A letter came in the course of a few days, which, if it was short, was

at least encouraging. It was scribbled in pencil on the back of a

play-bill, and sealed apparently with a tobacco-stopper. "Am on the

track," it said. "Nothing of the sort to be had from any professional

spiritualist, but picked up a fellow in a pub yesterday who says he can

manage it for you. Will send him down unless you wire to the contrary.

Abrahams is his name, and he has done one or two of these jobs before."

The letter wound up with some incoherent allusions to a check, and was

signed by my affectionate cousin, John Brocket.

I need hardly say that I did not wire, but awaited the arrival of Mr.

Abrahams with all impatience. In spite of my belief in the

supernatural, I could scarcely credit the fact that any mortal could

have such a command over the spirit-world as to deal in them and barter

them against mere earthly gold. Still, I had Jack's word for it that

such a trade existed; and here was a gentleman with a Judaical name

ready to demonstrate it by proof positive. How vulgar and commonplace

Jorrocks' eighteenth-century ghost would appear should I succeed in

securing a real mediæval apparition! I almost thought that one had

been sent down in advance, for, as I walked round the moat that night

before retiring to rest, I came upon a dark figure engaged in surveying

the machinery of my portcullis and drawbridge. His start of surprise,

however, and the manner in which he hurried off into the darkness,

speedily convinced me of his earthly origin, and I put him down as some

admirer of one of my female retainers mourning over the muddy

Hellespont which divided him from his love. Whoever he may have been,

he disappeared and did not return, though I loitered about for some

time in the hope of catching a glimpse of him and exercising my feudal

rights upon his person.

Jack Brocket was as good as his word. The shades of another evening

were beginning to darken round Goresthorpe Grange, when a peal at the

outer bell, and the sound of a fly pulling up, announced the arrival of

Mr. Abrahams. I hurried down to meet him, half expecting to see a

choice assortment of ghosts crowding in at his rear. Instead, however,

of being the sallow-faced, melancholy-eyed man that I had pictured to

myself, the ghost-dealer was a sturdy little podgy fellow, with a pair

of wonderfully keen, sparkling eyes and a mouth which was constantly

stretched in a good-humored, if somewhat artificial, grin. His sole

stock-in-trade seemed to consist of a small leather bag jealously

locked and strapped, which emitted a metallic clink upon being placed

on the stone flags of the hall.

"And 'ow are you, sir?" he asked, wringing my hand with the utmost

effusion. "And the missis, 'ow is she? And all the others--'ow's all

their 'ealth?"

I intimated that we were all as well as could reasonably be expected;

but Mr. Abrahams happened to catch a glimpse of Mrs. D'Odd in the

distance, and at once plunged at her with another string of inquiries

as to her health, delivered so volubly and with such an intense

earnestness that I half expected to see him terminate his

cross-examination by feeling her pulse and demanding a sight of her

tongue. All this time his little eyes rolled round and round, shifting

perpetually from the floor to the ceiling, and from the ceiling to the

walls, taking in apparently every article of furniture in a single

comprehensive glance.

Having satisfied himself that neither of us was in a pathological

condition, Mr. Abrahams suffered me to lead him upstairs, where a

repast had been laid out for him to which he did ample justice. The

mysterious little bag he carried along with him, and deposited it under

his chair during the meal. It was not until the table had been cleared

and we were left together that he broached the matter on which he had

come down.

"I hunderstand," he remarked, puffing at a trichinopoly, "that you want

my 'elp in fitting up this 'ere 'ouse with a happarition."

I acknowledged the correctness of his surmise, while mentally wondering

at those restless eyes of his, which still danced about the room as if

he were making an inventory of the contents.

"And you won't find a better man for the job, though I says it as

shouldn't," continued my companion. "Wot did I say to the young gent

wot spoke to me in the bar of the Lame Dog? 'Can you do it?' says he.

'Try me,' says I, 'me and my bag. Just try me.' I couldn't say fairer

than that."

My respect for Jack Brocket's business capacities began to go up very

considerably. He certainly seemed to have managed the matter

wonderfully well. "You don't mean to say that you carry ghosts about

in bags?" I remarked, with diffidence.

Mr. Abrahams smiled a smile of superior knowledge. "You wait," he

said; "give me the right place and the right hour, with a little of the

essence of Lucoptolycus"--here he produced a small bottle from his

waistcoat-pocket--"and you won't find no ghost that I ain't up to.

You'll see them yourself, and pick your own, and I can't say fairer

than that."

As all Mr. Abrahams' protestations of fairness were accompanied by a

cunning leer and a wink from one or other of his wicked little eyes,

the impression of candor was somewhat weakened.

"When are you going to do it?" I asked, reverentially.

"Ten minutes to one in the morning," said Mr. Abrahams, with decision.

"Some says midnight, but I says ten to one, when there ain't such a

crowd, and you can pick your own ghost. And now," he continued, rising

to his feet, "suppose you trot me round the premises, and let me see

where you wants it; for there's some places as attracts 'em, and some

as they won't hear of--not if there was no other place in the world."

Mr. Abrahams inspected our corridors and chambers with a most critical

and observant eye, fingering the old tapestry with the air of a

connoisseur, and remarking in an undertone that it would "match

uncommon nice." It was not until he reached the banqueting-hall,

however, which I had myself picked out, that his admiration reached the

pitch of enthusiasm. "'Ere's the place!" he shouted, dancing, bag in

hand, round the table on which my plate was lying, and looking not

unlike some quaint little goblin himself. "'Ere's the place; we won't

get nothin' to beat this! A fine room--noble, solid, none of your

electro-plate trash! That's the way as things ought to be done, sir.

Plenty of room for 'em to glide here. Send up some brandy and a box of

weeds; I'll sit here by the fire and do the preliminaries, which is

more trouble than you think; for them ghosts carries on hawful at

times, before they finds out who they've got to deal with. If you was

in the room they'd tear you to pieces as like as not. You leave me

alone to tackle them, and at half-past twelve come in, and I'll lay

they'll be quiet enough by then."

Mr. Abrahams' request struck me as a reasonable one, so I left him with

his feet upon the mantel-piece, and his chair in front of the fire,

fortifying himself with stimulants against his refractory visitors.

From the room beneath, in which I sat with Mrs. D'Odd, I could hear

that after sitting for some time he rose up, and paced about the hall

with quick, impatient steps. We then heard him try the lock of the

door, and afterward drag some heavy article of furniture in the

direction of the window, on which, apparently, he mounted, for I heard

the creaking of the rusty hinges as the diamond-paned casement folded

backward, and I knew it to be situated several feet above the little

man's reach. Mrs. D'Odd says that she could distinguish his voice

speaking in low and rapid whispers after this, but that may have been

her imagination. I confess that I began to feel more impressed than I

had deemed it possible to be. There was something awesome in the

thought of the solitary mortal standing by the open window and

summoning in from the gloom outside the spirits of the nether world.

It was with a trepidation which I could hardly disguise from Matilda

that I observed that the clock was pointing to half-past twelve, and

that the time had come for me to share the vigil of my visitor.

He was sitting in his old position when I entered, and there were no

signs of the mysterious movements which I had overheard, though his

chubby face was flushed as with recent exertion.

"Are you succeeding all right?" I asked as I came in, putting on as

careless an air as possible, but glancing involuntarily round to see if

we were alone.

"Only your help is needed to complete the matter," said Mr. Abrahams,

in a solemn voice. "You shall sit by me and partake of the essence of

Lucoptolycus, which removes the scales from our earthly eyes. Whatever

you may chance to see, speak not and make no movement, lest you break

the spell." His manner was subdued, and his usual cockney vulgarity

had entirely disappeared. I took the chair which he indicated, and

awaited the result.

My companion cleared the rushes from the floor in our neighborhood, and

going down upon his hands and knees, described a half circle with

chalk, which inclosed the fireplace and ourselves. Round the edge of

this half circle he drew several hieroglyphics, not unlike the signs of

the zodiac. He then stood up and uttered a long invocation, delivered

so rapidly that it sounded like a single gigantic word in some uncouth

guttural language. Having finished this prayer, if prayer it was, he

pulled out the small bottle which he had produced before, and poured a

couple of teaspoonfuls of clear, transparent fluid into a vial, which

he handed to me with an intimation that I should drink it.

The liquid had a faintly sweet odor, not unlike the aroma of certain

sorts of apples. I hesitated a moment before applying it to my lips,

but an impatient gesture from my companion overcame my scruples, and I

tossed it off. The taste was not unpleasant; and, as it gave rise to

no immediate effects, I leaned back in my chair and composed myself for

what was to come. Mr. Abrahams seated himself beside me, and I felt

that he was watching my face from time to time while repeating some

more of the invocations in which he had indulged before.

A sense of delicious warmth and languor began gradually to steal over

me, partly, perhaps, from the heat of the fire, and partly from some

unexplained cause. An uncontrollable impulse to sleep weighed down my

eyelids, while, at the same time my brain worked actively, and a

hundred beautiful and pleasing ideas flitted through it. So utterly

lethargic did I feel that, though I was aware that my companion put his

hand over the region of my heart, as if to feel how it was beating, I

did not attempt to prevent him, nor did I even ask him for the reason

of his action. Everything in the room appeared to be reeling slowly

round in a drowsy dance, of which I was the centre. The great elk's

head at the far end wagged solemnly backward and forward, while the

massive salvers on the tables performed cotillons with the claret

cooler and the epergne. My head fell upon my breast from sheer

heaviness, and I should have become unconscious had I not been recalled

to myself by the opening of the door at the other end of the hall.

This door led on to the raised dais, which, as I have mentioned, the

heads of the house used to reserve for their own use. As it swung

slowly back upon its hinges, I sat up in my chair, clutching at the

arms, and staring with a horrified glare at the dark passage outside.

Something was coming down it--something unformed and intangible, but

still a something. Dim and shadowy, I saw it flit across the

threshold, while a blast of ice-cold air swept down the room, which

seemed to blow through me, chilling my very heart. I was aware of the

mysterious presence, and then I heard it speak in a voice like the

sighing of an east wind among pine-trees on the banks of a desolate sea.

It said: "I am the invisible nonentity. I have affinities and am

subtle. I am electric, magnetic, and spiritualistic. I am the great

ethereal sighheaver. I kill dogs. Mortal, wilt thou choose me?"

I was about to speak, but the words seemed to be choked in my throat;

and before I could get them out, the shadow flitted across the hall and

vanished in the darkness at the other side, while a long-drawn

melancholy sigh quivered through the apartment.

I turned my eyes toward the door once more, and beheld, to my

astonishment, a very small old woman, who hobbled along the corridor

and into the hall. She passed backward and forward several times, and

then, crouching down at the very edge of the circle upon the floor, she

disclosed a face, the horrible malignity of which shall never be

banished from my recollection. Every foul passion appeared to have

left its mark upon that hideous countenance. "Ha! ha!" she screamed,

holding out her wizened hands like the talons of an unclean bird. "You

see what I am. I am the fiendish old woman. I wear snuff-colored

silks. My curse descends on people. Sir Walter was partial to me.

Shall I be thine, mortal?"

I endeavored to shake my head in horror; on which she aimed a blow at

me with her crutch, and vanished with an eldrich scream.

By this time my eyes turned naturally toward the open door, and I was

hardly surprised to see a man walk in, of tall and noble stature. His

face was deathly pale, but was surmounted by a fringe of dark hair

which fell in ringlets down his back. A short pointed beard covered

his chin.

He was dressed in loose-fitting clothes, made apparently of yellow

satin, and a large white ruff surrounded his neck. He paced across the

room with slow and majestic strides. Then turning, he addressed me in

a sweet, exquisitely modulated voice.

"I am the cavalier," he remarked. "I pierce and am pierced. Here is

my rapier. I clink steel. This is a bloodstain over my heart. I can

emit hollow groans. I am patronized by many old conservative families.

I am the original manor-house apparition. I work alone, or in company

with shrieking damsels."

He bent his head courteously, as though awaiting my reply, but the same

choking sensation prevented me from speaking; and, with a deep bow, he

disappeared.

He had hardly gone before a feeling of intense horror stole over me,

and I was aware of the presence of a ghastly creature in the room, of

dim outlines and uncertain proportions. One moment it seemed to

pervade the entire apartment, while at another it would become

invisible, but always leaving behind it a distinct consciousness of its

presence. Its voice, when it spoke, was quavering and gusty. It said,

"I am the leaver of footsteps and the spiller of gouts of blood. I

tramp upon corridors. Charles Dickens has alluded to me. I make

strange and disagreeable noises. I snatch letters and place invisible

hands on people's wrists. I am cheerful. I burst into peals of

hideous laughter. Shall I do one now?" I raised my hand in a

deprecating way, but too late to prevent one discordant outbreak which

echoed through the room. Before I could lower it the apparition was

gone.

