While this banter had been passing among the company in the great oak
library below, Miss Mettleby lay on her little white bed where she had
flung herself in a deeper and sterner mood than had ever been hers
before. One after another possible explanation of her great knight’s
terrible words presented itself to her mind, only to be rejected.
For one quivering moment the thought that if the woman who passed for
Mrs. Fair were not, as he had said, his wife, he was free to—but, no,
for that meant that Maxwell Fair was a scoundrel who could not only
place a woman in such a nameless position but also desert her when she
had borne children to him. It was a frightful view from any point—and
yet, at the bottom of her heart she felt that the man who had obtained
such a mastery over her soul was not, could not be, so base.
Racked by this futile effort to see light through the darkness Miss
Mettleby started as she heard a tap at her door and the quiet, earnest
voice of Mrs. Fair asking if she might come in. Her first impulse was
to take this strong, sweet woman, so terribly her fellow-sufferer,
into her confidence, but before she had called out to her to enter all
such mad ideas had flown. Trying to banish all evidence of her recent
tempest of feeling, the governess respectfully begged her mistress to
come in.
It was nothing, Mrs. Fair said, with a great show of forced pleasantry,
but a little surprise for Mr. Fair—a parcel. Would Miss Mettleby hide
it while they were at dinner, and tell her where she had put it after?
Both women assured each other that they had not been crying—just a
headache. And, yes, Miss Mettleby would find a hiding-place for the
surprise.
So Mrs. Fair went down to greet her guests, and when she had heard the
company go from the library to dinner, Miss Mettleby ran down to that
deserted room with the big, brown-paper parcel in her hands. She had
at once thought of the old Italian chest as the very place in which to
hide Mr. Fair’s surprise. She peeped into the library to make sure that
her ears had not deceived her. The room was empty, and the girl crept
in.
Fearing that some of the footmen or other servants might enter, she
took the precaution to draw the portières across the door into the
passage and then hurriedly removed the books and other things that
Mr. Fair had placed upon the chest. This done, she was just going to
lift the lid, when she heard a peculiar hissing noise which would have
startled her at any time and which, with her nerves keyed up, now
filled her with genuine terror. She turned from the chest and listened.
(_To be continued in the April number._)
_A Trust-Buster_
COBWIGGER—By the way, my dear, I haven’t seen anything of the gas bill
this month.
MRS. COBWIGGER—Oh, Henry, it came over a week ago, but it was
so much I didn’t dare show it to you for fear you would blame me for
being extravagant. Here it is.
COBWIGGER (_looking at bill_)—Hoppity-hornets! What a bill
for a small family! I don’t blame you at all, my dear. It isn’t your
fault; it’s this grasping corporation. But I’ll get ahead of them all
right.
MRS. COBWIGGER—How can you?
COBWIGGER—Pshaw! It’s just like a woman to ask such a foolish
question. How am I going to get ahead of this monopoly? Why, tell the
old gas company to take out its meter.
MRS. COBWIGGER—And then what will you do?
COBWIGGER—Why, put in lamps and patronize the Standard Oil
Company.
_Kernels_
Many a politician who talks about an honest dollar never earned an
honest penny.
If there wasn’t a sucker born every minute a lot of people in this
world would have to work for a living.
The cost of keeping up appearances is usually defrayed with other
people’s money.
The man whose mind moves like clockwork isn’t the fellow who has wheels
in his head.
Many a politician would be a statesman if there were more money in it.
The thought of work makes some people more tired than if they had
really done the work.
The man who thinks that his money will do almost everything for him is
the one who did almost everything for his money.
Marriage is the only union that doesn’t make a man keep regular hours.
_A Positive Proof_
“Are you sure that Percy really loves you?”
“Positive. Why, at the dinner last night he offered to divide his last
dyspepsia tablet with me.”
_The Butcheries of Peace_
BY W. J. GHENT
_Author of “Our Benevolent Feudalism,” “Mass and Class”_
We hear much of the butchery of war. Mr. Edward Atkinson and his
fellow-anti-militarists are always opulent with statistics of
casualties in armed conflicts; and in their violent denunciation of
warfare are eagerly joined by the various peace societies, the Women’s
Christian Temperance unions and such militant, though ephemeral,
bodies as the Parker Constitutional Clubs. A prominent educator has
characterized the Civil War as the Great Killing, and the popular
imagination has been led to look upon it as a carnival of almost
unexampled bloodshed. The militarism of gun and sword is denounced as
though it were the greatest scourge of the race, and its horrors are
pictured in the most lurid colors.
The horrors of _industrial_ militarism, on the other hand, claim but
scant attention. Under our present civilization, dominated by the
ethics of the trading class, they are, by the overwhelming mass of
the people, taken as a matter of course. And yet the fiercest and
bloodiest of modern wars—excepting alone the present Russo-Japanese
conflict—result in smaller losses in deaths, maimings and the
infliction of mortal diseases than are caused by the ordinary
processes of the capitalist system of industry. A modern Milton might
appropriately remind us that
Peace hath her butcheries no less renowned than war.
If the Civil War is to be regarded as the Great Killing, it must be so
regarded only in relation to other wars; for in comparison with
capitalist industry as it obtains in the United States of America in
this decade, the Civil War can only rightly be regarded as the Lesser
Killing. It lasted, moreover, for but four years; while the killings
and other casualties of our industrial militarism go on year after
year in an ever-increasing volume. And as the Civil War eliminated the
physically best of the race, so does the present system of industry
eliminate the physically best. Only it does not stop there, but takes
also the helpless and the weak.
