"A penny for your thoughts, uncle," said Miss Drewitt, as they sat at
dinner an hour or two after the departure of Mr. Vickers.
"_H'm?_" said the captain, with a guilty start.
"You've been scowling and smiling by turns for the last five minutes,"
said his niece.
"I was thinking about that man that was here this morning," said the
captain, slowly; "trying to figure it out. If I thought that that girl
Selina----"
He took a draught of ale and shook his head solemnly.
"You know my ideas about that," said Prudence.
"Your poor _mother_ was obstinate," commented the captain, regarding her
tolerantly. "Once she got an idea into her head it stuck there, and
nothing made her more angry than proving to her that she was wrong.
Trying to prove to her, I should have said."
Miss Drewitt smiled amiably. "Well, you've earned half the sum," she
said. "Now, what were you smiling about?"
"Didn't know I was smiling," declared the captain.
With marvellous tact he turned the conversation to lighthouses, a
subject upon which he discoursed with considerable fluency until the
meal was finished. Miss Drewitt, who had a long memory and at least her
fair share of curiosity, returned to the charge as he smoked half a pipe
preparatory to accompanying her for a walk.
"You're looking very cheerful," she remarked.
The captain's face fell several points. "Am I?" he said, ruefully. "I
didn't mean to."
"Why not?" inquired his niece.
"I mean I didn't know I was," he replied, "more than usual, I mean. I
always do look fairly cheerful--at least, I hope I do. There's nothing
to make me look the opposite."
Miss Drewitt eyed him carefully and then passed upstairs to put on her
hat. Relieved of her presence the captain walked to the small glass over
the mantelpiece and, regarding his tell-tale features with gloomy
dissatisfaction, acquired, after one or two attempts, an expression
which he flattered himself defied analysis.
He tapped the barometer which hung by the door as they went out, and,
checking a remark which rose to his lips, stole a satisfied glance at
the face by his side.
"Clark's farm by the footpaths would be a nice walk," said Miss Drewitt,
as they reached the end of the lane.
The captain started. "I was thinking of Dutton Priors," he said, slowly.
"We could go there by Hanger's Lane and home by the road."
"The footpaths would be nice to-day," urged his niece.
"You try my way," said the captain, jovially.
"Have you got any particular reason for wanting to go to Dutton Priors
this afternoon?" inquired the girl.
"Reason?" said the captain. "Good gracious, no. What reason should I
have? My leg is a trifle stiff to-day for stiles, but still----"
Miss Drewitt gave way at once, and, taking his arm, begged him to lean
on her, questioning him anxiously as to his fitness for a walk in any
direction.
"Walking 'll do it good," was the reply, as they proceeded slowly down
the High Street.
[Illustration: "HE BECAME INTENT ON A DERELICT PUNT."]
He took his watch from his pocket, and, after comparing it with the town
clock, peered furtively right and left, gradually slackening his pace
until Miss Drewitt's fears for his leg became almost contagious. At the
old stone bridge, spanning the river at the bottom of the High Street,
he paused, and, resting his arms on the parapet, became intent on a
derelict punt. On the subject of sitting in a craft of that description
in mid-stream catching fish he discoursed at such length that the girl
eyed him in amazement.
"Shall we go on?" she said, at length.
The captain turned and, merely pausing to point out the difference
between the lines of a punt and a dinghy, with a digression to sampans
which included a criticism of the Chinese as boat-builders, prepared to
depart. He cast a swift glance up the road as he did so, and Miss
Drewitt's cheek flamed with sudden wrath as she saw Mr. Edward Tredgold
hastening towards them. In a somewhat pointed manner she called her
uncle's attention to the fact.
"Lor' bless my soul," said that startled mariner, "so it is. Well!
well!"
If Mr. Tredgold had been advancing on his head he could not have
exhibited more surprise.
"I'm afraid I'm late," said Tredgold, as he came up and shook hands. "I
hope you haven't been waiting long."
The hapless captain coughed loud and long. He emerged from a large red
pocket-handkerchief to find the eye of Miss Drewitt seeking his.
"That's all right, my lad," he said, huskily. "I'd forgotten about our
arrangement. Did I say this Sunday or next?"
"This," said Mr. Tredgold, bluntly.
The captain coughed again, and with some pathos referred to the tricks
which old age plays with memory. As they walked on he regaled them with
selected instances.
"Don't forget your leg, uncle," said Miss Drewitt, softly.
Captain Bowers gazed at her suspiciously.
"Don't forget that it's stiff and put too much strain on it," explained
his niece.
The captain eyed her uneasily, but she was talking and laughing with
Edward Tredgold in a most reassuring fashion. A choice portion of his
programme, which, owing to the events of the afternoon, he had almost
resolved to omit, clamoured for production. He stole another glance at
his niece and resolved to risk it.
"Hah!" he said, suddenly, stopping short and feeling in his pockets.
"There's my memory again. Well, of all the----"
"What's the matter, uncle?" inquired Miss Drewitt.
"I've left my pipe at home," said the captain, in a desperate voice.
"I've got some cigars," suggested Tredgold.
The captain shook his head. "No, I must have my pipe," he said,
decidedly. "If you two will walk on slowly, I'll soon catch you up."
"You're not going all the way back for it?" exclaimed Miss Drewitt.
"Let me go," said Tredgold.
The captain favoured him with an inscrutable glance. "I'll go," he said,
firmly. "I'm not quite sure where I left it. You go by Hanger's Lane;
I'll soon catch you up."
He set off at a pace which rendered protest unavailing. Mr. Tredgold
turned, and, making a mental note of the fact that Miss Drewitt had
suddenly added inches to her stature, walked on by her side.
"Captain Bowers is very fond of his pipe," he said, after they had
walked a little way in silence.
Miss Drewitt assented. "Nasty things," she said, calmly.
"So they are," said Mr. Tredgold.
"But you smoke," said the girl.
Mr. Tredgold sighed. "I have often thought of giving it up," he said,
softly, "and then I was afraid that it would look rather presumptuous."
"Presumptuous?" repeated Miss Drewitt.
"So many better and wiser men than myself smoke," explained Mr.
Tredgold, "including even bishops. If it is good enough for them, it
ought to be good enough for me; that's the way I look at it. Who am I
that I should be too proud to smoke? Who am I that I should try and set
my poor ideas above those of my superiors? Do you see my point of view?"
Miss Drewitt made no reply.
"Of course, it is a thing that grows on one," continued Mr. Tredgold,
with the air of making a concession. "It is the first smoke that does
the mischief; it is a fatal precedent. Unless, perhaps----How pretty
that field is over there."
Miss Drewitt looked in the direction indicated. "Very nice," she said,
briefly. "But what were you going to say?"
Mr. Tredgold made an elaborate attempt to appear confused. "I was going
to say," he murmured, gently, "unless, perhaps, one begins on coarse-cut
Cavendish rolled in a piece of the margin of the Sunday newspaper."
Miss Drewitt suppressed an exclamation. "I wanted to see where the
fascination was," she said, indignantly.
"And did you?" inquired Mr. Tredgold, smoothly.
The girl turned her head and looked at him. "I have no doubt my uncle
gave you full particulars," she said, bitterly. "It seems to me that men
can gossip as much as women."
"I tried to stop him," said the virtuous Mr. Tredgold.
"You need not have troubled," said Miss Drewitt, loftily. "It is not a
matter of any consequence. I am surprised that my uncle should have
thought it worth mentioning."
