puffs. “The chap that rescued me was a French Jew who controlled quite a
bit of the pearl-fishing industry on the island. He was clever enough to
guess how I came to be floating about in that hollow log, but made no
comment at the time. As soon as I was able to get about again, which was
in a couple of days, he asked me if I wished to work for him. I declined
with thanks, whereupon he said that in that case he felt that duty would
compel his handing me over to the authorities. Practically, you see, I
was his slave, but there seemed no help for it, so for the time being I
took command of one of his larger boats and her crew. He gave me some
clothes and my food and that was all.
“In the end I got even. One day, when I had landed my cargo of oysters
on the beach and was about to begin opening—for you know the pearl
fishers down here open the shells instead of rotting out, as they do in
the East—an old native woman who had been squatting near the edge of the
pile hobbled over to where I was standing and begged for one of the
bivalves to eat. They are not bad, you know. I told her to help herself,
expecting, naturally, that she would pick one up at her feet; but
instead of that she went around to the other side of the heap and
selected one there. This struck me as a bit odd; then, as she hobbled
off, it seemed to me that she was in some haste to get away. Acting
entirely upon impulse, and with no distinct idea of my motive, I picked
up a couple of the oysters and ran after her.
“‘Here, mother,’ said I, ‘take these and give me that one which you have
there.’
“She favored me with a look which actually reeked with malice, but, as
there was no help for it, handed over the oyster. As I took it I saw my
employer—or jailer, to be accurate—walking down the beach from his
cabin—for he always superintended the opening of the shells, for very
obvious reasons, and I had orders never to begin the work until his
arrival. He was still some distance off, so, turning my back to him, I
whipped out my knife and slit open the mollusk, and there, right on the
very lip, was the largest pearl which I have ever seen on Margherita!
“You see, Doctor, when the oysters are thrown down on the beach the heat
from the sun and the hot sand often causes them to open an inch or so.
This old woman, who had come down, no doubt, with the purpose of begging
an oyster to eat, was squatting in front of this especial one, and
caught sight of the pearl through the slit between the two shells.”
Leyden turned to me suddenly. “What would you have done in such a case,
Doctor?”
“Exactly what you did, I fancy,” I answered.
“Yes,” he replied, slowly; “I was justified. This Frenchman was
detaining me through blackmail and forcing me to work like a dog for
fear of being turned over to the Venezuelans. I kept the pearl and a
week later managed to escape to Curaçao on a schooner. There I sold my
pearl for eight hundred dollars, and as soon as I had the money I wrote
to the gentleman who had broken up my expedition and offered him five
hundred dollars for all my effects delivered to me at Curaçao. They came
on the next Dutch steamer and were handed over to me by the captain upon
my payment of the money. Three weeks later they were gracing the shelves
of the new museum of Billings University and I was on my way to Mexico
to collect Aztec relics for the same excellent institution.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE SHEARS OF ATROPOS
“WILL you please tell me why it is, Doctor,” said Leyden, “that when you
and I are foregathered in this part of the ship at this hour of the
evening we must immediately proceed to rake the lockers of our
recollection for the morbid and anomalous?”
I told him that it was perhaps because the accent of a man’s mind was
largely influenced by his profession, and that as the morbid was my
source of livelihood and his the rare and _sui generis_ of Nature, our
interests touched these topics.
“_Ach!_ there is something in that,” said Leyden, “but not all. It is
that only in these violent upheavals do we get to see the hidden things
of life, the more superficial of which are evident to a man who can
translate the languages of his five senses and has perhaps a dialect or
two in reserve.”
He was silent for a moment, letting his steady gray eyes rest upon the
streaks of phosphorescent spume churned up about us by the stiff
following trade. Abeam lay the moonlit isle of Curaçao, so near that one
could see the towering yuccas standing sentinels upon the ridges of the
broken hills—could almost see the yellow of their blossoms, for this
moon gave color as well as perspective.
“This was in Borneo, Doctor,” he began abruptly. “I had been sent there
on a head-hunting expedition. Odd, is it not, but appropriate! A
countryman of mine who was writing a book on anthropology had sent me
there to take photographs and notes and measurements and to collect
specimens of skulls as I saw fit—attached or unattached, that was my
lookout. You know, Doctor, that although the coast of Borneo is occupied
by Malays, Bajaus, or Sea Gypsies, Bugis, Chinese and immigrants from
Polynesia, very little is known of the interior, which is the exclusive
domain of the great family of Dyaks, which is itself divided into
several tribes. It was of the Punan and Olo-ot, who are fairly pure,
that my employer wanted specious information.