Let us see what comparisons of casualties can be made. According to
the figures in the Adjutant-General’s office, the fatalities in the
Northern Army during the four years of the Civil War (exclusive of
deaths from disease) were as follows:
Killed in battle 67,058
Died of wounds 43,012
Other causes 40,154
-------
Total 150,224
Yearly average 37,556
There were also 199,720 soldiers who died of disease. There are no
means of comparing the number of these fatalities with the fatalities
from disease contracted in dangerous and unsanitary occupations. It is
probable that they do not approximate one-tenth of the latter. But,
since there are no available figures for comparison, they must be
omitted from present consideration.
The losses of the Confederates will never be known. The records of
their armies were but imperfectly kept, and such as were properly made
were in many instances lost or destroyed. Even the strength of
the Confederate armies is a matter about which there has been an
unceasing dispute between Northern and Southern historians since the
Civil War. It is not to be doubted that the Confederates suffered
a greater mortality relative to their numerical strength than did
the Federals, for they were employed to the last available man on
the firing line, whereas hundreds of thousands of Federals, held as
reserves or stationed as guards, rarely saw the action of battle. In
certain engagements, moreover, such as the battle of Chickamauga,
the Confederate losses far exceeded the Federal losses. Assuming the
purely arbitrary figure of 65 per cent. of the Federal fatalities as
representing the fatalities of the Confederates (exclusive of deaths
from disease), we have a total of 97,645, or a yearly average of
24,411. Adding the figures for both sides we have an annual average of
62,112 fatalities occurring in a struggle to the death, wherein every
device, every energy which men can employ against one another for the
destruction of life were employed.
When we come to the statistics of industrial fatalities, we find
something like the records of the Confederate armies. The figures are
notoriously, confessedly incomplete, and often so much so as to be
entirely misleading. Even the tables of railroad accidents compiled by
the Interstate Commerce Commission are known to show totals far below
the actual casualties. A writer in the New York _Herald_ for December
4, 1904, has analyzed some of these tables and pointed out their
defects. But, defective as they are, they furnish an approximate basis
for comparisons with some of the sanguinary conflicts of the Civil War.
The killings on interstate roads for the year ended June 30, 1904, are
reported at 9,984; the woundings at 78,247. The State roads probably
added about 975 killings and 7,500 woundings. To these may be added the
casualties on the trolley lines, approximately 1,340 killed and 52,169
wounded. We have thus a basis for comparison with the losses at
Gettysburg, Chancellorsville and Chickamauga:
_Losses in Three Battles (both sides), 1863_
Killed Wounded
Gettysburg 5,662 27,203
Chickamauga 3,924 23,362
Chancellorsville 3,271 18,843
------ ------
12,857 69,408
_Losses in Railroad Accidents, 1904_
Killed Wounded
Interstate roads 9,984 78,247
State roads *975 7,500
Trolley lines *1,340 52,169
------ -------
12,299 137,916
*Estimated.
The factories probably destroy more lives than do the railroads. But
the figures are not obtainable. The statistics of factory casualties
given in Bulletin No. 83 of the Census Bureau are ridiculous. Were the
factories placed under a Federal supervision law, and were their owners
compelled to report accidents to the authorities, a vastly different
condition would be revealed. For the coal mines, on the other hand, we
have something like authentic figures. The United States Geological
Survey reports the casualties in mining coal for the year 1901 as
1,467 killed and 3,643 wounded. Except for the low ratio of wounded
to killed, this would make a fair comparison with any one of a number
of important engagements during the Civil War. Pennsylvania alone
furnished an industrial Bull Run.
_Battle of Bull Run, 1861_
Killed Wounded
Federals 470 1,071
Confederates 387 1,582
---- -----
Total 857 2,653
_Pennsylvania Coal Mines, 1901_
Killed Wounded
Anthracite 513 1,243
Bituminous 301 656
---- -----
Total 814 1,899
When we pass from the record of particular industries to the general
casualty record we are met by a mass of unintelligible figures.
Bulletin No. 83 gives the rate of fatal accidents in the cities wherein
registration is required as 100.3 in each 100,000 of population.
For the whole registration record the rate is 96.3. On a basis of
80,000,000 population this would mean a yearly loss of from 77,040 to
80,240 lives. Mr. Frederick L. Hoffman, of the Prudential Insurance
Company, in a letter printed in Mr. Robert Hunter’s recent volume,
“Poverty,” estimates the rate as between 80 and 85 per 100,000. This
would mean from 64,000 to 68,000 killings. “If we say that twenty-five
are injured to every one killed, and consider ... the fatal accident
rate to be 80 in every 100,000, we have it that 1,664,000 persons
are annually killed or more or less seriously injured in the United
States. If all minor accidents were taken into consideration, it is
probable that the ratio of non-fatal accidents to fatal accidents would
be nearly 100 to 1.” This would mean approximately 4,800,000 minor
woundings every year.
We cannot separate, on the basis of present figures, the fatal
accidents which would be inevitable under any form of society and those
which are consequent upon the present capitalist system of production,
with its brutal indifference to life. We can only estimate. We have,
for instance, in the census reports, an entry of “burns and scalds,”
but nothing about boiler explosions; we have a certain number of
deaths from drowning, but we are not told whether they occurred in
frightful disasters like mine floods or the destruction of a _General
Slocum_—for which capitalist industry is solely responsible—or
in accidents wherein the individual’s whim or caprice alone was
responsible. And finally we have an appalling record of suicides; but
in how many of these business troubles or other economic causes were
the impelling motives for self-destruction we cannot tell.
What we do know is that the overwhelming number of the fatalities
that all of us learn of, instance by instance, are due to economic
causes; that railroad, factory and mining accidents are for the most
part needless, and due almost entirely to the brutal indifference of
capital to the lives of the workers, and that far the greater number of
suicides of which we read or hear are of beings who have been sent to
death through economic troubles. Under the benign reign of capitalist
industry we have a yearly list of fatalities somewhere between 64,000
and 80,240 and of serious maimings of 1,600,000, whereas two great
armies, employing all the enginery of warfare, could succeed in
slaughtering only 62,112 human beings yearly.