I turned my head toward the door in time to see a man come hastily and

stealthily into the chamber. He was a sunburned, powerfully built

fellow, with ear-rings in his ears and a Barcelona handkerchief tied

loosely round his neck. His head was bent upon his chest, and his

whole aspect was that of one afflicted by intolerable remorse. He

paced rapidly backward and forward like a caged tiger, and I observed

that a drawn knife glittered in one of his hands, while he grasped what

appeared to be a piece of parchment in the other. His voice, when he

spoke, was deep and sonorous. He said, "I am a murderer. I am a

ruffian. I crouch when I walk. I step noiselessly. I know something

of the Spanish Main. I can do the lost treasure business. I have

charts. Am able-bodied and a good walker. Capable of haunting a large

park." He looked toward me beseechingly, but before I could make a

sign I was paralyzed by the horrible sight which appeared at the door.

It was a very tall man, if, indeed, it might be called a man, for the

gaunt bones were protruding through the corroding flesh, and the

features were of a leaden hue. A winding-sheet was wrapped round the

figure, and formed a hood over the head, from under the shadow of which

two fiendish eyes, deepset in their grisly sockets, blazed and sparkled

like red-hot coals. The lower jaw had fallen upon the breast,

disclosing a withered, shriveled tongue and two lines of black and

jagged fangs. I shuddered and drew back as this fearful apparition

advanced to the edge of the circle.

"I am the American blood-curdler," it said, in a voice which seemed to

come in a hollow murmur from the earth beneath it. "None other is

genuine. I am the embodiment of Edgar Allan Poe. I am circumstantial

and horrible. I am a low-caste, spirit-subduing spectre. Observe my

blood and my bones. I am grisly and nauseous. No depending on

artificial aid. Work with grave-clothes, a coffin-lid, and a galvanic

battery. Turn hair white in a night." The creature stretched out its

fleshless arms to me as if in entreaty, but I shook my head; and it

vanished, leaving a low, sickening, repulsive odor behind it. I sank

back in my chair, so overcome by terror and disgust that I would have

very willingly resigned myself to dispensing with a ghost altogether,

could I have been sure that this was the last of the hideous procession.

A faint sound of trailing garments warned me that it was not so. I

looked up, and beheld a white figure emerging from the corridor into

the light. As it stepped across the threshold I saw that it was that

of a young and beautiful woman dressed in the fashion of a bygone day.

Her hands were clasped in front of her, and her pale, proud face bore

traces of passion and of suffering. She crossed the hall with a gentle

sound, like the rustling of autumn leaves, and then, turning her lovely

and unutterably sad eyes upon me, she said:

"I am the plaintive and sentimental, the beautiful and ill-used. I

have been forsaken and betrayed. I shriek in the night-time and glide

down passages. My antecedents are highly respectable and generally

aristocratic. My tastes are æsthetic. Old oak furniture like this

would do, with a few more coats of mail and plenty of tapestry. Will

you not take me?"

Her voice died away in a beautiful cadence as she concluded, and she

held out her hands as in supplication. I am always sensitive to female

influences. Besides, what would Jorrocks' ghost be to this? Could

anything be in better taste? Would I not be exposing myself to the

chance of injuring my nervous system by interviews with such creatures

as my last visitor, unless I decided at once? She gave me a seraphic

smile, as if she knew what was passing in my mind. That smile settled

the matter. "She will do!" I cried; "I choose this one;" and as, in

my enthusiasm, I took a step toward her, I passed over the magic circle

which had girdled me round.

"Argentine, we have been robbed!"

I had an indistinct consciousness of these words being spoken, or

rather screamed, in my ear a great number of times without my being

able to grasp their meaning. A violent throbbing in my head seemed to

adapt itself to their rhythm, and I closed my eyes to the lullaby of

"Robbed! robbed! robbed!" A vigorous shake caused me to open them

again, however, and the sight of Mrs. D'Odd, in the scantiest of

costumes and most furious of tempers, was sufficiently impressive to

recall all my scattered thoughts and make me realize that I was lying

on my back on the floor, with my head among the ashes which had fallen

from last night's fire, and a small glass vial in my hand.

I staggered to my feet, but felt so weak and giddy that I was compelled

to fall back into a chair. As my brain became clearer, stimulated by

the exclamations of Matilda, I began gradually to recollect the events

of the night. There was the door through which my supernatural

visitors had filed. There was the circle of chalk, with the

hieroglyphics round the edge. There was the cigar-box and

brandy-bottle which had been honored by the attentions of Mr. Abrahams.

But the seer himself--where was he? and what was this open window, with

a rope running out of it? And where, oh, where, was the pride of

Goresthorpe Grange, the glorious plate which was to have been the

delectation of generations of D'Odds? And why was Mrs. D. standing in

the gray light of dawn, wringing her hands and repeating her monotonous

refrain? It was only very gradually that my misty brain took these

things in, and grasped the connection between them.

Reader, I have never seen Mr. Abrahams since; I have never seen the

plate stamped with the resuscitated family crest; hardest of all, I

have never caught a glimpse of the melancholy spectre with the trailing

garments, nor do I expect that I ever shall. In fact, my night's

experiences have cured me of my mania for the supernatural, and quite

reconciled me to inhabiting the humdrum, nineteenth-century edifice on

the outskirts of London which Mrs. D. has long had in her mind's eye.

As to the explanation of all that occurred--that is a matter which is

open to several surmises. That Mr. Abrahams, the ghost-hunter, was

identical with Jemmy Wilson, alias the Nottingham Crackster, is

considered more than probable at Scotland Yard, and certainly the

description of that remarkable burglar tallied very well with the

appearance of my visitor. The small bag which I have described was

picked up in a neighboring field next day, and found to contain a

choice assortment of jimmies and centre-bits. Footmarks, deeply

imprinted in the mud on either side of the moat, showed that an

accomplice from below had received the sack of precious metals which

had been let down through the open window. No doubt the pair of

scoundrels, while looking round for a job, had overheard Jack Brocket's

indiscreet inquiries, and had promptly availed themselves of the

tempting opening.

And now as to my less substantial visitors, and the curious, grotesque

vision which I had enjoyed--am I to lay it down to any real power over

occult matters possessed by my Nottingham friend? For a long time I

was doubtful upon the point, and eventually endeavored to solve it by

consulting a well-known analyst and medical man, sending him the few

drops of the so-called essence of Lucoptolycus which remained in my

vial. I append the letter which I received from him, only too happy to

have the opportunity of winding up my little narrative by the weighty

words of a man of learning:

"Arundel Street.

"Dear Sir--Your very singular case has interested me extremely. The

bottle which you sent contained a strong solution of chloral, and the

quantity which you describe yourself as having swallowed must have

amounted to at least eighty grains of the pure hydrate. This would, of

course, have reduced you to a partial state of insensibility, gradually

going on to complete coma. In this semi-unconscious state of

chloralism it is not unusual for circumstantial and bizarre visions to

present themselves--more especially to individuals unaccustomed to the

use of the drug. You tell me in your note that your mind was saturated

with ghostly literature, and that you had long taken a morbid interest

in classifying and recalling the various forms in which apparitions

have been said to appear. You must also remember that you were

expecting to see something of that very nature, and that your nervous

system was worked up to an unnatural state of tension.

"Under the circumstances, I think that, far from the sequel being an

astonishing one, it would have been very surprising indeed to any one

versed in narcotics had you not experienced some such effects. I

remain, dear sir, sincerely yours,

"T. E. Stube, M. D.

"Argentine D'Odd, Esq.,

"The Elms, Brixton."

A CHANGE OF TREATMENT

By W. W. JACOBS

From "Many Cargoes." Copyright 1903 by Frederick A. Stokes Company.

"Yes, I've sailed under some 'cute skippers in my time," said the

night-watchman; "them that go down in big ships see the wonders o' the

deep, you know," he added with a sudden chuckle, "but the one I'm going

to tell you about ought never to have been trusted out without 'is ma.

A good many o' my skippers had fads, but this one was the worst I ever

sailed under.

"It's some few years ago now; I'd shipped on his bark, the John

Elliott, as slow-going an old tub as ever I was aboard of, when I

wasn't in quite a fit an' proper state to know what I was doing, an' I

hadn't been in her two days afore I found out his 'obby through

overhearing a few remarks made by the second mate, who came up from

dinner in a hurry to make 'em. 'I don't mind saws an' knives hung

round the cabin,' he ses to the fust mate, 'but when a chap has a 'uman

'and alongside 'is plate, studying it while folks is at their food,

it's more than a Christian man can stand."

"'That's nothing,' ses the fust mate, who had sailed with the bark

afore. 'He's half crazy on doctoring. We nearly had a mutiny aboard

once owing to his wanting to hold a post mortem on a man what fell from

the mast-head. Wanted to see what the poor feller died of.'

"'I call it unwholesome,' ses the second mate very savage. 'He offered

me a pill at breakfast the size of a small marble; quite put me off my

feed, it did.'

"Of course, the skipper's fad soon got known for'ard. But I didn't

think much about it, till one day I seed old Dan'l Dennis sitting on a

locker reading. Every now and then he'd shut the book, an' look up,

closing 'is eyes, an' moving his lips like a hen drinking, an' then

look down at the book again.

"Why, Dan,' I ses, 'what's up? you ain't larning lessons at your time

o' life?"

"'Yes, I am,' ses Dan very soft. 'You might hear me say it, it's this

one about heart disease.'

"He hands over the book, which was stuck full o' all kinds o' diseases,

and winks at me 'ard.

"'Picked it up on a book-stall,' he ses; then he shut 'is eyes an' said

his piece wonderful. It made me quite queer to listen to 'im. That's

how I feel,' ses he, when he'd finished. 'Just strength enough to get

to bed. Lend a hand, Bill, an' go an' fetch the doctor.'

"Then I see his little game, but I wasn't going to run any risks, so I

just mentioned, permiscous like, to the cook as old Dan seemed rather

queer, an' went back an' tried to borrer the book, being always fond of

reading. Old Dan pretended he was too ill to hear what I was saying,

an' afore I could take it away from him, the skipper comes hurrying

down with a bag in his 'and.

"'What's the matter, my man?' ses he, 'what's the matter?'

"'I'm all right, sir,' ses old Dan, ''cept that I've been swoonding

away a little.'

"Tell me exactly how you feel,' ses the skipper, feeling his pulse.

"Then old Dan said his piece over to him, an' the skipper shook his

head an' looked very solemn.

"'How long have you been like this?' he ses.

"'Four or five years, sir,' ses Dan. 'It ain't nothing serious, sir,

is it?'

"'You lie quite still,' ses the skipper, putting a little trumpet thing

to his chest an' then listening. 'Um! there's serious mischief here,

I'm afraid; the prognotice is very bad.'

"'Prog what, sir?" ses Dan, staring.

"'Prognotice,' ses the skipper, at least I think that's the word he

said. 'You keep perfectly still, an' I'll go an' mix you up a draft,

and tell the cook to get some strong beef-tea on.'

"Well, the skipper 'ad no sooner gone, than Cornish Harry, a great big

lumbering chap o' six feet two, goes up to old Dan, an' he ses, 'Gimme

that book.'

"Go away,' says Dan, 'don't come worrying 'ere; you 'eard the skipper

say how bad my prognotice was.'

"'You lend me the book,' ses Harry, ketching hold of him, 'or else I'll

bang you first, and split to the skipper arterward. I believe I'm a

bit consumptive. Anyway, I'm going to see.'

"He dragged the book away from the old man, and began to study. There

was so many complaints in it he was almost tempted to have something

else instead of consumption, but he decided on that at last, an' he got

a cough what worried the foc'sle all night long, an' the next day, when

the skipper came down to see Dan, he could 'ardly 'ear hisself speak.

"That's a nasty cough you've got, my man,' ses he, looking at Harry.

"'Oh, it's nothing, sir,' ses Harry, careless like. 'I've 'ad it for

months now off and on. I think it's perspiring so of a night does it.'

"'What?' ses the skipper. 'Do you perspire of a night?'

"'Dredful,' ses Harry. 'You could wring the clo'es out. I s'pose it's

healthy for me, ain't it, sir?'

"'Undo your shirt,' ses the skipper, going over to him, an' sticking

the trumpet agin him. 'Now take a deep breath. Don't cough.'

"'I can't help it, sir,' ses Harry, 'it will come. Seems to tear me to

pieces.'

"'You get to bed at once,' says the skipper, taking away the trumpet,

an' shaking his 'ed. 'It's a fortunate thing for you, my lad, you're

in skilled hands. With care, I believe I can pull you round. How does

that medicine suit you, Dan?'

"'Beautiful, sir,' says Dan. 'It's wonderful soothing. I slep' like a

new-born babe arter it.'

"'I'll send you to get some more,' ses the skipper. 'You're not to get

up, mind, either of you.'

"'All right, sir,' ses the two in very faint voices, an' the skipper

went away arter telling us to be careful not to make a noise.

"We all thought it a fine joke at first, but the airs them two chaps

give themselves was something sickening. Being in bed all day, they

was naturally wakeful of a night, and they used to call across the

foc'sle inquiring arter each other's healths, an' waking us other chaps

up. An' they 'ud swop beef-tea an' jellies with each other, an' Dan

'ud try an' coax a little port wine out o' Harry, which he 'ad to make

blood with, but Harry 'ud say he hadn't made enough that day, an' he'd

drink to the better health of old Dan's prognotice, an' smack his lips

until it drove us a'most crazy to 'ear him.