“I had taken with me one white man, oddly enough a tourist, a New York
lawyer named Lynch, whom I had met in Singapore—a gentleman who had
inherited a little money and was taking a trip around the world. A great
explorer was lost in that man, Doctor—and there are too many good
lawyers already.
“As a rule, I prefer to go into a savage country with no other white
man, as once or twice it has been my misfortune to have all of my work
undone by the single careless or tactless act of a companion; in the
present case I needed an assistant, as I had just come down from the
Irawady and was running a temperature which I thought possible the hills
of Borneo might develop into a sharp attack of fever.
“I will not attempt to describe our adventures, nor what we found inside
the island, for all of that you can read in my patron’s book. Eventually
we struck the head of a river which, according to my reckoning, would
take us down to a little trading port called Bangan, and I had learned
from a few friendly natives that there was a missionary station not far
below us. I had not known that there were any missionaries in that
section; but then, they are universal perennials which one is apt to
encounter anywhere.
“We slipped down this rapid stream, and late upon the third day, as we
turned into a long reach of the river, saw a clearing at the other end.
I was heartily glad, for my fever, which had developed, as I feared, did
not yield to medication as it should, and, to tell the truth, Doctor, I
did not really believe that I would reach sea-water alive. Lynch was in
perfect condition—hard, seasoned, alert—but then, you see, he was not
chock full of Irawady microbes when we started, and the country through
which we had passed was not unhealthy.
“He had been of the greatest value to me; three times I owed my life to
him that trip. Often he made me laugh by the ease with which he adapted
his ultra-modernism to his primitive surroundings, for he was not a man
who was used to roughing it. He treated our half-wild Dyaks as if they
were the bellboys of his club; appeared to have not the slightest notion
in the world that they could so far forget their manners as to become
insubordinate; would sometimes relax and joke with them a bit. He would
turn his back upon the most dangerous, sleep with both eyes apparently
shut, seemed contemptuous of danger or treachery; yet the twice that it
did occur he had anticipated it. Between us we were an efficient
combination, for I am governed by instinct, Doctor; Lynch acted only
from coldly wrought logic.
“To continue: We arrived at this clearing and were surprised to find
near the edge of the bank a new stockade; the gum was still oozing from
the stakes. To the right were some long, low buildings, of which I did
not like the look. These also were very new—in fact, still in process of
construction—and as I examined them through my glass I discovered some
bungling contrivances hanging from a projecting rafter.
“‘Neck-yokes,’ said I to Lynch. ‘We have stumbled on a slaver!’
“‘Here comes a white man,’ he replied. There were a few natives watching
us from the top of the bank, and through these there came a man of huge
stature, with a rough, red beard and dressed in a suit of embroidered
silk pajamas. The people wilted away from him as he approached, then
fell in behind, walking with the curious drop-kneed gait of bush-folk
the world over when ill at ease. This giant strode to the edge of the
bank and stood glaring down without a word.
“‘Good evening,’ observed Lynch, and shoved the canoe to the bank.
“‘Where are ye from?’ said the fellow, with a rough Caledonian accent,
and staring down with his red beard thrust out and his small, pale eyes
watching us suspiciously. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and
his huge forearms, covered with shaggy hair, were folded across his
bulging chest.
“‘From the other side of the island,’ said Lynch. He stepped out on the
bank as if he had been invited and proceeded to moor the canoe.
“‘What’s this ye’re doin’?’ growled the red-bearded giant above him. His
great arms had dropped to his side and one could see how the thick
muscles held them with bent elbows.
“‘Hitching the boat,’ replied Lynch, indifferently. He did so, and
walked to the top of the bank.
“‘Whose house is that?’ he asked.
“‘The hoos is mine,’ growled the man, and ’tis no tavern I’m
keepin’—d’ye see?’
“‘Oh, I quite understand that,’ said Lynch, pleasantly. ‘Of course, you
wish us to be your guests.’ He turned to me. ‘Doctor,’ he said, ‘this
gentleman wishes us to stop the night with him.’ He turned to the other.
‘Very decent of you, I’m sure, especially as my friend has a touch of
the fever and ought to rest up a bit.’ He proceeded to direct the
unloading of the canoes, even calling some of the red man’s retainers to
assist.