It is time we heard less of the butchery of war; time we heard more
of the butchery of peace. And yet it is doubtful if we shall hear a
different strain from those now most prominently before the public as
advocates of peace. The advocacy of peace, in so far as it emanates
from the retainers and other beneficiaries of the capitalist class, is
based not so much upon humanitarian grounds as upon the ground that the
worker is serving a more useful purpose when mangled in the Holy War
of Trade than when slaughtered in armed conflict. It is the waste of
profits on human labor, rather than the waste of life, that most deeply
affects them. They are not always conscious of this, because they
instinctively identify their moral notions with the material interests
of the class they serve. But an unconscious or subconscious motive may
be the most powerful of impulses to speech and action. And thus there
is every reason to believe that we shall continue to hear the horrors
of war most loudly denounced by the very ones who keep most silent
regarding the horrors of industrial “peace.”
* * * * *
It is curious how fond men grow of each other when they are making money
together.
_Remembered_
BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
His art was loving. Eros set his sign
Upon that youthful forehead, and he drew
The hearts of women, as the sun draws dew.
Love feeds love’s thirst as wine feeds love of wine.
Nor is there any potion from the vine
Which makes men drunken, like the subtle brew,
Of kisses crushed by kisses; and he grew
Inebriated with that draught divine.
Yet in his sober moments, when the sun
Of radiant summer paled to lonely fall
And passion’s sea had grown an ebbing tide,
From out the many Memory singled one
Full cup that seemed the sweetest of them all—
The warm, red mouth that mocked him and denied!
_Martyrdom_
BY LEONARD CHARLES VAN NOPPEN
The world cries loud for blood; for never grew
One saving truth that blossomed, man to bless,
That withered not in barren loneliness
Till watered by the sacrificial dew.
Behold the prophets stoned—the while they blew
A warning blast—the sad immortal guess
Of Socrates—the thorn-crowned lowliness
Of Christ! And that black cross our Lincoln knew!
’Tis only through the whirlwind and the storm
That man can ever reach his starry goal;
Someone must bleed or else the world will die.
Upon the flaring altar of reform
Some heart lies quivering ever. To what soul
That dares be true, comes not the martyr’s agony?
_The Debt_
BORROWBY—By Jove, old man! I owe you an everlasting debt of gratitude!
GRIMSHAW—No, you don’t, Borrowby! You owe me fifty dollars in
money.
_The Heroism of Admiral Guldberg_
THE MOST AMAZING NAVAL BATTLE EVER FOUGHT
BY ROBERT BARR
We must not allow the thunder of the guns around Port Arthur to deaden
our ears to accounts of heroism in the past. Other admirals have
attacked fortified strongholds before Togo was heard of. Other admirals
have striven for the command of the sea before Alexieff blundered into
a war for which he was not ready. I record the capable strenuousness of
Admiral Guldberg, who strove to defend a country not his own, and did
the best he could with the materials provided him.
Ajax defied the lightning, and Guldberg defied the French, possessors
of the second most powerful navy afloat. Therefore three cheers for old
Guldberg and more power to his elbow.
A dozen years ago, when Siam resolved to take its place among the
great nations of the earth, that country imported from Europe certain
men who were supposed to know how to do things. An Englishman from
Oxford endeavored to evolve a school system; a German from Krupp’s
establishment was made head of the Royal railway department, although
there were no railways at that time in the country to look after;
still, as there was no education either, he started fair with the
Englishman. Another German looked after telegraphs, and he also had a
clean slate to begin on. The reconstruction of the army and navy was
intrusted to the care of a pair of Danes, notable fighters of yore and
master mariners, as all the world knows. Commodore de Richelieu had
been a Danish officer, and it would have astonished the cardinal of
that name to have seen him fighting against the French. De Richelieu
had charge of the forts, and the training of the men to defend them.
Admiral Guldberg commanded the fleet, and endeavored with indifferent
success to teach the Siamese something about navigation.
In 1893, while these useful Danes were endeavoring to put some backbone
into Siamese incompetency, the diplomatic services of France and Siam
began sending picture post-cards to each other. Diplomacy is invariably
polite, but when it takes a hand in the game, prepare for squalls.
Although I have the Blue-books before me relating to this tragic
occurrence, I am quite unable to determine the rights of the case.
Probably France and Siam were both in the wrong, but be that as it may,
France persisted in her intention, little dreaming that right round the
bend of the river Admiral Guldberg was waiting for her. The rights and
wrongs in these affairs depend a great deal on the power of the other
party.
I imagine if France wished to send two gunboats up the Hudson River,
and the President of the United States ordered the war vessels to
proceed no further than New York Bay, France might perhaps have
considered herself in the wrong, and the war vessels would not have
proceeded; but as the other party in the case under consideration was
merely the helpless kingdom of Siam, it is a historical fact that the
two members of the French fleet, _Inconstant_ and _Comète_, crossed the
Rubicon; in other words, the bar—and entered the River Me-nam against
the current and the wishes of His Majesty of Siam; and this took place
on that unlucky day, the thirteenth of July, 1893.
Paknam was the Port Arthur in this instance. It lies three miles from
the mouth of the river and thirty miles by water south of the capital,
Bangkok, although on the opposite bank of the stream a railway sixteen
miles in length runs into the capital. At Paknam everything was
prepared for a desperate resistance. The forts were well manned and the
cannon were loaded. Commodore de Richelieu was in command, glad that
diplomacy had broken down, as it usually does, and that now military
renown was to be his. The Siamese soldiers have one defect: they
believe in the couplet that “he who fights and runs away will live to
fight another day.” Indeed, they better the lines, and run away before
even showing fight. Thus, in all the wars Siam has engaged in she has
never lost a man, just as if she were the Cunard line of steamers.
