

Copyright, 1904, by George Newnes, Limited.

[These Memoirs, written by the greatest actress of our time,

will give not only the story of her career in the theatrical

world, but also in social life, in which she has, of course, met

nearly all the celebrated people of the day, from Royalties

downwards, and will be found throughout of the most striking

interest to all classes of readers.]

CHAPTER II.--HOW I BECAME DESTINED FOR THE STAGE.

I arose one September morning, my heart leaping with some vague thought

of coming joy. It was eight o'clock. I pressed my forehead against the

window-panes and gazed out, looking at I know not what. I had been

roused with a start in the midst of a beautiful dream, and I rushed

towards the light, as if in the hope of finding in the infinite space of

the grey sky some explanation of the feelings that possessed me--the

anxiety, and yet the bliss, of expectation. Expectation of what? I could

not have answered that question then, any more than after much

reflection I can do so now. I was on the eve of my fourteenth birthday,

and I was in a state of expectation as to the future of my life. That

particular morning seemed to me to be the precursor of a new era. I was

not mistaken, for on that September day my fate was settled for me.

[Illustration:

"I HAD BEEN ROUSED WITH A START IN THE MIDST OF A BEAUTIFUL DREAM."

_From a Drawing by G. Clairin._]

As if hypnotized by what was taking place in my mind, I remained with my

forehead pressed against the window-pane, gazing in imagination through

the halo of vapour formed by my breath at houses, palaces, carriages,

jewels, pearls, which passed in fantasy before my eyes. Oh! what pearls

there were! And there were princes and kings also; yes, I saw even

kings! Oh! how fast imagination travels when left by its enemy, reason,

free to roam alone! In my fancy I proudly rejected the princes, I

rejected the kings, I refused the pearls and the palaces, and I declared

that I was going to be a nun. For in the infinite grey sky I had caught

a glimpse of the convent of Grand Champ, of my white bedroom, and of the

small lamp that swung to and fro above the little Virgin which our hands

had decorated with flowers. The king offered me a throne, but I

preferred the throne of our Mother Superior, and I entertained a vague

ambition to occupy it on some distant day. The king was heart-broken and

dying of despair. Yes, _mon Dieu_! I preferred to the pearls that were

offered me by princes the pearls of the rosary I was telling with my

fingers; and no costume could compete in my mind with the black _barege_

veil that fell like a soft shadow over the snowy white cambric that

encircled the beloved faces of the nuns of Grand Champ.

I do not know how long I had been dreaming thus when I heard my mother's

voice asking our old servant, Marguerite, if I were awake. With one

bound I was back in bed, and I buried my face under the sheet. Mamma

half-opened the door very gently and I pretended to wake up.

"How lazy you are to-day!" she said. I kissed her, and answered in a

coaxing tone, "It is Thursday, and I have no music lesson."

"And are you glad?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," I replied, promptly.

My mother frowned; she adored music, and I hated the piano. She was so

fond of music that, although she was then nearly thirty, she took

lessons herself in order to encourage me to practise. What horrible

torture it was! I used very wickedly to do my utmost to set at variance

my mother and my music mistress. They were both of them excessively

short-sighted. When my mother had practised a new piece three or four

days she knew it by heart, and played it fairly well, to the

astonishment of Mlle. Clarisse, my insufferable old teacher, who held

the music in her hand and read every note with her nose nearly touching

the page. One day I heard, with joy, a quarrel beginning between mamma

and this disagreeable person, Mlle. Clarisse.

"There, that's a quaver!"

"No, there's no quaver!"

"This is a flat!"

"No, you forget the sharp! How absurd you are!" added my mother,

perfectly furious.

A few minutes later my mother went to her room and Mlle. Clarisse

departed, muttering as she left.

As for me, I was choking with laughter in my bedroom, for one of my

cousins, who was very musical, had helped me to add sharps, flats, and

quavers to the music-sheet, and we had done it with such care that even

a trained eye would have had difficulty in immediately discerning the

fraud. As Mlle. Clarisse had been sent off, I had no lesson that day.

Mamma gazed at me a long time with her mysterious eyes--the most

beautiful eyes I have ever seen in my life--and then she said, speaking

very slowly:--

"After luncheon there is to be a family council."

I felt myself turning pale.

"All right," I answered; "what frock am I to put on, mamma?" I said this

merely for the sake of saying something and to keep myself from crying.

"Put on your blue silk; you look more staid in that."

Just at this moment my sister Jeanne opened the door boisterously, and

with a burst of laughter jumped on to my bed and, slipping under the

sheets, called out: "I'm there!" Marguerite had followed her into the

room, panting and scolding. The child had escaped from her just as she

was about to bath her, and had announced: "I'm going into my sister's

bed." Jeanne's mirth at this moment, which I felt was a very serious one

for me, made me burst out crying and sobbing. My mother, not

understanding the reason of this grief, shrugged her shoulders, told

Marguerite to fetch Jeanne's slippers, and, taking the little bare feet

in her hands, kissed them tenderly.

[Illustration: MME. BERNHARDT'S SISTER, JEANNE, AT THE AGE AT

WHICH SHE IS DESCRIBED IN THIS CHAPTER.

_From a Photo. by Delintraz._]

I sobbed more bitterly than ever. It was very evident that mamma loved

my sister more than me, and this preference, which did not trouble me in

an ordinary way, hurt me sorely now.

Mamma went away quite out of patience with me. The nervous state in

which I was, together with my anxiety and grief, had quite exhausted me.

I fell asleep again and was roused by Marguerite, who helped me to

dress, as otherwise I should have been late for luncheon. The guests

that day were Aunt Rosine; Mlle. de Brabender, my governess, a charming

creature whom I have always regretted; my godfather, and the Duc de

Morny, a great friend of my godfather and of my mother. The luncheon was

a melancholy meal for me, as I was thinking all the time about the

family council. Mlle. de Brabender, in her gentle way and with her

affectionate words, insisted on my eating. My sister burst out laughing

when she looked at me.

"Your eyes are as little as that," she said, putting her small thumb on

the tip of her forefinger, "and it serves you right, because you've been

crying, and mamma doesn't like anyone to cry. Do you, mamma?"

"What have you been crying about?" asked the Duc de Morny. I did not

answer, in spite of the friendly nudge Mlle. de Brabender gave me with

her sharp elbow. The Duc de Morny always awed me a little. He was gentle

and kind, but he was a great quiz. I knew, too, that he occupied a high

place at Court, and that my family considered his friendship a great

honour.

"Because I told her that after luncheon there was to be a family council

about her," said my mother, speaking slowly. "At times it seems to me

that she is really idiotic. She quite disheartens me."

"Come, come!" exclaimed my godfather, and Aunt Rosine said something in

English to the Duc de Morny which made him smile shrewdly under his fine

moustache. Mlle. de Brabender scolded me in a low voice, and her

scoldings were like words from Heaven. When at last luncheon was over,

mamma told me, as she passed, to pour out the coffee. Marguerite helped

me to arrange the cups and I went into the drawing-room.

Maitre G----, the notary from Havre, whom I detested, was already there.

He represented the family of my father, who had died a few years before

at Pisa in a way which had never been explained, but which seemed

mysterious. My childish hatred was instinctive, and I learnt later on

that this man had been my father's bitter enemy. He was very, very ugly,

this notary; his whole face seemed to have moved upwards. It was as

though he had been hanging by his hair for a long time, and his eyes,

his mouth, his cheeks, and his nose had got into the habit of trying to

reach the back of his head. He ought to have had a joyful expression, as

so many of his features turned up, but instead of this his face was

smooth and sinister. He had red hair, planted in his head like couch

grass, and on his nose he wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Oh, the

horrible man! What a torturing nightmare the very memory of him is, for

he was the evil genius of my father, and his hatred now pursued me!

[Illustration: _From a_] THE HAVRE NOTARY IN HIS OFFICE. [_Drawing._]

My poor grandmother, since the death of my father, never went out, but

spent her time mourning the loss of her beloved son, who had died so

young. She had absolute faith in this man, who, besides, was the

executor of my father's will. He had the control of the money which my

dear father had left me. I was not to touch it until the day of my

marriage, but my mother was to use the interest for my education.

[Illustration: _From a_] FELIX FAURE. [_Drawing_]

My uncle, Felix Faure (no relation of the late President), was also

there. He was a very delightful man, handsome, too, and he had a deep,

sympathetic voice. I loved him dearly, and, indeed, I love him now,

although I have not seen him for a long time, as he has buried himself

alive at the Grande Chartreuse, to await there, far away from the rest

of the world, the time when he will rejoin those whom he loved so

dearly.

Seated near the fireplace, buried in an arm-chair, M. Lesprin pulled out

his watch in a querulous way. He was an old friend of the family, and he

always called me "_ma fil_," which annoyed me greatly, as did his

familiarity. He considered me stupid, and when I handed him his coffee

he said, in a jeering tone: "And is it for you, _ma fil_, that so many

honest people have been hindered in their work? We have plenty of other

things to attend to, I can assure you, than to discuss the fate of a

little brat like you. Ah, if it had been her sister, there would have

been no difficulty," and with his benumbed fingers he patted Jeanne's

head, as she sat on the floor plaiting the fringe of the sofa upon which

he was seated.