She walked on slowly with head erect, pausing occasionally to look round
for the captain. Edward Tredgold looked too, and a feeling of annoyance
at the childish stratagems of his well-meaning friend began to possess
him.
"We had better hurry a little, I think," he said, glancing at the sky.
"The sooner we get to Dutton Priors the better."
"Why?" inquired his companion.
"Rain," said the other, briefly.
"It won't rain before evening," said Miss Drewitt, confidently; "uncle
said so."
"Perhaps we had better walk faster, though," urged Mr. Tredgold.
Miss Drewitt slackened her pace deliberately. "There is no fear of its
raining," she declared. "And uncle will not catch us up if we walk
fast."
A sudden glimpse into the immediate future was vouchsafed to Mr.
Tredgold; for a fraction of a second the veil was lifted. "Don't blame
me if you get wet, though," he said, with some anxiety.
They walked on at a pace which gave the captain every opportunity of
overtaking them. The feat would not have been beyond the powers of an
athletic tortoise, but the most careful scrutiny failed to reveal any
signs of him.
"I'm afraid that he is not well," said Miss Drewitt, after a long,
searching glance along the way they had come. "Perhaps we had better go
back. It does begin to look rather dark."
"Just as you please," said Edward Tredgold, with unwonted caution; "but
the nearest shelter is Dutton Priors."
He pointed to a lurid, ragged cloud right ahead of them. As if in
response, a low, growling rumble sounded overhead.
"Was--was that thunder?" said Miss Drewitt, drawing a little nearer to
him.
"Sounded something like it," was the reply.
A flash of lightning and a crashing peal that rent the skies put the
matter beyond a doubt. Miss Drewitt, turning very pale, began to walk at
a rapid pace in the direction of the village.
The other looked round in search of some nearer shelter. Already the
pattering of heavy drops sounded in the lane, and before they had gone a
dozen paces the rain came down in torrents. Two or three fields away a
small shed offered the only shelter. Mr. Tredgold, taking his companion
by the arm, started to run towards it.
Before they had gone a hundred yards they were wet through, but Miss
Drewitt, holding her skirts in one hand and shivering at every flash,
ran until they brought up at a tall gate, ornamented with barbed wire,
behind which stood the shed.
The gate was locked, and the wire had been put on by a farmer who
combined with great ingenuity a fervent hatred of his fellowmen. To Miss
Drewitt it seemed insurmountable, but, aided by Mr. Tredgold and a peal
of thunder which came to his assistance at a critical moment, she
managed to clamber over and reach the shed. Mr. Tredgold followed at his
leisure with a strip of braid torn from the bottom of her dress.
[Illustration: "AIDED BY MR. TREDGOLD AND A PEAL OF THUNDER, SHE
MANAGED TO CLAMBER OVER."]
The roof leaked in twenty places and the floor was a puddle, but it had
certain redeeming features in Mr. Tredgold's eyes of which the girl knew
nothing. He stood at the doorway watching the rain.
"Come inside," said Miss Drewitt, in a trembling voice. "You might be
struck."
Mr. Tredgold experienced a sudden sense of solemn pleasure in this
unexpected concern for his safety. He turned and eyed her.
"I'm not afraid," he said, with great gentleness.
"No, but I am," said Miss Drewitt, petulantly, "and I can never get over
that gate alone."
Mr. Tredgold came inside, and for some time neither of them spoke. The
rattle of rain on the roof became less deafening and began to drip
through instead of forming little jets. A patch of blue sky showed.
"It isn't much," said Tredgold, going to the door again.
Miss Drewitt, checking a sharp retort, returned to the door and looked
out. The patch of blue increased in size; the rain ceased and the sun
came out; birds exchanged congratulations from every tree. The girl,
gathering up her wet skirts, walked to the gate, leaving her companion
to follow.
Approached calmly and under a fair sky the climb was much easier.
"I believe that I could have got over by myself after all," said Miss
Drewitt, as she stood on the other side. "I suppose that you were in too
much of a hurry the last time. My dress is ruined."
She spoke calmly, but her face was clouded. From her manner during the
rapid walk home Mr. Tredgold was enabled to see clearly that she was
holding him responsible for the captain's awkward behaviour; the rain;
her spoiled clothes; and a severe cold in the immediate future. He
glanced at her ruined hat and the wet, straight locks of hair hanging
about her face, and held his peace.
Never before on a Sunday afternoon had Miss Drewitt known the streets of
Binchester to be so full of people. She hurried on with bent head,
looking straight before her, trying to imagine what she looked like.
There was no sign of the captain, but as they turned into Dialstone Lane
they both saw a huge, shaggy, grey head protruding from the small window
of his bedroom. It disappeared with a suddenness almost startling.
"Thank you," said Miss Drewitt, holding out her hand as she reached the
door. "Good-bye."
Mr. Tredgold said "Good-bye," and with a furtive glance at the window
above departed. Miss Drewitt, opening the door, looked round an empty
room. Then the kitchen door opened and the face of Mr. Tasker, full of
concern, appeared.
"Did you get wet, miss?" he inquired.
Miss Drewitt ignored the question. "Where is Captain Bowers?" she asked,
in a clear, penetrating voice.
The face of Mr. Tasker fell. "He's gone to bed with a headache, miss,"
he replied.
"Headache?" repeated the astonished Miss Drewitt. "When did he go?"
"About 'arf an hour ago," said Mr. Tasker; "just after the storm. I
suppose that's what caused it, though it seems funny, considering what a
lot he must ha' seen at sea. He said he'd go straight to bed and try and
sleep it off. And I was to ask you to please not to make a noise."
Miss Drewitt swept past him and mounted the stairs. At the captain's
door she paused, but the loud snoring of a determined man made her
resolve to postpone her demands for an explanation to a more fitting
opportunity. Tired, wet, and angry she gained her own room, and threw
herself thoughtlessly into that famous old Chippendale chair which, in
accordance with Mr. Tredgold's instructions, had been placed against the
wall.
[Illustration: "SHE THREW HERSELF THOUGHTLESSLY INTO THAT FAMOUS
OLD CHIPPENDALE CHAIR."]
The captain stirred in his sleep.
(_To be continued._)
_Wild Western Journalism._
BY AN EX-EDITOR.
One of the most thrilling occupations that a human being could follow in
the old days--say a brief generation since--was that of editing a
newspaper in a small American town. There was a fulness in the life, a
feverish activity in the office and a perpetual spice of danger out of
it, that made all other callings seem trivial. Things have changed a
great deal in the past few years, but even yet Wild Western journalism
can boast a flavour--a tang of its own. There is no other Press in the
world quite like it; there is no similar body of men like those who
engineer it. To our old friends, Mr. Pott, of the _Eatanswill Gazette_,
and Mr. Slurk, of the _Eatanswill Independent_, their Occidental
followers of the _Arizona Arrow_ and the _Tombstone Epitaph_ bear but
faint resemblance. Perhaps in the birth-throes of English journalism--in
the era of the _Mercurius Pragmaticus_ and the _Scot's Dove_--the
vicissitudes of editors were not dissimilar to those endured by the
Colorado and Texas editor of yesterday, who was often his own publisher,
his own printer, and his own editor rolled in one--and not only that,
but was forced to perform these functions with a six-chambered revolver
reposing gracefully, yet ominously, on his desk. As to his Protean
character there has been little if any improvement. I cull the following
from a recent issue of the _Yampa_ (Oregon) _Leader_:--
The great city papers think they are smart in having a large
staff, and, although we have not published ours before, we shall
do so to take some of the conceit out of the city brethren. The
editorial staff of the _Leader_ is composed of: Managing editor,
V. S. Wilson; city editor, Vic Wilson; news editor, V. Wilson;
editorial writer, Hon. Mr. Wilson; exchange editor, Wilson;
pressman, the same Wilson; foreman, more of the same Wilson;
devil, a picture of the same Wilson; fighting editor, Mrs.