When the Siamese soldiers realized that their gallant Commodore was
actually going to fire off the guns, they unanimously got over the
garden wall with a celerity that amazed the man from Denmark. Nothing
daunted, the resolute de Richelieu held the fort, and himself fired off
the guns one after another. When this cannonade had been accomplished
he was helpless, for he could not reload without assistance, so he got
himself into a steam launch, sailed across the river and took train to
Bangkok.
Authorities differ as to the result of the Commodore’s cannon fire. One
says that several Frenchmen were killed and wounded, another that no
harm was done. So far as I am aware the French gunboat made no reply,
but steamed majestically up the river, while their enemy was steaming
with equal majesty on a special engine over the rocky road to Bangkok.
While the French fleet was proceeding toward a peril of which they had
not the slightest suspicion, we have time to consider the equipment of
Admiral Guldberg, who will not be so easily got rid of as his
countryman, the Commodore.
Three years before there had been built at Hong Kong a steam yacht for
His Excellency the Governor of the Philippines, which at that time
was under Spanish rule. When the yacht was finished the Governor of
course wanted it, but wished to pay on the instalment plan, whereas
the builders said they were not engaged in the three years’ hire
system business, and having some acquaintance with Spanish financial
arrangements, they declined to deliver the goods except on a basis
of cash down. Such a hard money determination was enough to knock
the bottom out of any negotiation with a Spanish official, so the
Governor folded his toga proudly about him, and in the purest Castilian
practically repeated the words of the old song to the effect that the
yacht might go to Hong Kong for him, which it did not need to do, being
there already. So in Hong Kong it remained, until in ’91 an emissary of
the Siamese Government bought it, and took it round to Bangkok.
The Siamese armed this terrific vessel with old muzzle-loading cannons
that had hitherto occupied the position of corner posts of various
compounds about the capital. The boat had been intended for pleasure
and not for war, so there were no portholes for the muzzles of the
guns. This difficulty was got over by building a low deck-house the
length of the vessel, and placing the cannon athwart this structure,
one pointing to port, another to starboard, another to port, another
to starboard, and so on, the ordnance being chained down, or roped or
tied with string, so that it would not cause the yacht to tumble a
somersault when fired. The arrangement had the advantage of economy, as
no gun-carriages were needed, and as the cannon could be loaded from
the deck. But there was also the drawback, which perhaps would have
been felt more in any other navy than that of Siam, which consisted of
the fact that you could not aim the cannon at anything in particular.
Still, a gunner might have much enjoyment in shooting at the landscape
in general. A British naval officer of large experience stated
solemnly that he never understood the horrors of warfare until he saw
this vessel. The arrangement of the cannon made the craft somewhat
top-heavy, and so the authorities wisely ordained that she was never to
put to sea where the waves might upset the apple cart.
As if the cannon were not enough, her name was one likely to strike
terror into the heart of the stoutest enemy. She was called the _Makut
Rajakumar_, and she was listed in the naval annals of Siam as a small
cruiser. This sea-dog of war was the flagship of Admiral Guldberg,
commanded and captained by the Dane himself, with a full crew of
twenty-seven fighting Siamese, not to mention two engineers and four
stokers.
The French pretend that two vessels opposed the coming of their two
warships, and while this is technically true, it is not actually so,
and as the statement tends to detract from the undoubted bravery of
Admiral Guldberg, it may as well be stated that the second vessel was
a small steam scow which carried only one gun, whose muzzle projected
overboard where the bowsprit is on a sailing vessel, and because
the gun was stationary there, chained there as were those on the
_Makut Rajakumar_, it could be loaded only when the scow was moored
to a wharf. This barge was commanded by Captain Schmieglow. His crew
deserted him in a body before she left the wharf, and as the good
Captain did not understand the engine he contented himself with firing
the cannon down the river, which concussion so dislocated the machinery
that the scow ran her nozzle agin’ the bank of the opposite shore, and
there the Captain was helpless. So his Admiral had to fight the battle
alone.
Again French historians maintain that their warships never fired a shot
at the floating lunatic asylum which assailed them, and it is also
stated that the Admiral’s cannon balls never touched them. That may all
be true enough, but it in no way interferes with my assertion that
Admiral Guldberg did the very best he could with the material in hand,
and that he put up one of the finest fights ever recorded in the
history of the sea.
And now we come to the battle, and as the French had a certain hand
in it, the stirring lines of French Canada’s poet, Dr. Drummond, may
fittingly be quoted to open the strife.
One dark night on Lake St. Pierre,
The wind she blow, blow, blow;
And the crew of the wood scow _Julia Plante_
Got scared and ran below.
The unfortunate occurrence which ultimately wrecked the _Julia Plante_
happened also on board the _Makut Rajakumar_. The moment the French war
vessels appeared the entire crew of the Siamese cruiser dived below,
bewailing their lot, and leaving Admiral Guldberg alone on deck. The
helmsman deserted the wheel, and the engineer his engine. The French
fleet was still some distance to the southward, so the Admiral rushed
after his craven crew, and kicked most of them aloft again, wild Danish
oaths from his lips keeping time to the energetic swaying of his foot,
commanding them to stand by the guns. It was no use; with a yell of
terror they again descended, falling over each other down into the
hold. The Admiral ran to the wheel, swerved his vessel; then let go the
spokes, seized a lighted torch, and fired the port side cannons one
after another. Back he dashed to the wheel again, turned his boat up
the river, for the Frenchmen were now passing him, fled again to the
unfired guns and gave the French the second broadside.
Now, to his horror, he saw that the French ships, better engined than
his own, were leaving him without firing a shot, and from the prow he
shook his fist at them, daring them to stand up to him, but neither the
mouth of man nor the mouth of cannon made answer.
