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ADVENTURES IN MANY LANDS
* * * * *
THE BRAVE DEEDS SERIES
_UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_
THE BLACK TROOPERS, AND OTHER STORIES
A RACE FOR LIFE, AND OTHER TALES
NOBLE DEEDS OF THE WORLD'S HEROINES. By Henry Charles Moore.
THROUGH FLOOD AND FLAME. Adventures and Perils of Protestant Heroes. By
Henry Charles Moore.
HEROES OF THE GOODWIN SANDS. By the Rev. T. S. Treanor, M.A.
ON THE INDIAN TRAIL, AND OTHER STORIES OF THE CREE AND SALTEAUX INDIANS.
By Egerton R. Young.
REMARKABLE ADVENTURES FROM REAL LIFE.
THROUGH FIRE AND THROUGH WATER. By T. S. Millington.
FRANK LAYTON. An Australian Story. By George E. Sargent.
THE REALM OF THE ICE-KING. A Narrative of Arctic Exploration. By T.
Frost.
THE FOSTER-BROTHERS OF DOON. A Tale of the Irish Rebellion. By E. H.
Walshe.
THE CAPTAIN'S STORY. By Captain E. F. Brooke-Knight.
STEADFAST AND TRUE. By L. C. Silke.
ADVENTURE STORIES: DARING DEEDS ON LAND AND SEA.
HISTORICAL TALES FOR YOUNG PROTESTANTS.
BRAVE SONS OF THE EMPIRE. By Henry Charles Moore.
THE LOG OF A SKY-PILOT; or, Work and Adventure around the Goodwin Sands.
By T. S. Treanor, M.A.
SAXBY. A Tale of the Commonwealth Time. By Emma Leslie.
WITHIN SEA WALLS. By E. H. Walshe and G. E. Sargent.
THE HEROES OF MOSS HALL SCHOOL. A Public School Story. By E. C. Kenyon.
A GREAT MISTAKE. A Story of Adventure in the Franco-German War. By T. S.
Millington.
THE TREASURE OF CHIN-LOO.
LONDON: THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE WOUNDED ANIMAL SUDDENLY SPRANG OUT AT ME.
_See page 59._]
ADVENTURES IN MANY LANDS
Told by
ALGERNON BLACKWOOD, WILLIAM WEBSTER, ALFRED COLBECK, A. LEE KNIGHT,
And Other Writers.
_WITH THREE COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. GILLETT_
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 Bouverie Street & 65 St. Paul's Churchyard
CONTENTS
PAGE
I
A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE WITH HYENAS 5
_By C. Randolph Lichfield_
II
THE VEGA VERDE MINE 10
_By Charles Edwardes_
III
A VERY NARROW SHAVE 20
_By John Lang_
IV
AN ADVENTURE IN ITALY 31
_By J. Kinchin Smith_
V
THE TAPU-TREE 38
_By A. Ferguson_
VI
SOME PANTHER STORIES 49
_By Various Writers_
VII
A MIDNIGHT RIDE ON A CALIFORNIAN RANCH 69
_By A. F. Walker_
VIII
O'DONNELL'S REVENGE 84
_By Frank Maclean_
IX
MY ADVENTURE WITH A LION 105
_By Algernon Blackwood_
X
THE SECRET CAVE OF HYDAS 116
_By F. Barford_
XI
AN ADVENTURE IN THE HEART OF MALAY-LAND 155
_By Alexander Macdonald, F.R.G.S._
XII
A WEEK-END ADVENTURE 171
_By William Webster_
XIII
THE DEFLECTED COMPASS 193
_By Alfred Colbeck_
XIV
IN PERIL IN AFRICA 214
_By Maurice Kerr_
XV
KEEPING THE TRYST 227
_By E. Cockburn Reynolds_
XVI
WHO GOES THERE? 245
_By Rowland W. Cater_
XVII
A DROWNING MESSMATE 257
_By A. Lee Knight_
XVIII
THE PILOT OF PORT CREEK 266
_By Burnett Fallow_
ADVENTURES IN MANY LANDS
I
A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE WITH HYENAS
There are many mighty hunters, and most of them can tell of many very
thrilling adventures personally undergone with wild beasts; but probably
none of them ever went through an experience equalling that which Arthur
Spencer, the famous trapper, suffered in the wilds of Africa.
As the right-hand man of Carl Hagenbach, the great Hamburg dealer in
wild animals, for whom Spencer trapped some of the finest and rarest
beasts ever seen in captivity, thrilling adventures were everyday
occurrences to him. The trapper's life is infinitely more exciting and
dangerous than the hunter's, inasmuch as the latter hunts to kill, while
the trapper hunts to capture, and the relative risks are not, therefore,
comparable; but Spencer's adventure with the "scavenger of the wilds,"
as the spotted hyena is sometimes aptly called, was something so
terrible that even he could not recollect it without shuddering.
He was out with his party on an extended trapping expedition, and one
day he chanced to get separated from his followers; and, partly overcome
by the intense heat and his fatigue, he lay down and fell asleep--about
the most dangerous thing a solitary traveller in the interior of Africa
can do. Some hours later, when the scorching sun was beginning to settle
down in the west, he was aroused by the sound of laughter not far away.
For the moment he thought his followers had found him, and were amused
to find him taking his difficulties so comfortably; but hearing the
laugh repeated he realised at once that no human being ever gave
utterance to quite such a sound; in fact, his trained ear told him it
was the cry of the spotted hyena. Now thoroughly awake, he sat up and
saw a couple of the ugly brutes about fifty yards away on his left. They
were sniffing at the air, and calling. He knew that they had scented
him, but had not yet perceived him.
In such a position, as sure a shot and one so well armed as Spencer was,
a man who knew less about wild animals and their habits would doubtless
have sent the two brutes to earth in double quick time, and thus
destroyed himself. But Spencer very well knew from their manner that
they were but the advance-guard of a pack. The appearance of the pack,
numbering about one hundred, coincided with his thought. To tackle the
whole party was, of course, utterly out of the question; to escape by
flight was equally out of the question, for hyenas are remarkably fast
travellers.
His only possible chance of escape, therefore, was to hoodwink them, if
he could, by feigning to be dead; for it is a characteristic of the
hyena to reject flesh that is not putrid. He threw himself down again,
and remained motionless, hoping the beasts would think him, though dead,
yet unfit for food. It was an off-chance, and he well knew it; but there
was nothing else to be done.
In a couple of seconds the advance-guard saw him, and, calling to their
fellows, rushed to him. The pack answered the cry and instantly
followed. Spencer felt the brutes running over him, felt their foul
breath on his neck, as they sniffed at him, snapping, snarling,
laughing; but he did not move. One of them took a critical bite at his
arm; but he did not stir. They seemed nonplussed. Another tried the
condition of his leg, while many of them pulled at his clothes, as if in
impotent rage at finding him so fresh. But he did not move; in an agony
of suspense he waited motionless.
Presently, to his amazement, he was lifted up by two hyenas, which fixed
their teeth in his ankle and his wrist, and, accompanied by the rest,
his bearers set off with him swinging between them, sometimes fairly
carrying him, sometimes simply dragging him, now and again dropping him
for a moment to refix their teeth more firmly in his flesh. Believing
him to be dead, they were conveying him to their retreat, there to
devour him when he was in a fit condition. He fully realised this, but
he was powerless to defend himself from such a fate.
How far they carried him Spencer could not tell, for from the pain he
was suffering from his wounds, and the dreadful strain of being carried
in such a manner, he fell into semi-consciousness from time to time; but
the distance must have been considerable, for night was over the land
and the sky sparkling with stars before the beasts finally halted; and
then they dropped him in what he knew, by the horrible and overpowering
smell peculiar to hyenas, was the cavern home of the pack. Here he lay
throughout the awful night, surrounded by his captors, suffering acutely
from his injuries, thirst, and the vile smell of the place.
When morning broke he found that the pack had already gone out in search
of more ready food, leaving him in charge of two immense brutes, which
watched him narrowly all through the day; for, unarmed as he was, and
exhausted, he knew it would be suicide to attempt to tackle his
janitors. He could only wait on chance. Once or twice during the day the
beasts tried him with their teeth, giving unmistakable signs of disgust
at the poor progress he was making. At nightfall they tried him again,
and, being apparently hungry, one of them deserted its post and went
off, like the others, in search of food.
This gave the wretched man a glimmering of hope, for he knew that the
hyena dislikes its own company, and that the remaining beast would
certainly desert if the pack remained away long enough. But for hour
after hour the animal stayed on duty, never going farther than the mouth
of the cave. When the second morning broke, however, the hyena grew very
restless, going out and remaining away for brief periods. But it always
returned, and every time it did so Spencer naturally imagined it had
seen the pack returning, and that the worst was in store for him. But at
length, about noon, the brute went out and did not come back.
Spencer waited and waited, fearing to move lest the creature should only
be outside, fearing to tarry lest he should miss his only chance of
escaping. After about an hour of this suspense he crept to the mouth of
the cave. No living creature was within sight. He got upon his faltering
feet, and hurried away as fast as his weakness would permit; but his
condition was so deplorable that he had not covered a mile when he
collapsed in a faint.
Fortune, however, favours the brave; and although he fell where he might
easily have remained for years without being discovered, he was found
the same day by a party of Boers, who dressed his wounds, gave him food
and drink (which he had not touched for two days), and helped him by
easy stages to the coast.
Being a man of iron constitution, he made a rapid and complete recovery,
but his wrist, ankle, arms, and thigh still bear the marks of the
hideous teeth which, but for his marvellous strength of will, would have
torn him, living, to shreds.
II
THE VEGA VERDE MINE
Jim Cayley clambered over the refuse-heaps of the mine, rejoicing in a
tremendous appetite which he was soon to have the pleasure of
satisfying.
There was also something else.
Little Toro, the kiddy from Cuba--"Somebody's orphan," the Spaniards of
the mine called him, with a likely hit at the truth--little Toro had
been to the Lago Frio with Jim, to see that he didn't drown of cramp or
get eaten by one of the mammoth trout, and had hinted at dark doings to
be wrought that very day, at closing time or thereabouts.
Hitherto, Jim had not quite justified his presence at the Vega Verde
mine, some four thousand feet above sea-level in these wilds of
Asturias. To be sure, he was there for his health. But Mr. Summerfield,
the other engineer in partnership with Alfred Cayley, Jim's brother,
had, in a thoughtless moment, termed Jim "an idle young dog," and the
phrase had stuck. Jim hadn't liked it, and tried to say so.
Unfortunately, he stammered, and Don Ferdinando (Mr. Summerfield) had
laughed and gone off, saying he couldn't wait.
_Now_ it was Jim's chance. He felt that this was so, and he rejoiced in
the sensation as well as in his appetite and the thought of the
excellent soup, omelette, cutlets, and other things which it was Mrs.
Jumbo's privilege to be serving to the three Englishmen (reckoning Jim
in the three) at half-past one o'clock precisely.
Toro had made a great fuss about his news. He was drying Jim at the
time, and Jim was saying that he didn't suppose any other English fellow
of fifteen had had such a splendid bathe. There were snow-peaks in the
distance, slowly melting into that lake, which well deserved its name of
"Cold."
"Don Jimmy," said young Toro, pausing with the towel, "what do you
think?"
"Think?" said Jimmy. "That I--I--I--I'll punch your black head for you
if you don't finish this j--j--j--job, and b--b--b--be quick about it."
He wasn't really fierce with the Cuban kiddy. The Cuban kiddy himself
knew that, and grinned as he made for Jim's shoulder.
"Yes, Don Jimmy," he said; "don't you worry about that. But I'm telling
you a straight secret this time--no figs about it."
Toro had picked up some peculiar English by association with the
Americans who had swamped his native land after the great war. Still, it
was quite understandable English.
"A s--s--s--straight secret! Then j--j--just out with it, or I'll
p--p--p--punch your head for that as well," said Jimmy, rushing his
words.
He often achieved remarkable victories over his affliction by rushing
his words. He could do this best with his inferiors, when he hadn't to
trouble to think what words he ought to use. At school he made howling
mistakes just because of his respectful regard for the masters and that
sort of thing. They didn't seem to see how he suffered in his kindly
consideration of them.
It was same with Don Ferdinando. Mr. Summerfield was a very great
engineering swell when he was at home in London. Jimmy couldn't help
feeling rather awed by him. And so his stammering to Don Ferdinando was
something "so utterly utter" (as his brother said) that no fellow could
listen to it without manifest pain, mirth, or impatience. In Don
Ferdinando's case, it was generally impatience. His time was worth
pounds a minute or so.
"All right," said Toro. "And my throat ain't drier than your back now,
Don Jimmy; so you can put your clothes on and listen. They're going to
bust the mine this afternoon--that's what they're going to do; and
they'd knife me if they knew I was letting on."
"What?" cried Jimmy.
"It's a fact," said Toro, dropping the towel and feeling for a
cigarette. "They're all so mighty well sure they won't be let go down to
Bavaro for the Saint Gavino kick-up to-morrow that they've settled to do
that. If there ain't no portering to do, they'll be _let_ go. That's how
they look at it. They don't care, not a peseta between 'em, how much it
costs the company to get the machine put right again; not them skunks
don't. What they want is to have a twelve-hour go at the wine in the
valley. You won't tell of me, Don Jimmy?"
"S--s--snakes!" said Jimmy.
Then he had started to run from the Lago Frio, with his coat on his arm.
Dressing was a quick job in those wilds, where at midday in summer one
didn't want much clothing.
"No, I won't let on!" he had cried back over his shoulder.
Toro, the Cuban kiddy, sat down on the margin of the cold blue lake and
finished his cigarette reflectively. White folks, especially white
English-speaking ones, were rather unsatisfactory. He liked them,
because as a rule he could trust them. But Don Jimmy needn't have
hurried away like that. He, Toro, hoped to have had licence to draw his
pay for fully another hour's enjoyable idleness. As things were,
however, Don Alonso, the foreman, would be sure to be down on him if he
were two minutes after Don Jimmy among the red-earth heaps and the
galvanised shanties of the calamine mine on its perch eight hundred feet
sheer above the Vega Verde.
Jim Cayley was a few moments late for the soup after all.
"I s--s--say!" he began, as he bounced into the room.
"Say nothing, my lad!" exclaimed Don Alfredo, looking up from his
newspaper.
[Words missing in original] mail had just arrived--an eight-mile climb,
made daily, both ways, by one of the gang.
Mrs. Jumbo, the moustached old Spanish lady who looked after the house,
put his soup before Jimmy.
"Eat, my dear," she said in Spanish, caressing his damp hair--one of her
many amiable yet detested little tricks, to signify her admiration of
Jim's fresh complexion and general style of beauty.
"But it's--it's--it's most imp--p--p----"
Don Ferdinando set down his spoon. He also let the highly grave letter
from London which he was reading slip into his soup.
"I tell you what, Cayley," he said, "if you don't crush this young
brother of yours, I will. This is a matter of life or death, and I
_must_ have a clear head to think it out."
"I was only saying," cried Jim desperately. But his brother stopped him.
"Hold your tongue, Jim," he said. "We've worry enough to go on with just
at present. I mean it, my lad. If you've anything important to proclaim,
leave it to me to give you the tip when to splutter at it. I'm solemn."
When Don Alfredo said he was "solemn," it often meant that he was on the
edge of a most unbrotherly rage. And so Jim concentrated upon his
dinner. He made wry faces at Mrs. Jumbo and her strokings, and even
found fault with the soup when she asked him sweetly if it were not
excellent. All this to relieve his feelings.
The two engineers left Jim to finish his dinner by himself. Jim's
renewed effort of "I say, Alf!" was quenched by the upraised hands of
both engineers.
Outside they were met by Don Alonso, the foreman, a very smart and
go-ahead fellow indeed, considering that he was a Spaniard.
"They'll strike, senores!" said Don Alonso, with a shrug. "It can't be
helped, I'm afraid. It's all Domecq's doing, the scoundrel! Why didn't
you dismiss him, Don Alfredo, after that affair of Moreno's death?
There's not a doubt he killed Moreno, and he hasn't a spark of gratitude
or goodness in his nature."
"He's a capable hand," said Alfred Cayley.
"Too much so, by half," said Don Ferdinando. "If he were off the mine,
Elgos, we should run smoothly, eh?"
"I'll answer for that, senor," replied the foreman. "As it is, he plays
his cards against mine. His influence is extraordinary. There'll not be
a man here to-morrow; Saint Gavino will have all their time and money."
"You don't expect any active mischief, I hope?" suggested Don
Ferdinando.
The foreman thought not. He had heard no word of any.
"Very well, then. I'll settle Domecq straight off," said Don Ferdinando.
He returned to the house and pocketed his revolver. They had to be
prepared for all manner of emergencies in these wilds of Asturias,
especially on the eves and morrows of Saints' days. But it didn't at all
follow that because Don Ferdinando pocketed his shooter he was likely to
be called upon to use it.