Wilson.
[Illustration: Facsimile of newspaper, "Tombstone Epitaph"]
By no means exaggerated is the description of a Western editor and his
environment which was given some years ago by the authors of that
amusing novel, "The Golden Butterfly." Prototypes of Gilead P. Beck
could be found in abundance throughout the region west of the
Mississippi. One of the most extraordinary characters and one of the
most delightful was the late Alvin S. Peek--"Judge" Peek of
Dakota--whose boast it was that he had "run" papers in nine different
States and territories, had shot eleven men who disagreed with his
opinions--three of them fatally--and had never swallowed a word he had
ever written, and who died universally respected in bed and at the ripe
age--for Dakota--of fifty-one years.
But apart from any personal contact with the men who make the newspapers
of the wild and woolly West it was once my experience to receive and
peruse weekly many hundreds of their productions--"exchanges" they are
called--and ranging from the _Mother Lode Magnet_ of California and the
_Tombstone Epitaph_ of Tombstone, Arizona, to the _Arkansas Howler_ and
the _Mustang_ (Colorado) _Mail_. Many a pleasant evening have I spent
over them, and I still prize a scrap-book containing things to me as
funny as I could find in any collection of wit and humour in the world.
There is reason for this, because the backwoods and prairie Press of
America is the nursery of American humour. It produced Mark Twain, Bret
Harte, Petroleum V. Nasby, Joshua Billings, J. M. Bailey, Bob Burdette,
Bill Nye, John Phoenix, and F. L. Stanton, to mention only a few of the
humorists of international renown. I was well acquainted with Stanton at
the time he was editing, printing, and publishing the famous _Smithville
News_. _Texas Siftings_, the _Arizona Kicker_, and the _Burlington
Hawkeye_ have made the peculiarities and amenities of Western journalism
familiar to English readers. Albeit, scattered through a dozen States
and territories are thousands of small newspapers, eking out a
precarious existence--full of native humour and sentiment--of which not
even the resident of Chicago and St. Louis has so much as heard. How
precarious that existence is may be judged from the following editorial
appeal in the _Gem_, of Flagstaff, Arizona:--
Have you paid your subscription yet? Remember even an editor
must live. If the _hard times_ have struck your shebang, don't
forget turnips, potatoes, and corn in the shock are most as
welcome as hard cash at the _Gem_ office. Also hard wood. Our
latch-string is always out, or same (_i.e._, the turnips, etc.)
can be delivered to our wife, who will give receipt in our
absence.
One of the pleasing fictions preserved by the Western Press is, as we
have seen, that of a plurality of editors. To these supposititious
editors the most extraordinary titles and functions are bequeathed. On
the front page of the _Rising Star_ (Texas) _X-ray_ no pretence of a
numerous staff is made--Mr. Albert Tyson boldly announces himself as
"horse, snake, lying, and fighting editor," while his motto is, "Do unto
others as you would have them do to you, and do it _fust_!"
In mining districts or in the new territories, where a "tenderfoot" is
made welcome in the "'eave 'arf-brick" fashion, the career of an editor
is one of constant risk and turmoil. If he is young and inexperienced
there are always lawless spirits ready to take a rise out of him, just
for the pleasure and excitement of the thing.
[Illustration:
The Rising Star X-Ray
ALBERT TYSON, HORSE, SNAKE, LYING, AND FIGHTING EDITOR,
Entered at the Rising Star Post-Office as Second-class
Mail matter. Published every Friday.
"DO UNTO OTHERS AS YOU WOULD HAVE THEM DO TO YOU, AND DO
IT FUST"
Editorial
-0-
This is 1901, have you resolted any yet? If you have
been making a dozzen New Year resolutions and breaking
them all in about 30 days, try the plan this time of
making only six and see if you can't keep your integrity
with at least three of them.
In this New Year, A D 1901 make a grave effort to "Do
unto others as you would have them do to you, and do it
FUST"
0 0 0
The Mav Enterprise has gone into hence,--is a mournful
corpse. She died, according to a hasty post mortem
examination, of a malignant attack of impecuniosity
fever or financial strangulation.
0 0 0
The X-Ray makes a motion that the people of Eastland
county instruct their next Representative to the
Legislature to introduce a bill in that honorable body
against the sale of toy pistols, firecrackers, and
torpedos of every description.]
Even in the civilized Southern States to the east of the Mississippi
editing was not fifteen years ago a healthy pastime. On one occasion,
when I was assisting a friend in Georgia, a citizen in a high state of
excitement entered the "editorial sanctum"--they are very particular
about the dignity of these epithets in America--and riddled the walls
and my desk with bullets from a revolver.
Luckily, I happened not to be there, but in the composing-room, engaged
in making-up the editorial page. My eye dwelt lovingly on a neat row of
paragraphs, one beginning in this wise:--
If our esteemed (but chronically overheated) fellow-townsman,
Sam Beale, will take our advice, etc.
[Illustration: "THE MALLET GRAZED MY EAR AND CRASHED INTO THE WALL."]
At that moment three shots rang out in deafening succession. My
journeyman "comp." dropped on his knees under the composing-case, and I
was just deciding on my own line of conduct when the door was flung
violently open, and Mr. Samuel Beale and I stood face to face. There
were no words--none which I could bring my pen to write--but a heavy
printer's mallet lay at one end of the make-up stone; this "our esteemed
(but chronically overheated) fellow-townsman" seized and flung with all
possible force straight at my head. Had his aim been true I should never
have lived to tell this tale. As it was, the mallet grazed my ear and
crashed into the wall, and the next object I saw was Beale wrestling
with the door in a frantic effort to escape. The conclusion of this
anecdote doesn't matter; but my printer was, I believe, finally obliged
to haul me off the body of the prostrate Mr. Beale, upon whom I then and
there felt it my editorial duty to take summary vengeance. Afterwards I
wisely went armed, my victim having openly threatened to shoot me on
sight. But the quarrel was eventually patched up, my chief inserting the
following characteristic _amende_:--
The _News-Democrat_ having on divers occasions, through a
misapprehension of the true circumstances, stated that our
esteemed townsman Sam Beale was a liar, a thief, and the
meanest skunk in the whole State of Georgia, we beg hereby
to retract this, and declare that our knowledge is solely
confined to Pawnee County. Shake, Sam, and be friends!
One of the arts which a Western editor must understand is that of
"padding," especially in his local "society" items.
Thus a Missouri paper, the _Hannibal Hornet_, is responsible for the
following string of "personals":--
Dec. 7th. Miss Sadie James, of Tarrant Springs, is visiting her
friend, Miss Annabel S. Colver, at the house of Miss Annabel S.
Colver, on Decatur Street.
Dec. 8th. Miss Annabel S. Colver gave a party in honour of her
guest, Miss Sadie James, who is visiting her at Miss Colver's
beautiful home on Decatur Street, at which all the youth and
beauty of Hannibal were present in full force.