“The face of the fellow was purple, but it seemed as if Lynch’s
assurance had robbed him of speech. He stood glowering like a great
Guernsey bull, while Lynch went back and forth about him as if he had
been an obstructing tree.
“‘You see, we are naturalists,’ Lynch began, talking as he worked. ‘Some
of these boxes contain trade-stuffs, but most of them are full of
heads—skulls, you know, very interesting—I will show you some if you
like. I suppose your people are honest? I fancy this stuff will be safe
right here where it is. Hi!’—he relapsed into the dialect, and before I
knew what was going on two of the boys had me up the bank.
“‘Permit me to introduce Dr. Leyden; I am Mr. Lynch,’ said this
extraordinary lieutenant of mine; ‘and now, sir, if you will lead the
way——’
“‘Ye’re takin’ a deal for granted,’ began the man in a surly voice.
“‘I’m taking it for granted that you are the missionary,’ said Lynch,
calmly. ‘If you are not, it really makes no difference. No white man
could help being glad to accommodate two other white men in a place like
this, and, although you do not keep a tavern, perhaps we can render you
some service in return for your hospitality. We have more firearms than
we will need——’
“‘Ye’re verra kind,’ growled the man, but I saw his pale, swinish eye
lighten a bit, and guessed that Lynch, with his usual tact, had touched
him. ‘Of course, I’ll gie ye a lodgin’ for the night, though I’ve little
to offer strangers.’ He walked sullenly ahead, Lynch following him, and
I noticed that, although my companion was a tall, well-built man, the
other topped him by half a head and the breadth of a hand across the
shoulders. I do not think that I have ever seen a more powerful
brute—all bone and muscle, and something in the shiftiness of his pale,
cunning eye told me that he was not without a corresponding share of
guile.
“As we drew near to the stockade I saw that it was quite new, and then
Lynch reached behind him and pinched my foot as I lay on the stretcher,
and, would you believe it, Doctor, on every sharpened stake that formed
the front of the stockade there was a _human head_! They had been there
varying lengths of time, I judged, but the—eh—evidences of the recency
of some were quite apparent.
“‘I see that you go in for heads a bit yourself, Mr. Cullen,’ said
Lynch, in his pleasant voice, but hardly was the name between his lips
when this hairy giant of ours wheeled on him like a boar. You know the
stiff, muscle-bound motion, Doctor: the swift sling of the rigid body
all on one axis, the great, brutish head swung on its thick neck, the
mean little eyes slanting up evilly. That is what this hairy brute was,
a boar, with all of the cunning and surly moroseness of this animal.
There was something horribly brutish in the swing of his shock head
between the hulking shoulders as he turned on Lynch, and something
horribly sinister in the yellow glint of his teeth between the
bristling, red mustache, which seemed to roll upwards like that which
one sees on the headpieces of ancient Japanese armor. If he had turned
to me like that I would have presented him with the muzzle of my
pistol—_Ach!_—and very possibly the bullet as well, for the secret of
long life in my profession is to take no chances. I could not see,
however, that Lynch moved a muscle, except to smile.
“‘Where got ye that name?’ snarled the man. His beard was thrust almost
into Lynch’s face, and I could see the twitching of his thick fingers.
“‘On the collar of your pajamas,’ said Lynch, calmly. ‘Do you observe,
Doctor,’ he continued, turning to me, ‘that some of these skulls are
quite different from any we have secured? Possibly our host might be
willing to exchange——’ He turned to survey the exhibit with interest.
‘What a Golconda it is, to be sure!’ cried my New York lawyer,
enthusiastically. ‘You are to be complimented on your collection,
Mr.—eh—eh——’
“‘McAdoo,’ supplied the red man, sulkily, but with a strange quaver in
his voice. I glanced up at him quickly, then looked away and at the
stockade, for the glimpse I had of his face told me that the burly
ruffian had received a fright. He could not have been pale, even if he
had been dead, but there was a look in his eyes that meant fear, yes,
and meant murder, too, for a beast of that sort cannot become frightened
without becoming homicidal at the same time.
“‘Ye’re very obsairvin’,’ he managed to say, in a thick voice.
Lynch turned and regarded him benevolently.
“‘You are very modest, Mr. McAdoo,’ he replied, genially. ‘You really
have a noteworthy collection here.’