When the coffee had been taken, the cups carried away, and my sister

also, there was a short silence. The Duc de Morny rose to take his

leave, but my mother begged him to stay. "You will be able to advise

us," she urged, and the Duke took his seat again near my aunt, with

whom, it seemed to me, he was carrying on a slight flirtation. Mamma had

moved nearer to the window, her embroidery-frame in front of her, and

her beautiful, clear-cut profile showing to advantage against the light.

She looked as though she had nothing to do with what was about to be

discussed. The hideous notary was standing up by the chimneypiece, and

my uncle had drawn me near to him.

My godfather, Regis de L----, seemed to be the exact counterpart of M.

Lesprin; they both of them had the same bourgeois mind, and were equally

stubborn and obstinate. They were both devoted to whist and good wine,

and they both agreed that I was thin enough for a scarecrow. The door

opened and a pale, dark-haired woman entered, a most poetical-looking

and charming creature. It was Mme. Guerard, "the lady of the upstairs

flat," as Marguerite always called her. My mother had made friends with

her, in rather a patronizing way certainly, but Mme. Guerard was devoted

to me and endured the little slights to which she was treated very

patiently for my sake. She was tall and slender as a lath, very

compliant and demure. She had no hat on, and was wearing an indoor gown

of _indienne_ with a design of little brown leaves.

[Illustration: MME. GUERARD, THE GREAT FRIEND OF SARAH BERNHARDT

_From a Photo. by_] WHEN A CHILD. [_Delintraz._]

M. Lesprin muttered something, I did not catch what. The abominable man

gave a very curt bow, as Mme. Guerard was so simply dressed. The Duc de

Morny was very gracious, for the new-comer was so pretty. My godfather

merely bent his head, as Mme. Guerard was nothing to him. Aunt Rosine

glanced at her from head to foot--Mme. Guerard was by no means rich.

Mlle. de Brabender shook hands cordially with her, for Mme. Guerard was

fond of me.

My uncle, Felix Faure, gave her a chair and asked her to sit down, and

then inquired in a kindly way about her husband, a _savant_, with whom

my uncle collaborated sometimes for his book, "The Life of St. Louis."

Mamma had merely glanced across the room without raising her head, for

Mme. Guerard did not prefer my sister to me.

"Well, as we have come here on account of this child," said my

godfather, looking at his watch, "we must begin and discuss what is to

be done with her."

I began to tremble, and drew closer to "_mon petit dame_," as I had

always called Mme. Guerard from my infancy, and to Mlle. de Brabender.

They each took my hand by way of encouraging me.

"Yes," continued M. Lesprin, with a laugh, "it appears you want to be a

nun."

"Ah, indeed?" said the Duc de Morny to Aunt Rosine.

"'Sh! Be serious," she remarked. Mamma shrugged her shoulders and held

her wools up close to her eyes to match them.

"You have to be rich, though, to enter a convent," grunted the Havre

notary, "and you have not a sou." I leaned towards Mlle. de Brabender

and whispered, "I have the money that papa left."

The horrid man overheard.

"Your father left some money to get you married," he said.

"Well, then, I'll marry the _bon Dieu_," I answered, and my voice was

quite resolute now. I turned very red, and for the second time in my

life I felt a desire and a strong inclination to fight for myself. I had

no more fear, as everyone had gone too far and provoked me too much. I

slipped away from my two kind friends and advanced towards the other

group.

"I will be a nun, I will!" I exclaimed. "I know that papa left me some

money so that I should be married, and I know that the nuns marry the

Saviour. Mamma says she does not care, it is all the same to her; so

that it won't be vexing her at all, and they love me better at the

convent than you do here!"

"My dear child," said my uncle, drawing me towards him, "your religious

vocation appears to me to be mainly a wish to have someone to care for."

"And to be cared for herself," murmured Mme. Guerard, in a very low

voice.

Everyone glanced at mamma, who shrugged her shoulders slightly. It

seemed to me as though the glance they all gave her was a reproachful

one, and I felt a pang of remorse at once. I went across to her and,

throwing my arms round her neck, said:--

"You don't mind my being a nun, do you? It won't make you unhappy, will

it?"

Mamma stroked my hair, of which she was very proud.

"Yes, it would make me unhappy. You know very well that, after your

sister, I love you better than anyone else in the world."

She said this very slowly in a gentle voice. It was like the sound of a

little waterfall as it flows down, babbling and clear, from the

mountain, dragging with it the gravel, and gradually increasing in

volume, with the thawed snow, until it sweeps away rocks and trees in

its course. This was the effect my mother's clear, drawling voice had

upon me at that moment. I rushed back impulsively to the others, who

were all speechless at this unexpected and spontaneous burst of

eloquence. I went from one to the other, explaining my decision, and

giving reasons which were certainly no reasons at all. I did my utmost

to get someone to support me in the matter. Finally the Duc de Morny was

bored, and rose to go.

"Do you know what you ought to do with this child?" he said. "You ought

to send her to the Conservatoire." He then patted my cheek, kissed my

aunt's hand, and bowed to all the others. As he bent over my mother's

hand, I heard him say to her, "You would have made a bad diplomatist,

but take my advice and send her to the Conservatoire."

He then took his departure, and I gazed at everyone in perfect anguish.

The Conservatoire! What was it? What did it mean?

I went up to my governess, Mlle. de Brabender. Her lips were firmly

pressed together, and she looked shocked, just as she did sometimes when

my godfather told, at table, some story of which she did not approve. My

uncle, Felix Faure, was looking at the floor in an absent-minded way;

the notary had a spiteful look in his eyes; my aunt was holding forth in

a very excited manner; and M. Lesprin kept shaking his head and

muttering, "Perhaps--yes--who knows? Hum! hum!" Mme. Guerard was very

pale and sad, and she looked at me with infinite tenderness.

What could be this Conservatoire? The word uttered so carelessly seemed

to have entirely disturbed the equanimity of all these people. Each of

them seemed to me to have a different impression about it, but none

looked pleased. Suddenly, in the midst of the general embarrassment, my

godfather exclaimed, brutally:--

"She is too thin to make an actress."

"I won't be an actress!" I exclaimed.

"You don't know what an actress is," said my aunt.

"Oh, yes, I do. Rachel is an actress!"

"You know Rachel?" asked mamma, getting up.

"Oh, yes; she came to the convent once to see little Adele Sarony. She

went all over the convent and into the garden, and she had to sit down

because she could not get her breath. They fetched her something to

bring her round, and she was so pale--oh, so pale! I was very sorry for

her, and Sister Appoline told me that what she did was killing her, for

she was an actress, and so I won't be an actress, I won't!"

I had said all this in a breath, with my cheeks on fire and my voice

hard.

I remembered all that Sister Appoline had told me, and Mother

Sainte-Sophie, too, the Superior of the convent. I remembered, too, that

when Rachel had gone out of the garden, looking very pale and holding a

lady's arm for support, a little girl had put her tongue out at her. I

did not want people to put out their tongues at me when I was grown up.

There were a hundred other things, too, to which I objected, and about

which I have only a vague memory now.

My godfather laughed heartily, but my uncle was very grave. The others

discussed the matter in a very excited way with my mother, who looked

weary and bored. Mlle. de Brabender and Mme. Guerard were arguing in a

low voice, and I thought of the aristocratic man who had just left us. I

was very angry with him, for this idea of the Conservatoire was his.

"Conservatoire!" This word frightened me. It was he who wanted me to be

an actress, and now he had disappeared, and I could not talk the matter

over with him. He had gone away smiling and tranquil, patting my head in

the most ordinary yet friendly way. He had gone off without troubling a

straw about the poor little, meagre child whose future was being

discussed. "Send her to the Conservatoire," and this phrase, that had

come to his lips so easily, was like a veritable bomb hurled into my

life. I, the little, dreamy child, who that morning had rejected princes

and kings; I, whose trembling fingers had only that morning told over

whole rosaries of dreams and fancies; I, who only a few hours before had

felt my heart beat wildly with some inexplicable emotion, and who had

got up expecting some great event to happen during the day! Everything

had given way under that phrase, which seemed as heavy as lead and as

murderous as a cannon-ball. _Send her to the Conservatoire!_

I guessed somehow that that phrase was destined to be the finger-post of

my life. All these people had stopped at the bend of the road where

there were crossways.

_Send her to the Conservatoire!_ I wanted to be a nun, and they all

thought that absurd, idiotic, unreasonable. Those words, "Send her to

the Conservatoire," had opened up a new field of discussion, widened the

horizon of the future. My uncle, Felix Faure, and Mlle. de Brabender

were the only ones who disapproved of this idea, but they were in the

minority--a passive minority which felt for me. I got very nervous and

excited, and my mother sent me away. Mlle. de Brabender tried to console

me. Mme. Guerard said that this career had its advantages. Mlle. de

Brabender considered that the convent would have a great fascination for

so dreamy a nature as mine. The one was very religious and a great

church-goer, and the other was a pagan in the purest acceptation of that

word, and yet the two women got on very well together, thanks to their

affectionate devotion to me.