"After these chaps had been ill two days, the other fellers began to

put their heads together, being maddened by the smell o' beef-tea an'

the like, an' said they was going to be ill too, and both the invalids

got into a fearful state of excitement.

"'You'll only spoil it for all of us,' ses Harry, 'and you don't know

what to have without the book.'

"'It's all very well doing your work as well as our own,' ses one of

the men. 'It's our turn now. It's time you two got well.'

"'Well?' ses Harry, 'well? Why, you silly iggernerant chaps, we shan't

never get well; people with our complaints never do. You ought to know

that.'

"'Well, I shall split,' ses one of them.

"'You do!' ses Harry, 'you do, an' I'll put a 'ed on you that all the

port wine and jellies in the world wouldn't cure. 'Sides, don't you

think the skipper knows what's the matter with us?'

"'Afore the other chaps could reply, the skipper hisself comes down,

accompanied by the fust mate, with a look on his face which made Harry

give the deepest and hollowest cough he'd ever done.

"'What they reely want,' ses the skipper, turning to the mate, 'is

keerful nussing.'

"'I wish you'd let me nuss 'em,' ses the fust mate, 'only ten

minutes--I'd put 'em both on their legs, an' running for their lives

into the bargain, in ten minutes.'

"'Hold your tongue, sir,' ses the skipper; 'what you say is unfeeling,

besides being an insult to me. Do you think I studied medicine all

these years without knowing when a man's ill?'

[Illustration: W. W. Jacobs]

"The fust mate growled something, and went on deck, and the skipper

started examining of 'em again. He said they was wonderfully patient

lying in bed so long, an' he had 'em wrapped up in bed clo'es and

carried on deck, so as the pure air could have a go at 'em.

"We had to do the carrying, an' there they sat, breathing the pure air,

and looking at the fust mate out of the corners of their eyes. If they

wanted any thing from below, one of us had to go an' fetch it, an' by

the time they was taken down to bed again, we all resolved to be took

ill too.

"Only two of 'em did it though, for Harry, who was a powerful,

ugly-tempered chap, swore he'd do all sorts o' dreadful things to us if

we didn't keep well and hearty, an' all 'cept these two did. One of

'em, Mike Rafferty, laid up with a swelling on his ribs, which I knew

myself he 'ad 'ad for fifteen years, and the other chap had paralysis.

I never saw a man so reely happy as the skipper was. He was up an'

down with his medicines and his instruments all day long, and used to

make notes of the cases in a big pocketbook, and read 'em to the second

mate at meal-times.

"The foc'sle had been turned into hospital about a week, an' I was on

deck doing some odd job or the other, when the cook comes up to me

pulling a face as long as a fiddle.

"'Nother invalid,' ses he; 'fust mate's gone stark, staring mad!'

"'Mad?' ses I.

"'Yes,' ses he. 'He's got a big basin in the galley, an' he's laughing

like a hyener an' mixing bilge-water an' ink, an' paraffin an' butter

an' soap an' all sorts o' things up together. The smell's enough to

kill a man; I've had to come away.'

"Curious-like, I jest walked up to the galley an' puts my 'ed in, an'

there was the mate as the cook said, smiling all over his face, and

ladling some thick sticky stuff into a stone bottle.

"'How's the pore sufferers, sir?" ses he, stepping out of the galley

jest as the skipper was going by.

"'They're very bad; but I hope for the best,' ses the skipper, looking

at him hard. 'I'm glad to see you're turned a bit more feeling.'

"'Yes, sir,' ses the mate. 'I didn't think so at fust, but I can see

now them chaps is all very ill. You'll s'cuse me saying it, but I

don't quite approve of your treatment.'

"I thought the skipper would ha' bust.

"'My treatment?' ses he. 'My treatment? What do you know about it?'

"'You're treating 'em wrong, sir,' ses the mate. 'I have here'

(patting the jar) 'a remedy which 'ud cure them all if you'd only let

me try it.'

"'Pooh!' ses the skipper. 'One medicine cure all diseases! The old

story. What is it? Where'd you get it from?' ses he.

"'I brought the ingredients aboard with me,' ses the mate. 'It's a

wonderful medicine discovered by my grandmother, an' if I might only

try it I'd thoroughly cure them pore chaps."

"'Rubbish!' ses the skipper.

"'Very well, sir,' ses the mate, shrugging his shoulders. 'O' course,

if you won't let me you won't. Still, I tell you, if you'd let me try

I'd cure 'em all in two days. That's a fair challenge.'

"Well, they talked, and talked, and talked, until at last the skipper

give way and went down below with the mate, and told the chaps they was

to take the new medicine for two days, jest to prove the mate was wrong.

"'Let pore old Dan try it first, sir,' ses Harry, starting up, an'

sniffing as the mate took the cork out; 'he's been awful bad since

you've been away.'

"'Harry's worse than I am, sir,' ses Dan; 'it's only his kind heart

that makes him say that.'

"'It don't matter which is fust,' ses the mate, filling a tablespoon

with it, 'there's plenty for all. Now, Harry.'

"'Take it,' ses the skipper.

"Harry took it, an' the fuss he made you'd ha' thought he was

swallering a football. It stuck all round his mouth, and he carried on

so dredful that the other invalids was half sick afore it came to them.

"By the time the other three 'ad 'ad theirs it was as good as a

pantermine, an' the mate corked the bottle up, and went an' sat down on

a locker while they tried to rinse their mouths out with the luxuries

which had been given 'em.

"'How do you feel?' ses the skipper.

"'I'm dying,' ses Dan.

"'So'm I,' ses Harry; 'I b'leeve the mate's pisoned us.'

"The skipper looks over at the mate very stern an' shakes his 'ed

slowly.

"'It's all right,' ses the mate. 'It's always like that the first

dozen or so doses.'

"'Dozen or so doses!" ses old Dan, in a faraway voice.

"'It has to be taken every twenty minutes,' ses the mate, pulling out

his pipe and lighting it; an' the four men groaned all together.

"'I can't allow it,' ses the skipper, 'I can't allow it. Men's lives

mustn't be sacrificed for an experiment.'

"''Tain't a experiment,' ses the mate very indignant, 'it's an old

family medicine.'

"'Well, they shan't have any more,' ses the skipper firmly.

"'Look here,' ses the mate. 'If I kill any one o' these men, I'll give

you twenty pound. Honor bright, I will.'

"'Make it twenty-five,' ses the skipper, considering.

"'Very good,' ses the mate. 'Twenty-five; I can't say no fairer than

that, can I? It's about time for another dose now.'

"He gave 'em another tablespoonful all round as the skipper left, an'

the chaps what wasn't invalids nearly bust with joy. He wouldn't let

'em have anything to take the taste out, 'cos he said it didn't give

the medicine a chance, an' he told us other chaps to remove the

temptation, an' you bet we did.

"After the fifth dose, the invalids began to get desperate, an' when

they heard they'd got to be woke up every twenty minutes through the

night to take the stuff, they sort o' give up. Old Dan said he felt a

gentle glow stealing over him and strengthening him, and Harry said

that it felt like a healing balm to his lungs. All of 'em agreed it

was a wonderful sort o' medicine, an' arter the sixth dose the man with

paralysis dashed up on deck, and ran up the rigging like a cat. He sat

there for hours spitting, an' swore he'd brain anybody who interrupted

him, an' arter a little while Mike Rafferty went up and j'ined him, an'

if the fust mate's ears didn't burn by reason of the things them two

pore sufferers said about 'im, they ought to.

"They was all doing full work next day, an' though, o' course, the

skipper saw how he'd been done, he didn't allude to it. Not in words,

that is; but when a man tries to make four chaps do the work of eight,

an' hits 'em when they don't, it's a easy job to see where the shoe

pinches."

THE STICKIT MINISTER

By S. R. CROCKETT

THE RENUNCIATION OP ROBERT FRASER, FORMERLY STUDENT IN DIVINITY

The crows were wheeling behind the plough in scattering clusters, and

plumping singly upon the soft, thick grubs which the ploughshare was

turning out upon an unkindly world. It was a bask blowy day in the end

of March, and there was a hint of storm in the air--a hint emphasised

for those skilled in weather lore by the presence of half a dozen

sea-gulls, white vagrants among the black coats, blown by the south

wind up from the Solway--a snell, Scotch, but not unfriendly day

altogether. Robert Fraser bent to the plough handles, and cast a keen

and wary eye towards his guide posts on the ridge. His face was

colourless, even when a dash of rain came swirling across from the

crest of Ben Gairn, whose steep bulk heaved itself a blue haystack

above the level horizon of the moorland. He was dressed like any other

ploughman of the south uplands--rough homespun much the worse for wear,

and leggings the colour of the red soil which he was reversing with the

share of his plough. Yet there was that about Robert Fraser which

marked him no common man. When he paused at the top of the ascent, and

stood with his back against the horns of the plough, the countryman's

legacy from Adam of the Mattock, he pushed back his weatherbeaten straw

hat with a characteristic gesture, and showed a white forehead with

blue veins channelling it--a damp, heavy lock of black hair clinging to

it as in Severn's picture of John Keats on his deathbed. Robert Fraser

saw a couple of black specks which moved smoothly and evenly along the

top of the distant dyke of the highway. He stood still for a moment or

two watching them. As they came nearer, they resolved themselves into

a smart young man sitting in a well-equipped gig drawn by a

showily-actioned hone, and driven by a man in livery. As they passed

rapidly along the road the hand of the young man appeared in a careless

wave of recognition over the stone dyke, and Robert Fraser lifted his

slack reins in staid acknowledgment. It was more than a year since the

brothers had looked each other so nearly in the eyes. They were Dr.

Henry Fraser, the rising physician of Carn Edward, and his elder

brother Robert, once Student of Divinity at Edinburgh College, whom

three parishes knew as 'The Stickit Minister.'

When Robert Fraser stabled his horses that night and went into his

supper, he was not surprised to find his friend, Saunders M'Quhirr of

Drumquhat, sitting by the peat fire in the 'room.' Almost the only

thing which distinguished the Stickit Minister from the other small

farmers of the parish of Dullarg was the fact that he always sat in the

evening by himself ben the hoose, and did not use the kitchen in common

with his housekeeper and herd boy, save only at meal-times. Robert had

taken to Saunders ever since--the back of his ambition broken--he had

settled down to the farm, and he welcomed him with shy cordiality.

'You'll take a cup of tea, Saunders?' he asked.

'Thank ye, Robert, I wadna be waur o't,' returned his friend.

'I saw your brither the day,' said Saunders M'Quhirr, after the

tea-cups had been cleared away, and the silent housekeeper had replaced

the books upon the table. Saunders picked a couple of them up, and,

having adjusted his glasses, he read the titles--Milton's Works, and a

volume of a translation of Dorner's Person of Christ.

'I saw yer brither the day; he maun be gettin' a big practice!'

'Ay!' said Robert Fraser, very thoughtfully.

Saunders M'Quhirr glanced up quickly. It was, of course, natural that

the unsuccessful elder brother should envy the prosperous younger, but

he had thought that Robert Fraser was living on a different plane. It

was one of the few things that the friends had never spoken of, though

every one knew why Dr. Fraser did not visit his brother's little farm.

'He's gettin' in wi' the big fowk noo, an' thinks maybe that his

brither wad do him nae credit.' That was the way the clash of the

country-side explained the matter.

'I never told you how I came to leave the college, Saunders,' said the

younger man, resting his brow on a hand that even the horn of the

plough could not make other than diaphanous.

'No,' said Saunders quietly, with a tender gleam coming into the

humorsome kindly eyes that lurked under their bushy tussocks of grey

eyebrow. Saunders's humour lay near the Fountain of Tears.

'No,' continued Robert Fraser, 'I have not spoken of it to so many; but

you've been a good frien' to me, Saunders, and I think you should hear

it. I have not tried to set myself right with folks in the general,

but I would like to let you see clearly before I go my ways to Him who

seeth from the beginning.'

'Hear till him,' said Saunders; 'man, yer hoast is no' near as sair as

it was i' the back-end. Ye'll be here lang efter me; but lang or

short, weel do ye ken, Robert Fraser, that ye need not to pit yersel'

richt wi' me. Hae I no' kenned ye sins ye war the sic o' twa

scrubbers?'

'I thank you, Saunders,' said Robert, 'but I am well aware that I'm to

die this year. No, no, not a word. It is the Lord's will! It's mair

than seven year now since I first kenned that my days were to be few.

It was the year my faither died, and left Harry and me by our lane.

'He left no siller to speak of, just plenty to lay him decently in the

kirkyard among his forebears. I had been a year at the Divinity Hall

then, and was going up to put in my discourses for the next session. I

had been troubled with my breast for some time, and so called one day

at the infirmary to get a word with Sir James. He was very busy when I

went in, and never noticed me till the hoast took me. Then on a sudden

he looked up from his papers, came quickly over to me, put his own

white handkerchief to my mouth, and quietly said, "Come into my room,

laddie!" Ay, he was a good man and a faithful, Sir James, if ever

there was one. He told me that with care I might live five or six

years, but it would need great care. Then a strange prickly coldness

came over me, and I seemed to walk light-headed in an atmosphere

suddenly rarefied. I think I know now how the mouse feels under the

air-pump.'