The three were separating after this when a lad in a blue cotton jacket
rose lazily from behind a heap of calamine just to the rear of them, and
swung off towards the machinery on the edge of the precipice.
"Pedro!" called the foreman, and, returning, the lad was asked if he had
been listening.
He vowed that such a thought had not entered his head. He had been
asleep; that was all.
"Very good!" said the foreman. "You may go, and it's fifty cents off
your wage list that your sleep out of season has cost you."
Discipline at the mine had to be of the strictest. Any laxity, and the
laziest man was bound to start an epidemic of laziness.
Don Ferdinando set off for the Vega, eight hundred feet sheer below the
mine. It was a ticklish zigzag, just to the left of the transporting
machinery, with twenty places in which a slip would mean death.
Domecq was working down below, lading the stuff into bullock-carts.
Alfred Cayley disappeared into one of the upper galleries, to see how
they were panning out.
The snow mountains and the afternoon sun looked down upon a very
pleasing scene of industry--blue-jacketed workers and heaps of ore; and
upon Jim Cayley also, who had enjoyed his dinner so thoroughly that he
didn't think so much as before about his rejected information.
But now again the Cuban kiddy drifted towards him, making for the
zigzag.
Jim hailed him.
"Can't stop, Don Jimmy!" said Toro. But when he was some yards down, he
beckoned to Jim, who quickly joined him.
They conferred on the edge of a ghastly precipice.
"I'm off down to tell Domecq that it's going to be done at two-thirty
prompt," said Toro.
"What's going to be d--done?" asked Jimmy.
"What I told you about. They've cut the 'phone down to the 'llano' as a
start. But that's nothing. You just go and squat by the engine and see
what happens. Guess they'll not mind you."
To tell the truth, Jim was a trifle dazed. He didn't grapple the ins and
outs of a conspiracy of Spanish miners just for the sake of a holiday.
And as Toro couldn't wait (it was close on half-past two), Jim thought
he might as well act on his advice. He liked to see the big buckets of
ore swinging off into space from the mine level and making their fearful
journey at a thrilling angle, down, down until, as mere specks, they
reached the transport and washing department of the mine in the Vega.
Two empty buckets came up as two full ones went down, travelling with a
certain sublimity along the double rope of woven wire.
Jim sat down at a distance. He saw one cargo get right off--no more.
Then he noticed that the men engaged at the engine were confabulating.
He saw a gleam of instruments. Also he saw another full bucket hitched
on and sent down at the run. And then he saw the men furtively at work
at something.
Suddenly the cable snapped, flew out, yards high!
Jim saw this--and something more. Looking instantly towards the Vega he
saw the return bucket, hundreds of feet above the level, toss a
somersault as it was freed of its tension and--this was horrible!--pitch
a man head-foremost into the air.
He cried out at the sight, and so did the rascals who had done their
rattening for a comparatively innocent purpose.
But when he and a dozen others had made the desperate descent of the
zigzag, they found that the dead man was Domecq. Even the miners had no
love for this arch-troubler, and, in trying to avoid Don Ferdinando, the
sight of whom, coming down the track, had warned him of danger, Domecq
had done the mine the best turn possible.
Toro's own warning was of course much too late.
The tragedy had a great effect. Saint Gavino was neglected after all,
and it was in very humble spirits that the ringleaders of the plot
confessed their sins and agreed to suffer the consequences.
Jim by-and-by tried to tell his brother and Don Ferdinando that if only
they had listened to him at dinner the "accident" might not have
happened. But he stammered so much again (Don Ferdinando was as stern as
a headmaster) that he shut up.
"It's--it's--nothing particu--ticu--_ticular_, Mr. Summerfield!" he
explained.
Don Ferdinando was anything but depressed about Domecq's death; and Jim
didn't want to damp his spirits. Of course, if Domecq had really killed
another fellow only a few weeks ago, as was rumoured, he deserved the
fate that had overtaken him.
III
A VERY NARROW SHAVE
One winter's day in San Francisco my friend Halley, an enthusiastic shot
who had killed bears in India, came to me and said, "Let's go south. I'm
tired of towns. Let's go south and have some real tip-top shooting."
In the matter of sport, California in those days--thirty years
ago--differed widely from the California of to-day. Then, the sage brush
of the foot-hills teemed with quail, and swans, geese, duck
(canvas-back, mallard, teal, widgeon, and many other varieties)
literally filled the lagoons and reed-beds, giving magnificent shooting
as they flew in countless strings to and fro between the sea and the
fresh water; whilst, farther inland, snipe were to be had in the swamps
almost "for the asking." On the plains were antelope, and in the hills
and in the Sierra Nevadas, deer and bears, both cinnamon and grizzly.
Verily a sportsman's paradise!
The next day saw us on board the little _Arizona_, bound for San Pedro,
a forty-hours' trip down the coast. We took with us only shot-guns,
meaning to try for nothing but small game. At San Pedro, the port for
Los Angeles (Puebla de los Angeles, the "Town of the Angels"), we
landed, and after a few days' camping by some lagoons near the sea,
where we shot more duck than could easily be disposed of, we made our
way to that little old Spanish settlement, where we hired a horse and
buggy to take us inland.
Our first stopping-place was at a sheep-ranche, about fifty miles from
Los Angeles, a very beautiful property, well grassed and watered, and
consisting chiefly of great plains through which flowed a crystal-clear
river, and surrounded on very side by the most picturesque of hills,
1,000 to 1,500 feet in height.
The ranche was owned by a Scotsman, and his "weather-board" house was
new and comfortable, but we found ourselves at the mercy of the most
conservative of Chinese cooks, whom no blandishments could induce to
give us at our meals any of the duck or snipe we shot, but who stuck
with unwearying persistency to boiled pork and beans. And on boiled pork
and beans he rang the changes, morning, noon, and night; that is to say,
sometimes it was hot, and sometimes it was cold, but it was ever boiled
pork and beans. At its best it is not a diet to dream about (though I
found that a good deal of dreaming could be done _upon_ it), and as we
fancied, after a few days, that any attraction which it might originally
have possessed had quite faded and died, we resolved to push on
elsewhere.
The following night we reached a little place at the foot of the higher
mountains called Temescal, a very diminutive place, consisting, indeed,
of but one small house. The surroundings, however, were very beautiful,
and the presence of a hot sulphur-spring, bubbling up in the scrub not
one hundred yards from the house, and making a most inviting natural
bath, coupled with the favourable reports of game of all kinds to be
got, induced us to stop. And life was very pleasant there in the crisp
dry air, for the quail shooting was good, the scenery and weather
perfect, everything fresh and green and newly washed by a two days'
rain, the food well cooked, and, nightly, after our day's shooting, we
rolled into the sulphur-spring and luxuriated in the hot water.
But Halley's soul began to pine for higher things, for bigger game than
quail and duck. "Look here," he said to me one day, "this is all very
well, you know, but why shouldn't we go after the deer amongst the
hills? We've got some cartridges loaded with buckshot. And, my word! we
_might_ get a grizzly."
"All right," I said, "I'm on, as far as deer are concerned, but hang
your grizzlies. I'm not going to tackle _them_ with a shot-gun."
So it was arranged that next morning, before daylight, we should go,
with a boy to guide us, up one of the numerous canons in the mountains,
to a place where we were assured deer came down to drink.
It was a cold, clear, frosty morning when we started, the stars
throbbing and winking as they seem to do only during frost, and we
toiled, not particularly gaily, up the bed of a creek, stumbling in the
darkness and barking our shins over more boulders and big stones than
one would have believed existed in all creation. Just before dawn, when
the grey light was beginning to show us more clearly where we were
going, we saw in the sand of the creek fresh tracks of a large bear, the
water only then beginning to ooze into the prints left by his great
feet, and I can hardly say that I gazed on them with the amount of
enthusiasm that Halley professed to feel.
But bear was not in our contract, and we hurried on another half-mile or
so, for already we were late if we meant to get the deer as they came to
drink; and presently, on coming to a likely spot, where the canon
forked, Halley said, "This looks good enough. I'll stop here and send
the boy back; you can go up the fork about half a mile and try there."
And on I went, at last squatting down to wait behind a clump of
manzanita scrub, close to a small pool where the creek widened.
It was as gloomy and impressive a spot as one could find anywhere out of
a picture by Dore. The sombre pines crowded in on the little stream,
elbowing and whispering, leaving overhead but a gap of clear sky; on
either hand the rugged sides of the canon sloped steeply up amongst the
timber and thick undergrowth, and never the note of a bird broke a
silence which seemed only to be emphasised by the faint sough of the
wind in the tree tops. Minute dragged into minute, yet no deer came
stealing down to drink, and rapidly the stillness and heart-chilling
gloom were getting on my nerves; when, far up the steep side of the
canon opposite to me there came a faint sound, and a small stone
trickled hurriedly down into the water.
"At last!" I thought. "At last!" And with a thumping heart and eager eye
I crouched forward, ready to fire, yet feeling somewhat of a sneak and a
coward at the thought that the poor beast had no chance of escape. Lower
and nearer came the sound of the something still to me invisible, but
the sound, slight though it was, gave, somehow, the impression of bulk,
and the strange, subdued, half-grunting snuffle was puzzling to senses
on the alert for deer. Lower and nearer, and then--out into the open by
the shallow water he strolled--no deer, but a great grizzly.
My first instinct was to fire and "chance it," but then in stepped
discretion (funk, if you will), and I remembered that at fifteen or
twenty yards buckshot would serve no end but to wound and rouse to fury
such an animal as a grizzly, who, perhaps of all wild beasts, is the
most tenacious of life; and I remembered, too, tales told by
Californians of death, or ghastly wounds, inflicted by grizzlies.
My finger left the trigger, and I sat down--discreetly, and with no
unnecessary noise. He was not in a hurry, but rooted about sedately
amongst the undergrowth, now and again throwing up his muzzle and
sniffing the air in a way that made me not unthankful that the faint
breeze blew from him to me, and not in the contrary direction.
In due time--an age it seemed--after a false start or two, he went off
up stream, and I, wisely concluding that this particular spot was, for
the present, an unlikely one for deer, followed his example, and
rejoined Halley, who was patiently waiting where we had parted.
"I've just seen a grizzly, Halley," I said.
"_Have_ you?" he almost yelled in his excitement. "Come on! We'll get
him."
"I don't think I want any more of him," said I, with becoming modesty.
"_I'm_ going to see if I can't stalk a deer amongst the hills. They're
more in my line, I think."
Halley looked at me--pity, a rather galling pity, in his eye--and,
turning, went off alone after the bear, muttering to himself, whilst I
kept on my course downstream, over the boulders, certain in my own mind
that no more would be seen of that bear, and keeping a sharp look-out on
the surrounding country in case any deer should show themselves.
I had gone barely half a mile when, on the spur of a hill, a long way
off, I spotted a couple of deer browsing on the short grass, and I was
on the point of starting what would have been a long and difficult, but
very pretty, stalk when I heard a noise behind me.
Looking back, I saw Halley flying from boulder to boulder, travelling
as if to "make time" were the one and only object of his life--running
after a fashion that a man does but seldom.
I waited till he was close to me, till his wild eyes and gasping mouth
bred in me some of his panic, and then, after a hurried glance up the
creek, I, too, turned and fled for my life.
For there, lumbering and rolling heavily along, came the bear, gaining
at every stride, though evidently sorely hurt in one shoulder. But my
flight ended almost as it began, for a boulder, more rugged than its
fellows, caught my toe and sent me sprawling, gun and cartridge-bag and
self in an evil downfall.
I picked myself up and grabbed for my gun, and, even as I got to my
feet, the racing Halley tripped and rolled over like a shot rabbit. It
was too late for flight now, and I jumped for the nearest big boulder,
scrambling up and facing round just in time to see the bear, fury in his
eyes, raise his huge bulk and close with Halley, who was struggling to
his feet. Before I could fire down came the great paw, and poor Halley
collapsed, his head, mercifully, untouched, but the bone of the upper
arm showing through the torn cloth and streaming blood.
I fired ere the brute could damage him further, fired my second barrel
almost with the first, but with no apparent result except to rouse the
animal to yet greater fury, and he turned, wild with rage, and came at
me. A miserably insignificant pebble my boulder seemed then, and I
remember vaguely and hopelessly wondering why I hadn't climbed a
tree. But there was small time for speculation, as I hurriedly, and with
hands that seemed to be "all thumbs," tried to slip in a couple of fresh
cartridges.
As is generally the case when one is in a tight place, one of the old
cases jammed and would not come out--they had been refilled, and had,
besides, been wet a few days before, and my hands were clumsy in my
haste--and so, finally, I had to snap up the breech on but one fresh
cartridge, throw up the gun, and fire, as the bear was within ten feet
of me.
I fired, more by good luck, I think, than anything else, down his great,
red, gaping mouth, and jumped for life as he crashed on to the rock
where I had stood, crashed and lay, furiously struggling, the blood
pouring from his mouth and throat, for the buckshot, at quarters so
close, had inflicted a wound ten times more severe than would have been
caused by a bullet.
[Illustration: I FIRED DOWN HIS GREAT, RED, GAPING MOUTH AND JUMPED FOR
LIFE.]
It was quite evident that the bear was done, but, for the sake of
safety--it does not do to leave anything to chance with such an
animal--I put two more shots into his head, and he ceased to struggle, a
great shudder passed over his enormous bulk, the muscles relaxed, and he
lay dead.
Then I hurried to where Halley lay. Poor chap! He was far spent, and
quite unconscious, nor was I doctor enough to know whether his wounds
were likely to be fatal, and my very ignorance made them seem the more
terrible. I tore my shirt into bandages, and did what I could for him,
succeeding after a time in stopping the worst of the bleeding; but I
could see very plainly that the left shoulder was terribly shattered,
and I thought, with a groan, of the fifty weary miles that one must send
for a doctor.
Presently he began to come to, and I got him to swallow a little brandy
from his flask, which revived him, and before long, after putting my
coat beneath his head, I left him and started for help.
It was a nightmare, that run. Remorse tore me for having let him start
after the bear alone, and never could I get from my mind the horrible
dread that the slipping of one of my amateur bandages might re-start the
bleeding, and that I should return to find only the lifeless body of my
friend; ever the fear was present that in the terribly rough bed of the
creek I might sprain my ankle, and so fail to bring help ere it was too
late. At times, too, my overstrung nerves were jarred by some sudden
sound in the undergrowth, or the stump of a tree on a hillside would
startle me by so exact a likeness to a bear, sitting up watching me, as
to suggest to my mind the probability of another bear finding and
mauling Halley whilst he lay helpless and alone.
But if my nerves were shaken, my muscles and wind were in good order,
and not even the most morbid self-consciousness could find fault with
the time spent on the journey. Luck favoured me, too, to this extent,
that almost as I got on to the road, or, rather, track, about a mile
from the inn, I met, driving a buggy, and bound for Los Angeles, a man
whose acquaintance we had made a few days before, and who, with much
lurid language, had warned us against going after bear.
His remarks now were more forcible than soothing or complimentary when I
explained the matter to him during the drive to the inn, where he
dropped me, himself going on for the doctor as fast as two horses could
travel.
It did not take us long to improvise a stretcher, and, with the willing
help of two men and of the landlady, in about three hours we had Halley
in his room. But a hideous walk it was down the canon, every step we
made wringing a groan from the poor fellow except when he fainted from
pain.
The doctor did not arrive till the following morning, by which time the
wounds were in a dreadful condition, and it was touch and go for life,
while the doctor at first had no hope of saving the arm. But youth, and
time, and a strong constitution pulled him through, and in a couple of
weeks he was strong enough to describe to me how he had fallen in with
the bear.
He had gone, it seemed, not to where I had seen the animal, but up a
branch canon. At no great distance up he met the beast, making its way
leisurely across the creek, and, in his excitement, he fired both
barrels into the bear's shoulder; and then the same thing happened that
had happened to me--those refilled cartridges had jammed, and there was
nothing for it but to run for his life. Luckily he had badly lamed the
animal, or his chance of escape would have been _nil_, and, as it was,
in another two hundred yards the bear would have been into him.
Some days after the accident, the first day that I could leave Halley's
bedside, I went out to see if it was possible to get the skin of the
bear, but I found it badly torn, maybe by coyotes, and all that could be
got as trophies were his claws.
There they are now, hanging over the pipe-rack by the fireplace in my
snuggery in dear old England.
IV
AN ADVENTURE IN ITALY
_A Fourth-form Boy's Holiday Yarn_
Last winter I had a stroke of real good luck. As a rule I'm not one of
the lucky ones; but this time, for once, Fortune smiled on me--as old
Crabtree says, when he twigs some slip in my exercise, but can't be
quite sure that I had borrowed another fellow's, just to see how much
better mine was than his!