Flinging his cocked hat to the deck, and tossing his laced coat on top
of it, rolling up his sleeves and seizing the rammer, he swabbed out
the old cannon, and reloaded, while the decrepit engine, unattended,
jogged away up the river after the rapidly disappearing French
warships. That task accomplished, he cast his eye ahead and saw the
river was clear, so sprang down into the stokehold, and sent a few
shovelfuls of coal under the boiler, then came on deck again wiping
his perspiring brow. By this time the French boats were quite out of
gunshot, and the only consolation left for the courageous Dane was that
at least he was chasing them.
At this most inopportune moment there arose a galling and Gallic laugh
from a coasting schooner lying at anchor in the river. It is never
advisable to laugh at an exasperated man, as these hilarious mariners
were soon to learn. Slow as the _Makut_ was she could certainly
outstrip a small French coasting vessel at anchor. The angry Admiral
turned his red face toward the Sound, and saw before him the _J. B.
Say_, a French trading craft, tauntingly flying the tricolor at the
masthead. The infuriated Admiral remembered that his adopted country was
at war with this hated emblem, so he roared across the muddy waters:
“Haul down that flag and surrender!”
The crew replied with the French equivalent of “Go to thunder!” which
the Admiral at once proceeded to obey. He ran to the wheel, steered his
steamer in a semicircle, headed her down the river and sprang to the
guns. Thunder spoke out the first cannon, and missed. Thunder again the
second, with an after crash of woodwork, the ball carrying away part of
the bulwarks.
“Stop it, you madman!” shrieked the crew.
“Surrender!” roared the Admiral, but they were now working madly at the
windlass, trying to hoist the anchor. The _Makut Rajakumar_ had passed
the boat, and now the Admiral took to the wheel again, swooped around,
and came on with his other battery. The first shot struck fair in the
prow, and the second, to the consternation of the Frenchmen, hit just
at the waterline, tearing a fatal hole in the timber. The third shot
went wide, and the Admiral allowed his steamer to forge ahead while he
swabbed out the guns and reloaded them.
By the time this was finished and he had turned round again the _J. B.
Say_ was under way, but with a dangerous list to one side. The steamer
speedily overtook her, and crash! crash! went the guns again, and once
more she was struck in a tender place, which was quite unnecessary, for
the craft was palpably sinking, in spite of the efforts of four men at
the pumps.
At last the heated Admiral ceased fire, for the Frenchmen, taking
to the longboat, had abandoned their vessel, and were rowing for
the shore. The _J. B. Say_ with a wobble or two settled down and
disappeared beneath the surface of the muddy Me-nam. Admiral Guldberg
descended to the engine-room, stopped the engines, and kicked the
engineer into some sense of his duties aboard the cruiser. He informed
his huddled naval brigade, who were scared almost white by the firing,
that the Battle of Paknam had ended gloriously for the Siamese flag,
after which announcement he urged them on deck by means of boot and
fist. As there was nothing visible to frighten the crew, the Admiral
himself being the only object of terror in the neighborhood, discipline
once more resumed its sway. The engineer responded to the tinkle of the
bell, and the cruiser _Makut Rajakumar_ began pounding its way up to
the capital, pausing only to capture the French flag which fluttered
from the masthead of the sunken _J. B. Say_.
Admiral Guldberg steamed in triumph to Bangkok, but had to take the
wheel himself when the town was sighted, for the moment his crew caught
a glimpse of the French cruiser floating peacefully in front of the
embassy, they promptly went below again, as was the custom of Sir
Joseph Porter when the breezes began to blow.
It would be joyful to add that Admiral Guldberg received the
recognition he deserved, but it is hardly necessary to state that
such was not the fact. The Siamese Government apologized abjectly for
their Admiral and his action. They said he had fired without orders.
The Minister of Foreign Affairs congratulated the commander of the
French ship _Inconstant_ on his boldness and daring in forcing a way
to Bangkok. The owners of the _J. B. Say_ were lavishly compensated.
Admiral Guldberg was degraded to plain captain, and the government had
little difficulty in proving that no Siamese obstructed the advance of
the French, which statement was true enough.
_A Sociological Fable_
There was trouble in the Poultry yard; things were Changed from the
way they had been, so that it was becoming Hard for some of the Fowls
to get a Sufficiency of Food. Just as much Corn was being Scattered
by the Farmer’s Wife as formerly, but some Knowing Cocks had built
Wide-mouthed Funnels over the Heads of the other Fowls, so that much of
the Supply that was intended for the Whole Community was diverted to the
Knowing Cocks and their Broods.
There was much Discontent because of the Scarcity of Food and many
were the Plans that were Broached to remedy the Situation. “See!” said
a Great Goose, pointing to the Supplies that lay beneath the Funnels
of the Knowing Cocks, “how unjust it is that some should have so much
and others so little. The Knowing Cocks and their Broods can never use
up their supply, while I and my Green Goslings go Hungry. Can nothing
be done to help me?” he squawked, raising his Unseemly Voice in order
to attract general attention. “Can nothing be done for me and for my
family?”
At this many Quacks began to be heard. One said that the Supplies of
the Knowing Cocks ought to be Seized and Distributed equally in the
Community; another said that the Knowing Cocks ought to be Forced to
Exchange their Corn with the other Fowls, in the Proportion of Sixteen
Grains of that Held by the Knowing Cocks to each grain belonging to the
other Fowls. And another insisted that the Only way to Right the Wrong
was to Compel the Knowing Cocks to Contribute to a Common Fund a large
Part of the Excess that Reached them through their Funnels.
