Mr Felix was much struck by the tale he heard, and was inclined, in
spite of the dictates of common-sense, to follow the Will-o’-the-wisp
which grave Mr Carver had discovered. In a prosaic age, such a thing
as the disappearance of a respectable Englishman’s wealth was on the
face of it startling enough; and therefore, although the thread was at
present extremely intangible, he felt there must be something romantic
about the matter. Mr Felix, be it remembered, was a man of sense; but
he was a dreamer of dreams, and a weaver of romance by profession
and choice; consequently, he was inclined to pooh-pooh Edgar’s
half-deprecating, half-enthusiastic view of the case.
‘I do not think you are altogether right, Seaton, in treating this
affair so cavalierly,’ he said. ‘In the first place, Miss Wakefield
is no relation in blood to your wife’s uncle. If the property was in
her hands, I should feel myself justified in taking steps to have the
existing will set aside; but so long as there is nothing worth doing
battle for, it is not worth while, unless Miss Wakefield has the money,
and is afraid of proceedings’——
‘That is almost impossible,’ Eleanor interrupted. ‘You have really no
conception how fond she is of show and display, and I know no such fear
would prevent her indulging her fancy, if she had the means to do so.’
‘So long as you are really persuaded that is the case, we have one
difficulty out of the way,’ Felix continued. ‘Then we can take it for
granted that she neither has the money nor has the slightest idea where
it is.—Now, tell me about this Margaret Boulton.’
‘That is soon told,’ Eleanor replied. ‘Last night, shortly alter
eleven, I was crossing Waterloo Bridge’——
‘Bad neighbourhood for a lady to be alone,’ interrupted Felix, with a
reproachful glance at Seaton.—‘I beg your pardon. Go on, please.’
‘I had missed my husband at Waterloo Station, and I was hurrying home
as quickly as I could’——
‘Why did you not take a cab?’ exclaimed Felix with some asperity. Then
seeing Eleanor colour, he said hastily: ‘What a dolt I am! I—I am very
sorry. Please, go on.’
‘As I was saying,’ continued Eleanor, ‘just as I was crossing the
bridge, I saw a woman close by me climb on to one of the buttresses. I
don’t remember much about it, for it was over in less than a minute,
and seems like a dream now; but it was my old nurse, or rather
companion, Margaret Boulton, strange as it seems. Now, you know quite
as much as I can tell you.’
Felix mused for a time over this strange history. He could not shake
off the feeling that it was more than a mere coincidence. ‘Seriously,’
he said, ‘I feel something will come of this.’
‘I hope so,’ answered Eleanor with a little sigh. ‘Things certainly
look a little better now than they did; but we need some permanent
benefit sadly.’
‘I thought some day had come, mamma,’ piped little Nelly from her nest
on the hearthrug.
‘Little pitchers have long ears,’ said the novelist. ‘Come and sit on
poor old Uncle Jasper’s knee, Nelly, and give him a kiss.’
‘Yes, I will, Uncle Jasper; but I’m not a little pitcher, and I’ve not
dot long ears.—Mamma, are my ears long?’
‘No, darling,’ replied her mother with a smile. ‘Uncle Felix was not
speaking of you.’
‘Then I will sit upon his knee.’ Whereupon she climbed up on to that
lofty perch, and proceeded to draw invidious distinctions between Mr
Felix’ moustache and the hirsute appendage of her father, a mode of
criticism which gave the good-natured literary celebrity huge delight.
‘Now,’ continued Felix, when he had placed the little lady entirely
to her satisfaction—‘now to resume. In the first place, I should
particularly like to see this Margaret Boulton to-day.’
‘I do not quite agree with you, Mr Felix. It would be cruel, with her
nerves in such a state, to cross-examine her to-day,’ Mrs Seaton said
with womanly consideration. ‘You can have no idea what such a reaction
means.’
‘Precisely,’ Felix replied grimly. ‘Do you not see what I mean? Her
nervous system is particularly highly strung at present—the brain in
a state of violent activity, probably; and she is certain to be in a
position to remember the minutest detail, and may give us an apparently
trivial hint, which may turn out of the utmost importance.’
‘Still, it seems the refinement of cruelty,’ said Eleanor, her womanly
kindness getting the better of her curiosity. ‘She is in a particularly
nervous state. Naturally, she is inclined to be morbidly religious,
and the mere thought of her attempted crime last night upsets her.’