It was this way. It was a beastly wet afternoon, and the Head wouldn't
give me leave to go to the village. But I was bound to go, for I wanted
some wire to finish a cage I was making for my dormouse, who was running
loose in my play-box and making everything in an awful mess. So I
slipped out, and, of course, got soaked.
I couldn't go and change when I came back with the wire, as Crabtree
would then have twigged that I'd been out in the rain. So the end of it
was that I caught a chill and had to go into the infirmary. I was
awfully bad for a bit, and went off my head, I suppose--for the mater
came and I didn't know her till I got better, and then she told me that
the doctor had said I must go to Italy for the winter, as my lungs were
very weak, and she was going with me, and we should be there till April
or May.
The Head told me he hoped I would take some books with me, and do a
little reading when I was better. You bet I did! The mater packed them,
but they weren't much, the worse for wear when I brought them back to
St. Margaret's again.
The Head also hoped I would use the opportunity to study Italian
antiquities. I did take a look at some, but didn't think much of them.
They took me at Rome to the Tarpeian Rock, but it wouldn't hurt a kid to
be chucked down there, let alone a traitor; and the Coliseum wanted
livening up with Buffalo Bill. The only antiquities I really cared for
were the old corpses and bones of the Capucini, which everybody knows
about, but has not had the luck to see as I did.
But I had a walk round so as to be able to say I'd seen the other
things, and brag about them when they turned up in Virgil or Livy, and
set old Crabtree right when he came a cropper over them, presuming on
our knowing less than he did. There was too much for a fellow to do for
him to waste time over such rot as antiquities. You can always find as
many antiquities as you want in Smith's Dictionary.
Before I went I swapped my dormouse with Jones ma. for his revolver. I
couldn't take the dormouse with me, and I knew you were bound to have a
revolver when you risked your life among foreigners and brigands, which
Italy is full of, as everybody knows. Where should I be if I fell in
with a crew of them and hadn't a revolver? Besides, I was responsible
for the mater.
Jones ma.'s revolver wouldn't shoot, but it looked all right, and no
brigand will wait to see if your revolver will go off when you present
it at his head. All you have to do is to shout "Hands up!" and he either
lets you take all the diamonds and things he has stolen from fools who
hadn't revolvers, or runs away. I cut a slit in my trousers behind, and
sewed in a pocket, and practised lugging the revolver out in a jiffy,
and getting a bead on an imaginary brigand. I was pretty spry at it, and
knew I should be all right. And it was just that revolver which saved
me, as you will see.
We travelled through Paris and a lot of other places, stopping at most
of them, for I was still rather weak, and the mater was fussy about my
overdoing it till we settled down at Sorrento. That's a place on the Bay
of Naples, and just the loveliest bit of it--oranges everywhere. It's
ten miles from Castellamare, the nearest railway-station, but the drive
along the edge of the bay, on a road cut into the cliffs hundreds of
feet up, makes you feel like heaven.
Vesuvius is quite near too, only that was no good, for the mater
wouldn't let me go there, which was a most aggravating shame, and a
terrible waste of opportunity, which I told her she would regret ever
after. The crater was as jolly as could be, making no end of a smoke,
and pouring out lava like a regular old smelting-furnace; but she said
she wasn't going to bring me out to Italy to cure a cold, only to have
me burnt up like one of those Johnnies they show you at Pompeii who were
caught years and years ago. As if I should have been such an ass as to
get caught myself.
What I was going to tell you about, however, was this. We had been at
Sorrento six or seven weeks, and I'd got to know the places round that
were worth seeing, and a lot of the people too, who jabbered at you
thirteen to the dozen, and only laughed when you couldn't make out what
they were saying. I'd picked up some of their words--enough to get what
I wanted with, and that's the best way to learn a language; a jolly
sight better than fagging along with a grammar and stupid exercises,
which are only full of things no fellow wants.
So the mater had got used to letting me go about alone, and one morning
she found she wanted some things from Naples, and wasn't feeling up to
the journey. She wondered at breakfast if she could dare to let me go
for her. I didn't seem eager, for if they think you particularly want to
do a thing, they are sure to try to stop you. So I sat quiet, though I
could hardly swallow my coffee--I was so keen to go.
However, she wanted the things badly, and at last she had to ask me if I
would go for her. It's always so: it doesn't matter how badly _you_ want
a thing, but when the mater or sister or aunt think they want some
idiotic trash that everybody in his senses would rather be without,
you've simply got to fetch it for them, or they'll die.
She rather spoilt it by giving me half an hour's jawing as to what I was
to do, to take care of this or that, and not to get lost or miss the
train--you know how they go on and spoil a fellow's pleasure--as if I
couldn't go to Naples and back without a woman having to tell me how to
do it. I stood it all patiently though, for the sake of what was coming,
and a high old time I had in Naples that day, I can tell you.
I nearly missed my train back, catching it only by the skin of my teeth,
and when I reached Castellamare I bargained with a driver-fellow to take
me to Sorrento for seven francs. He could speak English a bit. The mater
had told me the fare for a carriage and two mules would be eight or ten
francs; but I soon let him see that I wasn't going to be put on like
that, and as I was firm he had to come down to seven, and a _pourboire_,
which is what we call a tip. So, ordering him to wake his mules up and
drive quick, for the January afternoon was getting on, I settled down
thoroughly to enjoy the ride home.
I have already told you how the road follows the coast-line, high up the
cliffs, so that you look down hundreds of feet, almost sheer on to the
waves dashing against the rocks below. There's nothing but a low wall to
prevent you pitching bang over and dashing yourself to bits, if you had
an accident. There are two or three villages between Castellamare and
Sorrento, and generally a lot of traffic; but, as it happened, we
didn't pass or meet much that afternoon; I suppose because it was
getting late.
The driver was chattering like a magpie about the swell villas and
places we could see here and there white against the dark trees, but I
wasn't paying much attention, and at last he shut up.
There's one bit of the road which always gave me the creeps, for it's
where a man cut his son's throat and threw him over the cliff, two or
three years ago, for the sake of his insurance money. I was thinking
about this, and almost wishing some one was with me after all--for there
wasn't a soul in sight--when my heart gave a jump as the driver
suddenly, at this very bit, pulled up, and, turning round, said with a
fiendish grin--
"You pay me 'leven francs for ze drive, signor."
"Eleven? No, seven. You said seven."
"Signor meestakes. 'Leven francs, signor," and he opened the dirty
fingers of his left hand twice, and held up a thumb that looked as if it
hadn't been washed since he was born.
"Seven," I firmly replied. "Not a centime more. Drive on!"
"Ze signor will pay 'leven francs," he fiercely persisted, "seven for ze
driver and four for ze cicerone, ze guide."
"What guide? I've had no guide."
"Me, signor. I am ze guide. 'Ave I not been telling of ze beautiful
villas and ze countrie?"
"You weren't asked to," I retorted. "Nobody wanted it."
"Zat does not mattaire. Ze signor will pay for ze cicerone."
"I'll see you hanged first."
"Zen we shall see."
He turned his mules to the side of the road next the precipice. I caught
a glimpse of an ugly knife in the handkerchief round his waist. In a
moment I had whipped out my revolver, and levelled it straight for his
head. My word, how startled he was!
"Now drive on," I said.
He did, without a word, but turning as white as a sheet,--and made his
old mules fly as if they'd got Vesuvius a foot behind them all the way.
I kept my revolver ready till we came to Meta, after which there are
plenty of houses.
When we drew up at the hotel I gave him his seven francs, and told him
to think himself lucky that I didn't hand him over to the police. He had
partly recovered by then, and had the cheek to grin and say--
"Ah, ze signor ees a genteelman,--he will give a poor Italiano a
_pourboire_."
But I didn't.
I've often wondered since if he really meant to do for me. Anyhow, my
revolver saved me, and was worth a dormouse.
V
THE TAPU-TREE
"The fish is just about cooked," announced Fred Elliot, peering into the
big "billy" slung over their camp fire. "Now, if Dick would only hurry
up with the water for the tea, I'd have supper ready in no time."
"I wish supper were over and we well on our way to the surveyor's camp
at the other side of the lake," was the impatient rejoinder of Hugh
Jervois, Dick's big brother. "This place isn't healthy for us after what
happened to-day." And he applied himself still more vigorously to his
task of putting into marching order the tent and various other
accessories of their holiday "camping out" beside a remote and rarely
visited New Zealand lake.
"But surely that Maori Johnny wouldn't dare to do any of us a mischief
in cold blood?" cried Fred.
"The police aren't exactly within coo-ee in these wilds, and you must
remember that your Maori Johnny happens to be Horoeka the _tohunga_
(tohunga = wizard priest), who has got the Aohanga Maoris at his beck
and call. The surveyors say he is stirring up his tribe to make trouble
over the survey of the Ngotu block, and they had some hair-raising
stories to tell me of his superstitious cruelty. He is really
half-crazed with fanaticism, they say, and if you bump up against any of
his rotten notions, he'll stick at nothing in the way of vengeance. As
you saw yourself, he'd have killed Dick this afternoon hadn't we two
been there to chip in."
"There's no doubt about that," allowed Fred. "It was no end unlucky that
he should have caught Dick in the very act."
"Oh, if I had only come in time to prevent the youngster hacking out his
name on that tree of all trees in the bush," groaned Hugh. "The most
tremendously _tapu_ (tapu = sacred) thing in all New Zealand, in the
Aohanga Maoris' eyes!"
"But how was Dick to know?" urged Fred. "It just looked like any other
tree; and who was to guess the meaning of the rubbishy bits of sticks
and stones lying at the bottom of it? Oh, it's just too beastly that for
such a trifle we've got to skip out of this jolly place! And there are
those monster trout in the bay below almost fighting to be first on
one's hook! And there's----"
"I say, what on earth _can_ be keeping Dick?" broke in Hugh with
startling abruptness. "Suppose that Maori ruffian----" and a sudden fear
sent him racing down the bush-covered slope with Fred Elliot at his
heels.
"Dick! Coo-ee! Dick!" Their voices woke echoes in the silent bush, but
no answer came to them. And there was no Dick at the little spring
trickling into the lake.
But the boy's hat lay on the ground beside his upturned "billy," and
the fern about the spring looked as if it had been much trampled upon.
"There has been a struggle here," said Hugh Jervois, his face showing
white beneath its tan. Stooping, he picked up a scrap of dyed flax and
held it out to Fred Elliot.
"It's a bit of the fringe of the mat Horoeka was wearing this
afternoon," he said quietly. "The Maori must have stolen on Dick while
he was filling his 'billy,' and carried him off. A thirteen-year-old boy
would be a mere baby in the hands of that big, strong savage, and he
could easily stifle his cries."
"He would not dare to harm Dick!" cried Fred passionately.
Dick's brother said nothing, but his eyes eagerly searched the trampled
ground and the undergrowth about the spring.
"Look! There is where the scoundrel has gone back into the bush with
Dick," he cried. "The trail is distinct." And he dashed forward into the
dense undergrowth, followed by Fred.
The trail was of the shortest and landed them on a well-beaten Maori
track leading up through the bush.
The two young men, following this track at a run, found that it brought
them, at the end of a mile or so, to the chief _kainga_, or village, of
the Aohanga Maoris.
"It looks as if we had run our fox to earth," cried Fred exultingly, as
they made for the gateway of the high wooden stockade--relic of the old
fighting days--which surrounded the _kainga_.
The Maoris within the _kainga_ met them with sullen looks, for their
soreness of feeling over the Government surveys now going on in their
district had made them unfriendly to white faces. But it was impossible
to doubt that they were speaking truth when, in answer to Hugh's anxious
questioning, they declared that no _pakeha_ (white man) had been near
the _kainga_, and that they had seen nothing of Horoeka, their
_tohunga_, since noon that day. They suggested indifferently that the
white boy must have lost himself in the bush, and, at the same time,
gave a sullen refusal to assist in searching for him.
Before the two young men wrathfully turned their backs on the _kainga_,
Hugh, who had a very fair knowledge of the Maori tongue, warned the
natives that the _pakeha_ law would punish them severely if they
knowingly allowed his young brother to be harmed. But they only replied
with insolent laughter.
For the next two hours Hugh and Fred desperately scoured the bush,
shouting aloud at intervals on the off-chance that Dick might hear and
be able to send them some guiding cry in answer. But the only result of
their labours was that they nearly got "bushed" themselves, and at last
the fall of night made the absurdity of further search clear to them.
Groping their way back to their broken-up camp, they lighted the lantern
and got together a meal of sorts. But Hugh Jervois could not eat while
racked by the horrible uncertainty of his brother's fate, and he waited
impatiently for the moon to rise to let him renew his apparently
hopeless quest.
Then, while Fred Elliot was speeding on a seven miles' tramp round the
shore of the lake to the surveyors' camp to invoke the aid of the only
other white men in that remote part of the country, Hugh Jervois had
made his way to the Maori _kainga_. "It's my best chance of finding
Dick," he had said to Fred. "Horoeka is sure to have returned to the
_kainga_ by this time, and, by cunning or by force, I'll get out of that
crazy ruffian what he has done with my brother."
Reconnoitring the _kainga_ in the light of the risen moon Hugh
stealthily approached the palisade surrounding it. This was very old and
broken in many places, and, peering through a hole in it, the young man
saw a group of women and children lounging about the cooking-place in
the centre of the _marae_ or open space around which the _whares_ (huts)
were ranged. From the biggest of those _whares_ came the sound of men's
voices, one at a time, in loud and eager talk. At once Hugh realised
that a council was being held in the _whare-runanga_, the assembly-hall
of the village, and he instinctively divined that the subjects under
discussion were poor little Dick's "crime" and his punishment, past or
to come.
Noiselessly skirting the palisade, Hugh came to a gap big enough to let
him squeeze through. Then he crept along between the palisade and the
backs of the scattered _whares_--very cautiously, for he dreaded being
seen by the group about the fire--until at last he stood behind the big
_whare-runanga_. With his ear glued to its wall he listened to the
excited speeches being delivered within, and to sounds indicating that
drinking was also going on--whisky supplied from some illicit still,
doubtless.
To his unspeakable thankfulness the young man gathered from the chance
remarks of one of the speakers that Dick, alive and uninjured, had been
brought by Horoeka into the _kainga_ at nightfall, and was now shut up
in one of the _whares_. But a fierce speech of Horoeka's presently told
the painfully interested eavesdropper that nothing less than death,
attended by heathenish and gruesome ceremonies, would expiate the boy's
outrage on the _tapu_-tree, in the _tohunga's_ opinion.
The other Maori speakers would evidently have been satisfied to seek
satisfaction in the shape of a money-compensation from the offender's
family, or the paternally minded New Zealand Government. But, half-mad
though he was, Horoeka's influence with his fellow-tribesmen was very
great. The rude eloquence with which he painted the terrible evils that
would certainly fall on them and theirs if the violation of so mighty a
_tapu_ was not avenged in blood, very soon had its effect on his
superstitious hearers.
When he went on to assure them that the _pakehas_ would be unable to
prove that the boy had not lost himself and perished in the bush, they
withdrew all opposition to Horoeka's bloodthirsty demands, though these
were rather dictated by his own crack-brained fancy than by Maori custom
and tradition. Presently, indeed, it became evident to Hugh that, what
with drink and their _tohunga's_ wild oratory, the men were working
themselves up into a fanatical frenzy that must speedily find vent in
horrible action.
If Dick's life were to be saved he must be rescued at once! No time now
to await Fred Elliot's return with the surveyors and their men! Hugh
must save his brother single-handed. But how was he to do it? For him,
unarmed and unbacked by an authoritative show of numbers, to attempt an
open rescue would merely mean, in the natives' present state of mind,
the death of both brothers.
"If the worst comes, I won't let Dick die alone," Hugh Jervois avowed.
"But the worst shan't come. I must save Dick somehow."
He cast desperate glances around. They showed him that the _marae_ was
completely deserted now, the group about the cooking-place having
retired into the _whares_ for the night. If he only knew which of those
silent _whares_ held Dick, a rescue was possible. To blunder on the
wrong _whare_ would only serve to arouse the _kainga_.
"Oh, if I only knew which! If I only knew which!" Hugh groaned in agony
of mind. "And any moment those fiends may come and drag him out to his
death."
Just then, as if in answer to his unspoken prayer, an unexpected sound
arose. Poor little Dick, in sore straits, was striving to keep up his
courage by whistling "Soldiers of Our Queen!"
Hugh's heart leaped within him. The quavering boyish whistle came from
the third _whare_ on his left, and, in an instant, he had reached the
hut and was gently tapping on the door. Dick might not be alone, but
that chance had to be risked, for time was very precious.
"It's Hugh, Dick," he whispered.
"Hugh! Oh, Hugh!" and in that choking cry Hugh could read the measure of
his young brother's mental sufferings since he had last seen him.