Dec. 9th. Miss Sadie James, of Tarrant Springs, was observed out
sleigh-riding with her charming hostess, Miss A. S. Colver, and
their neat turn-out was shortly joined by several others.
Dec. 10th. Miss Sadie James terminated a pleasant visit to
Hannibal and returned to Tarrant Springs.
But occasionally it happens that an exquisite item of "society" falls in
the editor's way, without his having to do any "padding" at all, as in
this from the _Fairplay Flume_, published in the flourishing Colorado
"city" of Fairplay:--
MARRIED. MARKHAM--SEELY.--At the residence of the groom's
parents one of the most up-to-date weddings took place. (There
had been an agreement between the bride and groom not to be
married in the old-fashioned way, but to change the mode a
little.) Therefore they were married at the residence of the
father of the groom, Peter J. Seely, Esq. The groom wore a long
pair of overalls and a cutaway coat. The bride wore a calico
dress and apron. They both looked the picture of health, and
were ably assisted--the groom by the bride's sister and the
bride by Mr. Sam Meadows, a particular friend of the groom's.
After spending a couple of weeks in the West they will return
and settle down in their pleasant home, "Swandown"; Burlap, the
furniture man at Five Forks, having already the contract to see
that their home is properly furnished during their absence.
[Illustration: FAIRPLAY FLUME, THE BLISS BREEZE, THE ARIZONA
ARROW, THE CREEDE CANDLE, THE RIFLE REVEILLE, THE MUSTANG MAIL,
THE MOTHER LODE MAGNET]
As to the titles of many of these Western productions, it might be
supposed these spring from the fertile brain of some incorrigible
humorist. But this is not so. Nothing could be more real--"alive and
kicking"--in Anno Domini 1904, than the _Creede_ (Colorado) _Candle_,
the _Arizona Arrow_ of Chloride, Arizona, the _Rifle Reveille_, the
_Rising Star X-ray_, the _Bald-Knob Herald_, the Dallas _World Hustler_,
the _Kosse Cyclone_, the Blooming _Grove Rustler_, the Carrizo
_Javelin_, the Noyales _Oasis_, and the Devil's Lake _Free Press_. The
names of some Western towns are fantastic to a degree, and the editorial
love for alliteration is strong. Thus we have the _Bliss Breeze_, the
_Mustang Mail_, and the Searchlight _Searchlight_ in addition to those I
have mentioned. What more natural in the "city" of Tombstone, Arizona,
than that the newspaper should be entitled the _Epitaph_? Or that an
_Epitaph_ should take as naturally to obituaries as a duck to water or
an Arizonian takes to his "gun"?
[Illustration: JAKE MOFFATT GONE SKYWARD!]
As we feared on hearing that two doctors had been called in, the
life of our esteemed fellow-citizen Jake Moffatt ered out on
Wednesday last, just after we had gone to press. Jake was every
inch a scholar and a gentleman, upright in all his dealings,
unimpeachable in character, and ran the Front Street Saloon in
the very toniest style consistent with order. Jake never fully
recovered from the year he spent in the county jail at the time
of the Ryan-Sternberg fracas. His health was shattered, and he
leaves a sorrowing widow and nary an enemy.
[Illustration: Newspapers: "THE JAVELIN. The Flagstaff Gem.
The Oasis. The Oklahoma Hornet."]
The Tombstone men are handy with their "shooting-irons," as may be
judged from the accompanying cheery advertisement last Christmas time.
[Illustration: TURKEY SHOOTING
Wednesday, December 23, 1903
North End of Fifth Street
-------
Use Any Kind of Rifle
-------
AT 50 YARDS,
Turkey's Head Exposed, 25c Per Shot
AT 200 YARDS,
Entire Turkey Exposed, 25c Per Shot
To Draw Blood Entitles You to the Turkey
-------
SPORT BEGINS AT 2 P. M.
-------
Turkeys Now on Exhibition at Saylor's Store,
Allen. Bet. Fourth and Fifth Streets]
The chief advertisements in the _Epitaph_, as in the other papers in the
ranching country, consist of cattle-brands--_i.e._, rude outlines or
silhouettes of equine or bovine quadrupeds, marked with the peculiar
sign which distinguishes their ownership from others. By this means any
strayed or stolen cattle are readily identified.
[Illustration: CATTLE-BRAND ADVERTISEMENTS.]
As to the technical aspect of all the papers, which have so much in
common, the reader may like to learn something. How are they produced so
as to cover expenses in a "city" which boasts often fewer than one
thousand inhabitants, rarely reaches two thousand, and not seldom has
but five hundred souls? The answer is, in the first place, to be found
in the invention of patent "insides" or "outsides." These are sheets
ready printed on two of the four outside or inside pages; or, if it
should happen to be an eight-page paper, six pages would be set up and
printed at some great centre of population like Chicago or St. Louis.
The invention is of English origin, but owes its vogue in America to A.
N. Kellogg, who in 1861 was editing a little paper at Baraboo,
Wisconsin. When the Civil War broke out his printers left him for the
front, and, unable to get out his journal, he wrote to the publisher of
the Madison _Daily Journal_ for sheets of that paper printed on one side
only with the latest available war news. The blank side the enterprising
Kellogg filled up himself with big "block" advertisements and local
items and the inevitable political "editorial," without which no
American newspaper, however small, would be complete in its editor's
eyes, although it is rarely read. In a short space of time other country
editors followed Kellogg's example, and the Madison daily was printing
newspapers for thirty different Wisconsin papers on one side of the
sheet. The enterprise grew, Kellogg directed his entire attention to it,
and ended by founding a business which to-day prints two thousand
different sets or editions of patent insides.
At one time the same formes were used for hundreds of papers, only the
titles, headings, etc., being changed to suit each customer. But now the
editors of the _Oasis_ and the _Hustler_ have at least a hundred
different styles of paper to select from. As to the cost, the editor
pays hardly more than what the blank paper is worth, for the ready-print
companies derive their profit from the advertisements, for which they
reserve several columns of space. These country papers are usually sold
in "bundles" of nine hundred and sixty copies, but the circulation may
not be one-half of that figure.
We have seen that editing is a precarious livelihood, yet the editor
manages to get along somehow. I have seen it publicly stated that there
are four classes of men who usually own these small papers: farmers'
sons who are too good for farming and not quite good enough to do
nothing; school-teachers; lawyers who have made a failure of the law;
and professional printers who have "worked their way"--these last two by
far the most numerous class. They derive their chief profits from
advertisements, for it is a point of honour with the local bankers,
storekeepers, implement dealers, lawyers, doctors, liverymen, and
blacksmiths to advertise in the local paper. Then there is the annual,
and occasionally the semi-annual, circus advertisement, which may bring
in as much as a hundred dollars, "if a picture of the elephant is thrown
in." In the cattle-raising districts, as in Arizona, the different
cattle-brands fill up a large part of the paper, as in the case of the
_Tombstone Epitaph_. But besides the patent "inside," the editor of the
little paper has another convenient expedient for filling up his
columns. He can buy stereotype plates--that is, columns of interesting
matter in thin sheets. These are made to fit metal bases with which he
is supplied, and which he keeps in stock. Plates and bases being "type
high," or level with the type of the newspaper, are cheap to send by
rail, and being furnished to hundreds of other journals are of far
higher literary character than the editor could turn out himself for
treble cost.