‘Yes, perhaps so,’ Felix said; ‘but I should like to see her now. We
cannot tell how important it may be to us.’
‘I declare your enthusiasm is positively contagious,’ laughed
Seaton.—‘Really, Felix, I did not imagine you were so deeply imbued
with curiosity. My wife is bad enough, but you are positively girlish.’
‘Indeed, sir, you belie me,’ said Eleanor with mock-indignation. ‘I
am moved by a little natural inquisitiveness; but I shall certainly
not permit that unfortunate girl to be annoyed for the purpose of
gratifying the whim of two grown-up children.’
‘_Mea culpa_,’ Felix replied humbly. ‘But I should like to see the
interesting patient, if only for a few minutes.’
Eleanor laughed merrily at this persistent charge. ‘Well, well,’ she
said, ‘I will go up to Margaret and ascertain if she is fit to see any
one just yet; but I warn you not to be disappointed, for she certainly
shall not be further excited.’
‘I do not think the curiosity is all on our side,’ Felix said, as
Eleanor was leaving the room.—‘You are a fortunate man, Seaton, in
spite of your troubles,’ he continued. ‘A wife like yours must make
anxiety seem lighter.’
‘Indeed, you are right,’ Edgar answered earnestly. ‘Many a time I have
felt like giving it up, and should have done so, if it had not been for
Eleanor.’
‘Strange, too,’ said Felix musingly, ‘that she does not give one the
impression of being so brave and courageous. But you never can tell. I
have been making a study of humanity for twenty years, and I have been
often disappointed in my models. I have seen the weakest do the work of
the strongest. I have seen the strongest, on the other hand, go down
before the first breath of trouble. I have seen the most acid of them
all make the most angelic of wives.’
‘I wonder you have never married, Felix.’
‘Did I not tell you my model women have always been the first to
disappoint me?’ he replied lightly. ‘Besides, what woman could know
Jasper Felix and love him?’
‘Your reputation alone’——
‘Yes, my reputation—and my money,’ Felix said bitterly. ‘Twenty years
ago, when I was plain Jasper Felix, I did—— But bah! I don’t want to
discuss faded rose-leaves with you.—Let us change the subject. I have
some good news for you. In the first place, I have sold the article you
gave me.’
‘Come, that is cheering. I suppose you managed to screw a guinea out of
one of your friends for me?’
‘On the contrary, I sold it on its merits,’ Felix replied, ‘and ten
pounds was the price.’
‘Ten pounds! Am I dreaming, or am I a genius?’
‘Neither; which is true, if not complimentary. There is the cheque
to prove you are not dreaming; and as to the other thing, you have
no genius, but you have considerable talent.—But I have some further
news for you. I have had a note from the editor of _Mayfair_, to whom
I showed your work. Now, Baker of the _Mayfair_ is about the finest
judge of literary capacity I know. He says he was particularly struck
with your descriptive writing; and if you like to undertake the work,
he wants you to visit the principal of the foreign gambling clubs in
London, and work up a series of gossiping articles for his paper. The
work will not be particularly pleasant; but you will have the _entrée_
of all these clubs, and the golden key to get to the working part of
the machinery. The thing will be hard and somewhat hazardous; but it is
a grand opportunity of earning considerable _kudos_. Will you undertake
it?’
‘Undertake it!’ said Seaton, springing to his feet. ‘Will I not? Felix,
you have made a new man of me. Had it not been for you, I don’t know
what would have become of us by this time. I cannot thank you in words,
but you know that I feel your kindness.’
‘I do not see why this should not lead to something like fortune;
anyway, it means comfort and ease, if I do not mistake your capacity,’
said Felix, totally ignoring the other’s gratitude. ‘If I were in your
place, I should not tell my wife I was doing anything dangerous.’
‘Poor child, how thankful she will be! But you are perfectly right as
regards the danger—not that I fear it particularly, though there is no
reason to make her anxious.’
‘What mischief are you plotting?’ said Eleanor, entering the room at
that moment. ‘You look on particularly good terms with yourselves.’
‘Good news, Nelly, good news! I have actually got permanent work to do.
You need not ask whose doing it is.’