Mme. Guerard adored the proud rebelliousness of my nature, my pretty

face, and the slenderness of my figure; Mlle. de Brabender was touched

by my delicate health. She spent no end of time trying to smooth my

refractory hair. She endeavoured to comfort me when I was jealous at not

being loved as much as my sister; but what she liked best about me was

my voice. She always declared that my voice was modulated for prayers,

and my delight in the convent appeared to her quite natural. She loved

me with a gentle, pious affection, and Mme. Guerard loved me with bursts

of paganism. These two women, whose memory is still dear to me, shared

me between them, and made the best of my good qualities and my faults. I

certainly owe to both of them this study of myself and the vision I have

of myself.

The day was destined to end in the strangest of fashions. Mme. Guerard

had gone back to her apartment upstairs, and I was lying back on a

little straw arm-chair, which was the most ornamental piece of furniture

in my room. I felt very drowsy, and was holding Mlle. de Brabender's

hand in mine when the door opened and my aunt entered, followed by my

mother. I can see them now--my aunt in her dress of puce silk trimmed

with fur, her brown velvet hat tied under her chin with long, wide

strings, and mamma, who had taken off her dress and put on a white

woollen dressing-gown. She always detested keeping on her dress in the

house, and I understood by her change of costume that everyone had gone

and that my aunt was ready to leave. I got up from my arm-chair, but

mamma made me sit down again.

"Rest yourself thoroughly," she said, "for we are going to take you to

the theatre this evening--to the Francais."

[Illustration: THE THEATRE FRANCAIS, TO WHICH SARAH BERNHARDT WAS

TAKEN TO SEE HER FIRST PLAY WHEN HER DESTINY FOR THE STAGE HAD

_From a_] BEEN DECIDED. [_Photo._]

I felt sure that this was just a bait, and I would not show any sign of

pleasure, although in my heart I was delighted at the idea of going to

the Francais. The only theatre I knew anything of was the Robert Houdin,

to which I was taken sometimes with my sister, and I fancy that it was

for her benefit we went, as I was really too old to care for that kind

of performance.

"Will you come with us?" mamma said, turning to Mlle. de Brabender.

"Willingly, madame," she replied. "I will go home and change my dress."

My aunt laughed at my sullen looks.

"Little fraud," she said, as she went away, "you are hiding your

delight. Ah, well, you will see some actresses to-night."

"Is Rachel going to act?" I asked.

"Oh, no; she is ill."

My aunt kissed me and went away, saying she should see me again later

on, and my mother followed her out of the room. Mlle. de Brabender then

prepared to leave me, as she had to go home to dress, and to say that

she would not be in until quite late. She lived at a convent where old

maids and widows were taken as boarders, and special permission had to

be obtained when one wished to be out later than ten at night. When I

was alone I swung myself backwards and forwards in my arm-chair, which,

by the way, was anything but a rocking chair. I began to think, and for

the first time in my life my critical comprehension came to my aid. And

so all these serious people had been inconvenienced, the notary fetched

from Havre, my uncle dragged away from working at his book, the old

bachelor, M. Lesprin, disturbed in his habits and customs, my godfather

kept away from the Stock Exchange, and that aristocratic and sceptical

Duc de Morny cramped up for two hours in the midst of our bourgeois

surroundings, and all to end in this decision: _she shall be taken to

the theatre_!

I do not know what part my uncle had taken in this burlesque plan, but I

doubt whether it was to his taste. All the same, I was glad to go to the

theatre; it made me feel more important. That morning on waking up I was

quite a child, and now events had taken place which had transformed me

into a young woman. I had been discussed by everyone, and I had

expressed my wishes--without any result, certainly; but all the same I

had expressed them, and now it was deemed necessary to humour and

indulge me in order to win me over. They could not force me into

agreeing to what they wanted me to do; my consent was necessary; and I

felt so joyful and so proud about it that I was quite touched and almost

ready to yield. I said to myself that it would be better to hold my own

and let them ask me again.

After dinner we all squeezed into a cab--mamma, my godfather, Mlle. de

Brabender, and I. My godfather made me a present of some white gloves.

[Illustration: THE HALL AND STAIRCASE OF THE THEATRE FRANCAIS.]

On mounting the steps at the Francais I trod on a lady's dress. She

turned round and called me a "stupid child." I moved back hastily and

came into collision with a very stout old gentleman, who gave me a rough

push forward, so that I felt inclined to burst out crying.

[Illustration: THE BOXES OF THE THEATRE FRANCAIS, FROM ONE OF

WHICH SARAH BERNHARDT SAW HER FIRST PLAY.]

When once we were all installed in a box facing the stage, mamma and I

in the first row, with Mlle. de Brabender behind me, I felt more

reassured. I was close against the partition of the box, and I could

feel Mlle. de Brabender's sharp knees through the velvet of my chair.

This gave me confidence, and I leaned against the back of the chair,

purposely to feel the support of those two knees.

When the curtain slowly rose I thought I should have fainted. It was as

though the curtain of my future life were being raised. Those columns

("Britannicus" was being played) were to be my palaces, the friezes

above were to be my skies, and those boards were to bend under my frail

weight. I heard nothing of "Britannicus," for I was far, far away, at

Grand Champ, in my dormitory there.

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked my godfather, when the curtain

fell. I did not answer, and he laid his hand on my head and turned my

face round towards him. I was crying, and big tears were rolling slowly

down my cheeks, the kind of tears that come without any sobs and as if

there were no hope that they would ever cease.

My godfather shrugged his shoulders and, getting up, left the box,

banging the door after him. Mamma, losing all patience with me,

proceeded to review the house through her opera-glass. Mlle. de.

Brabender passed me her handkerchief, for my own had fallen, and I had

not the courage to pick it up.

When the curtain rose on the second piece, "Amphitryon," I made an

effort to listen, in order to please my governess, who was so kind and

so conciliating. I remember only one thing about it, and that was I was

so sorry for Alemene, who seemed to be so unhappy, that I burst into

audible sobs, and that everyone, much amused, looked at our box. My

mother was most annoyed, and promptly took me out, accompanied by Mlle.

de Brabender, leaving my godfather furious. "_Bon Dieu de bois!_" I

heard him mutter, "what an idiot the child is! They'd better put her in

the convent and let her stop there."

My teeth were chattering when Mlle. de Brabender, helped by Marguerite,

put me to bed. Mme. Guerard was there too; she had been listening for my

return, as though foreseeing what would happen.

I did not get up again for six weeks, and only narrowly escaped dying of

brain fever.

Such was the _debut_ of my artistic career.

(_To be continued._)

THE MUTINOUS CONDUCT OF MRS RYDER.

BY MORLEY ROBERTS.

Although Watchett of the _Battle-Axe_ and Ryder of the _Star of the

South_ were cousins, there was no great love lost between them, and all

unprejudiced observers declared that this lack of mutual admiration was

in no way due to Captain Ryder. That they remained friends at all was

owing largely to his infinite good nature, and to the further fact that

Mrs. Ryder pitied Mrs. Watchett.

"I wonder she goes to sea with him at all," she said. "If you were one

quarter as horrid as your cousin, Will, I should never go to sea till

you came ashore."

But she always went to sea with Will Ryder. It was their great delight

to be together, and there were few men, married or single, who did not

take a certain pleasure in seeing how fond they were of each other. He

was a typical seaman of the best kind; he had a fine voice for singing

and for hailing the foretopsail yard; his eyes were as blue as

forget-me-nots, and his skin was as clear as the air on the Cordilleras

which peeped at them over the tops of the barren hills which surround

the Bay of Valparaiso. And Mrs. Ryder was just the kind of wife for a

man who was somewhat inclined to take things easily. If she was as

pretty as the peach, she had, like the peach, something inside which was

not altogether soft. Her brown eyes could turn black--she had resolution

and courage.

"You shall not put up with it," was a favourite expression on her

tongue. And there were times, to use his own expression, when she made

sail when he would have shortened it. In that sense she was certainly

capable of "carrying on."

Both vessels were barques of about eleven hundred tons register, and if

the _Star of the South_ had about twenty tons to the good in size she

was rather harder to work. It is the nature of ships to develop in

certain ways, and though both of these barques were sister ships it is

always certain that sisters are never quite alike. But as they belonged

to the same Port of London, and were owned by two branches of the same

family, all of whose money was divided up in sixty-fourths, according to

the common rule with ships, they were rivals and rival beauties. But,

unlike the more respectable ladies who owned them, both the vessels were

fast, and it was a sore point of honour with Ryder and Watchett to prove

their own the fastest.

"If she only worked a little easier, I could lick his head off," said

Ryder, sadly.

But there was the rub. The _Star of the South_ needed more "beef" on her

than the _Battle-Axe_. She wasn't so quick in stays. By the time Ryder

yelled "Let go and haul," the _Battle-Axe_ was gathering headway on a

fresh tack.

"And instead of having two more hands than we are allowed, we are two

short," said his wife, bitterly. "If I were you, Will, I'd take those

Greeks."

"Not by an entire jugful," replied Captain Ryder. "I remember the

_Lennie_ and the _Caswell_, my dear. I never knew Valparaiso so bare of

men."