I have said little of illustrated journalism in the Far West; but, as
the accompanying reproduction humorously suggests, it is--inexpensive.
And it may also betray the fount whence the authors of that amusing
brochure, "Wisdom While You Wait," drew some, at least, of their
inspiration.
[Illustration:
PHOENIX'S PICTORIAL, And Second Story Front Room Companion.
Vol. I] San Diego, October 1, 1853 [No. 1
Mansion of John Phoenix, Esq., San Diego, California
House in which Shakespeare was born, in Stratford-on-Avon]
The Red Counter.
BY L. J. BEESTON.
I.
Veterin gathered up from the table the papers which his captain pushed
toward him. He said, moodily:--
"I am surprised at _you_. We shall all be killed while you are making
love here. You may be very emotional, but you will have to tell that to
the German advanced guard."
Nicolas La Hire rose and took his sabre from a chair in this, the best
room of the _auberge_. He was commanding a scattered remnant of
cuirassiers who were shadowed by a Prussian force. It was his intention
to join the main body, but not only were there many obstacles in the
way, but he had fallen very desperately in love with Rachel Nay, the
sweetest and prettiest girl in Orgemont. He replied--by no means
offended by the familiarity of his officer, for whom he had the greatest
friendship:--
"You are needlessly alarmed. Besides, love speaks louder than a
bugle-call."
[Illustration: "LOVE SPEAKS LOUDER THAN A BUGLE-CALL."]
"But not so loud as a bomb, and that is what we shall get very soon. I
am not afraid--I; but there is a time for making love and a time for
making war. Then, consider your family. A farmer's pretty daughter is no
match for a La Hire. And in any case you will not get her, for she is
promised to that rascal Simon Mansart, who lives in the chateau on the
hill yonder"; and Veterin pointed through the unshuttered window, across
the village, where the cottages bore a covering of snow, and the frozen
road, to where a clump of acacias crowned an eminence.
"That is what troubles me," answered La Hire, beginning to pace the
room. "If she is married to that man, whom she detests and fears--to
that miser, that creature----!" he broke off suddenly, then continued:
"It is a burning shame that this pure girl, this sweet Rachel, this
wild-flower----!"
"Oh, come," interrupted Veterin, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously,
"if you are going to dilate in that strain----"
"Silence!" shouted La Hire; "you go too far." He muttered, in an
undertone, "I cannot leave her, loving her as I do, loving me as she
does, for I greatly fear that this vulture Mansart will be too strong
for me when I am gone."
"Then visit him," said Veterin. "Have you not a sword to threaten with?
Better still, have you not gold to offer? That will persuade him, if
anything can."
La Hire thought for a moment; then he said, "That is not at all a bad
idea. I will go now.... We will leave to-night. You will give the word.
Laporte is moving on Besancon, which is in a state of siege. We really
ought to join him three leagues from here, if only these confounded
Prussians will let us alone." He went out, murmuring, "I must see Rachel
before I go."
* * * * *
"You hear what I say, Monsieur Mansart?" thundered La Hire.
Simon did not reply, nor did his eyes fail before the stern gaze of the
captain of cuirassiers. A crafty smile touched the corners of his thin
lips, and he stroked with either hand the heads of two immense mastiffs
that crouched on the floor by his side.
"Mademoiselle Rachel Nay does not need your attentions. You will not
molest or annoy her in any way. Your gold, which, if report says true,
you have spent your life in wringing from whom you can, cannot buy a
woman's heart, and hers is pledged to me."
Simon smiled still more craftily. He knew that his parsimony had made
him notorious; he knew that the widow and the fatherless had little
cause to love him. His heart had shrunk in the grip of his miserly
instincts. But he was not afraid as he answered:--
"I shall take my own course, monsieur. Who are you to dictate to me? I
care not for your clanking spurs, your fierce looks. I have influence
with Mademoiselle Rachel's parents, who are very poor, and I shall use
it to the uttermost. I pit my gold against your handsome face and
swaggering manner. We will see who will win."
"Listen!" said Nicolas, in a voice hoarse with anger. "I will descend to
make terms with you, though, _mon Dieu!_ there is little reason why I
should. Since money is as vital breath to you, I offer you five thousand
francs if you will withdraw your suit."
"I refuse."
"Ten thousand, then?"
Mansart laughed and snapped his dry fingers.
"Come, I offer you fifteen thousand francs, and not a sou further will I
go."
Simon was visibly moved, and his hands rested nervously upon the heads
of his great curs; but he controlled the rising temptation and answered,
bitterly:--
"It is clear that you fear me or you would not make such overtures. I
decline your offer."
"Think well! I will never yield this girl."
"That is unfortunate, for I certainly intend to win her."
"Be careful!" said La Hire, in such a terrible voice that the mastiffs
growled and bared their teeth.
And instinctively, though he meant nothing, his hand groped at the hilt
of his sabre.
Mansart half rose from his chair. "You forget my dogs," he snarled.
"And you forget the Prussians, who cannot be far off," replied the
other; and when he perceived that the warning had a distinct effect he
followed up his advantage. "You will have to take care of yourself here,
monsieur, and yet greater care of your gold. I warn you that a Prussian
force is shadowing us, so that they will almost certainly take this
direction, if that is comforting for you to know."
Mansart turned pale.
"And as they have a couple of field-pieces, you may expect a display, by
Jove!"
He had scarcely spoken the words when a deep sound, a heavy thud, which
appeared to come from a long distance, startled him.
"Malediction! A gun!" exclaimed the captain.
He had scarcely spoken when a second and much sharper report sounded.
The shell had burst. Faint shouting came from below in the village.
"The 'Blues' have come after all," said La Hire, and he went out.
Looking northward he saw a tiny cloud drifting across the stars. It was
the smoke from the cannon which had been discharged. In that direction a
ridge broke the flatness of the fields, that were buried under a sheet
of ice. He muttered to himself:--
"They are there, on the escarpment. They will put a few shells into the
village and turn us out, and we must retreat--as usual. I do not care if
I can withdraw them from Orgemont." His eyes grew tender; he was
thinking of Rachel.
"Are they here--these Germans?" asked a fearful voice at his elbow.
Mansart also had quitted the house. That note of war, which was the
first he had ever heard, had terrified him.
"You may be sure of it," said the other, laughing. "And it is to be
hoped that you have some good things in your larder, for if these
Prussians visit you you will find that they have the stomachs of
wolves."
A bugle sounded.
"They will be expecting me," murmured La Hire.
It was frightfully cold. The air, like the earth, seemed frozen, biting
the lungs and making it difficult to breathe. The swaying branches of
the trees in the garden appeared to be trying to obtain a little warmth
by the exercise. The final crescent of the moon had risen, and her pale
gleam upon the fields seemed to have become petrified also with the
cold, and permanent.
La Hire had no sooner made up his mind to move than a red flame glowed
on the summit of the escarpment, and passed. It was quickly followed by
a second heavy thud--the report of a six-pounder field-gun. A bright
light appeared upon the sky, moving swiftly.
Something uttered a wail; something rushed amongst the acacia trees in
the garden, flinging down branches and tearing up earth. There was a
splitting report, sheeted flame, a terrible cry.
The night closed down as before, scarcely disturbed by that burst of
passion.
La Hire relaxed his grip of the garden soil. He lifted his face, which
was covered with earth.