‘No, no,’ said Felix modestly. ‘It is your own capability you must
thank.—What about the patient?’
‘I really must ask you to postpone your inquiry for the present,’ she
replied; ‘she is incapable of answering any questions just now. Indeed,
I am so uneasy, that I have sent for a doctor.’
‘Indeed! Well, I suppose we must wait for the present.—And now, I must
tear myself away,’ said Felix, as he rose and proceeded to button his
overcoat.—‘Seaton, you must hold yourself in readiness for your work at
any moment.—No thanks, please,’ as Eleanor was about to speak. ‘Now, I
must go.—Good-night, little Nelly; don’t forget to think of poor old
Uncle Jasper sometimes.’
‘Good-night, Felix,’ said Edgar with a hearty hand-shake. ‘I won’t
thank you; but you know how I feel.—Good-night, dear old boy!’
‘IN AT THE DEATH.’
There were three of us chumming together in a solitary little hole
in the jungle, not so very far—as one counts distance in India—from
Secunderabad. We were Cooper’s Hill young men; and fate and the
government had given us a chance of distinguishing ourselves, and
extinguishing our fellow-creatures, by the making of a branch railway
including a bridge and a tunnel. So there were three of us; and a right
jolly time we had on the whole. Our bungalow was a real work of art,
covered with creepers, by which I do not mean to insinuate centipedes,
of which, however, there were also a good few, but jessamine,
plumbago, a climbing moss—which one of us had rescued from the tangle
of the jungle, and coaxed to live in a more civilised position—besides
many other lovely specimens. To save our valuable time, we generally
addressed each other by our initials. Mine, unfortunately, spelt M. A. G.,
to which my companions, in moments of hilarity, sometimes added a
second course of P. I. E. I was the eldest of the trio.
We had not been very long at our branch-line work, when I was laid low
with an exhausting attack of jungle fever and ague. My friends E. S. P.
and H. F. by turns nursed me with a tenderness and care for which I can
never be sufficiently grateful. I pulled through, thanks to them; but
since that time, have been subject to rather severe fits of ague, from
one of which I was recovering, at the time the incident happened I wish
to tell you about.
It had been an absolutely broiling day, and we had been driven to the
verge of insanity between the heat and the flies. We were reclining,
after our day’s work, on our basket sofas, on the veranda, in the cool
of the evening, puffing away solemnly and silently at our brier-root
pipes, when it suddenly struck us that a group of native workmen, who
were superintending the cooking of their evening meal in a corner of
our very improvised sort of compound, must have received some exciting
intelligence. Being young and sportively inclined, we were all three
fellows of one idea, and that idea was, ‘tigers.’
‘Just call to that gaping fool and ask him what’s up,’ suggested I, in
a washed-out voice.
‘St John!’ shouted E. S. P., whose voice carried farther than either
of ours, clapping his hands loudly at the same time, to attract the
attention of the gabbling group; and up came the tallest, thinnest
native to be met in a very long day’s ride. We had christened this man
‘St John,’ first, because he wore the most fearfully and wonderfully
made camel’s-hair garment that civilised eyes ever looked upon; and
secondly, because he was so desperately lean and lanky, we were certain
that he must feed on either locusts or grasshoppers, which are both
supposed to be a very anti-fat diet.
Up, then, came this mysterious coolie; and, with many salaams, much
gesticulation and showing the whites of his eyes, he informed us that
there was a most bloodthirsty man-eater lurking in the neighbourhood,
close by, at our very door! I looked nervously round, not enjoying the
idea of being caught by Monsieur Maneater armed only with a brier-wood
pipe. E. and H. at once appeared to be seized with St Vitus’s dance, so
absurdly and hysterically active had they suddenly become.
‘Where was he last seen?’ ‘How large was he?’ ‘What village was the
scene of his last meal?’ ‘How many people was he known to have eaten?’
‘Who brought the news?’ ‘Send him up to be questioned!’
St John went away; and in a few minutes reappeared, accompanied by a
native postman, who, it seemed, knowing that the railway Sahibs were
partial to tiger, had kindly dropped in with the intelligence. We found
out all we could from the man, and rewarded him with some money and
tobacco.