'What's that?' queried Saunders.

'A cruel ploy not worth speaking of,' continued the Stickit Minister.

'Well, I found something in my throat when I tried to thank him. But I

came my ways home to the Dullarg, and night and day I considered what

was to be done, with so much to do and so little time to do it. It was

clear that both Harry and me could not gang through the college on the

little my faither had left. So late one night I saw my way clear to

what I should do. Harry must go, I must stay. I must come home to the

farm, and be my own "man"; then I could send Harry to the college to be

a doctor, for he had no call to the ministry as once I thought I had.

More than that, It was laid on me to tell Jessie London that Robert

Fraser was no better than a machine set to go five year.

'Now all these things I did, Saunders, but there's no use telling you

what they cost in the doing. They were right to do, and they were

done. I do not repent any of them. I would do them all over again

were they to do, but it's been bitterer than I thought.'

The Stickit Minister took his head off his hand and leaned wearily back

in his chair.

'The story went over the country that I had failed in my examinations,

and I never said that I had not. But there were some that knew better

who might have contradicted the report if they had liked. I settled

down to the farm, and I put Harry through the college, sending all but

a bare living to him in Edinburgh. I worked the work of the farm, rain

and shine, ever since, and have been for these six years the "stickit

minister" that all the world kens the day. Whiles Harry did not think

that he got enough. He was always writing for more, and not so very

pleased when he did not get it. He was aye different to me, ye ken,

Saunders, and he canna be judged by the same standard as you and me.'

'I ken,' said Saunders M'Quhirr, a spark of light lying in the quiet of

his eyes.

'Well,' continued Robert Fraser, lightened by Saunders's apparent

agreement, 'the time came when he was clear from the college, and

wanted a practice. He had been ill-advised that he had not got his

share of the farm, and he wanted it selled to share and share alike.

Now I kenned, and you ken, Saunders, that it's no' worth much in one

share let alone two. So I got the place quietly bonded, and bought him

old Dr. Aitkin's practice in Cairn Edward with the money.

'I have tried to do my best for the lad, for it was laid on me to be my

brother's keeper. He doesna come here much,' continued Robert, 'but I

think he's not so ill against me as he was. Saunders, he waved his

hand to me when he was gaun by the day!'

'That was kind of him,' said Saunders M'Quhirr.

'Ay, was it no',' said the Stickit Minister, eagerly, with a soft look

in his eyes as he glanced up at his brother's portrait in cap and gown,

which hung over the china dogs on the mantelpiece.

'I got my notice this morning that the bond is to be called up in

November,' said Robert. 'So I'll be obliged to flit.'

Saunders M'Quhirr started to his feet in a moment. 'Never,' he said,

with the spark of fire alive now in his eyes, 'never as lang as there's

a beast on Drumquhat, or a poun' in Cairn Edward Bank'--bringing down

his clenched fist upon the Milton on the table.

'No, Saunders, no,' said the Stickit Minister, very gently; 'I thank

you kindly, but I'll be flitted before that!'

THE LAMMAS PREACHING

By S. R. CROCKETT

'And I further intimate,' said the minister, 'that I will preach this

evening at Cauldshaws, and my text will be from the ninth chapter of

the book of Ecclesiastes and the tenth verse, "Whatsoever thy hand

findeth to do, do it with thy might."'

'Save us,' said Janet MacTaggart, 'he's clean forgotten "if it be the

Lord's wull." Maybe he'll be for gaun whether it's His wull or

no'--he's a sair masterfu' man, the minister; but he comes frae the

Machars,[*] an' kens little aboot the jealous God we hae amang the

hills o' Gallowa'!'

[*] The Eastern Lowlands of Wigtonshire.

The minister continued, in the same high, level tone in which he did

his preaching, 'There are a number of sluggards who lay the weight of

their own laziness on the Almighty, saying, "I am a worm and no

man--how should I strive with my Maker?" whenever they are at strife

with their own sluggishness. There will be a word for all such this

evening at the farmtown of Cauldshaws, presently occupied by Gilbert

M'Kissock--public worship to begin at seven o'clock.'

The congregation of Barnessock kirk tumbled amicably over its own heels

with eagerness to get into the kirkyaird in order to settle the

momentous question, 'Wha's back was he on the day?'

Robert Kirk, Carsethorn, had a packet of peppermint lozenges in the

crown of his 'lum' hat--deponed to by Elizabeth Douglas or Barr, in

Barnbogrie, whose husband, Weelum Barr, put on the hat of the aforesaid

Robert Kirk by mistake for his own, whereupon the peppermints fell to

the floor and rolled under the pews in most unseemly fashion.

Elizabeth Kirk is of opinion that this should be brought to the notice

of Session, she herself always taking her peppermint while genteelly

wiping her mouth with the corner of her handkerchief. Robert Kirk, on

being put to the question, admits the fact, but says that it was his

wife put them there to be near her hand.

The minister, however, ready with his word, brought him to shame by

saying, 'O Robert, Robert, that was just what Adam said, "The woman

Thou gavest me, she gave me to eat!"' The aforesaid Robert Kirk thinks

that it is meddling with the original Hebrew to apply this to

peppermints, and also says that Elizabeth Kirk is an impident besom,

and furthermore that, as all the country well knows---- (Here the

chronicler omits much matter actionable in the civil courts of the

realm).

'Janet,' said the minister to his housekeeper, 'I am to preach to-night

at Cauldshaws on the text, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it

with thy might."'

'I ken,' said Janet, 'I saw it on yer desk. I pat it ablow the clock

for fear the wun's o' heeven micht blaw it awa' like chaff, an' you

couldna do wantin' it!'

'Janet MacTaggart,' said the minister, tartly, 'bring in the denner,

and do not meddle with what does not concern you.'

Janet could not abide read sermons; her natural woman rose against

them. She knew, as she had said, that God was a jealous God, and, with

regard to the minister, she looked upon herself as His viceregent.

'He's young an' terrable ram-stam an' opeenionated--fu' o' buik-lear,

but wi' little gracious experience. For a' that, the root o' the

maitter's in 'im,' said Janet, not unhopefully.

'I'm gaun to preach at Cauldshaws, and my text's "Whatsoever thy hand

findeth to do, do it with thy might,"' said the minister to the

precentor that afternoon, on the manse doorstep.

'The Lord's no' in a' his thochts. I'll gang wi' the lad mysel',' said

the precentor.

Now, Galloway is so much out of the world that the Almighty has not

there lifted His hand from reward and punishment, from guiding and

restraining, as He has done in big towns where everything goes by

machinery. Man may say that there is no God when he only sees a

handbreadth of smoky heaven between the chimney-pots; but out on the

fields of oats and bear, and up on the screes of the hillsides, where

the mother granite sticks her bleaching ribs through the heather, men

have reached great assurance on this and other matters.

The burns were running red with the mighty July rain when Douglas

Maclellan started over the meadows and moors to preach his sermon at

the farmtown of Cauldshaws. He had thanked the Lord that morning in

his opening prayer for 'the bounteous rain wherewith He had seen meet

to refresh His weary heritage.'

His congregation silently acquiesced, 'for what,' said they, 'could a

man from the Machars be expected to ken about meadow hay?'

When the minister and the precentor got to the foot of the manse

loaning, they came upon the parish ne'er-do-weel, Ebie Kirgan, who kept

himself in employment by constantly scratching his head, trying to

think of something to do, and whose clothes were constructed on the

latest sanitary principles of ventilation. The ruins of Ebie's hat

were usually tipped over one eye for enlarged facilities of scratching

in the rear.

'If it's yer wull, minister, I'll come to hear ye the nicht. It's

drawing to mair rain, I'm thinkin'!' said the Scarecrow.

'I hope the discourse may be profitable to you, Ebenezer, for, as I

intimated this morning, I am to preach from the text, "Whatsoever thy

hand findeth to do, do it with thy might."'

'Ay, minister,' said Ebie, relieving his right hand, and tipping his

hat over the other eye to give his left free play. So the three struck

over the fields, making for the thorn tree at the corner, where Robert

Kirk's dyke dipped into the standing water of the meadow.

'Do you think ye can manage it, Maister Maclellan?' said the precentor.

'Ye're wat half-way up the leg already.'

'An' there's sax feet o' black moss water in the Laneburn as sure as

I'm a leevin' sowl,' added Ebie Kirgan.

'I'm to preach at Cauldshaws, and my text is, "Whatsoever thy hand

findeth to do, do it with thy might!"' said the minister, stubbornly

glooming from under the eaves of his eyebrows as the swarthy men from

the Machars are wont to do. His companions said no more. They came to

Camelon Lane, where usually Robert Kirk had a leaping pole on either

bank to assist the traveller across, but both poles had gone down the

water in the morning to look for Robert's meadow hay.

'Tak' care, Maister Maclellan, ye'll be in deep water afore ye ken. O

man, ye had far better turn!'

The precentor stood up to his knees in water on what had once been the

bank, and wrung his hands. But the minister pushed steadily ahead into

the turbid and sluggish water.

'I canna come, oh, I canna come, for I'm a man that has a family.'

'It's no' your work; stay where ye are,' cried the minister, without

looking over his shoulder; 'but as for me, I'm intimated to preach this

night at Cauldshaws, and my text----'

Here he stepped into a deep hole, and his text was suddenly shut within

him by the gurgle of moss water in his throat. His arms rose above the

surface like the black spars of a windmill. But Ebie Kirgan sculled

himself swiftly out, swimming with his shoeless feet, and pushed the

minister before him to the further bank--the water gushing out of rents

in his clothes as easily as out of the gills of a fish.

The minister stood with unshaken confidence on the bank. He ran peat

water like a spout in a thunder plump, and black rivulets of dye were

trickling from under his hat down his brow and dripping from the end of

his nose.

'Then you'll not come any farther?' he called cross to the precentor.

'I canna, oh, I canna; though I'm most awfu' wullin'. Kirsty wad never

forgie me gin I was to droon.'

'Then I'll e'en have to raise the tune myself--though three times

"Kilmarneck" is a pity,' said the minister, turning on his heel and

striding away through the shallow sea, splashing the water as high as

his head with a kind of headstrong glee which seemed to the precentor a

direct defiance of Providence. Ebie Kirgan followed half a dozen steps

behind. The support of the precentor's lay semi-equality taken from

him, he began to regret that he had come, and silently and ruefully

plunged along after the minister through the waterlogged meadows. They

came in time to the foot of Robert Kirk's march dyke, and skirted it a

hundred yards upward to avoid the deep pool in which the Laneburn

waters were swirling. The minister climbed silently up the seven-foot

dyke, pausing a second on the top to balance himself for his leap to

the other side. As he did so Ebie Kirgan saw that the dyke was swaying

to the fall, having been weakened by the rush of water on the farther

side. He ran instantly at the minister, and gave him a push with both

hands which caused Mr. Maclellan to alight on his feet clear of the

falling stones. The dyke did not so much fall outward as settle down

on its own ruins. Ebie fell on his face among the stones with the

impetus of his own eagerness. He arose, however, quickly--only limping

slightly from what he called a 'bit chack' on the leg between two

stones.

'That was a merciful providence, Ebenezer,' said the minister,

solemnly; 'I hope you are duly thankful!'

'Dod, I am that!' replied Ebie, scratching his head vigorously with his

right hand and rubbing his leg with his left. 'Gin I hadna gi'en ye

that dunch, ye micht hae preachen nane at Cauldshaws this nicht.'

They now crossed a fairly level clover field, dark and laid with wet.

The scent of the clover rose to their nostrils with almost overpowering

force. There was not a breath of air. The sky was blue and the sun

shining. Only a sullen roar came over the hill, sounding in the

silence like the rush of a train over a far-away viaduct.

'What is that?' queried the minister, stopping to listen.

Ebie took a brisk sidelong look at him.

'I'm some dootsome that'll be the Skyreburn coming doon aff o'

Cairnsmuir!'

The minister tramped unconcernedly on. Ebie Kirgan stared at him.

'He canna ken what a "Skyreburn warnin'" is--he'll be thinkin' it's

some bit Machars burn that the laddies set their whurlie mills in. But

he'll turn richt eneuch when he sees Skyreburn roarin' reed in a Lammas

flood, I'm thinkin'!'

They took their way over the shoulder of the hill in the beautiful

evening, leaning eagerly forward to get the first glimpse of the cause

of that deep and resonant roar. In a moment they saw below them a

narrow rock-walled gully, ten or fifteen yards across, filled to the

brim with rushing water. It was not black peat water like the Camelon

Lane, but it ran red as keel, flecked now and then with a revolving

white blur as one of the Cauldshaws sheep spun downward to the sea,

with four black feet turned pitifully up to the blue sky.

Ebie looked at the minister. 'He'll turn noo if he's mortal,' he said.

But the minister held on. He looked at the water up and down the

roaring stream. On a hill above, the farmer of Cauldshaws, having

driven all his remaining sheep together, sat down to watch. Seeing the

minister, he stood up and excitedly waved him back. But Douglas

Maclellan from the Machars never gave him a look, and his shouting was

of less effect than if he had been crying to an untrained collie.