"And we're sailing to-morrow," said Connie Ryder, angrily; "and you've

betted him a hundred pounds we shall dock before him. It's too bad. I

wonder whether he'd give us another day?"

But Ryder shook his head.

"And you've known him for years! He's spending that money in his mind."

"But not on his wife, Will," said Mrs. Ryder. "If we win, I'm to have

it."

"I'd give him twenty to let me off," said Ryder.

But Connie Ryder went on board the _Battle-Axe_ to see if she could

induce her husband's cousin to forego the advantage he had already

gained before sailing. She found him dark and grim and as hard as

adamant.

"A bet's a bet and business is business," said Watchett. "We appointed

to-morrow, and, bar lying out a gale from the north, with two anchors

down and the cables out to the bitter end, I'll sail."

His wife, who was as meek as milk, suggested humbly that it would be

more interesting if he waited.

"I ain't in this for interest; I'm in it for capital," said Watchett,

grinning gloomily. "The more like a dead certainty it looks the better I

shall be pleased."

Mrs. Ryder darkened.

"I don't think you're a sportsman," she said, rather shortly.

"I ain't," retorted old Watchett; "I'm a seaman, and him that'd go to

sea for sport would go to Davy Jones for pastime. You can tell Bill that

I'll give him ten per cent. discount for cash now."

As Mrs. Ryder knew that he never called her husband "Bill" unless he

desired to be more or less offensive, she showed unmistakable signs of

temper.

"If I ever get half a chance to make you sorry, I will," she said.

"Let it go at that," said Watchett, sulkily. "I got on all right with

Bill before you took to going to sea with him."

"He was too soft with you," said Bill's wife.

"And a deal softer with you than I'd be," said Watchett.

"Oh, please, please don't," cried Mary Watchett, in great distress.

"I thought you were a gentleman," said Connie Ryder.

[Illustration: "'I THOUGHT YOU WERE A GENTLEMAN,' SAID CONNIE RYDER."]

"Not you," replied Watchett; "you never, and you know it. I'm not one

and never hankered to be. I'm rough and tough and a seaman of the old

school. I'm no sea dandy. I'm Jack Watchett, as plain as you like."

"You're much plainer than I like," retorted his cousin's wife, "very

much plainer."

And though she kissed Mary Watchett she wondered greatly how any woman

could kiss Mary Watchett's husband.

"If I ever get a chance," she said. "But there, how can I?"

She wept a little out of pure anger as she returned to the _Star of the

South_. When she got on board she found the mate and second mate

standing by the gangway.

"Is there no chance of these men, Mr. Semple"?

"No more than if it was the year '49 and this was San Francisco," said

the mate, who was a hoary-headed old sea-dog, a great deal more like the

old school than "plain Jack Watchett."

"Why doesna the captain take they Greeks, ma'am?" asked McGill, the

second mate, who had been almost long enough out of Scotland to forget

his own language.

"Because he doesn't like any but Englishmen," said Connie Ryder.

"And Scotch, of course," she added, as she saw McGill's jaw fall a

little. "I've been trying to get Captain Watchett to give us another

day."

"All our ship and cargo to a paper-bag of beans he didn't, ma'am," said

Semple.

"I--I hate him," cried Connie Ryder, as she entered the cabin.

"She's as keen as mustard--as red pepper," said Semple; "if she'd been a

man she'd have made a seaman."

"I've never sailed wi' a skeeper's wife before," said McGill, who had

shipped in the _Star of the South_ a week earlier, in place of the

second mate, who had been given his discharge for drunkenness. "Is she

at all interferin', Mr. Semple?"

Old Semple nodded.

"She interferes some, and it would be an obstinate cook that disputed

with her. She made a revolution in the galley, my word, when she first

came on board. Some would say she cockered the crew over-much, but I was

long enough in the fo'c's'le not to forget that even a hog of a man

don't do best on hogwash."

Which was a marvellous concession on the part of any of the after-guard

of any ship, seeing how the notion persists among owners, and even among

officers, that the worse men are treated the better they work.

"She seems a comfortable ship," owned McGill.

And so everyone on board of her allowed.

"Though she is a bit of a heart-breaker to handle," said the men

for'ard. "But for that she be a daisy. And to think that the bally

_Battle-Axe_ goes about like a racing yacht!"

It made them sore to think of it. But it also made the men on board

their rival sore to think how comfortable the _Star of the South_ was in

all other respects.

Owing to the fact that the _Battle-Axe's_ crowd was sulky, the _Star of

the South_ got her anchor out of the ground and stood to the north-west

to round Point Angelos a good ten minutes before Watchett's vessel was

under way.

"That's good," said Connie Ryder. "I know they're a sulky lot by now in

the _Battle-Axe_. And our men work like dears."

It was with difficulty she kept from tailing on to the braces as they

jammed the _Star_ close up to weather the Point. For the wind was

drawing down the coast from the nor'ard, and Valparaiso harbour faces

due north. She was glad when they rounded the Point and squared away,

for if there was any real difference in the sailing qualities of the

rival barques, the _Star_ was best before the wind and the _Battle-Axe_

when she was in a bow-line.

"And with any real luck," said Mrs. Ryder, "we may have a good fair wind

all the way till we cross the line."

It was so far ahead to consider the north-east trades, which meant such

mighty long stretches in a wind, that she declined to think of them. And

she entirely forgot the calms of Capricorn.

"We're doing very well, Will," she said to her husband when the

starboard watch went below and the routine of the passage home

commenced.

"It's early days," replied Will Ryder. "I fancy the _Battle-Axe_ is in

her best trim for a wind astern."

But Mrs. Ryder didn't believe it.

"And if she is, she mayn't be so good when it comes to beating."

She knew what she was talking about and spoke good sense.

"It's going to be luck," said Ryder. "If either of us get a good slant

that the other misses, the last will be out of it. But I wish I'd had

those other two hands. The _Star_ wants 'beef' on the braces. Mr.

Semple, as soon as possible see all the parrals greased and the blocks

running as free as you can make 'em."

And Semple did his best, as the crew did. But Mrs. Ryder had her doubts

as to whether her husband was doing his. For once he seemed to think

failure was a foregone conclusion.

"I think it must be his liver," said Mrs. Ryder. "I'll see to that at

once."

But instead of looking up the medicine chest she came across the Pacific

Directory.

"I never thought of that," she said. "He's never done it, now he shall."

She took the big book down and read one part of it eagerly.

"I don't see why not," she decided, and she went to her husband with the

request that he should run through Magellan's Straits when he came to

it.

"Not for dollars," said Will Ryder. "When I'm skipper of a Pacific

Navigation boat I'll take you through, but not till then."

"But look at all you cut off," urged his wife, "if you get through."

"And how you are cut off if you don't," retorted Ryder. "When I was an

apprentice I went through in fine weather, and I'd rather drive a 'bus

down Fleet Street in a fog than try it."

She said he had very little enterprise and pouted.

"Suppose the _Battle-Axe_ does it?"

Ryder declined to suppose it.

"John wouldn't try it if you could guarantee the weather. I know him."

"You never take my advice," said his wife.

"I love you too much," replied Will Ryder. He put his arm about her, but

she was cross and pushed him away.

"This is mutiny," said the captain, smiling.

"Well, I feel mutinous," retorted Connie. "I wanted you to steal two of

your cousin's men and you wouldn't. I'm sure they would have come, for

what the _Battle-Axe_ owed them. And you wouldn't. And now I want to go

through the Straits and you won't. The very, very next time that I want

to do anything I shall do it without asking you. Why did you bet a

hundred pounds if you weren't prepared to try to win it?"

"We'll win yet," said the skipper, cheerfully, "We're only just

started."

The two vessels kept company right down to the Horn, and there, between

Ildefonso Island and the Diego Ramirez Islands, the _Star of the South_

lost sight of her sister and her rival, in a dark sou'-westerly gale.

With the wind astern as it was when they squared away with Cape Horn

frowning to the nor'-west the _Star_ was a shooting star, as they said

for'ard.

"If we could on'y carry a gale like this right to the line, we'd 'ave a

pull over the _Battle-Axe_, ma'am," said Silas Bagge, an old fo'c's'le

man, who was Mrs. Ryder's favourite among all the crew. He was a

magnificent old chap with a long white beard, which he wore tucked

inside a guernsey, except in fine weather.

"But we can't; there'll be the trades," said the captain's wife,

dolorously.

"I've picked up the sou'-east trade blowin' a gale, ma'am, before now,"

said Bagge; "years ago, in '74 or thereabouts, I was in the

_Secunderabad_, and we crossed the line, bound south, doing eleven

close-'auled, and we carried 'em to twenty-seven south latitude. There's

times when it's difficult to say where the trades begin south too. Mebbe

we'll be chased by such a gale as this nigh up to thirty south."

"It's hoping too much," said Mrs. Ryder.

"Hope till you bust, ma'am," said Silas Bagge. "Nothin's lost till it's

won. If we can only get out of the doldrums without breaking our hearts

working the ship, there's no knowing what'll 'appen. 'Twas a pity we

didn't get them other two 'ands, though."

And there she agreed with him.