In a moment he had severed the flax fastening of the door, and burst in
to find Dick, securely tied hand and foot to a post in the centre of the
_whare_. Again Hugh's pocket-knife came into play, and Dick, freed of
his bonds, fell, sobbing and crying, into his brother's arms.
"Hush, Dick! No crying now!" whispered Hugh imperatively. "You've got to
play the man a little longer yet. Follow me."
And the youngster, making a brave effort, pulled himself together and
noiselessly stole out of the _whare_ after his brother.
But evil chance chose that moment for the breaking up of the excited
council in the _whare-runanga_. Horoeka, stepping out into the _marae_
to fetch his victim to the sacrifice, was just in time to see that
victim disappearing round the corner of his prison-house. With a yell of
rage and surprise he gave chase, his colleagues running and shouting at
his heels.
Hugh Jervois, hearing them coming, abandoned hope for one instant. The
next, he took heart again, for there beside him was the hole in the
palisade through which he had crept into the _kainga_ an hour before. In
a twinkling he had pushed Dick through and followed himself. And as they
crouched unseen outside, they heard the pursuit go wildly rushing past
inside, heedless of the low gap in the stockade which had been the
brothers' salvation.
"They'll be out upon us in a moment," cried Hugh. "Run, Dick! Run!"
Hand in hand they raced down the slope and plunged into the cover of the
bush. Only just in time, however, for the next instant the moonlit slope
beneath the _kainga_ was alive with Maoris--men, women, and
children--shouting and rushing about in a state of tremendous
excitement. It was for Dick alone they hunted, not knowing he had a
companion, and they were evidently mystified by the boy's swift
disappearance.
Presently the brothers, lying low in a dense tangle of ferns and
creepers, saw a number of the younger men, headed by Horoeka, streaming
down the track leading to the lake. But after a little time they
returned, somewhat sobered and crestfallen, and rejoined the others,
who had meanwhile gone inside the _kainga_.
Then, feeling sure that the coast was clear, the brothers ventured to
steal cautiously out of earshot of the enemy and make their way down
through the bush to the shores of the lake. There they were greeted with
the welcome sound of oars, and, shooting swiftly towards them through
the moonlit waters, they saw the surveyors' boat, with Fred Elliot and
half a dozen others in her.
* * * * *
"You see they are trying to carry off the thing just in the way I told
you they'd do," said the head surveyor to Hugh Jervois after their
denunciatory visit to the _kainga_ in the early morning. "Horoeka, the
arch-offender, has disappeared into remoter wilds, and the others lay
the blame of it all on Horoeka."
"Yes," responded Hugh, "and even then the beggars have the impudence to
swear, in the teeth of their talk last night in their _whare-runanga_,
that Horoeka only meant to give the _pakeha_ boy a good fright because
he had done a mischief to the very _tapu_-tree in which lives the spirit
of the tribe's great ancestor."
"Well," said the surveyor, "we've managed to give the tribe's young men
and elders a good fright to-day, anyhow. My word! but their faces were a
picture as we lovingly dwelt on the pains and penalties awaiting them
for their share in their _tohunga's_ outrage on your brother. I'll tell
you what it is, Jervois. Horoeka has to keep in hiding for his own
sake, and these beggars will have their hands so full, with a nice
little charge like this to meet, that they won't care to make trouble
for us when we come to the survey of the Ngotu block."
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," laughed Hugh. "But, all the
same, Dick may be excused for thinking that your unobstructed survey has
been dearly bought with the most horrid experience he is likely ever to
have in his life."
VI
SOME PANTHER STORIES
The pages of literature devoted to sport and the hunting of wild game
teem with stories and instances of occasions when the hunted, driven to
desperation and enraged to ferocity by wounds, turns, and itself becomes
the hunter and the avenger of its own hurts.
Of all wild animals perhaps the most vindictive, the most cunning, and
the most dangerous to hunt is the panther; indeed, nine out of ten who
have had experience of shooting in all parts of the world will concede
that the pursuit of these animals is really more fraught with danger and
hazard than that of even the tiger, lion, and elephant; and the
following is one of many instances, of yearly occurrence, of the man
behind the rifle not having it all his own way when drawn in actual
combat against the denizens of the jungles.
It was drawing on towards the hot weather when my friend Blake, who had
been very seedy, thought that I might try to get a few days' leave and
join him in a small shooting expedition into the jungles of southern
India, where he was sure he would recover his lost strength and
vitality, and so face the coming hot weather with a fair amount of
equanimity.
The necessary leave being forthcoming, we consulted maps, arranged ways
and means for a fortnight's camp--always a considerable thing in
India--and, accompanied by two Sikhs and a Rajput orderly, with horses,
guns, rifles, and dogs galore, after a day's journey in the train
reached the place from whence the remainder of our journey was to be
done by road.
Our destination was a place called Bokeir, and constituted what is known
in India as a _jargir_, that is a tract of land which, together with the
rent roll and tribute of the villages therein comprised, is given to men
whose services have deserved well of their State. Such are known as
jargirdars, and enjoy almost sovereign state in their little domains,
receiving absolutely feudal devotion from their tenantry and dependants.
We pitched our camp in the midst of a magnificent grove of mango-trees,
which at the time of the year were covered with the green fruit. I was
told that before the famine of 1898-99 the grove comprised over two
thousand trees; but at present there are about half that number.
We then received and returned visits with the jargirdar, a Mahratta, and
an exceedingly courteous and dignified man. We asked for and received
permission to shoot in his country, and in addition everything possible
was done for our comfort, supplies of every description being at once
forthcoming. So tenacious were the people of the villages in their
devotion to their chief that not a hand would have been raised to help
us nor a blade of grass given without an order from the head of this
tiny State.
Then we commenced our jungle campaign. The footmarks of a tiger and
tigress, of a very large panther, of bear, sambar, and blue bull
abounded in a wooded valley some six miles from the camp. We tied up
young buffalo-calves, to attract the large Felidae, and ultimately met
with success, for one morning we were having breakfast early when in
trotted one of our Sikhs who had gone before the peep of dawn to look at
the "kills." He reported that one of the calves had been killed at five
that morning; so, putting a hasty conclusion to our breakfast, we called
for horses, saw to our rifles and cartridges, and rode away to the scene
of the early morning tragedy.
Arrived at a village called Sirpali, we left our horses and proceeded on
foot up a lovely wooded valley filled with the bastard teak, the
strong-smelling moha-tree (from which the bears of these parts receive
their chief sustenance), the giant mango, pipal and banyan.
The awesome silence of the dense forest reigned supreme in the noonday
heat. The whispered consultations and the occasional footfall of some
one of the party on a dry teak-leaf seemed to echo for miles and to
break rudely the well-nigh appalling quiet of the jungle. Here and
there, sometimes crossing our path, were the fresh footprints of deer
and of antelope, of pig and the lordly sambar stag that had passed this
way last night to drink at a time when the presence of man does not
disturb the domain of the beasts of the forest. Here was a tree with
deep, clean marks all the way up its trunk, from which the sap was still
oozing, showing us that for some purpose a bear had climbed up it in the
early morning, though why we could not tell, as there was neither fruit
nor leaf on its bare branches.
And then a turn in the path brought us to the kill, to the tragedy of a
few hours ago. Surely this is the work of a tiger--the broken neck, the
tail bitten off and flung aside, the hind-quarters partly consumed? No,
for there are only the marks of a panther's pads and none of any tiger.
They lead away into some dense jungle in front, and from here we decide
to work.
Leaving the beaters here, we went by a circuitous way until we arrived
two or three hundred yards ahead of the direction the beat would take.
Here we were nonplussed, for the jungle was so dense and the
configuration of the ground such that there were many chances in favour
of any animal that might be before the beat being able to make a very
good bid for eluding the enemy.
However, we came to a place which appeared as good as any, and, as both
of us seemed to think that it would suit himself exceedingly well, we
drew lots, and, contrary to my usual luck, I drew the longer of the two
pieces of grass and decided to remain, while Blake took up his position
about fifty yards to my left.
When shooting in the jungle, it is the practice of most to shoot from a
tree, not so much from a sense of added security--as both bears and
panthers think little of running up a tree and mauling you there--but
from the better field of view you get. Accordingly, as there was a small
tree near, I ascended, and, because the footing was precarious and the
position unfavourable for a good shot, I buckled myself to a bough by
means of one of my stirrup-leathers. This is a device, by the way, which
I can most thoroughly recommend to all, for it as often as not gives you
free use of your arms, and even enables you to swing right round to
score a shot at a running object.
I had not long disposed myself thus, when the beat sprang into life with
a suddenness and intensity which made me pretty sure that they had
disturbed some animal. The shouting, cat-calling, and tom-tomming
increased in violence, when all at once I heard a quick and rather
hurried tread, tread, tread over the dry teak-leaves, and, looking that
way, out of the dense jungle into the sunlit glade before me came a
large panther.
I put up my rifle. It saw me, and crouched head on in some long, dry
grass. It was a difficult shot, but I hazarded it.
The beast turned and went up the bank to my right. "Missed," thought I,
and let it have my left barrel as it was moving past. "Missed again," I
thought, and growled inwardly.
I caught another glimpse of the brute as it went behind me, and to my
relief a crimson patch had appeared on its right side. I howled to the
beaters, who had now approached, to be careful, as a wounded panther was
in front of them, and, Blake joining me, we made them all sit down to
keep them out of harm's way.
Accompanied by the two Sikhs, Blake and I began to stalk the wounded
animal. Where had it gone? Into that dense bit of jungle in front,
apparently. So we began to cast around among the leaves. They at first
yielded no betraying footmarks, but at last a leaf was found with a
large spot of frothy blood, showing the animal's injury to have been
through the lungs.
"Put a man up that tree," I said; "the animal is badly hit and cannot
have gone far." But my advice was ignored.
Then from a spot over which I had walked not a minute before there came
a rush and a roar. Swinging round, I saw ten paces off Blake raise his
rifle and fire two barrels, but, alas! apparently without result. Down
he went before the savage rush of the beast, which began to worry him.
Blake had fallen back on his elbows, and in the curve of his neck and
right shoulder I could just see, though so near, the dark-spotted body
of the panther. There was no time to lose. "Can I hit it without killing
Blake?" I thought in an agony of uncertainty, but the hazard followed
quick upon the thought, and bang, bang, went my two barrels. At the same
time the Sikh dafadar, Gopal Singh, with all the characteristic bravery
of this magnificent race, ran in and beat the animal about the head with
the butt-end of Blake's shot-gun, which he was carrying at the time.
All this was too much for the panther, who then left Blake and shambled
away. I threw down my own rifle and ran to Blake's assistance, when the
panther stopped and half turned towards us.
"He's coming at me again," Blake cried, and covered his face with his
hands. We were all unarmed; like a fool I had left my rifle ten paces
behind me, the Sikh's shot-gun was smashed to splinters, and Blake's
rifle had fallen nobody knew where during the _melee_. But, fortunately
for us, and more especially for me, who was then nearest her, the
panther seemed to think better of it, and tumbled off into the jungle,
as far as I could see very badly knocked about.
Then we attended to Blake's injuries, which consisted of a large piece
torn from his left forearm, three great teeth-marks in his left thigh,
and claw-marks all over his left calf. He was very brave, though
bleeding a lot, and walked with our assistance towards the village until
one of the orderlies galloped up with the "charpai," or native bed, I
had sent for immediately the accident had occurred. Then on to camp,
where I re-dressed his wounds, sprinkling them with boracic acid, which
was, foolishly, all we had provided in the way of antiseptics.
Then a "palki" or palankin arrived, lent by the jargirdar, who had also
sent his ten private carriers, and, accompanied by the dafadar, we
started for the railway, the nearest point of which was forty miles
away, and reached it at five the next morning, having experienced
thirteen hours of anxiety, dead weariness, exhausted palankin men, bad
and in some places non-existent roads, and, to crown all, one river to
ford.
Blake has happily survived his injuries--always severe when inflicted by
panthers, as these animals' teeth and claws, from their habit of killing
their prey and leaving it exposed for a day to the Indian sun, seldom
fails to induce blood-poisoning, which few, if any, have been known to
survive.
The panther was found next day, quite dead, with three bullet-wounds in
her--one in the chest, one through the ribs, and one through the body
from the front left ribs to the left haunch; and that she was able to do
all the damage she did testifies to the proverbial tenacity of life and
ferocity of these animals. The native of India will tell you, "The tiger
is a janwar (animal), but the panther he is a shaitan (devil)."
Mr. Dickson Price, who had a narrow escape from a panther in 1905, thus
described the occurrence--
Owing to the stricter preservation of the jungles round Marpha, beasts
of prey appear to have greatly increased in number the last year or so.
Last November a travelling pedlar was killed on a path close by; while
this year more than twenty head of cattle have been killed by tigers
and panthers at Marpha and near by. This is a very serious loss to the
people, who depend entirely upon their cattle for ploughing, etc.
On February 22, just after the mela, some villagers from Kareli--a
village close to us--came to me asking me to shoot a tiger that had
killed a fine plough-ox, and was causing great havoc.
On arriving at the spot where the kill was, an examination of the marks
on the bullock showed that it was a panther and not a tiger that had
been at work. The place was in sight of the village and on the skirt of
a forest. We had a "machan" (platform) in a tree made, and at three
o'clock in the afternoon I climbed up with my native shikari or hunter
and watched and waited until dark.
About 8 p.m. it was pitch dark, and the animal could be heard munching
beneath. I fired at a black object twice with no result, for we still
heard the beast going on with his dinner. I found later I had fired at a
bush, mistaking it for a panther in the darkness. The animal was either
too hungry to notice the shot, or had mistaken the sound for thunder.
Later on the moon rose, and at half-past three in the morning a third
shot took effect, for the animal went off badly wounded. Some time
before that a heavy thunderstorm had come on, but, sheltered beneath our
rugs, we did not get really wet. We now slept, feeling our work was
done. At sunrise the native hunter and I got down and examined the spot.
While we were looking at the blood-marks a tremendous roar was heard
close by, and my native shikari calling out, "Tiger! tiger! tiger!"
bolted and ran off to the village as fast as his heels could carry him.
I climbed back into the machan, to watch the development of events.
After some time about sixteen villagers came out to help, and we slowly
followed up the blood-trail.
After piercing the thick jungle for about two hundred yards, at times
having to creep under the brushwood, we came to a narrow nala, or
shallow watercourse with sandy bed, and we found out the cause of the
constant growling we had heard. A tiger also was tracking the panther,
who every now and then stood at bay and attacked it. After some time the
tiger, no doubt hearing us, turned aside. Suddenly I saw the wounded
animal scaling a tall and almost branchless tree, which appeared as
though it must have been at some time struck by lightning. The panther,
no doubt, hoped to escape all its enemies in that way. It went to the
tip-top, about forty feet or fifty feet from the ground.
I fired, but the range was too long for my shot and ball gun. The firing
frightened the panther, which fell in descending when some fifteen feet
from the ground. We all tracked on, hoping to get a chance of a further
shot.
At last we came to a deep and thickly wooded nala, or watercourse, which
curved like a horseshoe. The panther entered the watercourse at the
centre and turned along the bed to the left. We turned to the right and
skirted along the outside of the course, as it was not safe to go
nearer. We all advanced until we nearly reached the right limit of the
horseshoe bend, and then, leaving the trackers, I approached the
watercourse, hearing the beast at the other end about two hundred yards
away.
After waiting about twenty minutes looking for a spot to cross the deep
nala it appears that the wounded animal slowly and silently doubled back
along the densely wooded watercourse and suddenly sprang out at me. I
fired and stepped back, falling, as I did so, into the watercourse. The
next thing I remember was the panther seizing me by the arm and pulling
me down as I arose, and beginning to claw my head.
Then I saw on top of the panther my little fox-terrier Toby, tearing
hard at the neck of the beast. The panther then left mauling me to
attack the dog. I somehow jumped up, leaped out of the watercourse, ran
towards the villagers, and fell down. They placed me on a charpoi, or
native bed, and carried me to my bungalow three miles away. Express
messengers were at once despatched through the jungle and across the
hills to Mandla, sixty miles away, for a doctor, who arrived on the
fourth day after the accident.
Meanwhile, all that could be done was done, and my wounds, of which
there were fourteen, were dressed. Our good Dr. Hogan had me carried
into Mandla, the journey taking two and a half days, and since then, I
am glad to say, I have been making a wonderful recovery. It is a great
mercy that my arm had not to be amputated, as I feared at first I should
certainly lose it. But though it is still much swollen, and so stiff
that I can only bend it a few inches, all is progressing well.
My little dog escaped with a few scratches, having saved my life. The
panther has either been eaten by the tiger, or has died of its wounds.
The villagers were far too scared to follow it up after my fall. Its
bones, if not devoured by tigers or porcupines, will most likely be
found higher up the nala than where we last saw it.