The minister looked long up the stream, and at a point where the rocks

came very close together, and many stunted pines were growing, he saw

one which, having stood on the immediate brink, had been so much

undercut that it leaned over the gully like a fishing-rod. With a keen

glance along its length, the minister, jamming his dripping soft felt

hat on the back of his head, was setting foot on the perilous slope of

the uneven red-brown trunk, when Ebie Kirgan caught him sharply by the

arm.

'It's no' for me to speak to a minister at ordinar' times,' he

stammered, gathering courage in his desperation; 'but, oh, man, it's

fair murder to try to gang ower that water!'

The minister wrenched himself free, and sprang along the trunk with

wonderful agility.

'I'm intimated to preach at Cauldshaws this night, and my text is,

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might!"' he shouted.

He made his way up and up the slope of the fir tree, which, having

little grip of the rock, dipped and swayed under his tread. Ebie

Kirgan fell on his knees and prayed aloud. He had not prayed since his

stepmother boxed his ears for getting into bed without saying his

prayers twenty years ago. This had set him against it. But he prayed

now, and to infinitely more purpose than his minister had recently

done. But when the climber had reached the branchy top, and was

striving to get a few feet farther, in order to clear the surging linn

before he made his spring, Ebie rose to his feet, leaving his prayer

unfinished. He sent forth an almost animal shriek of terror. The tree

roots cracked like breaking cables and slowly gave way, an avalanche of

stones plumped into the whirl, and the top of the fir crashed downwards

on the rocks of the opposite bank.

'Oh, man, call on the name of the Lord,' cried Ebie Kirgan, the ragged

preacher, at the top of his voice.

Then he saw something detach itself from the tree as it rebounded, and

for a moment rise and fall black against the sunset. Then Ebie the

Outcast fell on his face like a dead man.

* * * * *

In the white coverleted 'room' of the farmtown of Cauldshaws, a

white-faced lad lay with his eyes closed, and a wet cloth on his brow.

A large-boned, red-cheeked, motherly woman stole to and fro with a foot

as light as a fairy. The sleeper stirred and tried to lift an

unavailing hand to his head. The mistress of Cauldshaws stole to his

bedside as he opened his eyes. She laid a restraining hand on him as

he strove to rise.

'Let me up,' said the minister, 'I must away, for I'm intimated to

preach at Cauldshaws, and my text is, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to

do, do it with thy might."'

'My bonny man,' said the goodwife, tenderly, 'you'll preach best on the

broad o' yer back this mony a day, an' when ye rise your best text will

be, "He sent from above, He took me, and drew me out of many waters!"'

AN UNDERGRADUATE'S AUNT

By F. ANSTEY

_Author of "Vice Versa," etc._

Frederick Flushington belonged to a small college, and in doing so

conferred upon it one of the few distinctions it could boast--namely,

that of possessing the very bashfulest man in the whole university.

But his college did not treat him with any excess of adulation on that

account, probably from a prudent fear of rubbing the bloom off his

modesty; they allowed him to blush unseen--which was the condition in

which he preferred to blush.

He felt himself oppressed by a paucity of ideas and a difficulty in

knowing which way to look in the presence of his fellow-men, which made

him never so happy as when he had fastened his outer door and secured

himself from all possibility of intrusion; though it was almost an

unnecessary precaution, for nobody ever thought of coming to see

Flushington.

In appearance he was a man of middle height, with a long scraggy neck

and a large head, which gave him the air of being much shorter than he

really was; he had little, weak eyes, a nose and mouth of no particular

shape, and very smooth hair of no definite color. He had a timid,

deprecating air, which seemed due to the consciousness that he was an

uninteresting anomaly, and he certainly was as impervious to the

ordinary influence of his surroundings as any undergraduate well could

be. He lived a colorless, aimless life in his little rooms under the

roof, reading every morning from nine till two with a superstitiously

mechanical regularity, though very often his books completely failed to

convey any ideas whatever to his brain, which was not a particularly

powerful organ.

If the afternoon was fine he generally sought out his one friend, who

was a few degrees less shy than himself, and they took a monosyllabic

walk together; or if it was wet, he read the papers at the Union, and

in the evening after hall he studied "general literature" (a graceful

term for novels) or laboriously spelt out a sonata upon his piano--a

habit which did not increase his popularity.

Fortunately for Flushington, he had no gyp, or his life might have been

made a positive burden to him, and with his bedmaker he was rather a

favorite as "a gentleman what gave no trouble"--meaning that, when he

observed his sherry unaccountably sinking, like the water in a lock

when the sluices are up, Flushington was too delicate to refer to the

phenomenon.

He was sitting one afternoon over his modest lunch of bread and butter,

potted meat and lemonade, when all at once he heard a sound of unusual

voices and a strange flutter of dresses coming up the winding stone

staircase outside, and was instantly seized with a cold dread.

There was no particular reason for being alarmed, although there were

certainly ladies mounting the steps. Probably they were friends of the

man opposite, who was always having his people up; but still

Flushington had that odd presentiment which nervous people have

sometimes that something unpleasant is on its way to them, and he half

rose from his chair to shut his outer oak.

It was too late; the dresses were rustling now in his very passage;

there was a pause, a few faint, smothered laughs and little feminine

coughs--then two taps at the door.

"Come in," cried Flushington, faintly; he wished he had been reading

anything but the work by M. Zola, which was propped up in front of him.

It is your mild man, who frequently has a taste for seeing the less

reputable side of life in this second-hand way, and Flushington would

toil manfully through the voluminous pages, hunting up every third word

in the dictionary; with a sense of injury when, as was often the case,

it was not to be found. Still, there was a sort of intellectual orgie

about it which had strong fascinations for him, while he knew enough of

the language to be aware when the incidents approached the improper,

though he was not always able to see quite clearly in what this

impropriety consisted.

The door opened, and his heart seemed to stop, and all the blood rushed

violently to his head as a large lady came sweeping in, her face

rippling with a broad smile of affection.

She horrified Flushington, who knew nobody with the least claim to

smile at him so expansively as that; he drank lemonade to conceal his

confusion.

"You know me, my dear Fred?" she said, easily. "Of course not--how

should you? I'm--for goodness sake, my dear boy, don't look so

terribly frightened! I'm your aunt--your aunt Amelia, come over from

Australia!"

The shock was a severe one to Flushington, who had not even known he

possessed such a relative; he could only say, "Oh?" which he felt even

then was scarcely a warm greeting to give an aunt from the Antipodes.

"Oh, but," she added, cheerily, "that's not all; I've another surprise

for you: the dear girls would insist on coming up, too, to see their

grand college cousin; they're just outside. I'll call them in--shall

I?"

In another second Flushington's small room was overrun by a horde of

female relatives, while he looked on gasping.

They were pretty girls, too, many of them; but that was all the more

dreadful to him: he did not mind the plainer ones half so much; a

combination of beauty and intellect reduced him to a condition of

absolute imbecility.

He was once caught and introduced to a charming young lady from

Newnham, and all he could do was to back feebly into a corner and

murmur "Thank you," repeatedly.

He was very little better than that then as his aunt singled out one

girl after another. "We won't have any formal nonsense between

cousins," she said; "you know them all by name already, I dare say.

This is Milly; that's Jane; here's Flora, and Kitty, and Margaret; and

that's my little Thomasina over there by the book-case."

Poor Flushington ducked blindly in the direction of each, and then to

them all collectively: he had not presence of mind to offer them chairs

or cake, or anything; and besides, there was not nearly enough of

anything for all of them.

Meanwhile, his aunt had spread herself comfortably out in his armchair,

and was untying her bonnet-strings and beaming at him until he was

ready to expire with confusion. "I do think," she observed at last,

"that when an old aunt all the way from Australia takes the trouble to

come and see you like this, you might spare her just one kiss!"

Flushington dared not refuse; he tottered up and kissed her somewhere

about the face, after which he did not know which way to look, he was

so terribly afraid that he might have to go through the same ceremony

with his cousins, which he simply could not have survived.

Happily for him, they did not appear to expect it and he balanced a

chair on its hind legs and, resting one knee upon it, waited patiently

for them to begin a conversation; he could not have uttered a single

word.

The aunt came to his rescue: "You don't ask after your Uncle Samuel,

who used to send you the beetles?" she said, reprovingly.

"No," said Flushington, who had forgotten Uncle Samuel and his beetles,

too; "no, how is Uncle Samuel--quite well, I hope?"

"Only tolerably so, thank you, Fred; you see, he never got over his

great loss."

"No," said Flushington desperately, "of course not; it was a--a large

sum of money to lose at once."

"I was not referring to money," said she, with a slight touch of

stoniness in her manner; "I was alluding to the death of your Cousin

John."

Flushington had felt himself getting on rather well just before that,

but this awkward mistake--for he could not recollect having heard of

Cousin John before--threw him off his balance again; he collapsed into

silence once more, inwardly resolving to be lured into no more

questions concerning relatives.

His ignorance seemed to have aroused pathetic sentiments in his aunt.

"I ought to have known," she said, shaking her head, "they'd soon

forget us in the old country; here's my own sister's son, and he

doesn't remember his cousin's death! Well, well, now we're here, we

must see if we can't know one another a little better. Fred, you must

take the girls and me everywhere and show us everything, like a good

nephew, you know."

Flushington had a horrible mental vision of himself careering about all

Cambridge, followed by a long procession of female relatives--a fearful

possibility to so shy a man. "Shall you be here long?" he asked.

"Only a week or so; we're at the 'Bull,' very near you, you see; and

I'm afraid you think us very bold beggars, Fred, but we're going to ask

you to give us something to eat. I've set my heart, so have the girls

(haven't you, dears?), on lunching once with a college student in his

own room."

"There's nothing so extraordinary in it, I assure you," protested

Flushington, "and--and I'm afraid there's very little for you to eat.

The kitchen and buttery are closed" (he said this at a venture, as he

felt absolutely unequal to facing the college cook and ordering lunch

from that tremendous personage; he would rather order it from his own

tutor, even). "But, if you don't mind potted ham, there's a little at

the bottom of this tin, and there's some bread and an inch of butter,

and marmalade, and a few biscuits. And there was some sherry this

morning."

The girls all professed themselves very hungry and contented with

anything; so they sat around the table, and poor Flushington served out

meagre rations of all the provisions he could find, even to his figs

and French plums; but there was not nearly enough to go round, and they

lunched with evident disillusionment, thinking that the college luxury

of which they had heard so much had been greatly exaggerated.

During luncheon the aunt began to study Flushington's features

attentively. "There's a strong look of poor, dear Simon about him when

he smiles," she said, looking at him through her gold double glasses.

"There, did you catch it, girls? Just his mother's profile (turn your

face a leetle more towards the window, so as to get the light on your

nose). Don't you see the likeness to your aunt's portrait, girls?"

And Flushington had to sit still with all the girls' charming eyes

fixed critically upon his crimson countenance; he longed to be able to

slide down under the table and evade them, but of course he was obliged

to remain above.

"He's got dear Caroline's nose!" the aunt went on triumphantly; and the

cousins agreed that he certainly had Caroline's nose, which made

Flushington feel vaguely that he ought at least to offer to return it.

Presently one of the girls whispered to her mother, who laughed

indulgently. "What do you think this silly child wants me to ask you

now, Fred?" she said. "She says she would so like to see what you look

like with your college cap and gown on. Will you put them on, just to

please her?"

So Flushington had to put them on and walk slowly up and down the room

in them, feeling all the time what a dismal spectacle he was making of

himself, while the girls were plainly disappointed, and remarked that

somehow they had thought the academical costume more becoming.

Then began a hotly-maintained catechism upon his studies, his

amusements, his friends and his mode of life generally, which he met

with uneasy shiftings and short, timid answers that they did not appear

to think altogether satisfactory.

Indeed, the aunt, who by this time felt the potted ham beginning to

disagree with her, asked him, with something of severity in her tone,

whether he went to church regularly; and he said that he didn't go to

church, but was always regular at chapel.

On this she observed coldly that she was sorry to hear her nephew was a

Dissenter; and Flushington was much too shy to attempt to explain the

misunderstanding; he sat quiet and felt miserable, while there was

another uncomfortable pause.

The cousins were whispering together and laughing over little private

jokes, and he, after the manner of sensitive men, of course imagined

they were laughing at him--and perhaps he was not very far wrong on

this occasion. So he was growing hotter and hotter every second,

inwardly cursing his whole race and wishing that his father had been a

foundling--when there came another tap at the door.

"Why, that must be poor old Sophy!" said his aunt. "Fred, you remember

old Sophy--no, you can't; you were only a baby when she came to live

with us, but she'll remember you. She begged so hard to be taken, and

so we told her she might come on here slowly after us."

And then an old person in a black bonnet came feebly in, and was

considerably affected when she saw Flushington. "To think," she

quavered, "to think as my dim old eyes should see the child I've nursed

on my lap growed out into a college gentleman!" And she hugged

Flushington and wept on his shoulder till he was almost cataleptic with

confusion.

But as she grew calmer she became more critical; she confessed to a

certain feeling of disappointment with Flushington; he had not filled

out, she said, "so fine as he'd promised to fill out." And when she

asked if he recollected how he wouldn't be washed unless they put his

little wooden horse on the washstand, and what a business it was to

make him swallow his castor-oil, it made Flushington feel like a fool.