[Illustration: "'HOPE TILL YOU BUST, MA'AM,' SAID SILAS BAGGE."]

"Me and Bob Condy could 'ave got Gribbs and Tidewell out of the

_Battle-Axe_ easy as easy," said Silas, regretfully. "'Twas a lost

hopportunity, and there you are."

The honourable conduct of his skipper in vetoing this little game seemed

no more than foolishness to Bagge.

"When we comes to the Hequator and it's 'square away' and 'brace up'

every five minutes till one's 'ands are raw, 'twill be a grief to every

mother's son aboard," said Bagge, as he touched his cap and went

for'ard.

But now the _Star of the South_ went booming on the outside of the

Falklands with a gale that drew into the sou'-sou'-west and howled after

her. She scooped up the seas at times and dipped her nose into them, and

threw them apart and wallowed. The men were happy, for the fo'c's'le

didn't leak, and the galley-fire was kept going every night to dry their

clothes. At midnight every man got a mug of cocoa, and those that rose

up called Mrs. Ryder blessed, and those that lay down agreed with them.

The _Star_ was a happy ship. There was no rule against playing the

concertina on a Sunday in her fo'c's'le, and the men were not reduced to

playing "blind swaps" with their oldest rags for amusement, as they were

in the _Battle-Axe_. And yet every man in the _Star_ knew his time for

growling was coming on, with every pitch and send of the sea.

They picked up the trades in nearly 30deg. south, with only a few days

of a light and variable breeze, and the trades were good.

"But where's the _Battle-Axe_?" asked Mrs. Ryder.

She kept a bright look-out for her, and deeply regretted that her

petticoats prevented her going aloft to search the horizon for John

Watchett. She rubbed her hands in hope.

"I do believe, Will, that we must be ahead of him," she declared, after

the south-east trade had been steady on the _Star's_ starboard beam for

a week.

"Not much ahead," replied Will.

And just then Bob Condy, who was aloft on the foreto'gallant yard

cutting off old seizings and putting on new ones, hailed the deck.

"There's a sail on the port beam, sir."

"Take a glass aloft and have a look at her, Mr. McGill," said the

skipper. "No, never mind, I'll go myself, as you've never seen the

_Battle-Axe_ at sea. I know the cut of her jib, and no mistake."

So Will Ryder went up to the maintop-gallant-yard, and with his leg

astride of the yard took a squint to loo'ard. He shut up the glass so

quick that his wife knew at once that the distant sail was the

_Battle-Axe_. As he came down slowly he nodded to her.

"It is?"

"Rather," said Ryder. "I'm sorry we've no stun-sails. We're carrying all

we've got and all we can."

"And to think he's as good as we were on our own point of sailing!" said

his wife, with the most visible vexation. "Can't you do anything to make

her go faster, Will?"

[Illustration: "MRS. RYDER SAT ON A HEN-COOP AND NEARLY CRIED."]

And when Will said he couldn't unless he got out and pushed, Mrs. Ryder

sat on a hen-coop and very nearly cried. For if the _Battle-Axe_ had

done so well up to this she would do better in the dead regions of the

line, and the _Star_ would do much worse. There the want of a few more

hands would tell. The _Star_ was no good at catching cat's-paws, and

short-handed she worked like an unoiled gate.

"If I'd only done what Silas Bagge wanted," she said, "we'd have been

all right. To think that the want of a couple of hands should make all

the difference."

It was cruelly hard, but when vessels are undermanned at any time, less

than their complement means "pull devil, pull baker," with the former

best at the tug of war.

For days there was nothing to choose between the vessels, save that the

unusual strength of the trades gave the _Star_ a trifling advantage.

Every night Watchett took in his royals. This Ryder declined to do,

though he often expected them to take themselves in.

"What did I say, ma'am?" said old Bagge. "I told you it _could_ blow

quite 'eavy in its way in the south-east trades."

And thus it happened that what the _Star_ lost by day she pulled up by

night. And presently the _Battle-Axe_ edged up closer and at last was

within hailing distance. Watchett stood on his poop with a

speaking-trumpet, and roared in sombre triumph:--

"I'm as good as you this trip on your best p'int, Ryder!"

"Tell him to go to--to thunder," said Mrs. Ryder, angrily. Nevertheless,

she waved her handkerchief to her enemy's wife, who was standing by

"plain Jack Watchett."

"You've done mighty well," said Ryder, in his turn, "but it isn't over

yet."

Jack Watchett intimated that he thought it was. He offered to double the

bet. He also undertook to sail round the _Star of the South_ in a light

wind. He offered to tow her, and made himself so disagreeable that Mrs.

Ryder, who knew what became a lady, went below to prevent her snatching

the speaking-trumpet from her husband and saying things for which she

would be sorry afterwards. But Ryder, though he was by no means a saint,

kept his temper and only replied with chaff, which was much more

offensive to Watchett than bad language.

"And don't be _too_ sure," he added. "I may do you yet."

"Not you," said Watchett. "I'm cocksure."

They sailed in company for a week, and gradually, as the trade lessened

in driving power, the _Battle-Axe_ drew ahead inch by inch. And as she

did Mrs. Ryder's appetite failed--she looked thin and ill.

"Don't feel it so much, chickabiddy," said her husband.

"I can't help it," sobbed Connie. "I hate your cousin. Oh, Will, if

you'd only let me entice those two men from him. Bagge was sure that

Gribbs and Tidewell would have come."

"It wouldn't have been fair," said Ryder.

"I--I--wanted to win," replied Connie; "and it'll be calm directly, and

you know what that means."

It _was_ calm directly, and very soon everyone knew what it meant. For

it was a real fat streak of a calm that both vessels ran into. And as

luck would have it the _Battle-Axe_, which was by now almost hull down

to the nor'ard, got into it first. The _Star of the South_ carried the

wind with her till she was within a mile of her rival. For a whole day

they pointed their jibbooms alternately at Africa and South America, to

the North Pole and the South. What little breeze there was after that

day took them farther still into an absolute area of no wind at all.

"This is the flattest calm I ever saw," said Ryder. "In such a calm as

this he has no advantage."

They boxed the compass for the best part of a week and lay and cooked in

a sun that made the deck-seams bubble. At night the air was as hot as it

had been by day. The men lay on deck, on the deck-house, on the

fo'c's'le head.

"This is a bally scorcher," said the crews of both ships. "Let's

whistle."

They whistled feebly, but the god of the winds had gone a journey, or

was as fast asleep as Baal. And day by day the two vessels drifted

together. At last they had to lower the boats and tow them apart.

Watchett was very sick with the whole meteorology of the universe, and

being a whole-souled man, incapable of more than one animosity at a

time, he found no leisure to spare from reviling a heaven of brass to

taunt Ryder. At the end of the week he even hailed the _Star_ and

offered to come on board and bring his wife.

"I don't want him," said Connie Ryder: "I won't have him."

And as she said so she jumped as if a pin had been stuck into her.

"What's the matter?" asked her husband.

"Nothing," said Connie. "But let him come!"

She went for'ard to interview the cook, so she said. But she really went

to interview Silas Bagge. When she came back she found Watchett and his

wife on board. If she was a little stiff with Watchett he never noticed

it. As a matter of fact, the whims and fads and tempers of a woman were

of no more account than the growling of the men for'ard. He was too much

engaged in cursing the weather to pay her any attention.

"This licks me," he said; "in a week we ain't moved--we're stuck. 'Ow

long will it last, Bill?"

"It looks as if it might last for ever," replied Ryder. "We've struck a

bad streak."

The women had tea and the men drank whisky and water. Although Watchett

didn't know it, two of his hands left the boat and were given something

to eat in the galley by Mrs. Ryder's orders. It was Bagge who conveyed

the invitation, with the connivance of the mate, for whom the word of

the captain's wife was law.

"'Ave some marmalade and butter?" said Bagge. "Does they feed you good

in the _Battle-Axe_, Gribbs?"

[Illustration: "'AVE SOME MARMALADE AND BUTTER?' SAID BAGGE."]

"Hogwash," said Gribbs, with his mouth full. "Ain't it, Tidewell?"

Tidewell, who was a youngster of a good middle-class family, who had

gone to sea as an apprentice and run from his ship, agreed with many

bitter words.

"As I told you, we lives like fightin'-cocks 'ere," said Bagge. "When

you're full in the back teeth, we'll 'ave your mates up. We likes to

feed the pore and 'ungry, don't we, doctor?"

The cook, to whom Bagge had confided something, said he did his best,

his humble best.

"The _Star's_ an 'appy ship," he added. "We know what your ship is."

The other two men came up in their turn and were filled with tea and

biscuit and butter and marmalade till they smiled.

"This is like home," said Wat Crampe, who was from Newcastle.

"It wass petter--much petter," said Evan Evans, "and ass for the

captain's wife, she iss a lady, whatefer."

That evening Ryder and his wife returned the call and were rowed to the

_Battle-Axe_ by Bagge, Bob Condy, and two more of the men. Bagge and

Condy went into the fo'c's'le. They lost no time in condemning the

_Battle-Axe_ and in lauding their own ship.