But at last a Sage Hen, that had somehow found her way into the
Community, succeeded in Making herself Heard: “Of what use is it,”
she Cried, “to ask how Many Pounds of Cure are needed, when one Ounce
of Prevention will Suffice? Let us Go to the Fountain Head of the
Wrong,” she continued, Pointing to the Funnels. “As long as Some of
the Community are Allowed to be in Possession of Undue Opportunities,
Evil must happen to the others. Take the Funnels away from the Knowing
Cocks!”
No sooner said than Done. The Funnels were Seized and Destroyed; and
thereafter the Corn that fell from the Hand of the Farmer’s Wife was
Equitably distributed in the Community.
MORAL
If on the road a traveler lies
Fast bound—and you should see him—
Don’t take his head upon your lap
And give him medicine and pap,
But cut his cords and free him.
F. P. WILLIAMS.
_The Old 10.30 Train_
BY MARION DRACE
It’s raining out again tonight,
A dismal, pelting rain,
That drives against my window
With a dripping, and again
With a rattling stormy fury,
Sheets of water, waves of gray,
Made gruesome by the thunder
And the lightning’s livid play.
It brings to me the gloom of life,
An odd, most welcome pain,
And once again the whistle of the old 10.30 train.
With all this storm without, and me
So silent here alone,
With all the distant past in view,
Its evil to atone;
With chin on hand, I wonder how
I’d feel if I could be
A boy again, with mother near
Me praying at her knee.
How all the cares of life would fade,
If I could hear again
From out my cot the whistle of the old 10.30 train.
I hear it far departing
This gloomy night and me,
A-joying in the dying wail
From which it seems to flee.
The long, low cry is wafted back
Through night and rain and wind,
A cry that seems congenial like
Another soul that’s sinned.
It makes me long for home and for
My cot, so cleanly plain,
To doze just with the whistle of that old 10.30 train.
Ah, life is not of solitude,
Nor childhood joys alone,
Its mirth not all departed, though
We reap the evil sown.
But nights of rain and solitude
Bring back the happy past—
The freight that came so regular
My eyes to close at last.
From all the now I quick would flee—
It seems so full of pain—
If I could sleep forever with that whistle’s wail again!
Gallows Gate
BEING AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF DICK RYDER,
OTHERWISE GALLOPING DICK,
SOMETIME GENTLEMAN OF THE ROAD
BY H. B. MARRIOTT-WATSON
’Twas two o’clock of a bright wild March day that I cleared St.
Leonard’s Forest, and came out upon the roads at the back of Horsham.
I was for Reading, but chose that way by reason of the better security
it promised, which, as it chanced, was a significant piece of irony.
Horsham, a mighty quiet, pretty town, lay in a blaze of the sun,
enduring the sallies of a dusty wind, and, feeling hot and athirst
after my long ride, I pulled up at an inn and dismounted.
“Host,” says I, when I was come it; “a pint of your best Burgundy or
Canary to wash this dust adown; and rip me if I will not have it laced
with brandy.”
“Why, sir,” says he, “a cold bright day for horseback,” and shakes his
head.
“Damme, you’re right,” says I. “Cold i’ the belly and hot in the groin.
Here’s luck to the house, man,” and I tossed off the gallipot. “Why,
goodman, ye’ll make your fortune on this,” I said with a derisive
laugh, and flung open the door, to go out; when all of a sudden I came
to silence and a pause.
“’Tis the officers,” says the landlord, who was at my ear. “Gadslife,
’tis the sheriff’s men from Lewes.”
“Lewes!” says I slowly; “what be they here for?”
“Why,” says he in a flutter, “there was him that was taken for a
tobyman by Guilford. He was tried at Lewes, and will hang.”
“If he be fool enough to be taken, let him be hanged and be damned,”
says I carelessly.
When I was got upon my horse I began to go at a walk down the High
street, for though, as was according to nature, I was inquisitive
about the matter, I was too wary to adventure ere I was sure of my
ground. And this denial of unnecessary hazards, as is my custom, saved
me from a mishap; for as the procession wound along, the traps and
the carriage between ’em, there was one of them that turned his head
aside to give an order, and, rip me if ’twas not that muckworm, traitor
and canter, the thief-taker, Timothy Grubbe. I had an old score with
Timothy, the which I had sworn to pay; but that was not the time nor
the opportunity, and so I pulled in and lowered my head, lest by chance
his evil eye might go my way. As I did so, something struck on the
mare’s rump, and, looking back, I saw a young man on horseback that had
emerged from a side street.
“Whoa, there,” says I cheerfully. “Are you so blinded by March dust as
not to see a gentleman when he goes by?”
He was a slight, handsome-looking youth, of a frank face but of a
rustic appearance, and he stammered out an apology.
“Why, I did but jest,” I said heartily. “Think no more on’t,
particularly as ’twas my fault to have checked the mare of a sudden.
But to say the truth I was gaping at the grand folks yonder.”
He stared, after the traps and says he in an interested voice: “Who be
they? Is it my Lord Blackdown?”
Now this comparison of that wry-necked, pock-faced villain Grubbe to a
person of quality tickled me, but I answered, keeping a straight face.
“Well, not exactly,” says I, “not my lord, but another that should
stand or hang as high maybe, and shall some day.”
“Oh,” says he, gazing at me, “a friend of yours, sir?”
He was a ruddy color, and his mouth was habitually a little open,
giving him an expression of perpetual wonder and innocence; so that,
bless you, I knew him at once for what he was at heart—a simple fellow
of a natural kindliness and one of no experience in the world, and a
pretty dull wit.
“Not as you might call him, a friend,” said I gravely, “but rather one
that has put an affront upon me.”
“You should wipe it out, sir,” says this innocent seriously. “I would
allow no man to put an affront on me, gad, I would not!”
“Why,” said I drily, “I bide my time, being, if I may say so, of less
mustard and pepper than yourself. Nevertheless it shall be wiped out to
the last stain.”