The last victim was a poor native woman, who had crept into the corner
of the veranda of a bungalow some miles away, and fallen asleep, from
which, poor soul, she was roughly awakened, and then half-carried,
half-dragged to a clump of thick jungle-grass and bushes about two and
a half miles from where we were. The postman’s eyes and teeth glistened
with sympathetic pleasure, as he saw how keen and eager the other two
fellows were to be after the brute. I was out of it altogether, as I
could not trust my shaky hands with a rifle in such a case of life
or death, so I looked on and listened to all their suggestions and
arrangements with the deepest interest.
‘That poor old bag of bones is not likely to have afforded him much of
a “gorge,”’ said H. ‘He may turn up on _our_ veranda to-night, boys, to
see if he can find some light refreshment here.’
‘He will get some black pepper which may not agree with him,’ said
E. S. P., who had gone into what we called our armoury and brought
out his rifle, which he began to clean and make ready for very active
service.
By this time darkness had closed in round us, with that small respect
for twilight which so bothers the enterprising traveller in foreign
lands. The servants and workmen had dispersed to their various
habitations, and our white-headed native factotum was standing before
us announcing dinner.
‘Hush!’ said H., putting his finger up in a commanding way and
listening intently. ‘Didn’t either of you hear something leap over the
wall?’
‘Oh, bother your imagination—I’m off to dinner,’ said I, rising
abruptly, and disappearing through the open window. The other fellows
followed, and were soon busily employed in making the most of _the_
meal of the day and arranging about the morrow’s sport.
When ‘To Tum,’ as we irreverently called our venerable butler, brought
me my tea and biscuits at six the next morning, I had much to ask him,
for E. and H. had gone off without waking me, probably thinking that
the sight of them with two rifles in their hands, and a tiger in the
bush, would be too exciting and tantalising for me. I found that the
Massa Sahibs had departed after a very hasty breakfast, and had taken
St John with them, carrying a third gun, in case of accident. A railway
coolie reported distant shots, heard about an hour after the Sahibs had
left the bungalow; but nothing had since been seen or heard of men or
man-eater.
‘You can open that blind, To Tum,’ said I, pointing to one of the
windows looking towards the north, for I thought I should probably see
the conquering heroes returning that way, covered with glory and thorn
scratches. The butler had departed and left me to my meditations, and
good intentions of performing my toilet and going to see what was doing
on the line. I continued to lie, looking dreamily out of the window,
the jalousie of which To Tum had thrown back. It was not much of a
view, consisting only of a corner of the compound wall and the jungle
beyond; but a soft pinky haze beautified everything; and, fanned by a
most delicious cool breeze, I closed my eyes again and dozed for a few
minutes, utterly and blissfully ignorant that sudden death had just
cleared that compound wall, and was making, stealthily and wearily,
straight for my open window. I heard—in a dream as it were, so did not
heed—a curious scratching noise, followed by soft limping footsteps
across the veranda; then heavy breathing, almost gasping, which seemed
so unpleasantly near, that I opened my sleepy, dreamy eyes just in time
to see his most Serene Highness the Bengal tiger throw himself in an
utterly done-for condition by the side of my bed!
Here was a situation! My very marrow seemed to freeze in my bones, and
every hair on my head was alive with electrified fright. I lay as still
as a corpse, and in my heart thanked a considerate providence which had
made the beast turn its back to me, instead of its villainous face. I
was too paralysed even to think of what I could do to get out of the
room, which, perhaps, was fortunate. The animal had evidently run far
and fast, as its panting sides and foam-flaked jaws plainly showed;
so there was just a feeble chance of its going to sleep, and _then_
would be the time to cautiously escape. Its great murderous-looking
paws were stained with blood; and, though I could see that one of them
was wounded, the idea _would_ take possession of my weak and agitated
mind, that it was the blood of one of my companions, and not the
tiger’s own. Suddenly, to my horror, the brute lifted its head from
its paws, pricked up its ears, and listened intently. I also listened
as well as I could; but every nerve was throbbing, and the sound in
both ears was as the surging of stormy waves on a pebbly beach. I,
too, however, caught a distant ‘click,’ very faint and indistinct,
and I could not make out what it was. The tiger again composed itself
to sleep or watch; it was impossible to see if its eyes were open or
shut. After a lifetime of miserable sensations, I guessed, by the even
rise and fall of its sides, that it must be having what might not be
more than the proverbial forty winks; so now was my time, or never!