"This 'ere's a stinkin' 'ooker, mates," said Silas Bagge; "why, our

fo'c's'le is a lady's droring-room compared with it. And as for the

grub, ask them as come on board us this afternoon. What d'ye say,

Gribbs?"

"Toppin'," said Gribbs. "It's spiled my happetite 'ere."

"It wass good," said the Welshman; "it wass good, whatefer."

Bagge took Billy Gribbs aside on the deck and had a talk with him.

"Oh, Lord!" said Gribbs. "Oh, what?"

"Straight talk," replied Silas; "_she_ said so."

"Do you mean it?"

"Do I mean it?" replied Silas, with unutterable scorn. "In course I mean

it. It will sarve them right as it sarves right."

Gribbs held on to the rail and laughed till he ached. "It's the rummiest

notion I ever 'eard tell on."

"Not _so_ rummy!"

"Wot!" cried Gribbs, "not so rummy? Well, if it ain't so rummy, I'm

jiggered. I'll think of it."

"Do, and tell your mate Tidewell."

"If I tell Ned, 'e'll do it for sure. 'E's the biggest joker 'ere!"

"Then tell him," said Silas.

That evening Ned Tidewell and Billy Gribbs acted in a very strange way

on board the _Battle-Axe_. Without any obvious reason they kept on

bursting into violent fits of laughter.

"The pore blokes is gone dotty from the 'eat," said the pitying crowd.

"We've 'eard of such before."

"Why shouldn't I laugh?" asked Gribbs. "I'm laughin' because I'm a pore

silly sailor-man and my life ain't worth livin'. If I'd died early I'd

ha' been saved a pile o' trouble. I was thinkin' of my father's green

fields as I looked over the side this afternoon."

"Was you really?" asked the oldest man on board. "Then you take my

advice quick and go and ask the skipper for a real good workin' pill of

the largest size."

"Wot for?" asked Gribbs.

"Because you've hobvious got a calentoor," said the old fo'c's'le man.

"And chaps as gets a calentoor jumps overboard. Oh, but that's well

known at sea by those as knows anythin'."

But Gribbs laughed.

"The worst is as it's catchin'," said his adviser, anxiously; "it's

fatally catchin'. I've 'eard of crews doin' it one hafter the hother,

till there wasn't no one left. In 'eat it was and in calm."

"Gammon," said Gribbs. But he was observed to sigh.

"Are you 'ot in your 'ead?" asked the anxious and ancient one.

"I feels a little 'ot and rummy," said Gribbs; "but what I chiefly feels

is a desire to eat grass."

The old man groaned.

"Then it's got you. Mates, we ought to tie Gribbs up, or lock 'im in the

sail-locker, or 'is clothes will be auctioned off before long."

But Gribbs kicked at that, and just then eight bells struck.

"I'm turnin' in," said Gribbs, "and I'm all right."

But at six bells in the first watch he was missing, as was discovered by

old Brooks, the authority on calentures. He waked up Ned Tidewell, who

was extraordinarily fast asleep.

"Where's Gribbs?"

"Not in my bunk," returned Ned, who with Gribbs was one of the few who

still dossed in the fo'c's'le.

"Then 'e's gone overboard for sartain," said Brooks, in great alarm;

"there was the look of it in his eye, and in yours too, youngster. These

long calms is fataller than scurvy. I shall go aft and report it."

He reported it to Mr. Seleucus Thoms, the second mate, who came for'ard,

and roused the watch below from the deck-house and t'gallant fo'c's'le.

When all hands were mustered it was certain that Gribbs was missing.

"This is a terrible catastrophe," said Seleucus Thoms, who had a

weakness for fine language, derived from his rare Christian name, of

which he was extremely proud. "My name is not Seleucus Thoms if he

hasn't gone overboard."

"'E was rampagious with laughter in the second dog-watch, sir," put in

old Brooks. "And 'e talked of green fields, the which I've 'eard is a

werry fatal symptom of calentoor."

"Humph!" said Mr. Thoms, "there's something in that."

And when he went for'ard old Brooks was as proud as a dog with two

tails! Though he usually spent the second dog-watch daily in proving

that Thoms was no sailor, this endorsement of his theory flattered him

greatly.

"I've been mistook in the second," he said, as Thoms went aft. "He's got

'orse sense, after all. I shouldn't be surprised if he'd make a sailor

some day."

And Thoms reported the catastrophe to Watchett.

"Drowned himself?" roared the captain; "drowned himself? And who's

responsible if you ain't?"

He came on deck in a great rage and scanty pyjamas and mustered the crew

aft, and roared at them for full ten minutes as if it was their fault.

When he had relieved his mind he asked if there was anyone who could

throw light on the matter, and old Brooks was shoved to the front. He

explained his views on calentures.

"Never 'eard of 'em," said Watchett.

"And I think, sir, as Tidewell 'ere 'as the symptoms."

"I haven't," said Tidewell, indignantly.

"Wild laughin' is a known symptom, sir, and Tidewell was laughin' 'orrid

in the second dog-watch," insisted Brooks; "I'd put him in irons, sir."

But Watchett was not prepared to go so far in prophylaxis.

"If any of you 'as any more symptoms I'll flog 'im and take the

consequences," he declared. He went below again unhappily, for he wasn't

quite a brute after all.

"This is a mighty unpleasant thing," he said to poor Mrs. Watchett, who

cried when she heard the news. "It's a mighty unfortunate affair. Gribbs

was the smartest man in the whole crowd and worth two of the others."

But still the great and terrible calm lasted, and the morning was as hot

as yesterday and the sea shone like polished brass and lapped faintly

like heavy oil against the glowing iron of the sister barques. At dawn,

which came up like a swiftly opening flower out of the fertile east, the

vessels were just too far apart for hailing, and Watchett signalled the

news to the _Star of the South_.

"Lost a man overboard!" said Ryder. "That's strange; I wish to Heaven

we'd found him!"

When he told his wife she seemed extraordinarily callous.

"Serves him right," she said.

And it was wonderful how the crew of the _Star_ took the news. They had

never seemed so cheerful. They grinned when Watchett came aboard.

"This is an 'orrid circumstance," said Watchett. "I never lost a man

before, not even when I was wrecked in the _Violet_. And this a dead

calm!"

"Your men aren't happy," said Mrs. Ryder, "and you don't try to make

'em. If I give you three seven-pound tins of marmalade and some butter,

will you serve it out to them?"

[Illustration: "'YOUR MEN AREN'T HAPPY,' SAID MRS. RYDER."]

But Watchett shook his head angrily.

"I'll not cocker no men up," he declared; "not if they all goes

overboard and leaves me and the missis to take 'er 'ome. And what's

marmalade against 'eat like this?"

He mopped a melancholy brow and sighed.

"It will help them to keep from gloomy thoughts," said Mrs. Ryder. "The

_Star of the South_ is a home for our men."

"And two run in Valparaiso," retorted Watchett. "And I on'y lost one."

He took a drink with his cousin and went back on board the _Battle-Axe_,

and spent the torrid day in getting a deal of unnecessary work done. And

still no flaw of lightest air marred the awful mirror of the quiet seas.

Early in the first watch the boats were lowered again to tow the vessels

apart. At midnight, when the watch below came aft and answered to their

names in the deep shadow of the moonless tropic night, Ned Tidewell did

not answer to his name.

"Tidewell!" cried Thoms, angrily and anxiously.

And still there was no answer, but a groan from old Brooks.

"Wot did I tell you?" he demanded. "I seed it in 'is eye."

They searched the _Battle-Axe_ from stem to stern; they overhauled the

sails in the sail-lockers; they hunted with a lantern in the forepeak;

they even went aloft to the fore and main tops, where once or twice

someone who sought for coolness where no coolness could be found went up

into what they jocosely called the "attic." But Ned had lost the number

of his mess.

"More clothes for sale," said the melancholy crew, as they looked at

each other suspiciously. "'Oo'll be the next?"

Brooks declared to the other fo'c's'le men that the next would be Wat

Crampe, or Taffy, as they called the Welshman.

"There's an awful 'orrid look o' the deep, dark knowledge of death in

their faces," declared old Brooks. "They thinks of the peace of it and

the quiet, and smiles secret!"

Next morning Watchett hailed the _Star_ and told the latest dreadful

news. And at the end he added, in a truly pathetic roar, "Send me them

tins o' marmalade aboard, and the butter."

And when Mrs. Ryder superintended the steward's work getting these

stores out of the lazaret, she smiled very strangely. She said to her

husband: "If he loses another hand or two the _Battle-Axe_ will be no

easy ship to work, Will."

"I wouldn't have believed the matter of a hundred pounds would have made

you so hard," said Ryder. And Connie Ryder pouted mutinously, and her

pout ran off into a wicked and most charming smile.

"I'm not thinking so much of the money as of our ship being beaten," she

said.

And poor Watchett was now beginning to think the same of his ship. Like

most vessels, the _Battle-Axe_ required a certain number of men to work

her easily, and her luck lay in the number allowed being the number

necessary. With two hands gone a-missing she would not be much superior

to the _Star_ in easiness of handling, and if more went a week of

baffling winds now or later, when the north-east trade died out, might

give the _Star_ a pull which nothing but an easterly wind from the chops

of the Channel to Dover could hope to make up. He began to dance

attendance on his crew as if they were patients and he their doctor. And

the curious thing was that they all began to feel ill at once, so ill

that they could not work in the sun. A certain uneasy terror got hold of

them; they dreaded to look over the side, lest in place of an oily sea

they should look down on grass and daisies.