This was quite bad enough, but at last the girls began to go round his

rooms, exclaiming at everything, admiring his pipe and umbrella racks,

his buffalo horns and his quaint wooden kettle-holder, until they

happened to come upon his French novel; and, being unsophisticated

colonial girls with a healthy ignorance of such literature, they wanted

Flushington to tell them what it was all about.

His presence of mind had gone long before, and this demand threw him

into a violent perspiration; he could not invent, and he was painfully

racking his brains to find some portion of the tale which would bear

repetition--when there was another knock at the door.

At this Flushington was perfectly dumb with horror; he prepared himself

blankly for another aunt with a fresh relay of female cousins, or more

old family servants who had washed him in his infancy, and he sat there

cowering.

But when the door opened a tall, fair-haired, good-looking young

fellow, who from his costume had evidently just come up from the

tennis-court, came bursting in impulsively.

"Oh, I say!" he began, "have you heard--have you seen? Oh, beg pardon,

didn't see, you know!" he added, as he noticed the extraordinary fact

that Flushington had people up.

"Oh, let me introduce you," said Flushington, with a vague idea that

this was the proper thing to do. "Mr. Lushington, Mrs.--no, I don't

know her name--my aunt--my cousins."

The young man, who had just been about to retire, bowed and stared with

a sudden surprise. "Do you know," he said slowly to the other, "I

rather think that's my aunt!"

"I--I'm afraid not," whispered Flushington; "she seems quite sure she's

mine."

"Well, I've got an aunt and cousins I've never seen before coming up

to-day," said the new-comer, "and yours is uncommonly like the portrait

of mine."

"If they belong to you, do take them away!" said Flushington feebly; "I

don't think I can keep up much longer."

"What are you whispering about, Fred?" cried the aunt. "Is it

something we are not to know?"

"He says he thinks there's been a mistake, and you're not my aunt,"

explained Flushington.

"Oh, does he?" she said, drawing herself up indignantly. "And what

does he know about it? I didn't catch his name--who is he?"

"Fred Lushington," he said; "that's my name."

"And who are you, if he's Fred Lushington?" she inquired, turning upon

the unfortunate owner of the rooms.

"I'm Frederick Flushington," he stammered; "I'm sorry--but I can't help

it!"

"Then you're not my nephew at all, sir!" cried the aunt.

"Thank you very much," said Flushington gratefully.

"You see," her real nephew was explaining to her, "there isn't much

light on the staircase, and you must have thought his name over the

door was 'F. Lushington,' so in you went, you know! The porter told me

you'd been asking for me, so I looked in here to see whether you had

been heard of, and here you are."

"But why didn't he tell me?" she said, for she was naturally annoyed to

find that she had been pouring out all her pent-up affection over a

perfect stranger, and she even had a dim idea that she had put herself

in rather a ridiculous position, which of course made her feel very

angry with Flushington. "Why couldn't he explain before matters had

gone on so far?"

"How was I to know?" pleaded Flushington. "I dare say I have aunts in

Australia, and you said you were one of them."

"But you asked after Uncle Samuel?" she said accusingly. "You must

have had some object--I cannot say what--in encouraging my mistake; oh,

I'm sure of it!"

"You told me to ask after him," said the unhappy Flushington; "I

thought it was all right. What else was I to do?"

The cousins were whispering and laughing together all this time and

regarding their new cousin with shy admiration, very different from the

manner in which they had looked at poor Flushington; and the old nurse,

too, was overjoyed and declared that she felt sure from the first that

her Master Frederick had not turned out so undersized as him--meaning

Flushington.

"Yes, yes," said Lushington hastily, "quite a mistake on both sides.

Quite sure Flushington isn't the man to go and intercept any fellow's

aunt."

"I wouldn't have done it for worlds, if I had known!" he protested very

sincerely.

"Well," she said, a little mollified, "I am very sorry we've all

disturbed you like this, Mr.--Mr. Flushington" (the unlucky man said

something about not minding it now); "and now, Fred, perhaps you will

show us the way to the right rooms?"

"Come along, then!" said he; "I'll run down and tell them to send up

some lunch" (they did not explain that they had lunched already). "You

come, too, Flushington, and then after lunch you and I will row the

ladies up to Byron's Pool?"

"Yes, do come, Mr. Flushington," the ladies said kindly.

But Flushington wriggled out of it. To begin with, he did not consider

he knew his neighbor sufficiently well; besides, he had had enough of

female society for one day.

Indeed, long after that, he would be careful in fastening his door

about luncheon-time, and if he saw any person in Cambridge who looked

as if she might by any possibility turn out to be a relation, he would

flee down a back street.

THE SILHOUETTES

By A. T. QUILLER-COUCH

The small round gentleman who had come all the way to Gantick village

from the extreme south of France, and had blown his flageolet all day

in Gantick street without exciting its population in the least, was

disgusted. Toward dusk he crossed the stile which divides Sanctuary

Lane from the churchyard and pausing, with a leg on each side of the

bar, shook his fist back at the village, which lay below, its gray

roofs and red chimneys just distinguishable here and there, between a

foamy sea of apple-blossom and a haze of bluish smoke. He could not

very well shake its dust off his feet, for this was hardly separable

from the dust of many other places on his boots, and also it was mostly

mud. But his gesture betokened extreme malevolence.

"These Cor-rnishmen," he said, "are pigs all. There is not a

Cor-rnishman that is not a big pig."

He lifted the second leg wearily over the bar.

"As for Art--phit! Moreover, they shut up their churches."

This was really a serious matter for he had not a penny-piece in his

pocket, the last had gone to buy a loaf--and there was no lodging to be

had in the village. The month was April, a bad time to sleep in the

open; and though the night drew in tranquilly upon a day of broad

sunshine, the earth had by no means sucked in the late heavy rains.

The church-porch, however, had a broad bench on either side and faced

the south, away from the prevailing wind. He had made a mental note of

this early in the day, being schooled to anticipate such straits as the

present. As he passed up the narrow path between the graves, with a

gait like a limping hare's, he scanned his surroundings carefully.

The churchyard was narrow and surrounded by a high gray wall, mostly

hidden by an inner belt of well-grown cypresses. At one point the

ranks of these trees were broken for some forty feet, and here the back

of a small dwelling-house abutted on the cemetery. There was one

window only in the yellow-washed wall, and this window looked straight

on the church-porch. The flageolet-player regarded it with suspicion;

but the casement was shut and the blind drawn down. The aspect of the

cottage, too, proclaimed that its inhabitants were very poor folk--not

at all the sort to tell tales upon a casual tramp if they spied him

bivouacking upon holy ground.

He limped into the porch and cast off the blue bag that was strapped

upon his shoulders. Out of it he drew a sheep's-wool cape, worn very

thin, and then turned the bag inside out, on the chance of discovering

a forgotten crust. The search disappointed him, but he took it

calmly--being on the whole a sweet-tempered man and not easily angered,

except by an affront to his vanity. His violent indignation against

the people of Gantick arose from their indifference to his playing.

Had they even run out at their doors to listen and stare, he would not

have minded their stinginess.

He that cannot eat had best sleep. The little man passed the flat of

his hand, in the dusky light, over the two benches, and having chosen

the one with fewest asperities on its surface, tossed his bag and

flageolet upon the other, pulled off his boots, folded his cape to make

a pillow, and stretched himself at length. In less than ten minutes he

was sleeping dreamlessly.

Over his head there hung a board containing a list or two of the parish

ratepayers, and the usual notice of the spring training of the Royal

Cornwall Rangers' militia. This last placard had broken from two of

its fastenings, and, toward midnight was rustled by an eddy of the

light wind so loudly as to wake the sleeper.

He sat upright and lowered his bare feet upon the pavement. Outside,

the blue firmament was full of stars, sparkling unevenly, as though the

wind was trying in sport to extinguish them. In the eaves of the porch

he could hear the martins rustling in the crevices that they had come

back, but a few days since, to warm again. But what drew the man to

the entrance was the window in the cottage over the wall.

The lattice was pushed back and the room inside was brightly lit. But

a white sheet had been stretched right across the window between him

and the lamp. And on this sheet two quick hands were waving all kinds

of clever shadows, shaping them, moving them and reshaping them with

the speed of lightning.

It was certainly a remarkable performance. The shadows took the form

of rabbits, swans, foxes, elephants, fairies, sailors with wooden legs,

old women who smoked pipes, ballet-girls who pirouetted, twirling

harlequins and the profiles of eminent statesmen--and all made with two

hands and, at the most, the help of a tiny stick or piece of string.

They danced and capered, grew large and then small, with such odd turns

and changes that the flageolet-player could hardly hold his laughter.

He remarked that the hands, whenever they were disentwined for a

moment, appeared to be very small and plump.

After about ten minutes the display ceased and the shadow of a woman's

head and neck crossed the sheet, which was presently drawn back at one

corner.

"Is that any better?" asked a woman's voice, low but distinct.

The flageolet-player started and bent his eyes lower across the graves

and into the shadow beneath the window. For the first time he grew

aware that a figure stood there, a little way out from the wall. As

well as he could see, it was a young boy.

"That was beautiful, mother. You can't think how you've improved at it

this week."

"Any mistakes?"

"The harlequin and columbine seemed a little stiff; but that's the

hardest of all, I know."

"Never mind; they've got to be perfect. We'll try them again."

She was about to drop the corner of the sheet when the listener sprang

out toward the window, leaping with bare feet over the graves and

waving his flageolet madly.

"Ah, no--no, madame!" he cried. "Wait one moment, the tiniest, and I

shall inspire you!"

"Whoever is that?" cried the voice at the window, rising almost to a

scream.

The youth beneath the wall faced round on the intruder. He had turned

white and wanted to run, but mastered his voice to inquire gruffly:

"Who the devil are you?"

"I? I am an artist, and as such I salute madame and monsieur, her son.

She is greater artist than I, but I shall help her. Her harlequin and

columbine shall dance better this time. Why? Because they shall dance

to my music, the music that I shall make, here, on this spot, under the

stars. I shall play as if possessed--I feel that. I bet you. It is

because I have found an artist--an artist in Gantick!

O--my--good--Lor!"

He had pulled off his greasy hat, and stood bowing and smiling, showing

his white teeth, and holding up his flageolet for the woman to see and

convince herself.

"That's all very well," said the boy: "but my mother doesn't want it

known yet that she practices, at these shadows."

"Ha? It is perhaps forbidden by law."

"Since you have found us out, sir," said the woman, "I will tell you

why we are behaving like this, and trust you to tell nobody. I have

been left a widow, in great poverty and with this one son, who must be

educated as well as his father was. Six months ago, when sadly

perplexed, I found out by chance that this small gift of mine might

earn me a good income at a--a music hall. Richard, of course, doesn't

like my performing at such places, but agrees with me that he must be

educated. So we are hiding it from everybody in the village, because

we have always been respected here; and, as soon as I have practiced

enough, we mean to travel up to London. Of course I shall change my

name, and nobody will----"

But the flageolet-player sat suddenly down upon a grave and broke into

hysterical laughter.

"Oh--oh--oh! Quick, madame! dance your pretty figures while yet I

laugh and before I curse. O stars and planets, look down on this mad

world and help me play! And, O monsieur, pardon me if I laugh; for

that either you or I are mad is a cock-sure. Dance, madame----"

He put the flageolet to his lips and blew. In a moment or two

harlequin and columbine appeared on the screen and began to caper

nimbly, naturally, with the wildest grace. The tune was a merry reel

and soon began to inspire the performer above. Her small dancers in a

twinkling turned into a gamboling elephant, then to a couple of

tripping fairies. A moment after, they were flower and butterfly, then

a jigging donkey; then harlequin and columbine again. With each

fantastic change the tune quickened and the dance grew wilder, till,

tired out, the woman spread her hands wide against the sheet, as if

imploring mercy.

The player tossed his flageolet over a headstone and rolled back on the

grave in a paroxysm of laughter. Above him the rooks had poured out of

their nests and were calling to each other.

"Monsieur," he gasped at last, sitting up and wiping his eyes, "was it

good this time?"

"It was quite different, I'll own."

"Then could you spare from the house one little crust of bread? For I

am famished."

The youth returned, in a couple of minutes, with some bread and cold

bacon.

"Of course," he said, "if you should meet either of us in the village

to-morrow you will not recognize us."

The little man bowed. "I agree," said he, "with your mother, monsieur,

that you must be educated at all costs."

MY BROTHER HENRY

By J. M. BARRIE

Strictly speaking I never had a brother Henry, and yet I can not say

that Henry was an impostor. He came into existence in a curious way,

and I can think of him now without malice as a child of smoke. The

first I heard of Henry was at Pettigrew's house, which is in a London

suburb, so conveniently situated that I can go there and back in one

day. I was testing some new Cabanas, I remember, when Pettigrew

remarked that he had been lunching with a man who knew my brother

Henry. Not having any brother but Alexander, I felt that Pettigrew had

mistaken the name. "Oh, no," Pettigrew said; "he spoke of Alexander

too." Even this did not convince me, and I asked my host for his

friend's name. Scudamour was the name of the man, and he had met my

brothers Alexander and Henry years before in Paris. Then I remembered

Scudamour, and I probably frowned, for I myself was my own brother

Henry. I distinctly recalled Scudamour meeting Alexander and me in

Paris, and calling me Henry, though my name begins with a J. I

explained the mistake to Pettigrew, and here, for the time being, the

matter rested. However, I had by no means heard the last of Henry.