“Gad, I like that spirit,” says he briskly, and, as if it constituted
a bond betwixt us, he began to amble slowly at my side. “If there is
any mischief, sir,” says he, “I trust you will allow me to stand your
friend.”
Here was innocence indeed, yet I could ha’ clapped him on the back for
a buck of good-fellowship and friendliness, and, relaxing my tone, I
turned the talk on himself.
“You are for a journey?” says I.
He nodded, and his color rose, but he frowned. “I am for Effingham,” he
answered.
“So am I,” said I, “at least I pass that way,” which was not so, for
I was for Reading, and had meant to go by Guilford. Yet I was in no
mind to risk an encounter with Grubbe and his lambs, who were bound for
Guilford if what the innkeeper said was true; and the way by Effingham
would serve me as well as another.
He looked pleased, and says he: “Why, we will travel in company.”
“With all my heart!”
The traps had disappeared upon the Guilford road in a mist of dust, and
we jogged on comfortably till we came to cross-roads, where we turned
away for Slinfold, reaching that village near by two of the clock.
Here my companion must slake his thirst, and I was nothing loath. He
had a gentlemanly air about him for all his rustic habit, and very
pleasantly, if with some awkwardness, offered me of a bottle.
“You mind me,” said I, drinking to him, for I liked the fellow, “of a
lad that I knew that was in the wars.”
“Was you in the wars?” asks he eagerly.
I had meant the wars of the road, which, indeed, are as perilous and as
venturesome as the high quarrels of ravening nations.
“I served in Flanders,” said I.
“My father fought for His Gracious Majesty Charles I,” says he quickly,
“and took a deep wound at Marston Moor. There was never a braver man
than Squire Masters of Rockham.”
“I’ll warrant his son is like him,” said I.
He bowed as if he were at Court. “Your servant, sir,” says he, smiling
well pleased, and eyed me. “You have seen some service, sir?”
“Why, as much as will serve, Mr. Masters.”
He looked at me shyly. “You have my name, now?” said he, and left his
question in the air.
“You may call me Ryder,” said I.
“You have had your company?” he went on in a hesitating voice.
“Not always as good company as this,” I replied, laughing.
“I knew it,” he said eagerly; “you are Captain Ryder?”
“There have been those that have put that style on me,” I answered,
amused at his persistence.
“I am glad that I have met you, Captain,” said this young fool, and put
his arm in mine quite affectionately.
“I have been unhappily kept much at home, and have seen less than I
might of things beyond the hills. Not but what Sussex is a fine shire,”
he adds, with a sigh.
“Why, it is fine if so be your home be there,” I replied.
“My home is there,” he said, and paused, and again the frown wrinkled
up his brow.
He said no more till we were in the saddle again and had gone some half
a mile, and then he spoke, and I knew his poor brain had been playing
pitch and toss with some thought.
“Captain Ryder,” he said abruptly, “you have traveled far and seen
much. You might advise one junior to you on a matter of worldly wisdom.”
Sink me, thinks I, what’s the boy after? But, says I gravely, from a
mutinous face: “You can hang your faith on me for an opinion or a blow,
Mr. Masters.”
“Thank you,” says he heartily, and then thrust a hand into his
bosom and rapidly stuck at me a document. “Read that, sir,” said he
impulsively.
I opened it, and found ’twas writ in a woman’s hand, and subscribed
Anne Varley; and the marrow of it was fond affection.
Why, ’twas but a common love billet he had given me, of the which I
have seen dozens and received very many—some from persons of quality
that would astonish you. But what had I to do with this honest ninny
and his mistress? I had no nose for it, and so said I, handing him back
his letter.
“It has a sweet smack and ’tis pretty enough inditing.”
“Ah,” says he quickly, “’tis her nature, Captain. ’Tis her heart that
speaks. Yet is she denied by her parents. They will have none of me.”
“The more to their shame,” I said.
“They aspire high,” says he, “as Anne’s beauty and virtues of
themselves would justify. Yet she does love me, and I her, and we are
of one spirit and heart. See you how she loves me, poor thing, poor
silly puss! And they would persuade her to renunciation. But she shall
not—she shall not; I swear it!” he cried in excitement. “She shall be
free to choose where she will.”
“Spoke like a man of temper,” said I approvingly. “You will go win her
forthright.”
“I am on my journey to accomplish that now,” says he. “She has writ
in this letter, as you have seen, that her father dissuades her, and
she sighs her renunciation, adding sweet words of comfort that her
affection will not die—no, never, never, and that she will die virgin
for me. Say you not, sir, that this is beautiful conduct, and, am I not
right to ride forth and seize her from her unnatural parents, to make
her mine?”
“Young gentleman,” said I, being stirred by his honest sincerity and
his bubbling over, “were you brother to me, or I to Mistress Anne, you
should have my blessing.”
At that he glowed, and his spirits having risen with this
communication, he babbled on the road of many things cheerfully,
but mostly of love and beauty, and the virtues of Mistress Anne of
Effingham Manor.
I will confess that after a time his prattle wearied me; ’twas too much
honey and cloyed my palate. If he had known as much of the sex as has
fallen to my lot he would have taken another stand, and sung in a lower
key.
Well, ’twas late in the afternoon when we reached the hills beyond
Ewhurst, and began to climb the rugged way to the top. The wind had
gone down with the sun in a flurry of gold in the west, to which that
eastern breeze had beat all day; and over the head of Pitch Hill last
year’s heather still blazed in its decay.