"_Ciel!_ I thought I was done for," he muttered.
He rose from the prostrate position into which he had flung himself, and
looked around with eyes that were still dazed by the explosion.
"Simon--Simon Mansart! Are you still alive?" he called.
A loud burst of derisive laughter came from one of the lower windows of
the house.
"Go! The Prussians are waiting for you!" cried Mansart.
La Hire shrugged his shoulders, then stepped briskly from the garden to
where an orderly waited with his horse.
And as he rode away he felt his love swell and rise in his heart, and a
mad longing to see Rachel once more gripped him; to feel on his lips the
soft touch of her lips, and round his neck the clinging fingers once
clasped there. And this wave of passion that ran through his veins
seemed to unstring his nerves, weaken his purpose, and cast a mist of
love over his courage.
He found Veterin waiting impatiently for his appearance; and he led his
men southward, tempting the Prussians and drawing them from the
village.
II.
Weeks passed. The battles with the Germans, that were scarring the land
and so many hearts, only threatened Orgemont.
Now Simon Mansart lay very ill, and it was said that he was dying. At a
late hour that night Rachel received a letter. It was from Mansart, and
ran as follows:--
"RACHEL,--I am very ill, and have but a few more hours to live. Will you
wed me, dying? This is a strange request; but if for one brief hour I
might call you wife it should not make you sad, and it would give me
happiness.... I have a considerable sum of money with me in this house,
which represents the greater part of my fortune. I am anxious that you
should possess this when I am gone. I have papers drawn up making over
to you the whole of this sum. Only your signature is needed and all
becomes yours, even while I live. I would have it so, fearing that you
might say, 'If he should not die after all!' In any case you will be
rich. But have no fears; I am sinking, and can scarcely hold this pen.
Rachel, you have scorned my offer of marriage; at any rate you cannot
scorn me now. Let me call you wife; let me hold your hand for my final
but sweetest hour.--SIMON MANSART."
Old Joseph Nay, when this letter was read to him, slapped his shrunken
thighs. "And I wished, when you were born, that you had been a boy!"
cried he. "What a piece of fortune this is! At last I hope you will show
some sense. Quick, and get ready. I will take you round in the cart. It
is a frightful night, but one does not get a fortune every day on such
terms. Then one must respect the request of a man who is dying." And he
went out, adding to himself, "We are so poor that this is nothing less
than a godsend."
Rachel had turned very pale. She had greatly feared Mansart living; now,
at his last moments, he still threatened her peace. Seeing marriage only
in the holy light it has for lovers, she shrank from this thing.
* * * * *
A month passed.
One day the hamlet was thrown into a state of excitement.
A horseman came dashing bravely up the rough, snow covered road. He was
a splendid figure. He wore a steel helmet with streaming plumes, a
glittering cuirass, red breeches, and immense boots to his knees. A
sabre leaped at his side, and foam flew from the red jaws of his
magnificent horse. His bronzed face carried a formidable scar, that
added to the fierceness of his appearance. He reined in his charger with
a most telling effect.
"Where is Mademoiselle Rachel Nay?" he demanded.
They brought her to him. He sprang off his horse, removed his helmet,
which he placed in the bend of his left arm, and bowed with gallantry,
while his eyes showed his appreciation of the girl's beauty. He was
Philippe Veterin.
"I have come for you, mademoiselle," said he, trying to soften his
voice, that had been roughened in the war.
The blood crept from Rachel's cheeks.
"And with a message from Nicolas La Hire, who is my friend. He is
wounded--ah! pardon my stupidness, I am too abrupt; the hurt is not
much, but enough to prevent his coming for you. _Mon Dieu!_--do not look
so frightened, my pretty one; I have the best of news--news to bring the
blood again to those smooth cheeks. Listen! We ambushed a whole host of
Prussians, and we cut them to pieces. La Hire was equal to any two of
us. The colonel vowed he would give him whatever he asked for. 'Then
send,' said Nicolas, 'to Orgemont, which is three leagues from here, and
fetch my sweetheart to me, that I may kiss her lips.'
"We cheered him, mademoiselle, for it appealed to our hearts and made us
think of the women whose love is ours, and who are waiting for us. 'It
shall be done,' said the colonel, 'and you shall wed her, La Hire, if
that be your present wish. Then she can return to her parents to wait
for you until we have finished the war.'
"This is my errand, pretty one. I have come to fetch you. Ah! you are
paler than before. Courage! You shall have such a wedding that every
woman in France shall envy you. The church bells will peal while our
sentries guard the roads, the guns will salute you, and each breast that
a cuirass hides will swell with the cheers that we shall give you. My
sword, why am I not Nicolas La Hire!"
Rachel tried to speak, but there was such a weight upon her heart that
the words she would have uttered stopped in her throat. At length she
said, faintly: "I--I cannot go: it is impossible."
The trooper laughed outright. "_Pardonnez moi_," he cried, "I said that
I have come for you, and without you I dare not return, or I should be
compelled to fight my regiment, one by one. Mademoiselle, you will
obtain a horse, and you will accompany me; that is as certain as my name
is Philippe Veterin." He twisted his moustache, and a flash almost of
menace sparkled in his black eyes.
They were without old Joseph's cottage as they spoke, and Rachel drew
Veterin in, closing the door against the little crowd of villagers, who
turned their attention to the trooper's charger. She said, in a
heart-broken voice:--
"Nevertheless, I cannot accompany you. I am married already; I am
another man's wife."
[Illustration: "I AM MARRIED ALREADY."]
The trooper gave back a step; then he laughed harshly--a contemptuous
laugh.
"Oh, oh!" said he, shrugging his shoulders, "that is a different matter.
All the same, it is bad, bad news for La Hire," and he moved toward the
door.
"Stay!" said the girl, flushing hotly at his derisive tone. "I have a
message in return for yours. Will you tell Nicolas that, though he must
come no more to Orgemont, though he must not see me again, I am wife in
name only. Maiden I am still, before God, and, for Nicolas's sake, shall
always remain so. You will tell him, monsieur, that he had been gone but
a few weeks when Simon Mansart----"
"Ah!" interrupted Veterin, "I have heard about him."
"----when Simon Mansart fell ill. At the point of death (so it seemed
to all of us) he besought me to wed him, for he loves me almost as much
as he loves his gold. And he offered me in return all his money that is
hid in his house. I refused. It was pointed out to me that Monsieur
Mansart had no one to whom to leave the wealth which he had accumulated,
but he asked nothing better than to leave it to me if I would grant him
one brief hour in which to call me wife, that, holding my hand, he might
pass the last great barrier. I refused again. Then they made it clear to
me that certain papers only wanted my signature, and even while Monsieur
Mansart lived his wealth became mine--so certain was he that he could
not recover. Again I declined this offer. I was told that I should hold
sacred the prayer of one who loved me and was dying; that it would not
be only right, but an act of nobleness to render his end peaceful and
happy. Still I refused."
"Ah! Yet you yielded!" sighed Veterin, moved to his heart by a tear that
was trickling down one of the soft brown cheeks.
"For my parents' sake. They had their way at last. They are very poor;
the war has tried us greatly. Against my heart, against my conscience, I
said 'yes.' That night I signed the papers and was wedded to Monsieur
Mansart; that night he held my hand as I sat by his couch, and he looked
into my eyes with a terrible gaze of love."