A Panther-hunt, which had a somewhat unexpected conclusion, is narrated
by the Rev. T. Fuller Bryant:--
At the outset I may explain that strictly it was not a panther that
figures in this story, but that is the name--or more commonly
"painter"--given to the puma, or cougar, of North America. At one time
this animal was as common all the country over as the fox is in England
at present, and even more so, but as the result of the increase and
spread of population it is now found only in remote parts, and is
becoming increasingly rare.
Thirty years ago, however, when I resided in America, and when the
incident happened which I am about to relate, there were considerable
numbers to be found in parts of the Alleghany Mountains, and not
infrequently an odd one would travel farther afield on a marauding
expedition.
At the time of which I write I was residing at Brookfield, about thirty
miles north of Utica. It was near the end of October, when, according to
custom, all were busy banking up the sides of their houses, and in other
ways preparing for winter, when complaints began to be made by the
farmers of depredations among their sheep, by, as was supposed, some dog
or dogs unknown. Hardly a morning came but some farmer or other found
his flock reduced in this way, until the whole neighbourhood was roused
to excited indignation against the whole dog tribe. Suspicion fell in
turn upon almost every poor cur of the neighbourhood, and many a poor
canine innocent was done to death, some by drowning, others by poison,
and more by shooting; until it seemed as if all the sheep and dogs of
the countryside would be wiped out.
What served only to deepen the mystery was the fact that here and there
a calf was killed and partly eaten, indicating that if it were the work
of a dog it must be one of unusual size, strength, and ferocity. So
exasperated did the farmers become at length, that a meeting was held at
Brookfield, at which it was resolved to offer a reward of two hundred
dollars, "to any one killing the dog, _or other animal_, or giving such
information as would lead to its discovery." The words "or other animal"
had been inserted at the suggestion of a man who had heard unusual
noises at night proceeding from the Oneida Swamp, a desolate, densely
wooded tract of country, extending to within a mile or so of his
dwelling. This circumstance had created in his mind the suspicion that
the cause of all the trouble might not, after all, be a dog, but this he
kept to himself.
One morning my brother and I, with three others, started early for a
day's shooting and hunting in some woods three or four miles north of
the village; but having an engagement at home in the afternoon, I left
the party soon after one o'clock. When within about two miles of the
village I left the main road to take a short cut across the land of a
man named John Vidler, an Englishman.
During the early morning there had been a slight fall of snow, barely
sufficient to cover the ground, but as it was so early in the season
Vidler had not taken his few sheep into winter quarters. These I found
apparently in a state of alarm, huddled together in a corner of a "lot"
through which I had to pass.
As I was about to climb the fence and leave the "lot," I observed blood
on the ground, which probably would not have attracted my further
attention but for recent events. On looking more closely, I could
distinctly trace in the snow the footmarks of an animal resembling those
of a dog, and which enabled me to follow the direction in which he had
gone. It occurred to me at once that this was probably the work of the
mysterious marauder. I knew of the reward of two hundred dollars, and
my finances were not such as to render me indifferent to the chance of
winning it, so, with the spirit of the hunter strong within me, I
started off upon the trail, which quickly led me to the edge of the
wood, where it disappeared.
It was clear that the animal had entered the wood. I suddenly reflected
upon the extraordinary size of the animal's foot, and when I coupled
that fact with the words in the offer of reward--"or other animal"--it
occurred to me that I might be hunting bigger and more formidable game
than a dog.
I confess to a strange feeling which made me pause. True, I had my
trusty gun with me, and a good supply of ammunition, but after a moment
or two of reflection I decided to suspend the pursuit and go and tell
John Vidler, and seek to associate him with me in further proceedings.
In this I had no difficulty, for though Vidler, whose farm and abode
were remote and lonely, had heard only rumours of the events which had
so stirred the surrounding neighbourhood, it was enough for him that he
was now among the victims, so he quickly went to the stables, or "barn,"
and brought out his old mare, and, throwing a buffalo skin, or "robe,"
as such are called, across her back, he mounted, and away we went.
I travelled afoot by his side. We picked up the trail where I had left
it--at the edge of the wood; but here our difficulty began, it being
broken and indistinct, owing to the leaves which the snow was not thick
enough to cover.
We proceeded with great caution, and the trees being fairly wide apart,
and the brush not very thick, Vidler remained mounted, whilst I
continued at his side. It was evident from the tremulous excitement and
frequent sniffing of the mare that she was aware that something unusual
was up, and from this we inferred the need of a keen look-out.
We had thus proceeded some three hundred yards, when we suddenly came
upon a dip in the ground. We each lifted our eyes from the land, which
we had continued to closely scan for traces of the trail, when we were
startled by a snarl, and just ahead, lying under the trunk of a big tree
which had fallen across the dip, was a huge panther, apparently just
awakened from its sleep by our approach. The brute was lashing its tail
and quivering with rage, and was evidently preparing to spring upon us.
Here, then, undoubtedly was the cause of all the recent trouble. For a
moment the mare stood trembling with alarm, and the next she swung
round, almost hurling Vidler from her back, and flew like the wind along
the way by which we had come. Though it all took place in much less time
than it takes to record, every detail is indelibly registered on my mind
till this day.
There was no time, even had I had the necessary self-possession, for me
to take aim and fire, and had I done so it would almost certainly have
increased the danger, for my gun was loaded only with a charge for a
partridge or woodchuck.
As the mare swung round away from me, I seized Vidler's foot, which was
most fortunate both for him and myself, for it was my weight that
prevented him from being thrown, and, holding on for dear life, I was
dragged clear of danger. The suddenness of the movement jerked my gun
from my grasp, and as Vidler possessed no weapon we were defenceless,
and it would have been madness to think of returning for mine.
It seemed but a moment before we reached the open "lot," where with
difficulty we reined the mare in. After a brief deliberation we decided
to make our way to the village and organise a hunting-party. We made our
way to the store of Wack Stillman, a favourite rendezvous for the
loafers and off-works. Here we found Orson Clark, one of the best
hunters in all the countryside, with two others with a large strain of
the swashbuckler in their characters, who were always ready for
excitement and adventure.
As we agreed to divide the reward should we win, and believing that we
five were equal to it, we decided to keep the information and to confine
operations to ourselves.
It was not long before we were off, each of us now armed either with his
own or a borrowed weapon. Reaching the wood, we agreed that, after we
had indicated the direction of the trail, Orson Clark, as the most
experienced, should lead the way, the rest of us following at his
heels.
As we approached the tree under which we had left the panther lying, the
tension became so oppressive that each felt that he could hardly
breathe, nor were we much relieved to find our quarry gone, as we could
not tell at what step we might come across him. "Keep close, men,"
whispered Orson, as we continued to creep on, each with his finger on
the trigger of his gun.
He had scarcely spoken the words when a most terrific roar, which seemed
to come from the tree-tops near by, rent the air, and at the same time a
shot rang out. As neither of our band had fired, we were puzzled to know
what it all meant, when a shrill, boyish voice shouted, from a little
distance ahead, "I've got him, father. He's dead!"
Rushing to the spot whence the shout proceeded, we were astonished to
find the thirteen-year-old son of Orson Clark standing, with an old
blunderbuss in his hands, in a triumphant attitude by the panther, which
lay as dead as a door-nail on the ground before him!
"What on earth does this mean?" exclaimed his father, as he took in the
scene.
It transpired that when Orson went home to get his rifle he told his
wife of the projected adventure, and the boy, who was in an adjoining
room, overheard. The spirit of adventure inherited from his father was
immediately aroused, and he determined to seek a share in the
enterprise. Unobserved he took the old blunderbuss from its
resting-place and slipped out of the house, but, fearing that his father
might forbid should his intentions be known, he made his way to the
wood, keeping the hunting-party within his view whilst concealing
himself from theirs.
Entering the wood, the daring youngster hunted on his own account.
Keeping a little ahead and wide of the party, he came across the panther
up in a tree. He had no difficulty in attracting its attention, and,
after contemplating each other for some moments, the savage brute was
about to spring upon the boy as it gave the tremendous roar referred to.
At the same moment the boy fired, the charge landing full in the heart,
and bringing the great beast tumbling dead at his feet.
When the father realised the situation, his feelings may be imagined.
His first look at the boy indicated vexation at his recklessness,
followed by admiration at his pluck and thankfulness for his escape from
almost certain death had the shot failed to reach a vital part. However,
matters were soon arranged. A rail from a snake-fence was procured, the
panther's legs were tied to it, and in this way he was borne to the
village.
The news quickly spread, and all the population, apparently, of the
village assembled to see the sight and to hear the story. When the
question came to be considered as to who was entitled to the reward of
two hundred dollars, the verdict was unanimous that no one deserved it
so much as Orson Clark's boy, and to him it was awarded.
The skin of the panther was presented to the landlord of the hotel in
the village. He had it stuffed and placed in a large room in his house.
For all I know, it remains there till this day.
VII
A MIDNIGHT RIDE ON A CALIFORNIAN RANCHE
It was in San Benito County, California, or, to be more explicit, in the
Hernandez Valley, the nearest station to which is King City, "up
country" from Los Angeles. My friend, Tom Bain, owned a cattle-ranche up
there, right in the valley which lies between the hills forming the
coastal range of California.
It is high up, this beautiful valley. I arrived at King City over-night,
and my old school pal, who had asked me to pay him a visit, met me at
the Central Saloon early next morning--so early, that we had breakfasted
and were off in a pair-horse buckboard by seven o'clock. And then we had
a fourteen hours' drive, climbing, ever climbing, with a dip here and
there as we negotiated the irregularities of the high country, the air
becoming cooler and crisper every hour, and so clear that you could see
for miles over the plains beneath.
It is rather wonderful, this clearness of the atmosphere in Western
America. In Arizona, I believe, the phenomenon is even more noticeable,
at times. The trees stand out distinctly and almost individually on
hills miles and miles away, and a camera speedily proves how really free
is the atmosphere of all visionary obstruction. A photograph of a horse,
a bullock, or of any such object out on the hills, will secure a
reproduction of a background quite extraordinary in the extent and
clearness of the picture.
And it is a sweet, pure air to breathe--life-giving, and capable of
making the heart glad for the very joy of things. Driving over these
hills, although it took us from seven in the morning until nine o'clock
at night to complete the journey, was anything but tiring to the human
physique. Around and beyond, Nature spread herself in a delightful
panorama of scenic beauty--
"And every living thing did joy in life,
And every thing of beauty did seem living."
There were two or three other fellows on the ranche with my friend Bain.
Fine, big fellows they were, too; loose-limbed and strong featured.
Scarcely one of them was over five-and-twenty, yet you would have vowed
that such development in face, feature, and limb could not have been
attained before the age of thirty-five years. Silent, unassuming
fellows, too, not welcoming me with a smile even, nor with the slightest
demonstration of friendliness beyond a grip of the hand that made me
begin to feel glad that I had brought my "Elliman's" with me.
It is a peculiarity--at least, we think it a peculiarity--of the Western
man, that he rarely smiles. Perhaps it would be fairer to say that he
never smiles unless there is something very positive to smile at. He
seems to have such large ideas concerning all things, and to suggest by
his manner, especially when you are out on the plains with him, that he
cares more for his cattle, and for his horse particularly, than he does
for you. Yet no man is more ready with a helping hand--and a hand that
is capable of doing most things a man's hand can do--than he; none more
full of sympathy and sincere kindliness.
But he is an undemonstrative being, this man of the West, and you take a
long time to find out whether he likes you or not. If you are a
"tenderfoot" you can't do better than hold your tongue about the wonders
of Europe and its cities, about your own various exploits here and
there. You will learn a lot by not talking, and if you don't mind
soiling your hands a little, and keeping an eye lifted to discover the
way in which things are done, you will get on very well on a Western
cattle-ranche.
There was another ranche not far away, owned by an old settler, who had
his wife and daughter with him. These were the only women within our
immediate ken. She was a real child of the West, this old settler's
daughter, and as sweet and dainty as she was capable; about twenty years
of age, I should think, and looked after as much by every man on my
friend's ranche as she was by her own father. In fact, my friend Bain
seemed to take more than a fatherly interest in her. She called him
Tom, and he called her Edna, though in this particular respect Tom was
not privileged more than any of the other fellows. But her eyes were
always bright when Tom was near, and--but there, it was none of my
business. Only, as I said before, I kept one eye lifted for most things.
Very soon I began really to enjoy the life very much, for its own sake.
There were many things lacking in the matter of house accommodation and
comfort, compared with my English home; but it was jolly, real jolly. I
never felt so well and strong in all my life as when I was galloping
over those hills, on occasion of a general inspection of the ranche. And
it was a lark, I tell you, rounding up the cattle.
Of course, all the fellows on the ranche could ride like--well, they
could ride anything. I got out of the road when there was any of the
expert business on, such as "cutting out," and "corralling." But I began
gradually to feel my way in accomplishing their many tricks of
horsemanship, and I was able, in course of time, to take a small part in
the work of the corral.
I essayed to throw the lasso, or lariat, of course, as one of the very
first experiences in ranche life. It is one of the many interesting
things you must learn on a cattle-ranche--to use the lasso. Every man
carries his rope on his saddle, as a necessary--in fact, there, _the_
most necessary--part of his equipment. A ranchero would as soon think of
riding off without his lasso as an English sportsman would think of
going partridge-shooting without his gun.
It looks so easy, throwing the lasso. You begin first on foot, and try
to throw the rope over a post or something, not very far away. After
many hours, at the end of which time you know what it is to have an
arm-ache--it may be many days, even many weeks, before you are able to
do it--you succeed in lassoing your object two or three times in
succession. Ha! ha! You have conquered. You have discovered the knack at
last. And you hastily mount your horse to see if you can manage the real
thing.
You throw aside your practice rope, unwind the lasso from the horn of
the saddle, and essay a "mounted" throw. Your patient animal remains
perfectly still and quiet. He seems to know you are a tenderfoot, and to
feel quite sure what is going to happen. You whirl your lasso round your
head, and aim it at the horns of a harmless steer in the corral some
yards away. But you look in vain to see the rope curl round your
particular objective. Instead, it flops over your horse's ears, or
smacks you on the side of your own head. Oh, it was so easy on the
ground, too, when you left off!
And your horse is patient still. He even seems to be smiling quietly to
himself. After many more attempts, and with an arm that acheth much, you
succeed in affixing your rope round something, throwing from the saddle.
At last you have managed it.
Later on an opportunity occurs for the display of your prowess. You are
in the corral with a bunch of moving beasts. You single out one as your
particular victim. This time the beast is not standing still, and you
throw your lasso, carefully watching the fall as it whirls through the
air. Poor animal! Instead of roping it by the horns, you nearly jerk its
tail off! There are very many accomplishments that seem easy in the
hands of an expert and which prove most difficult to the uninitiated,
but I think the throwing of the lasso can claim more mysteries than most
others.
When out on an inspection of the ranche, reckoning up the stock, and
seeing that all are able to secure sufficient food, it frequently
happens that some of the cattle will be missing. They get away into all
sorts of places, some almost inaccessible among the hills, and if they
are not found and brought back to the pastures within easy reach of the
corral, they become wild, and then there is mischief to pay. They sneak
down late at night or in the small hours of the morning to the corn and
wheat fields, break the fences, and trample the crops in a way that
spells disaster to many a settler.
Some of the cattle belonging to my friend's ranche had gone astray in
this way, and we were unable to locate them.
I remember we were sitting in our adobe house one evening, three or four
of us together. It was about seven o'clock, and we had been talking over
matters in connection with the decision of the "boss" to drive a bunch
of cattle down to King City, where they would be entrained for 'Frisco.
The "boss" was up at the other ranche. He had gone to ask the old
settler to give us a hand with the cattle next day at the rodeo, or
"round-up."
He hadn't offered to take me with him. I suppose that was Edna's fault.
Anyhow, we had been sitting there discussing things, when we heard Bain
coming in, after unsaddling his horse, in quite a noisy mood. He was
muttering hard, and I wondered what Edna had been saying to him. But it
wasn't Edna at all. He had come down from the other ranche, higher up
the valley, and had passed the cornfields, in which he had noticed
unusual movement. He had investigated, and had found that a bunch of
wild cattle had broken down the fences, and were eating and trampling
down the corn.
A hasty consultation decided that we should make a midnight raid on the
beasts, and take as many of them as we could capture down to King City
with our own bunch. We had been feeling rather sleepy, but this news
made us at once very much alive. However, we decided not to undertake
the raid until the next night. The wild cattle would be gone with the
morning light, but they would return at dark.
We went to bed, which meant simply rolling ourselves up in our blankets
on the floor. I lay awake for some time anticipating the excitement of
the next evening. It is not all play, this raiding of wild cattle. It is
a risky business, and you must have expert lassoers to lead the way, or
there will be trouble.