Several times afterward I heard from various persons that Scudamour

wanted to meet me because he knew my brother Henry. At last we did

meet, in Jimmy's chambers; and, almost as soon as he saw me, Scudamour

asked where Henry was now. This was precisely what I feared. I am a

man who always looks like a boy. There are few persons of my age in

London who retain their boyish appearance as long as I have done;

indeed, this is the curse of my life. Though I am approaching the age

of thirty, I pass for twenty; and I have observed old gentlemen frown

at my precocity when I said a good thing or helped myself to a second

glass of wine. There was, therefore, nothing surprising in Scudamour's

remark, that, when he had the pleasure of meeting Henry, Henry must

have been about the age that I had now reached. All would have been

well had I explained the real state of affairs to this annoying man;

but, unfortunately for myself, I loathe entering upon explanations to

anybody about anything. This it is to smoke the Arcadia. When I ring

for a time-table and William John brings coals instead, I accept the

coals as a substitute.

Much, then, did I dread a discussion with Scudamour, his surprise when

he heard that I was Henry, and his comments on my youthful appearance.

Besides, I was smoking the best of all mixtures. There was no

likelihood of my meeting Scudamour again, so the easiest way to get rid

of him seemed to be to humor him. I therefore told him that Henry was

in India, married, and doing well. "Remember me to Henry when you

write to him," was Scudamour's last remark to me that evening.

A few weeks later some one tapped me on the shoulder in Oxford Street.

It was Scudamour. "Heard from Henry?" he asked. I said I had heard by

the last mail. "Anything particular in the letter?" I felt it would

not do to say that there was nothing particular in a letter which had

come all the way from India, so I hinted that Henry was having trouble

with his wife. By this I meant that her health was bad; but he took it

up in another way, and I did not set him right. "Ah, ah!" he said,

shaking his head sagaciously; "I'm sorry to hear that. Poor Henry!"

"Poor old boy!" was all I could think of replying. "How about the

children?" Scudamour asked. "Oh, the children," I said, with what I

thought presence of mind, "are coming to England." "To stay with

Alexander?" he asked. My answer was that Alexander was expecting them

by the middle of next month; and eventually Scudamour went away

muttering, "Poor Henry!" In a month or so we met again. "No word of

Henry's getting leave of absence?" asked Scudamour. I replied shortly

that Henry had gone to live in Bombay, and would not be home for years.

He saw that I was brusk, so what does he do but draw me aside for a

quiet explanation. "I suppose," he said, "you are annoyed because I

told Pettigrew that Henry's wife had run away from him. The fact is, I

did it for your good. You see, I happened to make a remark to

Pettigrew about your brother Henry, and he said that there was no such

person. Of course I laughed at that, and pointed out not only that I

had the pleasure of Henry's acquaintance, but that you and I had talked

about the old fellow every time we met. 'Well,' Pettigrew said, 'this

is a most remarkable thing; for he,' meaning you, 'said to me in this

very room, sitting in that very chair, that Alexander was his only

brother.' I saw that Pettigrew resented your concealing the existence

of your brother Henry from him, so I thought the most friendly thing I

could do was to tell him that your reticence was doubtless due to the

unhappy state of poor Henry's private affairs. Naturally in the

circumstances you did not want to talk about Henry." I shook Scudamour

by the hand, telling him that he had acted judiciously; but if I could

have stabbed him in the back at that moment I dare say I would have

done it.

I did not see Scudamour again for a long time, for I took care to keep

out of his way; but I heard first from him and then of him. One day he

wrote to me saying that his nephew was going to Bombay, and would I be

so good as to give the youth an introduction to my brother Henry? He

also asked me to dine with him and his nephew. I declined the dinner,

but I sent the nephew the required note of introduction to Henry. The

next I heard of Scudamour was from Pettigrew. "By the way," said

Pettigrew, "Scudamour is in Edinburgh at present." I trembled, for

Edinburgh is where Alexander lives. "What has taken him there?" I

asked, with assumed carelessness. Pettigrew believed it was business;

"but," he added, "Scudamour asked me to tell you that he meant to call

on Alexander, as he was anxious to see Henry's children." A few days

afterward I had a telegram from Alexander, who generally uses this

means of communication when he corresponds with me.

"Do you know a man, Scudamour? Reply," was what Alexander said. I

thought of answering that we had met a man of that name when we were in

Paris; but after consideration, I replied boldly: "Know no one of name

of Scudamour."

About two months ago I passed Scudamour in Regent Street, and he

scowled at me. This I could have borne if there had been no more of

Henry; but I knew that Scudamour was now telling everybody about

Henry's wife.

By and by I got a letter from an old friend of Alexander's asking me if

there was any truth in a report that Alexander was going to Bombay.

Soon afterward Alexander wrote to me saying he had been told by several

persons that I was going to Bombay. In short, I saw that the time had

come for killing Henry. So I told Pettigrew that Henry had died of

fever, deeply regretted; and asked him to be sure to tell Scudamour,

who had always been interested in the deceased's welfare. Pettigrew

afterward told me that he had communicated the sad intelligence to

Scudamour. "How did he take it?" I asked. "Well," Pettigrew said,

reluctantly, "he told me that when he was up in Edinburgh he did not

get on well with Alexander. But he expressed great curiosity as to

Henry's children." "Ah," I said, "the children were both drowned in

the Forth; a sad affair--we can't bear to talk of it." I am not likely

to see much of Scudamour again, nor is Alexander. Scudamour now goes

about saying that Henry was the only one of us he really liked.

GILRAY'S FLOWER-POT

By J. M. BARRIE

I charge Gilray's unreasonableness to his ignoble passion for

cigarettes; and the story of his flower-pot has therefore an obvious

moral. The want of dignity he displayed about that flower-pot, on his

return to London, would have made any one sorry for him. I had my own

work to look after, and really could not be tending his chrysanthemum

all day. After he came back, however, there was no reasoning with him,

and I admit that I never did water his plant, though always intending

to do so.

The great mistake was in not leaving the flower-pot in charge of

William John. No doubt I readily promised to attend to it, but Gilray

deceived me by speaking as if the watering of a plant was the merest

pastime. He had to leave London for a short provincial tour, and, as I

see now, took advantage of my good nature.

As Gilray had owned his flower-pot for several months, during which

time (I take him at his word) he had watered it daily, he must have

known he was misleading me. He said that you got into the way of

watering a flower-pot regularly just as you wind up your watch. That

certainly is not the case. I always wind up my watch, and I never

watered the flower-pot. Of course, if I had been living in Gilray's

rooms with the thing always before my eyes I might have done so. I

proposed to take it into my chambers at the time, but he would not hear

of that. Why? How Gilray came by this chrysanthemum I do not inquire,

but whether, in the circumstances, he should not have made a clean

breast of it to me is another matter. Undoubtedly it was an unusual

thing to put a man to the trouble of watering a chrysanthemum daily

without giving him its history. My own belief has always been that he

got it in exchange for a pair of boots and his old dressing-gown. He

hints that it was a present; but, as one who knows him well, I may say

that he is the last person a lady would be likely to give a

chrysanthemum to. Besides, if he was so proud of the plant he should

have stayed at home and watered it himself.

He says that I never meant to water it, which is not only a mistake,

but unkind. My plan was to run downstairs immediately after dinner

every evening and give it a thorough watering. One thing or another,

however, came in the way. I often remembered about the chrysanthemum

while I was in the office; but even Gilray could hardly have expected

me to ask leave of absence merely to run home and water his plant. You

must draw the line somewhere, even in a government office. When I

reached home I was tired, inclined to take things easily, and not at

all in a proper condition for watering flower-pots. Then Arcadians

would drop in. I put it to any sensible man or woman, could I have

been expected to give up my friends for the sake of a chrysanthemum?

Again, it was my custom of an evening, if not disturbed, to retire with

my pipe into my cane chair, and there pass the hours communing with

great minds, or, when the mood was on me, trifling with a novel. Often

when I was in the middle of a chapter Gilray's flower-pot stood up

before my eyes crying for water. He does not believe this, but it is

the solemn truth. At those moments it was touch and go, whether I

watered his chrysanthemum or not. Where I lost myself was in not

hurrying to his rooms at once with a tumbler. I said to myself that I

would go when I had finished my pipe, but by that time the flower-pot

has escaped my memory. This may have been weakness; all I know is that

I should have saved myself much annoyance if I had risen and watered

the chrysanthemum there and then. But would it not have been rather

hard on me to have had to forsake my books for the sake of Gilray's

flowers and flower-pots and plants and things? What right has a man to

go and make a garden of his chambers?

All the three weeks he was away, Gilray kept pestering me with letters

about his chrysanthemum. He seemed to have no faith in me--a

detestable thing in a man who calls himself your friend. I had

promised to water his flower-pot; and between friends a promise is

surely sufficient. It is not so, however, when Gilray is one of them.

I soon hated the sight of my name in his handwriting. It was not as if

he said outright that he wrote entirely to know whether I was watering

his plant. His references to it were introduced with all the

appearance of after-thoughts. Often they took the form of postscripts:

"By the way, are you watering my chrysanthemum?" or, "The chrysanthemum

ought to be a beauty by this time;" or, "You must be quite an adept now

at watering plants." Gilray declares now that, in answer to one of

these ingenious epistles, I wrote to him saying that "I had just been

watering his chrysanthemum." My belief is that I did no such thing;

or, if I did, I meant to water it as soon as I had finished my letter.

He has never been able to bring this home to me, he says, because he

burned my correspondence. As if a business man would destroy such a

letter. It was yet more annoying when Gilray took to post-cards. To

hear the postman's knock and then discover, when you are expecting an

important communication, that it is only a post-card about a

flower-pot--that is really too bad. And then I consider that some of

the post-cards bordered upon insult. One of them said, "What about

chrysanthemum?--reply at once." This was just like Gilray's

overbearing way; but I answered politely, and so far as I knew,

truthfully, "Chrysanthemum all right."

Knowing that there was no explaining things to Gilray, I redoubled my

exertions to water his flower-pot as the day for his return drew near.

Once, indeed, when I rang for water, I could not for the life of me

remember what I wanted it for when it was brought. Had I had any

forethought I should have left the tumbler stand just as it was to show

it to Gilray on his return. But, unfortunately, William John had

misunderstood what I wanted the water for, and put a decanter down

beside it. Another time I was actually on the stair rushing to

Gilray's door, when I met the housekeeper, and, stopping to talk to

her, lost my opportunity again. To show how honestly anxious I was to

fulfil my promise, I need only add that I was several times awakened in

the watches of the night by a haunting consciousness that I had

forgotten to water Gilray's flower-pot. On these occasions I spared no

trouble to remember again in the morning. I reached out of bed to a

chair and turned it upside down, so that the sight of it when I rose

might remind me that I had something to do. With the same object I

crossed the tongs and poker on the floor. Gilray maintains that

instead of playing "fool's tricks" like these ("fool's tricks!") I

should have got up and gone at once to his rooms with my water-bottle.

What? and disturbed my neighbors? Besides, could I reasonably be

expected to risk catching my death of cold for the sake of a wretched

chrysanthemum? One reads of men doing such things for young ladies who

seek lilies in dangerous ponds or edelweiss on overhanging cliffs. But

Gilray was not my sweetheart, nor, I feel certain, any other person's.

I come now to the day prior to Gilray's return. I had just reached the

office when I remembered about the chrysanthemum. It was my last

chance. If I watered it once I should be in a position to state that,

whatever condition it might be in, I had certainly been watering it. I

jumped into a hansom, told the cabby to drive to the inn, and twenty

minutes afterward had one hand on Gilray's door, while the other held

the largest water-can in the house. Opening the door I rushed in. The

can nearly fell from my hand. There was no flower-pot! I rang the

bell. "Mr. Gilray's chrysanthemum!" I cried. What do you think

William John said? He coolly told me that the plant was dead, and had

been flung out days ago. I went to the theater that night to keep

myself from thinking. All next day I contrived to remain out of

Gilray's sight. When we met he was stiff and polite. He did not say a

word about the chrysanthemum for a week, and then it all came out with

a rush. I let him talk. With the servants flinging out the

flower-pots faster than I could water them, what more could I have

done? A coolness between us was inevitable. This I regretted, but my

mind was made up on one point: I would never do Gilray a favor again.

MR. O'LEARY'S SECOND LOVE

By CHARLES LEVER

"You may easily suppose," began Mr. O'Leary, "that the unhappy

termination of my first passion served as a shield to me for a long

time against my unfortunate tendencies toward the fair, and such was

really the case. I never spoke to a young lady for three years after,

without a reeling in my head, so associated in my mind was love and

sea-sickness. However, at last, what will not time do? It was about

four years from the date of this adventure, when I became so oblivious

of my former failure, as again to tempt my fortune. My present choice,

in every way unlike the last, was a gay, lively girl, of great animal

spirits, and a considerable turn for raillery, that spared no one; the

members of her own family were not even sacred in her eyes; and her

father, a reverend dean, as frequently figured among the ludicrous as

his neighbors.