"And he lived? My sword! I could swear he was not so ill as he said. The
cunning rascal!"
"It was God's will. I have not seen him since then, and will not.... You
will tell Nicolas all this, monsieur; and you will give him these papers
and ask him to destroy them, lest he should say, 'Rachel married this
man for the money.' I thought at first that I would send them back to
Monsieur Mansart, for you may be sure I shall not touch this money that
has come between Nicolas and me. And you will tell him that he must not
grieve for me, because I am not worthy of his remembrance."
"And I shall tell him that you love him still. Is it not so,
mademoiselle?" said Veterin, huskily.
"Yes, yes!" Rachel answered, struggling with her rising tears. She
caught the trooper by the arm, clasping his great muscles with her two
hands, and her breath fanned his face. "Tell him that--that I love him
as much as--as I despise myself; that my heart, which I gave to him,
must always be his; that all my thoughts are of him, are with him
wherever he goes. And you may tell him, monsieur, if you like, that my
heart is breaking--no, no; you must not say that! He would come to see
me, and he must not. Oh, _mon Dieu_!"
The clinging fingers tightened round the soldier's arm; the voice broke
off into a sob. Veterin's eyes were wet. He blinked fiercely.
"Take him my message. Tell him all this. But you cannot, wanting my
voice and my eyes, in which he used to read every thought. Yet you will
remember how I looked and what I said. And you will tell Nicolas that I
love him as he taught me to, that without him all the world has grown
dark, and that I shall love him until I die!"
The trooper caught her to him, for he felt that she was falling. Rachel
controlled herself by a strong effort, and she pushed him gently toward
the door. Veterin turned to give one last look at that supplicating
figure, with the dishevelled hair in sweet confusion about the
tear-stained face; then he went out. He muttered, in a voice that he
might not have known as his own:
_Peste!_ It seems to me that this Simon Mansart is very much in the
way!"
III.
On the evening of that day Simon Mansart was sitting alone before a
handful of fire when he heard his big dogs barking with anger. As the
disturbance continued he went to the door, and he thought he perceived
without, in the black night, a blacker shadow beyond the gate.
"Will you call off your lambs?" shouted a voice.
"Who are you? And what do you want?" cried Mansart, always terribly
suspicious of strangers, and especially those who arrived after dusk.
"You do not know me, but I have come on your business."
"Then you will come again when it is daylight, my friend," and he began
to close the door.
"Very well," was the immediate reply. "I am determined to see you now,
and if your dogs attempt to stop me they must take the consequences."
Simon laughed incredulously; but when he heard the iron gate scream on
its rusty hinges, and when he heard the growls of the dogs, he
exclaimed, vehemently, "Take care! You will be torn to pieces!"
"I shall at least kill one of your dogs first," was the determined
reply.
"Stop! I will call them off," said Mansart, who would never have yielded
had he the smallest doubt of the other's resolution. He whistled his
great curs off; but he was sorry that he had done so when he perceived
his visitor, who was a French trooper, swaggering and fierce, and who
could have crushed Mansart in his strong arms.
"May I come in?" said he, and he advanced so persistently that the other
was compelled to retreat before him. He closed the door and stood before
it--tall, erect, commanding.
"Your errand, monsieur?" demanded Simon, trembling with rage, yet
afraid.
"How dark it is in here! And what a little fire for so cold a night!"
"We do not need light to talk by, and I am warm enough."
"And poor enough. Is it not so? It is about that that I have come."
Mansart grew more polite. He had signed away a fortune to a girl who
loathed him. When peace should come the courts would make good her
claim. So that any overture, any compromise, was welcome.
[Illustration: "MY NAME IS PHILLIPE VETERIN," SAID THE CUIRASSIER.]
"My name is Philippe Veterin," said the cuirassier, folding his arms
with their gauntleted hands, and fixing a stern look upon Mansart.
"Captain Nicolas La Hire is my friend."
"And my enemy," muttered Simon, his deep-set eyes flashing.
"I have come to Orgemot on his behalf."
"Ah! Is he wounded?"
"He is."
Mansart rubbed his hands together.
"But not badly. Unless you are going to listen to me, I think it likely
that La Hire will pay you a visit one of these days."
Simon sank uneasily into his chair. "What has this to do with me?" he
demanded. "And how is it that you are here?"
Veterin went on steadily. "I am here with a message for Mademoiselle
Rachel Nay, that sweet girl----"
"That name is hers no longer. Also you will keep your compliments until
I ask for them," interrupted the other, savagely.
"You are her husband; that is true enough. To you I bear a message also.
Yet I can scarcely call it that, since what I am about to propose to you
is entirely an idea of my own, and which I should like to mention in the
interests of my friend Monsieur Nicolas La Hire. It is of a most unusual
nature. Here it is. Rachel married you believing that you were at
Death's door. But the door wouldn't open. Good for you, bad for her, bad
for Nicolas, whom she loves. Now, La Hire loves this girl; she is as
indispensable to his happiness as your money is to yours. Mark that."
There was a pause. Then Mansart said, "What do you mean?"
"That I have come to offer to restore to you these papers, which
represent the fortune which you have bestowed upon your wife. Ah! not so
quick. There is one condition attached. You must release this girl."
A terrible light of joy leaped into Simon's face, but it died away
instantly. "The thing is impossible," he said. "She is my wife; we were
lawfully wedded, remember. How, then, can I release her? How can she be
wedded to another?"
"Yet La Hire has sworn that only as her husband will he kiss the lips of
his love again."
"But, monsieur, how can it be? See for yourself!"
Veterin continued, imperturbably:--
"Certainly, if I restore to you these papers, which I am sure you would
be glad to get back, that would scarcely break the bond between you and
Rachel; yet I am about to yield them to you. It follows, then, that you
will still call her your wife and enjoy your own as well? I am afraid
that it does, but there is an 'if' in the case; for though I am
perfectly willing to give you these papers, yet it is just possible that
they may cost you your life."
"My life!"
"Precisely."
Mansart crouched back. "You are threatening me?" said he, hoarsely.
"By no means. Look here."
Veterin advanced to the table, upon which he emptied a handful of small
counters. "There are thirteen of them," he said. "You will perceive that
twelve of them are white and that the other is red. Will you count
them?"
"Oh, I take your word for it."
"Yet you had better count for yourself. That is right. And now I will
tell you my idea, which is so unusual and so dramatic that I rather
pride myself upon it. I throw these ivory discs into my helmet and cover
them with a handkerchief--so. And I ask you, if you are a man of
courage, to raise one corner of the handkerchief and take out a single
counter. If it be a white one--as is almost certain to be the case--I
hand you the papers in my possession and I wish you good-night,
enjoyment of your hoarded gold, and happiness with Rachel. But if it be
the solitary red one--and that is extremely unlikely--then--then--if it
be the red one, I say----"
The cuirassier broke off and regarded the other steadily. Mansart had
turned livid. "Go on," he said, in a shaking voice; "why do you stop? If
I should draw the red one--what then?"
Veterin shrugged his shoulders as he answered, "In that case I should
ask you to fight with me."
"Ah! you would murder me!" said Simon, recoiling.
"Pardon, I have _two_ pistols here. It would be fair fighting."
"It is horrible, monstrous! I will not listen to you."
"Almost as terrible as wedding a maid whose soul has been given to
another; almost as monstrous as coming eternally between two hearts that
beat for each other," was the stern response.
"I tell you that I will not hear of it," repeated Mansart, frantically.