Next day we went up to the old settler's ranche, "Edna's house," as we
called it, up the valley, and there we secured the help of some of our
neighbour's men. We were there all the evening, waiting for the hour of
midnight at which to sally forth. Edna had expressed a desire to come
too! She was a fine horsewoman, and fearless, and she loved excitement
of this sort. Tom promised to take care of her, so she was permitted to
join our party. Lucky Tom!
As the little clock on the settler's mantelpiece struck twelve, we
saddled our horses and set off for the corn-brake. I was keen on seeing
how these fellows were going to capture the wild cattle, but I was too
inexperienced to take a very active part at the time.
The corn-patch was right in the hollow of the valley, on a flat on the
eastern bank of the dry bed of the river. We rode down together--never a
word being spoken on the way--to where a group of oak-trees raised their
stately heads, and there we held our final council of war. Bain, anxious
to give a tenderfoot a chance of seeing as much of the proceedings as
possible, directed me to get off my horse and climb the bank, from which
I should obtain a view of the field and of the cattle as they were
feeding. I was very quiet, for the beasts have ears rather sharper than
anything. Tom had given me his directions in a whisper.
So I climbed the bank and looked over the cornfield, and there in the
centre I could see a small black mass of moving things, about three
hundred yards away. I went quietly back to the river-bed, and found that
most of the fellows had dismounted and were "cinching" up their saddles.
A moment later I was told off with a vaquero (cowboy) to ride up the bed
of a creek that ran at right-angles to the river and parallel with the
cornfield. We were to try to "head" the cattle, and so prevent them from
breaking out of the field, up the hillside, and getting away into the
mountains again, where we should have had to leave them.
The creek-bed was low, and afforded us good cover for three parts of the
way. Then it shallowed, and we soon were able to see, from our horses,
the cattle in the corn. We thought we had been very quiet indeed, but we
noticed a hurried movement among the beasts, and with a cry "They're
off!" my companion dug his spurs into his horse and was off like the
wind himself. And I after him.
We dashed into the corn, and raced like mad to head the stampeding
beasts. It was the strangest sensation in the world, galloping in the
moonlight through the waving corn, which was up to our horses'
shoulders. It made me quite giddy for a second or two, but I galloped
madly on after my companion, who, with his shrill cowboy yells, helped
the roaring cattle to wake the midnight silences of the valley. I
joined in the yelling, too, and, so soon as our voices were heard, there
was a chorus in reply from where we had left the rest of our party.
"We shall never head them," I cried.
"Perhaps not, but we'll try," answered the vaquero, as we tore onward. I
thought we had not the slightest hope of heading them. Up the hillside
we tore to keep them on the flat ground, and at every leap over a rough
incline I thought my horse would break his neck and mine too. But as
surefooted as goats are those horses of the hills. At length, for some
reason or other, the cattle wheeled and went back down towards the
river, and we, of course, followed.
Suddenly, two of them broke away to the right, and I after them. I
thought I might be of some little use, even if I were not an expert
lassoer. But those two wild cattle knew too much for me. They tore
across a gully, dashed up the other side and away at full gallop into
the hills. I let them go. If I had pursued them farther most probably I
should not be writing this now. As it was, it was a marvel I had not
broken my neck. Only my splendid horse had saved me.
So I rode back to the oak-trees, and there--there was not a sign of
life. All was as silent and still as if nothing had ever disturbed
Nature's quiet. I remember how beautiful was the night. A half-moon
shone out in a clear sky, like a semicircle of pure, bright silver, the
tops of the mountains were silhouetted against the sky as if they were
cut out of cardboard, and all was so calm just then. You don't get such
lovely nights elsewhere. The moon has not the sterling brightness; the
air not the clearness nor the stillness that it has there.
Where were my companions? I did not know. My panting horse was glad to
get breathing-space, so I sat there in the saddle, waiting. I pulled my
coat around my shoulders, for the air was chilly. It was then about 2
A.M.
A sharp sound disturbed my reverie--the sound of a horse's hoofs
galloping over the rocky river-bed. The rattle was so clear, so
distinct, in that atmosphere and at that hour, that I could hear it long
before my eyes could detect anything, even in that bright moonlight.
Then, in a few moments, there approached a horse at full gallop, with
his head low down and neck extended--at first apparently riderless, but
as he came nearer I was startled to discover a black shape, hanging over
the off-side, and, as the frightened steed tore past me, I saw it was a
woman.
It was Edna. Who else could it be? Her left foot, still in the stirrup,
had come right over the saddle with her as she fell, and she was
clinging desperately with her hands to the horse's long mane, but so low
down that, at the pace, it seemed to be impossible for her to recover.
Without a moment's thought of how I should save her, I galloped after
her maddened steed as hard as I could go. I was on an English saddle and
without a lasso--since to me such a thing would have been of little use
on such a risky expedition as we had undertaken; but I urged my horse
onwards and galloped him at his utmost in an endeavour to head the
other, when perhaps I might be able to clutch a rein and stop the
runaway. But Edna's horse was the fleetest of any on the ranche;
moreover, her light weight was a comparative advantage, and so I gained
not a whit on the horse with his imperilled burden. It was terrible. How
long could the poor girl hang on like that? Not much longer, I was sure,
yet prayed that she might have strength.
Then, ahead of us, in the distant moonlight, I discerned other galloping
figures. A horseman was pursuing at full speed along the bank a huge
steer that bellowed as it endeavoured to secure a free run up into the
hills, there to be safe from its mortal enemy. I yelled at the top of my
voice, with all the breath I had left.
Immediately the horseman pulled his horse back on its haunches and from
the bank stared down at pursued and pursuer. In a twinkling he seemed to
realise the situation, wheeled, and galloped down the bank at an angle
calculated to make it easier for him to get within reach of Edna's
horse. Then I saw it was Tom, and he must have guessed that it was Edna
ahead of him, in a position of direst peril. How we had all become
separated I could not guess, and there was no time to wonder now.
I saw Tom gather his loop in his right hand, holding the coil in his
left, and begin to swing the loop round his head. What! was he going to
take such a risk? To lasso the horse and check it suddenly when at a mad
gallop like that? Surely the animal would come to earth with a fearful
crash, most probably on the side on which it was weighed down with its
burden.
Then I saw the rope whirl through the air, and though it could have been
but a moment, it seemed to hang there for minutes without falling. This
was the time for skill. If ever Tom should throw his lariat well, it
must be now. With unerring aim the rope was cast, and the loop settled
over the head of the runaway, though the maddened animal was galloping
with neck stretched full length and head low down.
Gradually the rope tightened round its shoulders, Tom galloping his own
horse hard behind. By the most skilful manipulation of the lariat,
Edna's horse was compelled to slacken its pace, Tom getting nearer and
nearer by degrees and taking in the slack until he was right alongside.
He soon brought the runaway to a stand-still, and directed me to release
Edna's foot from the stirrup, which I did. She sank to the ground,
completely exhausted. And little wonder. Her hands were cut and bleeding
with the tenacious grip she had kept on the horse's mane, and it was
some time before she recovered sufficient strength to move.
As soon as she was able, she told us that she had become separated from
the other riders when galloping through the cornbrake, and a wild steer
had gored her horse in the side. This had so startled the animal that he
reared, and then dashed off madly up the valley in the way I had seen
her coming. She had fallen over, and as her foot had caught in the
stirrup, she clutched her horse's long mane, and so saved herself from
being dragged along the ground, and, probably, from a horrible death.
We now were able to see that her horse had been badly ripped on the near
side, and from loss of blood and as the result of his long, mad gallop,
the poor animal was in a bad way. He was led back to the ranche and
there cared for.
It appeared that the others had galloped along on the other side of the
field until they had found that the cattle had turned. Then they waited
until they could get behind them, and, when this was managed, they
secured half a dozen of them with their lariats.
One man had let go his lasso. This sometimes happens. In cases of
emergency a man has to let go his rope, and that is why the cowboys
practise picking up things from the ground at full gallop. It is not
done there for show; there is no gallery to play to. It is a necessary
accomplishment. A man has lost his rope, the other end of it, perhaps,
being round the horns of a steer. He gallops after it, as soon as he is
clear of the bunch, and picks up the end at full speed. At the proper
time he gives the lasso a turn round the horn of the saddle, pulls up
his well-trained horse, and the steer is jerked to his feet. It is
neatly done--and it takes doing.
Next day the cattle were all in the corrals, and the wild ones were
placed in the bunch to be travelled down to King City. But the newcomers
were too unruly. They continually broke away _en route_, and gave so
much trouble that before our destination was reached we shot every one
of them.
I left my friend's ranche shortly after this. I had had some experience
that was worth winning, and I had gained a little knowledge of ranche
life of the West.
Lately I received a delicate little wedding-card, neatly inscribed, and
figured with a design representing a coiled lariat. And from out of the
coil there peeped the daintily written words--"Tom and Edna."
VIII
O'DONNELL'S REVENGE
Engineer Trevannion was annoyed; for the Works Committee at Berthwer,
who managed the affairs of the new wharf in course of construction
there, had written to announce that they had appointed an assistant
engineer, and had added an expression of opinion that "Mr. Garstin would
prove of exceptional aid in the theoretical department, leaving Mr.
Trevannion more time for the practical work in the execution of which he
had given such satisfactory proof of his ability."
Notwithstanding the sop to his feelings, Trevannion had grasped the
significance of this communication, and resented it. He had been here,
in sole charge, since the beginning; the chief engineer, who lived at
the other end of the town, only came round once a fortnight, so
trustworthy did he consider his subordinate. He had laboured at the
detailed plans, wrestled with measurements to scale, until his eyes
ached. He had stood about the works in all weathers, had exercised a
personal supervision over the men, and had never made a slip in his
weekly reports.
To write the latter correctly, to keep the Committee informed of the
amount of cement used, of fresh piles driven, of water pumped out, of
concrete put in, to notify casualties, as they occurred, in a manner
that might suggest the Committee's obligations under employers'
liability, but did not harrow their feelings; to be at the works by nine
o'clock every morning and not to leave till five; to be either in the
iron shanty called the engineer's office, or supervising the making of
concrete, or clambering about the massive beams and piles, or shouting
through the telephone, or interviewing the ganger, or doing one of the
hundred other things that were in the day's work; surely this was all
that was required to be done, and he flattered himself that he had done
it very well.
And now the Works Committee were going to foist an assistant on him.
Assistant! The very name was a slight upon his capabilities, a slur on
his independence. Why had they treated him thus?
He thought he knew the reason, ridiculous as it appeared to him. The new
wharf, which was to increase the already considerable importance of
Berthwer as a river port, had not proceeded very rapidly during the past
few weeks. There had been difficulties--difficulties which Trevannion
had attributed to unforeseen circumstances. It was possible that the
Committee had attributed the difficulties to circumstances which ought
to have been foreseen.
Herein lay the gist of his resentment at the new appointment. The
Committee, while recognising his diligence, energy, and pluck,
considered that he lacked some of the finer qualities of insight that
enable a man to forestall such difficulties and, when they occur, to
meet them with as small an expenditure of capital and labour as
possible. So they had appointed Garstin to help him; in other words, to
supply the brain qualities which they imagined he lacked. It was unfair
and humiliating.
"Some puling theoretician!" he muttered to himself, as he walked to the
works one winter morning. "Some dandy who can draw cubes and triangles
and cannot do anything else except come here--late probably--in an
overcoat and comforter. One of those sickly office-desk beggars who are
ill half the time and useless the rest. Absolutely sickening!"
He strode along in a temper with which the weather harmonised. It was
gusty, bleak, and wet. Great pools of water lay on the rough roads in
the poor quarter of the town through which lay his route. In order to
reach the works, he had to cross the river by means of a ferry-boat.
When he reached the landing-stage on this particular morning, he could
see the boat moored against the opposite bank, but there was no ferryman
in sight, and there was no response when he shouted.
He shouted again and again. Then he turned up the collar of his
jacket--he disdained a greatcoat--and pulled his cap over his eyes, and
used strong language to relieve his feelings. He was still blaming the
river, the ferryman, and anything else he could think of, when he
became conscious of a light footfall, and, turning, saw a young man
standing by his side.
"I can't make the ferryman hear," he remarked in an aggrieved tone to
the newcomer, as if the latter was in some way responsible for the fact.
"It's an awful nuisance--I am already late. I've never known him play
this trick before."
"And I've been here ten minutes," was the answer. "The man has either
gone away or gone to sleep. Hadn't we better get across some other way?
There is a boat a few yards down. We might borrow it and scull ourselves
across, that is, if you think----"
"Good idea!" exclaimed Trevannion. Then he hesitated. "You--you are not
going to the wharf, are you?" he asked.
"Yes--for the first time in my life."
"Is your name Garstin?"
"That's it. Perhaps you can tell me----"
"I'm Trevannion," briefly. "I didn't expect you quite so soon. Er--I'm
glad to meet you."
His eyes went to the heavy coat in which the lad--he was little
more--was encased, to the fashionable bowler that contrasted with his
own tweed cap, to the umbrella that protected the bowler from the
dripping rain--ay, even to the comforter. It was as he had feared.
Garstin was an office-desk weakling, and a mere boy into the bargain.
The Works Committee had added insult to the injury they did him.
"Oh, you're Mr. Trevannion," said the "insult," shyly holding out a
gloved right hand. Trevannion took it limply and quickly let it drop.
"Come on," he said. "We will get across first and talk afterwards."
The gruffness of his tone did not tend to encourage expansiveness on the
other's part, and little more was said whilst they unmoored the boat and
rowed across, so the engineer had good opportunity for taking stock of
his companion. The water was rough, and he judged from the clumsy way in
which Garstin handled his oar and his apparent powerlessness to impart
vigour to the stroke that muscular development had not formed part of
his education. Trevannion stood six-foot-one in his stockings, and his
frame was well knit with muscles that were supple as well as strong;
naturally, he believed that physical fitness was essential to a good
engineer, especially to an engineer in charge of a rather rough crew of
workmen. He resolved by-and-by to recommend a course of Sandow to the
new hand.
"Mind how you get out," he said, when the boat bumped against the slimy
ladder that did duty for a stairway. "The steps are greasy, and those
togs of yours are hardly suited to this job."
Garstin flushed but made no remark, and Trevannion flattered himself
that the hint would not be wasted. He had already decided that the new
engineer would have to be taught many things. This was Lesson No. 1.
Hardly had they scrambled on to the wharf when Trevannion's ganger came
up.
"'Morning, sir. Can I speak to you a moment? There has been trouble
between O'Donnell and Peters. O'Donnell was drunk--leastways so Peters
says. Any'ow they got fighting and mauled each other pretty severe; in
fact Peters is in hospital. Thought you'd better hear of it, sir."
"Quite right," said Trevannion judicially. It was a common enough story
on the wharf, and he had heard it before without paying much attention,
but now--he glanced at the slight figure beside him, who evidently
required as many object-lessons as could be given--and decided that here
lay the opportunity for giving Lesson No. 2. "Pay O'Donnell and sack
him," he commanded.
"Very good, sir," said the ganger, moving away.
"That's the way we have to treat our fellows here," said Trevannion.
"Summary justice, you know. They're a rough lot. Now come and see the
office and the plans."
Whatever Garstin may have thought of these proceedings, he said nothing,
but followed submissively along the wharf. Perhaps, without knowing the
peculiar authority which had at the contractor's desire been vested in
Trevannion, he wondered that any engineer should wield such powers.
However, he had not much time for wondering, or indeed for anything
except the task of keeping pace with his nimble, long-legged comrade. He
kept stumbling over little heaps of granite and sand, over rails, along
which the travelling cranes moved ponderously, over bits of tarpaulin
and old iron instruments, over every object, in fact, that Trevannion
avoided with such apparent ease.
Garstin was rather a distressful youth by the time the shanty was
reached, for the pace had been hot, and he had been impeded by the fatal
greatcoat and muffler. After divesting himself of these he stood still
and breathed hard in front of a cheerful coke fire, while Trevannion
unrolled the plans and pinned them to the long, sloping desk occupying
one side of the room.
When all was ready the engineer began to explain the plans in detail,
elaborating the explanation with simpler explanation, getting through
the sections one by one with slow precision, repeating his elucidation
of black lines, red lines, and green lines, of the length, breadth, and
numbers of the piles, of the soil, subsoil, and sub-subsoil, that
received them; all this in the manner of one who is instructing a child
in the rudiments of engineering science, for he had made up his mind
that Garstin would want a lot of instructing.
Garstin seemed a patient listener, and Trevannion had almost begun to
enjoy himself, when the former suddenly laid his finger on a certain
spot and asked a question connected with water-pressure and the strength
of resisting force. Trevannion was surprised into returning what he
thought was the correct answer. He was still more surprised when the
other proceeded to prove by figures that that answer was incontestably
incorrect.