"The Evershams had been very old friends of a rich aunt of mine, who

never, by the by, had condescended to notice me till I made their

acquaintance; but no sooner had I done so, than she sent for me, and

gave me to understand that in the event of my succeeding to the hand of

Fanny Eversham, I should be her heir and the possessor of about sixty

thousand pounds. She did not stop here; but by canvassing the dean in

my favor, speedily put the matter on a most favorable footing, and in

less than two months I was received as the accepted suitor of the fair

Fanny, then one of the reigning belles of Dublin.

"They lived at this time, about three miles from town, in a very pretty

country, where I used to pass all my mornings, and many of my evenings,

too, in a state of happiness that I should have considered perfect, if

it were not for two unhappy blots--one, the taste of my betrothed for

laughing at her friends; another, the diabolical propensity of my

intended father-in-law to talk politics; to the former I could submit;

but with the latter submission only made bad worse; for he invariably

drew up as I receded, dryly observing that with men who had no avowed

opinions, it was ill-agreeing; or that, with persons who kept their

politics as a school-boy does his pocket-money, never to spend, and

always ready to change, it was unpleasant to dispute. Such taunts as

these I submitted to, as well I might; secretly resolving, that as I

now knew the meaning of Whig and Tory, I'd contrive to spend my life,

after marriage, out of the worthy dean's diocese.

"Time wore on, and at length, to my most pressing solicitations it was

conceded that a day for our marriage should be appointed. Not even the

unlucky termination of this my second love affair can deprive me of the

happy souvenir of the few weeks which were to intervene before our

destined union.

"The mornings were passed in ransacking all the shops where wedding

finery could be procured--laces, blondes, velvets, and satins, littered

every corner of the deanery--and there was scarcely a carriage in a

coach-maker's yard in the city that I had not sat and jumped in, to try

the springs, by the special direction of Mrs. Eversham, who never

ceased to impress me with the awful responsibility I was about to take

upon me, in marrying so great a prize as her daughter--a feeling I

found very general among many of my friends at the Kildare Street club.

"Among the many indispensable purchases which I was to make, and about

which Fanny expressed herself more than commonly anxious, was a

saddle-horse for me. She was a great horse-woman, and hated riding

with only a servant; and had given me to understand as much about

half-a-dozen times each day for the last five weeks. How shall I

acknowledge it--equestrianism was never my forte. I had all my life

considerable respect for the horse as an animal, pretty much as I

dreaded a lion or a tiger; but as to any intention of mounting upon the

back of one, and taking a ride, I should as soon have dreamed of taking

an airing upon a giraffe; and as to the thought of buying, feeding, and

maintaining such a beast at my own proper cost, I should just as soon

have determined to purchase a pillory or a ducking-stool, by way of

amusing my leisure hours.

"However, Fanny was obstinate--whether she suspected anything or not I

cannot say--but nothing seemed to turn her from her purpose; and

although I pleaded a thousand things in delay, yet she grew each day

more impatient, and at last I saw there was nothing for it but to

submit.

"When I arrived at this last bold resolve, I could not help feeling

that to possess a horse, and not be able to mount him, was only

deferring the ridicule; and as I had so often expressed the difficulty

I felt in suiting myself as a cause of my delay, I could not possibly

come forward with anything very objectionable, or I should be only the

more laughed at. There was, then, but one course to take; a fortnight

still intervened before the day which was to make me happy, and I

accordingly resolved to take lessons in riding during the interval, and

by every endeavor in my power become, if possible, able to pass muster

on the saddle before my bride.

"Poor old Lalouette understood but little of the urgency of the case,

when I requested his leave to take my lessons each morning at six

o'clock, for I dared not absent myself during the day without exciting

suspicion; and never, I will venture to assert, did knight-errant of

old strive harder for the hand of his lady-love than did I during that

weary fortnight; if a hippogriff had been the animal I bestrode,

instead of being, as it was, an old wall-eyed gray, I could not have

felt more misgivings at my temerity, or more proud of my achievement.

In the first three days the unaccustomed exercise proved so severe,

that when I reached the deanery I could hardly move, and crossed the

floor pretty much as a pair of compasses might be supposed to do if

performing that exploit. Nothing, however, could equal the kindness of

my poor dear mother-in-law in embryo, and even the dean too. Fanny

indeed, said nothing; but I rather think she was disposed to giggle a

little; but my rheumatism, as it was called, was daily inquired after,

and I was compelled to take some infernal stuff in my port wine, at

dinner, that nearly made me sick at table.

"'I am sure you walk too much,' said Fanny, with one of her knowing

looks. 'Papa, don't you think he ought to ride? it would be much

better for him.'

"'I do, my dear,' said the dean. 'But then you see he is so hard to be

pleased in a horse. Your old hunting days have spoiled you; but you

must forget Melton and Grantham, and condescend to keep a hack.'

"I must have looked confoundedly foolish here, for Fanny never took her

eyes off me, and continued to laugh in her own wicked way.

"It was now about the ninth or tenth day of my purgatorial

performances; and certainly, if there be any merit in fleshly

mortifications, these religious exercises of mine should stand my part

hereafter. A review had been announced in the Phoenix park, which

Fanny had expressed herself most desirous to witness; and as the dean

would not permit her to go without a chaperon, I had no means of

escape, and promised to escort her. No sooner had I made this rash

pledge than I hastened to my confidential friend, Lalouette, and having

imparted to him my entire secret, asked him in a solemn and imposing

manner, 'Can I do it?' The old man shook his head dubiously, looked

grave, and muttered at length, 'Mosch depend on de horse.' 'I know

it--I know it--I feel it,' said I, eagerly--'then where are we to find

an animal that will carry me peaceably through this awful day? I care

not for his price.'

"'Votre affaire ne sera pas trop chère,' said he.

"'Why, how do you mean?' said I.

"He then proceeded to inform me that, by a singularly fortunate chance,

there took place that day an auction of 'cast horses,' as they are

termed, which had been used in the horse police force; and that from

long riding and training to stand fire, nothing could be more suitable

than one of these, being both easy to ride and not given to start at

noise.

"I could have almost hugged the old fellow for his happy suggestion,

and waited with impatience for three o'clock to come, when we repaired

together to Essexbridge, at that time the place selected for these

sales.

"I was at first a little shocked at the look of the animals drawn up;

they were most miserably thin, most of them swelled in the legs, few

without sore backs, and not one eye on an average in every three; but

still they were all high-steppers, and carried a great tail. 'There's

your affaire,' said the old Frenchman, as a long-legged, fiddle-headed

beast was led out; turning out his forelegs so as to endanger the man

who walked beside him.

"'Yes, there's blood for you,' said Charley Dycer, seeing my eye fixed

on the wretched beast; 'equal to fifteen stone with any fox-hounds;

safe in all his paces, and warranted sound; except,' added he, in a

whisper, 'a slight spavin in both hind legs, ring-bone, and a little

touch in the wind.' Here the animal gave an approving cough. 'Will

any gentleman say fifty pounds to begin?' But no gentleman did. A

hackney-coachman, however, said five, and the sale was opened; the

beast trotting up and down nearly over the bidders at every moment, and

plunging on so that it was impossible to know what was doing.

"'Five ten--fifteen--six pounds--thank you, sir--guineas'--seven

pounds,' said I, bidding against myself, not perceiving that I had

spoken last. 'Thank you, Mr. Moriarty,' said Dycer, turning toward an

invisible purchaser supposed to be in the crowd. 'Thank you, sir,

you'll not let a good one go that way.' Every one here turned to find

out the very knowing gentleman; but he could nowhere be seen.

"Dycer resumed, 'Seven ten, for Mr. Moriarty. Going for seven ten--a

cruel sacrifice--there's action for you--playful beast.' Here the

devil had stumbled and nearly killed a basket-woman with two children.

"'Eight,' said I, with a loud voice.

"'Eight pounds, quite absurd,' said Dycer, almost rudely; 'a charger

like that for eight pounds--going for eight pounds--going--nothing

above eight pounds--no reserve, gentlemen, you are aware of that. They

are all, as it were, his Majesty's stud--no reserve whatever--last

time, eight pounds--gone.'

"Amid a very hearty cheer from the mob, God knows why, but a Dublin mob

always cheer--I returned accompanied by a ragged fellow, leading my new

purchase after me with a hay halter.

"'What is the meaning of those letters?' said I, pointing to a very

conspicuous G. R., with sundry other enigmatical signs, burned upon the

animal's hind quarter.

"'That's to show he was a po-lis," said the fellow with a grin; 'and

when ye ride with ladies, ye must turn the decoy side.'

"The auspicious morning at last arrived; and, strange to say, that the

first waking thought was of the unlucky day that ushered in my yachting

excursion, four years before. Why this was so I cannot pretend to

guess: there was but little analogy in the circumstances, at least so

far as anything had then gone. 'How is Marius?' said I to my servant,

as he opened my shutters. Here let me mention that a friend of the

Kildare Street club had suggested this name from the remarkably classic

character of my steed's countenance; his nose, he assured me, was

perfectly Roman.

"'Marius is doing finely, sir, barring his cough, and the trifle that

ails his hind legs.'

"'He'll carry me quietly, Simon; eh?'

"'Quietly! I'll warrant he'll carry you quietly, if that's all.'

"Here was comfort, certainly. Simon had lived forty years as pantry

boy with my mother, and knew a great deal about horses. I dressed

myself, therefore, in high spirits; and if my pilot jacket and oil-skin

cap in former days had half persuaded me that I was born for marine

achievements, certainly my cords and tops, that morning, went far to

convince me that I must have once been a very keen sportsman somewhere,

without knowing it. It was a delightful July day that I set out to

join my friends, who, having recruited a large party, were to

rendezvous at the corner of Stephen's Green; thither I proceeded in a

certain rambling trot, which I have often observed is a very favorite

pace with timid horsemen and gentlemen of the medical profession. I

was hailed with a most hearty welcome by a large party as I turned out

of Grafton Street, among whom I perceived several friends of Miss

Eversham, and some young dragoon officers, not of my acquaintance, but

who appeared to know Fanny intimately, and were laughing heartily with

her as I rode up.

"I don't know if other men have experienced what I am about to mention

or not; but certainly to me there is no more painful sensation than to

find yourself among a number of well-mounted, well-equipped people,

while the animal you yourself bestride seems only fit for the kennel.

Every look that is cast at your unlucky steed--every whispered

observation about you are so many thorns in your flesh, till at last

you begin to feel that your appearance is for very little else than the

amusement and mirth of the assembly; and every time you rise in your

stirrups you excite a laugh.

"'Where, for mercy's sake, did you find that creature?' said Fanny,

surveying Marius through her glass.

"'Oh, him, eh? Why, he is a handsome horse, if in condition--a

charger, you know--that's his style.'

"'Indeed,' lisped a young lancer, 'I should be devilish sorry to

charge, or be charged with him.' And here they all chuckled at this

puppy's silly joke, and I drew up to repress further liberties.

"'Is he anything of a fencer?' said a young country gentleman.

"'To judge from his near eye, I should say much more of a boxer,' said

another.

"Here commenced a running fire of pleasantry at the expense of my poor

steed; which, not content with attacking his physical, extended to his

moral qualities. An old gentleman near me observing, 'that I ought not

to have mounted him at all, seeing he was so deuced groggy;' to which I

replied, by insinuating, that if others present were as free from the

influence of ardent spirits, society would not be a sufferer; an

observation that, I flatter myself, turned the mirth against the old

fellow, for they all laughed for a quarter of an hour after.

"Well, at last we set out in a brisk trot, and, placed near Fanny, I

speedily forgot all my annoyances in the prospect of figuring to

advantage before her. When we reached the College Green the leaders of

the cortège suddenly drew up, and we soon found that the entire street

opposite the Bank was filled with a dense mob of people, who appeared

to be swayed hither and thither, like some mighty beast, as the

individuals composing it were engaged in close conflict. It was

nothing more nor less than one of those almost weekly rows which then

took place between the students of the University and the

town's-people, and which rarely ended without serious consequences.

The numbers of people pressing on to the scene of action soon blocked

up our retreat, and we found ourselves most unwilling spectators of the

conflict. Political watch-words were loudly shouted by each party; and

at last the students, who appeared to be yielding to superior numbers,

called out for the intervention of the police. The aid was nearer than

they expected; for at the same instant a body of mounted policemen,

whose high helmets rendered them sufficiently conspicuous, were seen

trotting at sharp pace down Dame Street. On they came with drawn

sabres, led by a well-looking, gentleman-like personage in plain

clothes, who dashed at once into the middle of the fray, issuing his

orders, and pointing out to his followers to secure the ringleaders.

Up to this moment I had been a most patient and rather amused spectator

of what was doing. Now, however, my part was to commence, for at the

word 'Charge,' given in a harsh, deep voice by the sergeant of the

party, Marius, remembering his ancient instinct, pricked up his ears,

cocked his tail, flung up both his hind legs till they nearly broke the

Provost's windows, and plunged into the thickest of the fray like a

devil incarnate.