"Daisies draws a man, and buttercups draws a man," said old Brooks.

"Don't," said Crampe, with a snigger. "You make me feel that I must pick

buttercups or die."

"Do you now?" asked Brooks. "Do you now?"

And he sneaked aft to the skipper, who was turning all ways, as if

wondering where windward was.

"I'm very uneasy about Crampe, sir," he said, with a scrape, as he

crawled up the port poop ladder. "'Is mind is set on buttercups."

"The deuce it is!" cried Watchett, and going down to the main deck he

called Crampe out.

"What's this I 'ears about your 'ankering after buttercups?" he

demanded, very anxiously.

"I _did_ feel as if I'd like to see one, sir," said Crampe.

"Don't let me 'ear of it again," began Watchett, angrily, but he pulled

himself up with an ill grace. "But there, go in and lie down, and you

needn't come on deck in your watch. I can't afford to lose no more mad

fools. And you shall have butter instead of buttercups."

[Illustration: "YOU SHALL HAVE BUTTER INSTEAD OF BUTTERCUPS."]

"And marmalade, sir?" suggested Crampe. "Marmalade's yellow too, as

yellow as buttercups."

"Say the word agin and I'll knock you flat," said the skipper. But,

nevertheless, he sent the whole crowd marmalade and butter at four bells

in the first dog-watch.

"Hoo, but it iss fine," said "Efan Efans." "Thiss iss goot grup whatefer

and moreover, yess!"

"They scoffs the like in the _Star_ day in and day out," said Crampe;

"if I can't roll on grass I'd like to be in her."

And that night both Crampe and Evans disappeared.

"I believe I 'eard a splash soon after six bells," said old Brooks.

"Mates, this is most 'orrid. I feels as if I should be drawed overboard

by a mermaid in spite of myself."

And Watchett went raving crazy.

Ryder came on board the _Battle-Axe_ as soon as the latest news was

signalled to him. Mrs. Ryder declined to go, but she gave him a timely

piece of advice.

"Don't let him off the bet, Will, or I'll never forgive you."

"I won't do that," said her husband, hastily, as if he hadn't been

thinking of doing it.

"And if he asks for a man or two, you know we're short-handed already."

"Tell me something I don't know," said Ryder, a trifle crossly. Even his

sweet temper suffered in 115deg. in the shade.

"I dare say I could," said his wife, when he was in the boat; "I dare

say I could."

Watchett received his cousin with an air of gloom that would have struck

a damp on anything anywhere but the Equator.

"This is a terrible business," he said. "I never 'eard of anything like

it. Every night a man, and last night two!"

Ryder was naturally very much cut up about it, and said so.

"Will you have some more marmalade?" he asked, anxiously.

"Marmalade don't work," said Watchett, sadly; "it don't work worth a

cent. Nor does butter. I'd give five pounds for some green cabbage."

A brilliant idea struck Ryder.

"Why don't you paint her green, all the inside of the rail and the

boats?"

"She'd be a beauty show, like a blessed timber-droghing Swede," said

Watchett, with great distaste. "But d'ye think it'd work?"

"You might try," replied Ryder.

"And now you've got the bulge on me," sighed Watchett; "with two 'ands

missing from both watches, she'll be as 'ard in the mouth as your

_Star_. You might let me off that bet, Bill."

"No," said Ryder, "a bet's a bet."

"But fairness is fairness," urged Watchett; "there should be a clause in

a bet renderin' it void by the act of God or the Queen's enemies."

"There isn't," said his cousin, "and you forget you wouldn't help me

about those two hands I wanted."

"Oh, if you talk like that----"

"That's the way I talk," said Ryder, remembering the wife he had left

behind him. "I'm sorry."

"Hang your sorrow," said Watchett. "But I'll lose no more, and 'tain't

your money yet."

"Will you and Mary come on board to tea?" asked Ryder.

"I won't tea with no unfair person with no sympathy," returned Watchett,

savagely.

And when Ryder had gone he set the crowd painting his beautiful white

paint a ripe grass-green.

"Watch if it soothes 'em any," he said to Seleucus Thoms. "If it seems

to work I'll paint 'er as green as a child's Noah's Ark."

And that night there was no decrease of the _Battle-Axe's_ sad crowd, in

spite of the fact that he did not act on his impulse to lock them up in

the stuffy fo'c's'le. For soon after midnight Mr. Double felt one side

of his face cooler than the other as he stood staring at the motionless

lights of the _Star of the South_, then lying stern on to the

_Battle-Axe's_ starboard beam.

"Eh? What? Jerusalem!" said Double. Then he let a joyous bellow out of

him. "Square the yards!"

For there was a breath of wind out of the south. Both vessels were alive

in a moment, and while the _Battle-Axe_ was squaring away the _Star's_

foreyard was braced sharp up on the starboard tack till she fell off

before the little breeze. Then she squared her yards too, and both

vessels moved at least a mile towards home before they began fooling all

round the compass again.

"Them hands missin' makes a difference," said Watchett, gloomily. "Less

than enough is starvation."

As they fought through the night for the flaws of wind which came out of

all quarters, the short watches of the _Battle-Axe_ found that out and

grumbled accordingly. But it was a very curious thing that the _Star of

the South_ was never so easy to handle.

"That foreyard goes round now," said old Semple, "as if it was hung like

a balance. This is very surprisin'. So it is."

He mentioned the remarkable fact to McGill when he came on deck at four

in the morning, and so long as it was dark, as it was till nearly six,

McGill found it so too. And both watches were in a surprisingly good

temper. For nothing tries men so much as "brace up" and "square away"

every five minutes as they work their ship through a belt of calm. But

as soon as the sun was up the _Star_ worked just as badly as she did

before.

"It's maist amazin'," said McGill.

During the day the calm renewed itself and gave everyone a rest. But

once more the breeze came at night, and the amazing easiness of the

_Star_ showed itself when the darkness fell across the sea. Ryder and

Semple and McGill were full of wonder and delight.

"The character of a ship will change sometimes," said Semple. "It's just

like a collision that will alter her deviation. This calm has worked a

revolution."

Because of this revolution the _Star_ got ahead of the _Battle-Axe_

every change and chance of the wind. She got ahead with such effect that

on the third day the _Battle-Axe_ was hull down to the south'ard, and

when the fourth dawn broke she was out of sight. This meant much more

than may appear, for the _Star_ picked up the north-east trade nearly

four days earlier than her rival, and a better trade at that. When the

_Battle-Axe_ crawled into its area it was half-sister to a calm, while

the _Star_ was doing eight knots an hour. And as there was now no need

to touch tack or sheet, there was no solution of the mysterious ease

with which she worked in the dark. How long the mystery might have

remained such no one can say, but it was owing to Mrs. Ryder's curious

behaviour that it came out. She laughed in the strangest manner till

Ryder got quite nervous.

"These chaps that jumped over from the _Battle-Axe_ laughed like that,"

he told her, in great anxiety.

And she giggled more and more.

"Shall I try marmalade?" she asked. Then she sat down by him and went

off into something so like hysterics that a mere man might be excused

for thinking she was crazy.

"They're not dead!" she cried; "they're not dead!"

[Illustration: "'THEY'RE NOT DEAD!' SHE CRIED; 'THEY'RE NOT DEAD!'"]

"Who aren't dead?" asked her husband, desperately.

And, remembering something which had been told him years before, he took

her hands and slapped with such severity that she screamed and then

cried, and finally put her head upon his shoulder and confessed.

"Was it mutiny of me to do it?" she asked, penitently.

Will Ryder tried to look severe, and then laughed until he cried. "What

ever made you think of it?"

"It wasn't a what; it was a who," said his wife; "it was Silas Bagge."

"The dickens it was," said Will, and with that he left her.

"Call all hands and let them muster aft," he said to McGill, who, much

wondering, did what he was told. The watch on deck dropped their jobs

and the watch below turned out.

"Call the names over," said Ryder, sternly.

"They're all here, sir," said McGill.

The skipper looked down at the upturned faces of the men and singled out

Silas Bagge as if he meant to speak to him. But he checked himself, and,

going down to the main deck, walked for'ard to the fo'c's'le. The men

turned to look after him, and there was a grin on every face which would

have been ample for two. Ryder walked quietly, and pushing aside the

canvas door he came on a party playing poker. He heard strange voices.

"I go one petter, moreover," said one of them.

"I see you and go two better," said a man with a Newcastle burr in his

speech.

Then Ryder took a hand.

"And I see you," he remarked. They dropped their cards and jumped to

their feet.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. And there wasn't a word from one

of them; they looked as sheepish as four stowaways interviewing the

skipper before a crowd of passengers.

"Get on deck," said Ryder. And much to McGill's astonishment the

addition to the crew appeared with the captain behind them.

"Divide this lot among the watches," said Ryder.

Leaving McGill to "tumble to the racket," he walked to the mate's berth

and explained to him that henceforth the _Star of the South_ would go

about as easy by day as by night.