This was the beginning. Garstin quickly found more questions to put on
other points, more criticisms of Trevannion's replies. The latter at
first made desperate efforts to crush him by assuming the calm
superiority of the older hand. But with Garstin's logic it was useless
to be calm. It was worse than useless to try to be superior. The
intruder stuck to his guns with respectful pertinacity. Perhaps the fire
had warmed his brain into unwonted activity; Trevannion found himself
wondering whether this was so, or whether it was a normal state--the
last thought was horrible!
At any rate, there was no doubt that within these four stuffy walls
Garstin was in his element. Trevannion clearly was not. In half an hour
his treasured theories had been picked to pieces and his stock of
argument was exhausted, whilst his rival appeared as fresh as the
woodwork.
But the climax was reached when Section D came up for discussion. Things
had not gone well with Section D in practice. Trevannion incautiously
admitted as much when he said that Section D represented a point on the
wharf where the river persistently--more persistently than at other
points--forced its way into the cavity intended for good concrete.
Garstin promptly demonstrated the probable reason why. This was too
much. Trevannion shut up the demonstration by opening the door.
"Phew!" he said. "Let's go out and get a little fresh air. We'll have a
look at the section itself."
He stepped out, followed by the other--meekly.
It was still raining. Under the leaden sky the works looked more dismal
than ever. Lakes of water lay where there had been pools; rails and
machinery glistened as if they had been carefully oiled. A thick
light-brown river raced past. The echoing wind and the hoarse murmur of
the gang at work on Section D mingled with the groaning and clattering
of the cranes. Garstin missed the warmth of the fire and shivered; he
had forgotten his overcoat; and he experienced only the mildest
curiosity in the surroundings. Trevannion walked rapidly and in silence.
He was thinking mainly of how he could get his own back from this
usurper.
They came to the edge of Section D. Below them yawned a huge pit with
uneven walls sheer from top to bottom. Fronting them, on the river side,
solid piles went down into an abyss that ended in black water; these
were a barrier--a support to the wedge of earth that the mighty river
pressed against their backs. From the land side to the tops of the piles
stretched transverse beams, two and three yards apart; more beams lower
down, constituting stays against the piles buckling; the whole a giant
scaffolding embedded in the bowels of the earth. A few rough blocks of
concrete peeped from the water below. Fountains spurted from between the
piles and splashed into the basin.
Trevannion looked at the fountains and frowned. There would be work for
the pumps very shortly; there was always too much work for the pumps in
Section D, and so too little time and opportunity for more progressive
labour. Then, disregarding the obviously slippery state of the
transverse beams, he stepped on to one of them, and stood poised for a
moment over sixty feet of hungry voidness.
"Come over to the other side," he said to Garstin. "You cannot see what
is going on below from where you are. Why, what----?"
Garstin, after placing one foot on the beam, had drawn back, a leaden
pallor showing unmistakably under his skin.
Trevannion stared at him. The laugh, the jeer, that had risen in his
heart at this sudden failure of nerve never found expression. There was
something in the young fellow's face that spoke of more than a qualm of
nervousness. It was a pitiful terror that met Trevannion's eyes--the
pleading terror of a dumb, helpless animal before a human tormentor.
For a moment the engineer stood irresolute. Two men, engaged in mixing
cement a few yards distant, had laid down their spades, and, having
heard Trevannion's invitation to cross the beam, were looking at "the
new bloke" in mild wonder as to why he hesitated. A third was slowly
trundling a wheelbarrow full of sand towards them. Trevannion took in
these details in a flash--and realised their significance. Here was an
easy chance of shaming Garstin before the gang, of convicting him of
rank and unprofessional cowardice, of getting his own back again from
the office-desk theoretician, yet--an uncontrollable impulse of
generosity prevented his seizing it. He stepped on to the bank and stood
beside the fear-struck figure.
"You _must_ come on," he said in a whisper that was little more than a
breath. "Pull yourself together. I'll hold you."
An instant later, and for an instant only, the two stood together on the
narrow beam, Garstin a shrinking form, his every limb shaken by
something more potent than the gusty wind, his face turned anywhere but
downwards. Trevannion did not hold him, but his hand rested reassuringly
on the other's quivering arm. For an instant only, and then Garstin was
pushed on to the firm bank again and hurried towards the office.
Trevannion talked jerkily as soon as they were out of earshot of the
gang. "Sudden attack of funk--rather a bogie place on a slippery
day--might happen to anybody--get used to it--dance a jig on top of the
king pile one day, and wonder how you could ever have been such a----"
"Coward," finished Garstin quietly.
"No-o, that's not exactly the word," said Trevannion lamely, and waited
for explanation or extenuation.
But none came. It was as if the boy was quite aware of the cowardice,
and did not wish his companion to consider it anything else.
Trevannion's mind marvelled at the seeming abasement.
A few days later Trevannion reported progress to his wife anent the new
assistant, whom for some strange reason he had grown positively to like.
"Wonderfully brainy chap, Garstin. He has helped me no end with Section
D--you know, where we have had all the trouble. With luck we shall have
it finished in a week or two. At the same time"--with conviction--"he
will never make a practical engineer. Wouldn't be any good in an
emergency. No nerve--no nerve at all. Seems to go to bits directly he
gets outside the office. Can't even look down into the section without
holding on to something. If a crane starts anywhere near, it makes him
jump, and as to being any good with the gang, why, he daren't speak to
one of them. Only this afternoon, when O'Donnell came and blustered----"
"O'Donnell?" said his wife.
"Yes--a man I sacked for being drunk and fighting. He came to the office
this afternoon and asked to be taken on again. He said he could get no
other job, and his wife and children were starving. I told him that the
regulations would not admit of his re-employment; besides, I had
reported him as dismissed and filled up the vacancy. Then he started
cursing and threatening that he would do for the wharf and for me too,
unless I relented. Of course I didn't relent. I turned him out--he was
half-drunk. And there--what do you think?--there was Garstin with his
hands covering his face, shivering and shaking as if he had seen a
ghost.
"'I am sure that fellow means mischief, Mr. Trevannion,' he muttered.
'I'm sure he does--I read it in his eyes. Hadn't you better take him
back--just for the sake of his wife?'
"Of course I couldn't--wouldn't. But Garstin's a brainy beggar--oh,
wonderfully brainy."
* * * * *
There came a certain Friday evening when the two men sat late in their
office, compiling the weekly report. Trevannion was in high good-humour;
for had not their joint efforts, as he liked to call Garstin's useful
suggestions, proved successful in ousting the river finally from Section
D? and was not that troublesome part of the wharf ready for good
concrete as soon as it could be made? He had to record this gratifying
intelligence for the Committee's benefit, and he did it with a relish.
"Nothing to fear now for the old section," he remarked cheerfully.
"Nothing but the unexpected collapse of a pile," said Garstin.
"Oh, that's impossible."
"It's improbable."
The report was finished and placed in its long envelope, and they
prepared to go home. Trevannion began to busy himself with a heavy oil
lantern. "I am going to have a look at the section on the way," he said;
"just to see that the river has not come over the top," he added
jestingly. "It's a whim of mine. But don't come if you'd rather not. I
can join you at the steps."
"Oh, I'll come," said Garstin--without enthusiasm.
The pair stepped out into the night, Trevannion locking the door behind
him. It was pitch-dark on the wharf. They could feel the presence of,
rather than see, the river that flowed silently in front of them, and
they could roughly locate the far bank by the myriads of starry lights
that showed Berthwer town beyond. A single red lamp glowed dully far to
the west; it belonged to a steamer that they had seen come to her
moorings in the afternoon. There were no other vessels showing lights.
The rest was black with a blackness sentient of vague forms--an
impenetrable wall of darkness that seemed to stand between them and the
outer world.
Picking their way carefully between debris and other impedimenta, they
made their way towards the section, and had covered half the distance
when Garstin stopped. "Don't you hear something?" he asked. "I am almost
sure I was not mistaken. It was like the sound of blows. There cannot be
anybody there now, can there?"
Trevannion halted and listened.
"I don't hear anything," he said presently. "Besides, who could be on
the wharf now? You know the regulations, and the watchman is there to
enforce them."
"I think--the noise has stopped."
Trevannion flashed the lantern on him suspiciously. "Nerves again" had
come into his mind. However, he said nothing, but resumed his march,
swinging his lantern this way and that, so as to gain a larger
circumference of light. But suddenly he again stopped, as an unexpected
sound fell on his ears.
"By jove--water!" he exclaimed, and broke into a run.
Garstin followed as fast as he could, but, deprived of the light, he
quickly came to grief over some old metal. When he picked himself up,
the other was yards ahead, and after that he had to content himself with
keeping the lantern in view.
The engineer reached Section D and stopped breathless on the brink. He
had forgotten Garstin--had forgotten everything save that water was
again forcing its way into the unhappy section. But how and where?
Anxiously examining the opposite side with his lantern, he soon
discovered what the matter was, and the discovery caused him a thrill of
amazed horror. The "improbable thing" had happened. One of the piles was
buckling--bending inwards--and the earth dam was surely, if slowly,
giving way at this point. He turned to shout to Garstin.
Then something hit him on the shoulder and he fell backwards into
Section D, wildly and vainly clutching at a beam to save himself.
* * * * *
"Trevannion! Trevannion!"
The voice of Garstin, office-desk theoretician,
assistant-engineer--Trevannion was clear about that. What he did not
realise so clearly was what had happened to himself. He was lying face
downwards on something, with his arm under his breast--his left arm,
that is--his right seemed to have disappeared. Likewise, though he was
conscious of a weight hanging downwards from his middle, he wondered
vaguely what had become of his legs. He felt a curious disinclination to
stir.
Yet the voice went on calling, and presently he was impelled to answer
"Hello, Garstin." Then, while he was still listening to the unfamiliar
echo of his own voice, he heard just behind him a _splash, splash,
splash_, and his left arm jerked itself spasmodically from beneath his
breast, the hand simultaneously touching a substance that was hard,
cold, and slimy.
Then he realised.
He was somewhere near the bottom of Section D. His body lay across one
of the lowest beams; his legs dangled in the water. Garstin was
somewhere above him, and the river was pouring steadily into the
section, splashing now with monotonous regularity. And the water was
rising--creeping up towards the level of the beam where he lay.
Trevannion tried to raise himself by his right arm, but the limb gave
way with an agonising shoot of pain; it was broken. He remained still
and considered. Was the broken arm the extent of his injuries? The cold
water had numbed his legs beyond all feeling. They were so much dead
weight attached to his body. Both might be fractured for all he knew.
The main fact was that he was incapable of moving, of helping himself,
at any rate until assistance came. And the water was rising, of course.
Would rescue or the water arrive first?
He looked up painfully through the clammy gloom. Nothing save patches of
sky, seen between the black beams, greeted his eyes. There was no sound
save that of the water--_splash, splash, drip, drip_. For an instant the
fear of death conquered him, and he almost shrieked.
However, as physical exhaustion renewed its hold upon him, he grew
calmer. He began to recall what had happened. He had fallen into the
section--no--he had been pushed in. There flashed upon him the vision of
a sullen, black-haired labourer, whom he had refused to reinstate; this
act was O'Donnell's revenge.
What had happened after that? The man would scarcely have had time to
make his escape before Garstin came up. Well, it did not matter--he had
heard Garstin's voice since in proof that he had survived any possible
encounter. And the absence of Garstin, the oppressive silence now?
Garstin had gone for help, of course. A boy like that could do nothing
by himself even if he had the nerve; and Garstin had none. However, he
would not be long in finding the watchman, and bringing him to the
rescue. They ought to be here now. They certainly ought to be here now.
Nervously anxious, he listened for any sound of footfall or voice. Did
Garstin realise the danger of the black water that was rising, ever
rising? Had he by any evil chance failed to find the watchman at his
post?
A smooth wave flowed slowly over the beam, and he shuddered.
Suddenly--after hours, as it seemed--something flickered on the surface
of the water in front of him. A shadowy white gleam it was. It danced
before his eyes like a mocking spirit--and was gone. But shortly it
reappeared, and with it a lantern and a rope, with somebody clinging to
the end of the rope. Trevannion had just time to recognise the figure of
Garstin, swaying slowly above him, before he lost consciousness.
* * * * *
Garstin got him out, of course. But it was many days before Trevannion
learned the details of the rescue.
It appeared that Garstin had arrived just in time to witness O'Donnell's
treacherous attack, and to confront the infuriated man as he turned to
retreat. In a blind frenzy the boy sprang at his enemy, and the latter,
taken by surprise, went down with a crash, striking his head on a heap
of stones, and lay senseless.
Thereupon Garstin, with the one idea of rescuing Trevannion in his mind,
hurried off to the watchman's hut--only to find that the fellow had left
his post. However, he discovered there a lantern and a coil of rope,
and, taking these, he returned to Section D, resolved to attempt the
rescue by himself. Having shouted and received a reply, he hitched one
end of the rope to a beam, and was about to lower himself down, when he
discovered that the rope was so badly frayed in its centre that it could
not be trusted to bear even his slight weight.
There was nothing to be done save to postpone the attempt till he had
found a more substantial cable. He remembered that there was a length or
two in the office, and thither he set out at once. The door being locked
and Trevannion having the key is his pocket, he had to force the lock as
best he could with the first implement he could lay hands on.
This occupied several minutes, and when he returned to the section, he
was tormented by the fear that he might find Trevannion drowned. He
hastily affixed the new rope, and let himself down into the abyss, where
he discovered Trevannion insensible, with his forehead almost touching
the water.
It did not take long to make a noose and slip it over the latter's
shoulders, but he had hardly done so when a gush of water swept over the
beam, carrying away the lantern and plunging them into total darkness.
For some subsequent seconds the boy clutched the rope and Trevannion's
lifeless body in an agony of terror and doubt.
Then he started to climb up. The process proved exceedingly laborious,
for the hemp was thin and damp, and it was difficult to obtain a grip.
However, he managed to reach the summit and clambered over the brink,
then paused awhile for some little breath and strength before essaying
the hardest task of all--the hauling of Trevannion into safety.
How his puny strength enabled him to do this, he never could say. His
foothold was none too secure, and the only available leverage was a
narrow piece of masonry that jutted from the side. Yet, working inch by
inch, he accomplished it, and when Trevannion had been brought
sufficiently near the top, he made the rope fast to a convenient block
of granite, and, kneeling down, regardless of his own peril, lifted him
over the side. It was quite ten minutes before he could stagger with his
burden to the office.
Safely inside, he made up the fire and telephoned for the doctor. Then
he remembered O'Donnell, and spoke a message to the police-station,
whence were presently despatched a couple of constables who found the
man, stunned and considerably bruised. Neither did he forget Section
D--with the result that there was a breakdown gang on the spot before
midnight.
The buckled pile was found to have been nearly chopped through a few
feet from the top, and there was no doubt that if O'Donnell had been
undisturbed, he would have done the most serious mischief to the work.
As it was, the completion of the section was delayed for two months.
Trevannion heard this story during his convalescence--a lengthy period,
since two ribs were broken as well as the arm, and he had suffered
severely from shock and exposure. In answer to a question Garstin said
that at the time he had scarcely noticed the physical strain. The thing
that was uppermost in his mind was the fear that Trevannion might drown
before he could get to him. No, he had experienced no personal sensation
of nervousness, when preparing to descend into the section. Whereupon
Trevannion thought deeply.
"I owe my life to your pluck, and I was a fool to faint at the critical
moment," was all he said.
But, as has been remarked, his thoughts were many and profound. Nor was
he ever again heard to reflect on Garstin's "want of nerve."
IX
MY ADVENTURE WITH A LION
I once served an apprenticeship on a New York newspaper, and some of my
experiences as a reporter on the _Evening Smile_ I shall never forget.
A reporter on an American newspaper is like a soldier--he is expected to
obey orders implicitly, even at the risk of his life. For this reason he
is paid well, but a nervous reporter often goes out of the office with
his heart in his mouth and an "assignment" that makes him think
seriously of taking out another insurance policy on his life.
One gloomy winter's morning I got down to the office at eight o'clock as
usual, and had hardly reached my desk when the news editor--a kind man,
who was always giving me opportunities of distinguishing myself--came up
and began to speak at once in a very mysterious voice.
"Got a dandy assignment for you this morning," he said.
I looked up gratefully.
"I guess you carry a six-shooter, don't you?" he asked. "You may need it
this trip."
"Oh!" I managed to gasp.
"A lion's escaped," he went on, in the quick, nervous American way of
an American news editor.
"Has it really?" I said, wondering what was coming next.
"Jaffray's Circus came to town last night, the lion somehow got out, and
they've been chasing it all night. Got it cornered in a stable at last,
somewhere in East 19th Street; but it attacked and mauled a valuable
horse there, and I understand is still at bay. That's all I know. Get up
there as quick as you like, and get us a regular blazing story of it.