"Then you will be a great fool. I wish I stood in your shoes. The
chances of life are twelve; of death, one. And even then it will be fair
fighting--though, by my sword, I shall do my best to kill you. Consider.
But a moment separates you from your wealth. Come, it might have been
over and forgotten by now."
"Monsieur, if you are a gentleman, if you entertain toward me no
sinister intent, you will leave my house at once."
"Very well, I will go," said Veterin, and he moved toward the door. He
opened it and was about to pass out when the querulous voice of Simon
called to him again.
"Well?"
"The chances in my favour are not sufficient."
"What a coward it is!"
"Add six more to the number and I will agree."
The trooper laughed and tossed half-a-dozen more of the white discs into
his helmet. "There you are," he said. "Take one; you are perfectly
safe."
"Shake them well together," whispered Mansart, who appeared to be almost
fainting with the excitement of this terrible gamble.
Then he put his hand under the handkerchief and into the steel casque.
He withdrew it slowly. The trooper snatched away his helmet to prevent
any trick, and Simon looked at the disc which his fingers held.
It was the red one!
[Illustration: "HE REMAINED GAZING FIXEDLY AT THAT SYMBOL OF DEATH."]
And he began to mutter; inarticulate words, such as one may use under
the spell of some strangling dream. He remained gazing fixedly at that
symbol of death. A rush of blood mounted to his forehead, swelling the
veins, then as quickly died away, leaving him pallid.
"Ah!" said Veterin, "how unfortunate for you!"
Mansart retreated a few steps, crouching back like a wild beast that has
received a wound, which simulates an approaching end, and which holds
its remaining strength together waiting for its destroyer to draw near.
"You must acknowledge that it does not look like chance," went on
Veterin, who was cool as ice. "Eighteen to one! _Ma foi_, it is
astonishing." He placed two pistols upon the table.
"Come, monsieur," he exclaimed, suddenly, in a hard, rasping voice. "You
will play the man, will you not?"
Mansart appeared unable to reply; perhaps he could not. His look was
steadily directed upon the trooper, whose slightest movement he observed
with the most intense anxiety.
Veterin examined the pistols, while he threw more than one furtive
glance at the other's passionless face. He pushed a pistol toward Simon.
"I think you had better defend yourself," he said. "I am going to hold
you to your word," and he stepped back, raising his own weapon.
"Stop!" exclaimed Mansart, in a choked voice. "We do not fight on equal
terms."
"What do you mean?"
"You are skilled in the use of your weapon, while I----"
"That is easily remedied." Veterin suddenly extinguished the candle. He
called out, "Take care! I shall fire at the first opportunity."
A nebulous red glow came from the nearly-burned log in the grate and
shone upon the farther side of the apartment. Both men had retreated
into the shadow; both waited.
There was a profound silence, broken occasionally by whispering sounds
from the log that pulsated, red and grey, as the draught fanned it.
Veterin was scarcely breathing; his straining eyes peered into the dark,
seeking to detect the form of Simon Mansart. He listened intently. Not
the faintest sound was audible. Suddenly he believed that he perceived a
black object but a few feet from him. Surely that was Mansart.
The cuirassier lifted his pistol and aimed at the centre of that
indistinct form; yet his finger did not press the trigger. Instead he
gradually lowered the weapon.
"What is the matter with my nerves?" he thought.
He remained standing in a rigid posture, undecided. "Why not?" he asked
himself again. "It is fair fighting. _Ma foi_, I have done worse
things."
Another minute passed. Veterin sighed deeply. "I cannot do it," he
muttered; "not even for you, Nicolas." Then he called out aloud:--
"Light the candle; I shall do you no harm."
No answer.
"You need not fear me," repeated the trooper.
Still no reply.
"If I move he will shoot at me," thought Veterin. Nevertheless, he
advanced in the direction of the table and groped about for the
candlestick. He found it, went to the fire, and held the coarse wick
against the log. All the time he did not remove his eyes for an instant
from that black something which he believed to be Mansart. The candle
smoked, glowed, then broke into a flame. The trooper had made a mistake;
he perceived that the shadowy object was a chair merely.
Veterin spun round, expecting a pistol-ball and extending his weapon. A
low cry escaped him at the sight which met his eyes.
[Illustration: "A LOW CRY ESCAPED HIM AT THE SIGHT WHICH MET HIS
EYES."]
Simon Mansart, crouched in an angle of the room, held with dead fingers
his undischarged pistol, looked with dead eyes at the flaring light. The
excitement of the gamble and terror of this unfought duel had stopped
his heart.
Veterin crossed himself. "God judge me! I did it for Nicolas's sake," he
said. He crossed to the grate and pushed some papers into the embers.
And all at once there came upon him a sudden fear which sent him running
from the house. The sharp air and a strong effort of self-control gave
him his wits again. For a moment he halted to look back at the chateau,
with its unlighted windows and dead aspect; and he said aloud, as if
concluding an unspoken thought:--
"----and they will be married when the war is over."
[Illustration: A MEETING OF THE PORTSMOUTH NAVAL WAR
GAME SOCIETY IN THE NELSON ROOM AT THE "GEORGE", PORTSMOUTH.]
_The Naval War Game and How it is Played._
BY ANGUS SHERLOCK.
Copyright in the United States by A. P. Watt and Son.
(NOTE.--This is the only popular article that has ever appeared
on the Naval War Game, though it is played in every navy in the
world. The subject is of some special interest just at present,
because both the Japanese and Russian navies trained on it for
the present war. Proofs of the article have been submitted to
the inventor, who himself selected the illustrations.)
From time to time one reads in the technical naval Press brief
references to, or fixtures for, the Naval War Game. At rare intervals a
"war-game battle" will be found described at length in some of the
Service journals, but beyond this it is safe to say that the game is a
mystery to the general public. The reason is, in part, that it touches
technical questions that are caviare to the million, but as much, or
more so, it is mysterious on account of the secrecy with which many of
its details are guarded. It is open to the public to purchase the
"game," it is true, but, though the material and plenty of directions
can thus he secured, it is by now well enough known that many
unpublished "confidential" rules exist.
These, it may be noted, differ in every navy. The problems of naval
warfare and the ideals of facing them are not the same for a Russian as
for an American, and Sweden and the Argentine Republic again have
nothing in common in their naval aspirations. However, were I in a
position to divulge these matters they would not be of any great
interest to readers of THE STRAND MAGAZINE, so I propose to confine
myself as much as possible to things in which the human interest is the
dominant factor.
First, however, some description of the game and its invention may be of
interest. The naval war game reached its fruition some five years ago,
but Mr. Fred. T. Jane, its inventor, always asserts that he began to
think it out when he was a small boy at school.
"When I was a small boy," said Mr. Jane, "I had the boat sailing craze.
A school-fellow had a better boat than I; I mounted a gun in mine and
committed an act of piracy on a duck-pond. My chum was a sportsman, and,
after punching my head, proceeded to arm his ship also. We took to
armour-plates made from biscuit-tins, and to squadrons instead of single
ships. In the battle that ensued our fleets annihilated each other, and
depleted finances forbade their renewal. Then it was that the economy
born of necessity caused me to think that make-believe battles would be
cheaper. Thus was the naval war game evolved in embryo. At first we
fought with imaginary leviathans, but after a time such impossible
vessels were claimed that we decided to simulate nothing but existing
ships.