"Then they're not dead!" cried Semple.

"Not by a jugful," said Ryder, nodding.

"This is very lucky, sir," said the mate, smiling.

"It's confoundedly irregular, too," replied the skipper, as he rubbed

his chin. "Are you sure you knew nothing of it, Mr. Semple?"

"Me, sir! Why, I'd look on it as mutiny," said Semple; "rank mutiny!"

"It was Mrs. Ryder's notion, Semple."

"You don't say so, sir! She's a woman to be proud of!"

"So she is," replied Ryder. "So she is."

He went back to his wife.

"You'll win the hundred pounds now, Will?"

"I believe I shall," said Ryder.

"And I'll spend it," cried his wife, running to him and kissing him.

"I believe you will," said Ryder.

It was a happy ship.

_The Size of the World's Great Cities._

BY ARTHUR T. DOLLING.

Those imposing agglomerations of houses and dwellers we call cities (in

most cases political or commercial capitals) have shown a notable rate

of progress during the last two or three decades. More and more do the

centripetal forces at work in almost every nation make for the growth of

the capital at the expense of the rural community. A century ago a

million human beings dwelling side by side under a single municipal

government was almost of itself one of the great wonders of the world.

Men spoke of London with bated breath and wondered where it would all

end. Reports of monster cities in China with a population double that of

London were dismissed as travellers' tales. Travellers' tales, verily,

they have proved to be, seeing that Peking even to-day has fewer than a

million souls. But what would our forefathers have said of these

twentieth-century "wens," these "gloomy or glowing, febrile and

throbbing concentrations" of human life, numbering not merely two, but

three, four, and even five millions of souls?

[Illustration: LONDON: THE ADMINISTRATIVE COUNTY OF LONDON, WITH WHICH

THE OTHER CITIES ARE COMPARED, IS SHOWN BY THE SHADED PORTION.]

Let us take London as the basis of our diagrams. London is an

indeterminate quantity. It may mean the City of London, which comprises

only 673 acres, or it may mean the Administrative County of London,

which boasts nearly 117 square miles, or 74,839 acres, or Greater

London, which embraces the Metropolitan Police district, and has an area

of no less than 692 square miles, or 443,420 acres. If we take the

second of these Londons we shall find it to consist of twenty-nine large

and small cities, ranging in population from 334,991 to 51,247

inhabitants. These are called the Metropolitan boroughs; but as it is

rather geographical size than population which here concerns us, we may

state that the largest of these boroughs is Wandsworth, with an area of

9,130 acres, and the smallest is Holborn, with 409 acres. The average

area of these boroughs, if we exclude the City, is about four square

miles. Within these borders of London--which must not be confounded with

Greater London--there were in 1901 4,536,541 souls, living in 616,461

houses. Within this area, besides buildings, must be counted 12,054

acres of grass, including the public parks and gardens.

If we take Greater London we embrace a far wider and yet still a

homogeneous community, for it cannot be denied that the adjoining

boroughs just outside the pale of the administrative county are policed

from the same centre, are London to the Post Office, and commonly regard

themselves, what they must soon be officially, as an integral part of

the Great Wen. Greater London--within the fifteen-mile radius--is far

more homogeneous and compact than Greater Chicago, for example, or even

than Greater New York or Greater Boston. We have here an aggregation of

6,580,000 inhabitants and, as we have already seen, 443,420 acres. But

perhaps the fairest estimate of London is the natural one of a single

mass of buildings, without any unoccupied or unimproved areas. This

gives us a solid, compact city of 85,000 acres and 6,000,000

inhabitants; extending from Edmonton on the north to Croydon on the

south, and east and west from Woolwich to Ealing. Nor can one doubt, at

the present rate of expansion, that even more distant areas than Croydon

will eventually be included, although the Scotsman may have been a

little "previous" who addressed a letter to a friend at "Bournemouth,

S.W."

[Illustration: A MAP OF PARIS PRINTED UPON A MAP OF LONDON, SHOWING

THE RELATIVE SHAPES AND SIZES.]

In the following article we propose to compare with London the sizes of

the chief cities of the world and, by printing a black map of each city

upon a map of London, to display their relative magnitude at a glance.

Let us see, to begin with, how Paris compares with London as represented

in the above diagram.

At a _coup d'oeil_ we perceive that the French capital is for its

population remarkably small in area, a fact clearly owing to its fixed

military barriers, which make growth upward rather than outward.

Consequently, dwellers in Paris often have six or eight pairs of

stairs to climb where the dweller in London has but two. There have

been repeated agitations for municipal expansion, but so far nothing

has been done to annex the surrounding communes. Paris has a

population of 2,700,000, living in 75,000 houses, and an area of over

thirty-one square miles. If, however, the agglomeration of houses be

taken--including the suburbs--the area is forty-five square miles and

the population 3,600,000, although, as yet, this is not actually and

geographically Paris.

[Illustration: BERLIN COMPARED WITH LONDON.]

Berlin, a mere village a century ago, is the third city of Europe in

point of population, and its growth since 1870 has been phenomenal, as

we shall see. Yet the technical barriers which enclose the city remain

precisely what they were more than forty years ago, and Berlin is still

as it was in 1861, compressed within twenty-eight square miles, six

miles long and five and a half wide. At the close of the Franco-Prussian

War Berlin, now the capital of a new empire, became a paradise for

builders. Streets of houses appeared almost as if by magic, and the

whole aspect of the city became changed. From being the worst lighted,

the worst drained, and ugliest capital in Europe it has become one of

the finest, cleanest, and handsomest of cities, and its population has

more than doubled. Berlin now boasts within its boundaries 1,857,000

inhabitants. But without there is, in Ibsen's phrase, "the younger

generation knocking at the door," and Greater Berlin might have a

population of 2,430,000, with an area at least treble, extending,

indeed, as far as Potsdam. Berlin's actual increase from 1800 to 1900

was 818 per cent., multiplying its population by nine.

[Illustration: VIENNA COMPARED WITH LONDON.]

"The transformation of Vienna" has for nearly half a century been a

watchword amongst the progressive party in the Austrian capital. The

example of Paris--with which the Viennese love to be compared--has,

since 1858, brought to the fore innumerable Haussmannizing projects, all

of which have tended to the city's amplifying and beautifying. The

second or outer girdle of fortifications has been taken down; the

barriers thus removed, fifty suburbs became, in 1891, part and parcel of

the capital. Before this time Vienna was twenty-one English square

miles, or one-third less than Paris; afterwards it covered sixty-nine

square miles, besides having by the process added half a million to its

population, which now stands at 1,662,269. But Vienna does not intend to

be stationary in the coming decade. The fever of the municipal race for

territory is upon her also. She is now reaching out for the adjoining

town of Floridsdorf across the Danube, together with four other

communes, having a population of 50,000; and this step increases the

area of Vienna to about eighty-two square miles, nearly thrice the size

of Berlin. Naturally such a large territory for a population smaller

than a third that of London would comprise much open ground, especially

as there is great overcrowding in the industrial districts. And, as a

matter of fact, over five-eighths of Vienna is woods, pastures and

vineyards, and arable ground, while above a tenth of the total area is

made up of parks, gardens, and squares. The cost of making Vienna so

vast has been enormous; but it has not been borne by the ratepayers to

any oppressive extent, because the appropriated military ground and

sites of fortifications have yielded a handsome profit, and municipal

improvements in the annexed districts have, of course, enhanced the

value of property. Moreover, the most acute observers are convinced

that, if Vienna had not roused herself to material self-improvement, her

prestige, which is already threatened by Budapest, would ere this have

completely vanished. After the Austro-Prussian struggle and the

marvellous rise of Berlin and Budapest, the city on the Danube would

have sunk to be the Bruges of the twentieth century.

[Illustration: ST. PETERSBURG COMPARED WITH LONDON.]

There is, perhaps, hardly a capital in the world so badly situated as

St. Petersburg. To its north and east is a desolate wilderness, and to

its south is a mighty stretch of marshland, and it is 400 miles from any

important commercial centre. Yet, built at the behest of an Imperial

autocrat, it has risen steadily into magnitude and wealth, at the cost

of hundreds of thousands of human lives.

St. Petersburg is, as all the world knows, built on a swamp, or

low-lying alluvial deposits, at the mouth of the Neva. These cover

altogether an area of 21,185 acres, of which 12,820 are part of the

delta proper of the river and 1,330 acres are submerged. In consequence

of its origin and present condition the city is naturally subject to

inundations, but these, owing to the admirable public works and

precautions taken, are not of frequent occurrence. Of the area of the

city, 798 acres are given up to gardens and parks, while a third of the

whole area is densely overcrowded, the average in some districts being

one inhabitant for every ninety-three square feet and some dwellings

containing from 400 to 2,000 inhabitants each. As for the population, it

is now 1,248,739, to which if that of the suburbs be added (190,635),

the Russian capital is the fifth city of Europe. Yet in area it is far

too small; overcrowding is universal, in spite of the 1,000 dwellings

that are erected annually, and the mortality is appalling.

[Illustration: LIVERPOOL COMPARED WITH LONDON.]