“‘They were folk not wanted here,’ retorted McAdoo, with what I could
see was a considerable effort. And then he gathered himself together for
a supreme stroke—the one heavily delivered blow of this round; and yet,
do you know, Doctor, in spite of the man’s overwhelming physical force
and ominous aspect, there was something rather ridiculous in his manner
of delivering this last menace—something of the lout of a schoolboy who
defies his pedagogue, although he half believes that there may be a
thrashing behind it; defies him because his nature is too churlish and
too abundant in a swinish sort of courage, born of the sense of a potent
vitality, to feel the fear of the result, appreciable to a creature of
the same courage but a higher power of imagination.
“‘_Maybe ye’d like to add to this same collection_,’ he said, and he
said it with one mental arm raised toward, in a manner of speaking.
“Lynch laughed outright. It might have been a part of his—what you
Americans call _bluff_, but I believe that it was sheer amusement. I
began to be convinced that Lynch possessed a very keen sense of a very
dangerous sort of humor. He saw the thing just as I saw it; of course he
would see it so, because, although I was a trifle slow in discovering
it, he had put this man ‘McAdoo’ on the witness stand the very moment he
heard him speak, and he was cross-examining him and deriving infinite
amusement from the process. Moreover, McAdoo himself, while too
coarse-grained to understand it, was beginning to _feel_ it, and there
grew to be in his manœuvres something of the sweating nervousness of a
horse at the howl of a far-distant wolf; yet his ears were well back.
“‘That’s just exactly what we want to do, McAdoo,’ he answered, and it
almost seemed as if he was going to pat the ruffian on the shoulder,
‘but we want to take a head or so in return.’ He smiled genially into
the wicked face, and actually _turned his back_ upon the man and walked
in through the gate as if entering the compound of an old friend.
Perhaps something told him that I had a hand on the butt of my revolver.
“Once inside the stockade Lynch pushed matters; in fact, he carried it
to the verge of spoiling everything; but, you see, Doctor, if this
McAdoo had possessed the wit of a cockroach, or had been a little more
lacking in that hereditary feudal instinct which made him uncomfortable
in spite of himself in the presence of a gentleman, he might easily have
slipped away and arranged our assassination, and this was precisely what
Lynch did not intend that he should do. He told me afterwards that, like
_Javert_ in ‘Les Miserables,’ he was born with an instinct for a
criminal, but I do not credit this particularly, as I myself could
deduct that this man McAdoo had more reason than mere surliness of
disposition for not wishing us to stop at the mission-house. You see, it
had to be a mission; it was either that or a fort; there was nothing
there for which to trade.
“All of this had entered my mind, just as it had Lynch’s; but, although
apparently careless, Lynch was in reality a painstaking man.
“We had entered the stockade, an enclosure of some size, in the middle
of which stood a bungalow, which had once been pretty and which was
evidently far older than the structure surrounding it. There was not a
soul in sight, yet one had the feeling of furtive eyes peering from
behind slanted jalousies. Lynch looked about him critically.
“‘Quite like an Australian ranch-house, is it not, Doctor?’ he remarked;
then turned sharply to our host. ‘Have you ever been in Australia,
friend McAdoo?’
“One could see the man’s heavy jowl drop a trifle beneath his coarse,
red beard; his face looked flaccid—just for the second, and then the
blood came pouring back until the veins across the side of his forehead
became distended. His pale, little eyes began to dance, just as those of
a hog when he is about to make a rush—you know the look.
“‘Where is Mr. Cullen—the missionary?’ asked Lynch, sharply, and at this
direct question the congestion of McAdoo’s face faded in blotches and
the glitter of his eyes changed to a gleam of cunning.
“‘He’s gone away, leavin’ me in charge o’ the station, and now if ye’ll
kindly step inside’—the brute actually mustered a sort of grin which
was, no doubt, intended for an expression of good-will—‘I’ll leave ye
for a minute or two.’
“‘Thank you,’ said Lynch, calmly. ‘Doctor Leyden will wait here on the
veranda, but I believe that I will go with you, if you don’t mind. I
should like to look around a bit.’
“‘There’s little enough to see,’ growled McAdoo, but his tone was
growing wary. ‘I’ll ask ye to bide here for a bit.’
“‘Thanks,’ said Lynch, and there was actually a sing-song tone of
sarcastic _ennui_ in his voice, ‘but I’ve conceived such a fondness for
your society that I really can’t bear to have you out of my sight,
friend McAdoo. We’ll go together; the Doctor does not mind being left
alone.’