Not once taking my eyes off the object of my terror, I slipped out of
the bed, which gave a gentle creak, that, to my fevered imagination,
sounded like a death knell. He did not move! I wished I had more on, I
felt _so_ defenceless. I crept slowly to the door, not taking one foot
off the ground till I had carefully steadied myself on both. I reached
the only thing that divided me from comparative safety, softly turned
the handle. The door was locked! For one second I had taken my steady
gaze from the sleeping brute; when I looked again, what a change! Head
thrown back, ears flat, eyes glaring savagely, and flanks trembling and
quivering with the stealthy movement of an animal about to spring! But
not at me! I followed the tiger’s glance, and caught a glimpse of the
barrel of a rifle, just one second—then a flash—a roar—a struggle—and I
fell senseless on the floor.
When I came to myself, I was lying wrapped in my dressing-gown on a
sofa in the sitting-room. E. S. P. was kneeling beside me with a bottle
of something in his hand, and H. F. was standing at my feet with an
expression of the greatest solicitude.
‘Don’t talk just yet, old fellow,’ said he; ‘wait till you feel
stronger, and we’ll tell you all about it. By Jove! you _had_ a narrow
escape.’
After a few minutes’ quiet, my curiosity awoke in full force. ‘Tell
me,’ said I—‘did you kill him straight off?’
‘O yes,’ answered E. S. P. ‘He’s as dead as mutton. But we had no idea
that you were there. To Tum told us that you had gone to the line ages
ago; and we tracked the brute through your open window, where he had
taken refuge. H. wounded him in the off hind-leg, when we got our first
sight of him in the jungle; and instead of coming at us, he bolted,
and led us a precious dance. To Tum bolted your door on the outside,
thinking it would stand a charge better, in case the tiger made one;
but he thought that you were safe off the premises.’
‘Well,’ said I, shuddering at the recollection, ‘I really don’t think I
am more cowardly than most people, but may I never spend another such
_mauvais quart d’heure_!’
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
A NEW LIGHT.
The rise and progress of the mineral-oil industry are too well known
to need any special comment. In this and other countries, the supply
of hydro-carbon oils, both from shale-beds and springs, has of late
years received remarkable development. Nor will surprise be expressed,
viewing the enormous quantities of this material brought into the
market, and the low figure at which it can be supplied, that efforts
are continually being made, and experiments carried out, to utilise in
new forms the heat and light giving properties so eminently possessed
by this commodity.
Some little time back, we touched on heat-production from hydro-carbon
oil, and pointed out its adaptability for raising steam on board ships,
and similar cases where saving in space and weight forms an important
desideratum. Since then, matters have advanced considerably, and the
late voyage of a vessel in British waters propelled entirely by oil-fed
furnaces, sufficiently testifies to the progress already made.
Hydro-carbon oils promise, however, to find employment in another
direction—namely, for lighting purposes, and already at the great
Forth Bridge works a considerable number of the new lights are in
regular operation, and giving results in every respect satisfactory.
The essential principle involved in this method of lighting consists
in forcing air, compressed to about twenty pounds on the square inch,
through the heavy hydro-carbon oil. The oil issues from the burner
in a fine spray, which burns with a remarkably steady and brilliant
light, the oxygen of the air being thoroughly consumed. The absence
of smoke and smell is particularly noticeable. The oil is stored in
circular tanks of galvanised iron, holding some twenty gallons, or
about ten hours’ supply. A vertical tube extends upwards from the tank
and carries the burner; whilst an ingeniously contrived shade, arranged
to turn around the burner according to the direction of the wind,
affords shelter to the flame. A safety-valve is fitted to the tank to
obviate any undue increase of pressure in the air. The whole apparatus
is mounted on a stand some fifteen to twenty feet high, and sheds a
brilliant light for at least two hundred yards.
It may be added that the well-diffused light of the new system
contrasts very forcibly with the black dense shadows cast by the
electric light, and forms a strong argument in favour of the former.
The power required to supply air is not large, about one-eighth
horse-power being found sufficient for each light. Thus, a small
air-compressor of five horse-power can readily produce abundant
pressure for forty lights. When employed on a large scale, and laid
down permanently, other economies and conveniences can be effected, as,
for example, the erection of a central tank arranged to feed all the
burners.