You can run to a column," he added over his shoulder, as he returned to
his desk to distribute the other morning assignments, "and let's have
your copy down by messenger in time for the first edition."
No one ever disputed with the news editor, or asked unnecessary
questions, but many a reporter did a lot of steady thinking when he got
outside the office and safely on to the doorstep.
I crammed my pocket full of paper from the big heap at the middle table,
and swaggered out of the room with my nose in the air, as though hunting
escaped lions was a little matter I attended to every day of my life,
and that did not disturb me an atom.
An overhead train soon rattled me up to East 19th Street, but it was
some time before I found the stable where the lion awaited me, for 19th
Street runs from Broadway down to the East River, and is a mile or two
in length, and full of stables. Not far from the corner of Irving
Place, however, I got on to the scent of my quarry, and I had hardly
joined the group that had collected at the corner before a noise like
distant thunder rose on the air, and every single person in the group
turned tail and began to run for safety.
"What's the trouble?" I asked of a man as he dashed past me.
"Lion in that stable!" he shouted, pointing to the big wooden doors
across the road. "Escaped from the circus. Savage as they make 'em.
Killed a trotting-horse in there, and no one can get near it. They say
it's a man-eater, too!"
Another roar burst out as he spoke, and the crowd that had begun to
collect again scattered in an instant in all directions. There was no
doubt about that sound: it was a genuine lion's roar, and it sounded
deeper, I thought, than any roar I had ever heard before.
But news was news, and in this case news was bread-and-butter. I must
get the facts, and be quick about it, too, for my copy had to be written
out and in the office of the _Evening Smile_ in time for the first
edition. There was barely an hour in which to do the whole business.
I forced my way through the crowd now gathering again on the corner, and
made my way across the road to where a group of men was standing not far
from the stable doors. They moved about a bit when the roars came, but
none of them ran, and I noticed some of them had pistols in their hands,
and some heavy crowbars, and other weapons. Evidently, I judged, they
were men connected with the circus, and I joined the group and
explained my mission.
"Well, that's right enough," said one of them. "You've got a grand
newspaper story this time. Old Yellow Hair's in there, sure pop! And,
what's more, I don't see how we're ever going to get him out again."
"The horse must be stiff by now," said another. "He was mauled half to
death an hour ago."
"It'd be a shame to have to shoot him," added a third, meaning the lion.
"He's the best animal in the whole circus; but he is awful savage."
"That's a fact," chimed in a fourth. "There's no flies on old Yellow
Hair."
Some one touched me on the arm and introduced himself as a reporter from
the _Evening Grin_--a fellow-worker in distress. He said he didn't like
the job at all. He wanted us to go off and concoct a "fake story." But I
wouldn't agree to this, and it fell through; for unless all the evening
papers conspire to write the same story there's always trouble at the
office when the reporters get back.
Other reporters kept joining the group, and in twenty minutes from the
time of my arrival on the scene there must have been a good dozen of us.
Every paper in town was represented. It was a first-class news story,
and the men who were paid by space were already working hard to improve
its value by getting new details, such as the animal's history and
pedigree, names of previous victims, human or otherwise, the
description and family history of its favourite keeper, and every other
imaginable detail under the sun.
"There's an empty loft above the stable," said one of the circus men,
pointing to a smaller door on the storey above; and before ten minutes
had passed some one arrived with a ladder, and the string of unwilling
reporters was soon seen climbing up the rungs and disappearing like rats
into a hole through the door of the loft. We drew lots for places, and I
came fifth.
Before going up, however, I had got a messenger-boy stationed in the
street below to catch my "copy" and hurry off with it to the _Evening
Smile_ as soon as I could compose the wonderful story and throw it down
to him. The reporter on an evening paper in New York has to write his
"stuff," as we called it, in wonderful and terrible places, and under
all sorts of conditions. The only rules he must bear in mind are: Get
the news, and get it _quick_. Accuracy is a mere detail for later
editions--or not at all.
The loft was dark and small, and we only just managed to squeeze in. It
smelt pleasantly of hay. But there was another odour besides, that no
one understood at first, and that was decidedly unpleasant. Overhead
were thick rafters. I think every one of us noticed these before he
noticed anything else, for the instant the roar of that lion sounded up
through the boards under our feet the reporters scattered like chaff
before the wind, and scuttled up into those rafters with a speed, and
dust, and clatter I have never seen equalled. It was like sparrows
flying from the sudden onslaught of a cat.
Fat men, lean men, long men, short men--I never saw such a collection of
news-gatherers; smart men from the big papers, shabby fellows from the
gutter press, hats flying, papers fluttering; and in less than a second
after the roar was heard there was not a solitary figure to be seen on
the floor. Every single man had gone aloft.
We all came down again when the roar ceased, and with subsequent roars
we got a little more accustomed to the shaking of the boards under our
feet. But the first time at such close quarters, with only a shaky
wooden roof between us and "old Yellow Hair," was no joke, and we all
behaved naturally and without pose or affectation, and ran for safety,
or rather climbed for it.
There was a trap-door in the floor through which, I suppose, the hay was
passed down to the horses under normal circumstances. One by one we
crawled on all-fours to this trap-door and peered through. The scene
below I can see to this day. As soon as one's eyes got a little
accustomed to the gloom the outline of the stalls became first visible.
Then a human figure seated on the top of an old refrigerator, with a
pistol in one hand, pointed at a corner opposite, came into view. Then
another man, seated astride the division between the stalls, could be
seen. And last, but not least, I saw the dark mass on the floor in the
far corner, where the dead horse lay mangled and the monster of a lion
sprawled across his carcass, with great paws outstretched, and shining
eyes.
From time to time the man on the ice-box fired his pistol, and every
time he did this the lion roared, and the reporters flew and climbed
aloft. The trap-door was never occupied a single second after the roar
began, and as the number of persons in the loft increased and the thin
wooden floor began to bend and shake, a number of these adventurous
news-gatherers remained aloft and never put foot to ground. Braver
reporters threw their copy out of the door to the messenger-boys below,
and every time this feat was accomplished the crowd, safely watching on
the corners opposite, cheered and clapped their hands. A steady stream
of writing dropped from that loft-door and poured all the morning into
the offices of the evening newspapers; while the morning-newspaper men
sat quietly and looked on, knowing that they could write up their own
account later from the reports in the evening sheets.
The men in the stable below, occupying positions of great peril, were,
of course, connected with the travelling circus. We shouted down
questions to them, but more often got a pistol-shot instead of a voice
by way of reply. Where all those bullets went to was a matter for
anxious speculation amongst us, and the roaring of the lion combined
with the reports of the six-shooter to keep us fairly dancing on that
wooden floor as if we were practising a cake-walk.
A sound of cheering from the crowd outside, swelling momentarily as the
neighbourhood awoke to the situation, brought us with a rush to the top
of the ladder.
"It's the strong man!" cried several voices. "The strong man of the
circus. He'll fix up the lion quick enough. Give him a chance!"
A huge man, who, rightly enough, proved to be the performing strong man
of the circus, was seen making his way through the crowd, asking
questions as he went. A pathway opened up for him as if by magic, and,
carrying a mighty iron crowbar, he reached the foot of the ladder and
began to climb up.
Thrilled by the sight of this monster with the determined-looking jaw, a
dozen men rushed forward to hold the bottom of the ladder while he
ascended; but when he was about half-way up, the lion was inconsiderate
enough to give forth a most terrifying roar, with the immediate result
that the men holding the ladder turned tail with one accord and fled.
The ladder slipped a few inches, and the ascending Samson, crowbar and
all, very neatly came to the ground with a crash. Fortunately, however,
he just managed to grab the ledge of the door, and a dozen reporters
seized him by the shoulders and dragged him, safe, but a trifle
undignified, into the loft.
Talking very loud, and referring to the lion with a richness of epithets
I have never heard equalled before or since, he crossed the floor and
began to squeeze through the hole into the dangerous region below. In a
moment he was hanging with legs dangling, and a second later had
dropped heavily into a pile of hay underneath him. We lowered the
crowbar to him, breathless with admiration; and then a strange thing
happened. For, while the lion roared and the pistols banged, and we
reporters tumbled over each other to get a glimpse of the attack of the
lion on the strong man, or _vice versa_, lo! a voice below shouted to
close the trap, and the same instant a board from below shot across the
opening and completely obliterated our view.
"We'll have to fake that part of the fight," said a reporter. "Must all
agree on the same yarn."
The sounds from below prevented the details being agreed upon just at
that moment, for such a hoolabaloo as we then heard is simply
indescribable--shooting, lion roaring, strong man shouting, crowbar
clanging, and the sound of breaking wood and heavy bodies falling.
Outside the crowd heard it too, and remained absolutely silent. Most of
them, indeed, had vanished! Every minute they expected to see the doors
burst open and the enraged animal rush out with the strong man between
his jaws, and their silence was accordingly explained by their absence.
At least half of the reporters were still among the rafters when the
trap-door shot back in the floor, and a voice cried breathlessly that
the strong man had caged the lion.
It was, indeed, a thrilling moment. We clambered down the ladder and out
into the street just in time to see the great doors open and a
procession emerge that was worth all the travelling circuses in the
world put together to see.
First came the trainer, with a pistol in either hand. Following him was
the man with the small crowbar who had sat on the division between the
stalls. Then came a great iron cage, which had been in the stable all
the time, but a little out of our line of vision in a dark corner, so
that no one had observed it.
In this cage lay the huge exhausted lion, panting, on its side, with
lather dripping from its great jaws.
And on the top of the cage, seated tailor-wise, dressed in a very loud
check ulster, and wearing a bell-shaped opera-hat on the side of his
head, was the proud figure of the victorious strong man. The expression
on his face was worth painting, but it is wholly beyond me to describe
it. Such exultation and glorious pride was worthy of the mightiest
gladiator that ever fought in an arena.
His long curly hair, shining with oil, escaped in disorder from his
marvellously shaped top hat, and the massive crowbar that had brought
him his hard-won victory stood upright on one end, grasped in his
gigantic hand. He smiled round on the gathering crowd, and the
procession moved proudly up the streets till within half an hour the
people following and cheering must have numbered many thousands.
We reporters rushed off to our various offices, and the streets were
soon afterwards lively with newspaper-boys shouting the news and waving
sheets of terrible and alarming headlines about the "escaped lion and
its fearful ravages," and the "strong man who had captured it after a
ghastly battle for his life."
Next day the morning papers did not publish a solitary line about the
great event; but in the advertising columns of every newspaper appeared
the prospectus of the travelling circus just come to town, and in
particularly bold type the public were told to be sure and see Yellow
Hair, the savage man-eating lion, that had escaped the day before and
killed a valuable horse in a private stable where it had been chased by
the terrified keepers; and, in the paragraph below, the details followed
of the wonderful strong man, Samson, who had caught and caged the lion
single-handed, armed only with a crowbar.
It was the best advertisement a circus ever had; and most of it was not
paid for!
* * * * *
"Guess you knew it was all a fake?" queried the news editor next
morning, as he gave me the usual assignment.
It was my first week on an American paper, and I stared at him, waiting
for the rest.
"That lion hasn't a tooth in its head. They dragged in a dead horse in
the night. You wrote a good story, though. Cleaned your pistol yet?"
X
THE SECRET CAVE OF HYDAS
CHAPTER I.--THE FIGHT AND THEFT IN THE MUSEUM
A tall, muscular, black-bearded, dark-eyed, beak-nosed native strolled
into the Lahore Museum, in the Punjab; he carried a massive
five-foot-long stick with a crook handle, and studded with short
brass-headed nails from handle to ferrule. He sauntered about until he
came to a case containing ancient daggers and swords, which arrested his
attention for some time.
About a dozen other visitors were in the room, and of these a couple
strolled together from one object of interest to another; they were fine
stalwart natives, and each possessed a stick of ordinary size.
These two men quietly walked about exchanging opinions on the various
curios until they came face to face with the solitary man gazing at the
antique weapons.
"What! art thou here, thou badmash (scoundrel)?" exclaimed one of the
two.
"Ah, thou son of a swine, take that!" replied the tall man, and, with a
quickness which proved him to be an expert in the handling of a stick,
struck the native who had addressed him a vicious blow on the head, but,
the said head being protected by many folds of his puggari, the stroke
merely knocked him down without doing any serious injury.
In an instant the fallen man's friend struck at the assailant, and, the
other man springing up, a fierce fight was quickly in full swing, two
against one, and the noise of the sticks rattling together in powerful
strokes, and the insulting taunts thrown at each other by the
combatants, soon attracted the other sight-seers and the Museum
attendants.
In a few minutes the fighters had been turned out of the building; they
had done no damage except to themselves, and neither party would bring a
charge against the other, so they scowlingly went in opposite directions
as soon as they were outside.
"A family feud," said a bystander.
"Yes, I expect it is a vendetta," responded another.
These remarks, however, were very far from the truth, for the apparent
enemies were the greatest friends and bound together by the most solemn
vows, and in fact the realistic fight had been pre-arranged with a
definite object, which was successfully attained, as indeed the Museum
officials discovered later.
The day after the fracas Doctor Mullen, Government geologist, called at
the Museum; he was accompanied by his son Mark, a sturdily built lad of
about eighteen, who was preparing to follow his father's profession, and
with them was Tom Ellison, the Doctor's assistant, a young man of
twenty-four, tall and extremely active.
"Well, Ramji Daji, what's this I hear about a robbery at the Museum
yesterday?" asked the doctor of the assistant curator.
"Ah, Sahib, I am very sorry, but the badmashes stole those pieces of
strangely carved stones you found on the Salt Range mountains, and also
another piece, which was lying near them on the table here," answered
Ramji Daji.
"But what in the world did they carry them off for? They can be of no
value to anybody," remarked the Doctor.
"I don't know, Sahib. There was a fight here yesterday, and some hours
after we missed the five fragments of inscribed stone and one piece
belonging to another set. Had they taken any of the gold or silver
things we could have understood, but----" and Ramji Daji made a gesture
expressive of the puzzled state of his own mind.
"There can be only two reasons for the strange theft--it is either a
practical joke, or some one saw the stones who was able to decipher
them--which we could not--but the joke theory seems the more probable,"
said the Doctor.
The pieces of stone referred to consisted of five irregular fragments of
a slab, an inch or so thick, the largest being about seven inches long
by four or five wide, and the smallest some four inches by two. These
five parts would not fit evenly together, and in the Doctor's opinion
they formed about half of the original slab.
The Doctor had taken a careful rubbing on paper of the letters on the
stones, and sent it to a friend for the purpose of deciphering it if
possible.
"I wonder, Doctor, whether any one from the Salt Range stole the stones?
Do you remember that your tent was surreptitiously searched a few nights
after you had found the pieces?" remarked Tom Ellison.
"I remember my things having been ransacked, and we concluded some thief
had been disturbed, but we never for a moment thought they were after
the bits of inscribed slab, which, by the way, I had sent off the day
before when sending for stores for the camp," he replied.
"Well, if he was after the stones he may have followed us to Lahore and
you to the Museum, when you came to take a rubbing of the lettering,"
said Tom.
"There must be a clue to something written on them, if any one took all
the trouble to come so far for them," suggested Mark Mullen.
"To-morrow I hope to hear from Professor Muirson, and he will probably
throw some light on the meaning of the inscription," said the Doctor.
"But come, we must get back to work, for I have to finish my report
before we start into camp again in a couple of days' time," he added,
and they hurried away to their own office, but at least Mark's mind was
full of thoughts concerning the stolen stones, and conjuring up all
sorts of strange mysteries connected with them.
Doctor Mullen duly received from the Professor the expected letter, a
part of which read as follows--
"There can be no doubt that the ruins in which you found the fragments
of inscribed slab are those of a Greek settlement which was most
probably founded on the Salt Range by camp followers, and possibly
soldiers, of Alexander the Great's army who were left behind on his
return from India.
"I can only conclude from the rubbing you have sent me that it is not
from the original inspection, but that the slab of which you have found
parts was inscribed from memory at a much later period, it being made up
of three languages. The original sense may or may not have been
retained, and as far as I am able to understand it the incomplete
wording would in English read--' ... into thy charge ... guarded ...
descendants with life ... of Hydas ... sacrifice ... the gods.'
"I have made no attempt to guess at the missing words, for, as you will
see at a glance, the incomplete sentences allow of a variety of
renderings, thereby causing great uncertainty with regard to the
original meaning."
"I wish we had the other parts of the slab," exclaimed Mark, as soon as
his father had read out the letter.
"Yes, it is rather interesting. Well, we start to-morrow for the Salt
Range to continue our work, and I will show you the exact spot where I
found the pieces, and a diligent search there may be rewarded by the
discovery of at least some of the other portion," said the Doctor; and
both Mark and Tom Ellison hoped such might prove to be the case, little
thinking what dangers they would be led into on account of those
fragments of an old, broken slab.