“This to that desperado whom we both believed to be an escaped
Australian convict, whose presence in the mission-house was still to be
explained. Lynch was armed, of course—armed with one of the big
revolvers your cowboys carry, and, in fact, he had been a plainsman for
a while after leaving college, and I knew that, for all his languid air,
if McAdoo laid a hand on the butt of either of the two revolvers which
he carried he would be a dead man before the weapon was half-drawn, for
Lynch was a master of your Western American art of lightning
extermination. It did not seem to me, however, that this would help
matters much, as I had seen that the man kept a swarm of Malays about
him; and Malays, even when ill-treated, are apt to be faithful brutes,
if the master who ill-treats them inspires their respect, as no doubt
McAdoo must, or he would have been dead long before.
“McAdoo did not permit himself another exhibition of badly suppressed
rage; the situation was growing too serious for such petty
self-indulgence. Instead, he assumed an air of awkward good-nature,
which was far more sinister.
“‘Please yourself,’ said he, and walked away toward the gate, with Lynch
walking at his side; this time, however, I observed that my companion
went out _last_.
“When they had disappeared I entered the silent house. My fever would
not mount until late in the evening, and in the meantime, though very
weak, I was able to get about. I went into the first room, which
appeared to be a library and living-room. I had been in hundreds of such
rooms in mission-houses the world over. The same classic pictures, the
same neat rows of classic and unread books, and the same little heaps of
much-read periodicals from ‘home.’ Then there were the local curios
draped over the photographs of smug-faced relatives. Everything was in
perfect order; there had been little traffic in that room since
the—departure of the former occupants.
“I passed from that to a room beyond, which I saw at a glance had been
the missionary’s study. There was here the same hushed waiting. One of
the drawers was half-opened and there was a sharp line of dust across
the papers within. There was a native-made waste-basket, half-filled,
and on top was an envelope with an English stamp addressed to ‘Rev. R.
M. Cullen.’
“A man of method, as the order of his effects proclaimed him to be,
would never have left his house without putting away his personal
effects, Doctor, so I decided to rummage. I knew that missionaries
invariably kept journals, for the sake of subsequent writing, if nothing
else. I reasoned that this diary would be in the desk, probably under
lock and key, so I tried the different drawers and found one of them
locked. When I had pried it open with my hunting knife I found the
journal.”
Leyden paused to light a fresh cigar, which I knew would go out after
the first three puffs. Some of the smoke must have found its way into
his trachea, for he coughed once or twice before proceeding.
“I am a hardened old campaigner, Doctor, and I have never had much
sympathy with missionaries, who have usually impressed me as inspired
asses, but I will confess that as I read the poor chap’s journal my
throat swelled until it was difficult to swallow. Perhaps it was because
I was weakened by my fever; at any rate, I must confess that when I had
finished it the tears were pouring down my face. It was the record of a
Christian hero, Doctor, a Christian martyr as well, as I discovered on
reading the record of the last four days.
“First, there had been three in the family—the missionary, his wife and
a daughter, who, as I read on, I discovered to be a deaf-mute. Within
the last year the wife had died, and not long after her death McAdoo had
come up the river, ‘prospecting,’ as he said. At this time the
missionary was planning to return to England.
“McAdoo had remained a month with the missionary, during which time
their relations had grown ‘somewhat strained.’ He had then departed, as
Mr. Cullen hoped, for good, but _only a fortnight_ before our arrival,
Doctor, he had returned with the news that there was a trading schooner
at the mouth of the river, and that the captain had agreed to give Mr.
Cullen and his daughter a passage to Batavia, whence they could take a
steamer to Amsterdam. McAdoo kindly offered to assume charge of the
mission until he should hear from Mr. Cullen. In the meantime, however,
the missionary had decided to remain, at hearing which McAdoo ‘was
unable to conceal his disappointment!’
“The following day McAdoo came to Mr. Cullen and advised him to leave,
saying that he feared there was a plot among the natives to kill him.
Mr. Cullen scoffed at these fears. The day after that he had a quarrel
with McAdoo and ordered him to leave the premises finally. The last
words in the diary were: ‘To my intense relief the man McAdoo has gone
down the river, and I pray that I may never see his wicked face again!’
“So much for the efficacy of prayer! I arose quickly, shoved the diary
in my pocket and made for the rear of the house. I passed through what
had been the dining-room on my way—_Ach!_ that was where the swine had
nested! Something—superstition, distaste; I do not know what—had kept
him away from the more intimate retreats of his victim; but the
dining-room—I have seen more cleanly barracoons!