Turning now to the oil employed, it may be noted that almost any oil
may be utilised, the crude and waste products of oil and gas works
being found to yield excellent results. This fact alone, enabling
products of small value to be rendered serviceable, should advance
the light in no small degree. There is beyond all question a large
field for any illuminating agent, which can be readily erected in
goods-sheds, ship-yards, or engineering works, and can be worked at
moderate cost. Whether or not this adaptation of hydro-carbon oil
will fulfil all the conditions necessary to render it a commercial
success and lead to its wide development, time alone can tell. We have,
however, shown that it has already done good work, and promises well
for the future.
MR G. A. SALA ON LABOUR IN AUSTRALIA.
Mr G. A. Sala, recently addressing the representative of an Australian
journal, said: ‘I recognise that labour is needed everywhere in
Australia—more working men, more domestic servants, more young men,
more intelligent men, more Scotsmen—as many more as ever you like. I
think I have also been able to discern the people who are not required
here. These are the black-sheep of good families, loafers, idlers,
young men who come out and spend their money, drift into dissolute
habits, get remittances to take them home again, where they do nothing
but abuse the colonies, of which they know nothing, and in which their
presence was likely to do more harm than good. I have been preaching
lay sermons for a good many years; and were I not too old and too
wicked, I would get into some pulpit at home and preach as a minister,
for certainly ministers have more influence over their congregations
than lecturers have over audiences. I would say to my hearers: “My
capable, hard-working, shrewd, intelligent brethren, go out to
Australia. You and your wives and your children, go out, work hard; and
be assured that, with or without capital, you will, by hard working,
frugality, and sobriety, greatly better your condition. Not only that,
but you will also better those whom you leave behind. You will give
more and more backbone, more and more muscle, more and more red blood,
to the body politic of Australia.” But I would also add: “My idle
brethren, my stupid brethren, my wicked, needy brethren, my vicious
brethren, my drunken brethren, stop at home and gravitate to your
natural refuge, the poorhouse. Do not go out to Australia to become a
nuisance and a pest there.” Then, in more forbearing language, I would
amicably advise young men in England of mere clerical attainments, who
can at best only hope to be bookkeepers or shop assistants, to think
twice, nay thrice, before they travel thirteen thousand miles to find
a country where the native youths equal, if they do not excel them in
the ability demanded by the requirements of the counting-house and
shop-counter.’
FOREIGN COMPETITION.
Sir John Brown, of the well-known firm of John Brown & Co., has
said that he ‘feared England had almost, if not altogether reached
the summit of her prosperity, and that she must not again look for
any material prosperity such as the last thirty or forty years had
displayed.’ English trade was being nibbled right and left by Germany,
Austria, Prussia, and the United States. Illustrating this, Sir John
stated that his large ship-building Company at Hull had recently taken
their supplies of steel plates from Germany at prices varying from
ten shillings to twenty shillings per ton below the prices at which
Sheffield could supply the material. The same was true of ship-building
firms at Newcastle and other places. Notwithstanding the cost of
carriage, rails were sent more cheaply from Germany, by Antwerp and the
German Ocean, to Hull and Newcastle than they could be made in England.
A process of cold-rolling is known only to certain French and American
houses; and it is curious, but not altogether creditable to ourselves,
that steel is sent to Paris to be cold-rolled, and is afterwards
returned to this country.
BONNIE DRYFE.
Bonnie Dryfe, my native stream,
I have loved thee lang and dearly,
Glancing in the sunny beam,
Glinting through the bracken clearly.
Wayward, wandering, mountain bairn,
Dancing down thy glen so grassy,
Leaping light by cliff and cairn,
Gleesome as a muirland lassie.
Singing by the Roman moat,
Neighbours ye’ve been lang together,
Sadd’ning memories vex thee not,
Lilting blithely through the heather.
Seaward wandering, bright and free,
Dreaming not of Old World story;
Fallen empire’s nought to thee,
Older thou than Roman glory.
I have roamed by silver Tweed,
Stately Clyde majestic rushing,
Strayed where Highland rivers speed
O’er their rocky channels gushing.
Nane can sing a sang like thine,
Nane can dance so light and airy,
Nane can cheer this heart o’ mine
Like thee, thou merry mountain fairy.
WILLIAM GARDINER.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._