When we had got to the Windmill Inn, that lies packed into the side of
the wooded hill, we descended for refreshment, and I saw the horses
stalled below for baiting. Now that house, little and quiet, perches
in a lonely way in the pass of the hill, and upon one side the ground
falls so fast away that the eye carries over a precipitous descent
toward the weald of Surrey and the dim hills by the sea. And this view
was fading swiftly in the window under a bleak sky as Masters and I
ate of our dinner in the upstairs room that looked upon it. He had a
natural grace of mind despite the rawness of his behavior, and his
sentiments emerged sometimes in a gush, as when, says he, looking at
the darkening weald:
“I love it, Captain. ’Tis mine. My home is there, and, God willing,
Anne’s too shall be.”
“Amen!” said I heartily, for the boy had gone to my heart, absurd
though he was.
And just on that there was a noise without the door, the clank of heavy
feet rang on the boards, and Timothy Grubbe’s ugly mask disfigured the
room.
He came forward a little with a grin on his distorted features, and,
looking from one to the other of us, said he:
“My respects, Captain, and to this young plover that no doubt ye’re
plucking. By the Lord, Dick Ryder, but I had given you up. Heaven sends
us good fortune when we’re least thinking of it.”
Masters, at his word, had started up. “Who are you, sir, that intrudes
on two gentlemen?” he demanded with spirit. “I’ll have you know this is
a private room. Get you gone!”
“Softly, man,” says Grubbe, in an insinuating voice. “Maybe I’m wrong
and you’re two of a color. Is it an apprentice, Dick, this brave lad
that talks so bold and has such fine feathers?”
“If you do not quit,” said I shortly, “I will spit your beauty for you
in two ticks.”
“Dick Ryder had always plenty of heart,” said he in his jeering way.
“Dick had always a famous wit, and was known as a hospitable host. So I
will take the liberty to invite to his sociable board some good fellows
that are below, to make merry. We shall prove an excellent company,
I’ll warrant.”
Masters took a step toward him.
“Now, who the devil soever you may be, you shall not use gentlemen so,”
he cried, whipping out his blade.
But Grubbe turned on him satirically. “As for you, young cockchafer,”
said he, “it bodes no good to find you in this company. But as you seem
simpleton enough, I’ll give you five minutes to take your leave of
this gentleman of the road. Dick, you’re a fine tobyman, and you have
enjoyed a brave career, but, damme, your hour is struck.”
I rose, but, ere I could get to him, young Masters had fallen on him.
“Defend yourself, damn ye,” he said, “you that insult a gentleman that
is my friend! Put up your blade!” and he made at him with incredible
energy.
Uttering a curse Grubbe thrust out his point and took the first onrush,
swerving it aside; and ere I could intervene they were at it.
My young friend was impetuous, and as I saw at once, none too skilful;
and Grubbe kept his temper, as he always did. He stood with a thin,
ugly smile pushing aside his opponent’s blade for a moment or two,
until, of a sudden, he drew himself up and let drive very low and under
the other’s guard. The sword rattled from Masters’s hand, and he went
down on the floor. I uttered an oath.
“By God, for this shall you die, you swine!” said I fiercely; and I ran
at him; but, being by the door, he swept it open with a movement and
backed into the passage.
“The boot is on t’other leg, Dick,” says he maliciously. “’Tis you are
doomed!” and closing the door behind him he whistled shrilly.
I knew what he intended, and that his men were there, but I stooped
over the boy’s body and held my fingers to his heart. ’Twas dead and
still. I cursed Grubbe and started up. If I was not to be taken there
was only the window, looking on the deeps of the descending valley. I
threw back the casement and leaped over the sill. Grubbe should perish,
I swore, and I doubled now my oath.
I could ha’ wept for that poor youth that had died to avenge my honor.
But my first business was my safety, and I crept down as far as I might
and dropped. By that time the catchpolls were crowding into the room
above. I struck the slanting hill and fell backward, but, getting to
my feet, which were very numb with the concussion of the fall, I sped
briskly into the darkness, making for the woods.
I lay in their shelter an hour, and then resolved on a circumspection.
’Twas not my intention to leave the mare behind, if so be she had
escaped Grubbe and his creatures; and, moreover, I had other designs in
my head. So I made my way back deviously to the inn and reconnoitered.
Stillness hung about it, and after a time I marched up to the door
cautiously and knocked on it.
The innkeeper opened it, and, the lamp burning on my face, started as
if I were the devil.
“Hush, man!” said I. “Is the officer gone?”
He looked at me dubiously and trembling. “Come,” said I, for I knew the
reputation of those parts, “I am from Shoreham Gap yonder, and I was
near taken for an offense against the revenue.”
“You are a smuggler?” said he anxiously. “They said you were a tobyman.”
“They will take away any decent man’s name,” said I. “I want my horse.
You have no fancy for preventive men, I’ll guess.”
And this was true enough, for he had a mine of cellars under his inn
and through the roadway.
“But your friend?” said he, still wavering. “Him that is dead——”
“As good a man as ever rolled a barrel,” said I.
He relaxed his grip of the door. “’Tis a sore business for me this
night,” he complained.
“Nay,” said I. “For I will rid your premises of myself and friend, by
your leave, or without it,” says I.
He seemed relieved at that, and I entered. The horses were safe, as I
discovered, for Grubbe must have been too full of his own prime
business to make search, and, getting them out, I made my preparations.
I strapped the lad’s body in the stirrups, so that he lay forward on
the horse with his head a-wagging; but (God deliver him!) his soul at
rest. And presently we were on the road, and threading the wilderness
of the black pine woods for the vale below toward London.
The moon was a glimmering arc across the Hurtwood as I came out on the
back of Shere, and, pulling out of the long lane that gave entry to
the village, reined up by the “White Horse.” From the inn streamed a
clamor of laughter, and without the doorway and wellnigh blocking it
was drawn up a carriage with a coachman on his seat that struck my eyes
dimly in the small light. I was not for calling eyes on me with a dead
man astride his horse, so I moved into the yard, thinking to drain a
tankard of ale if no better, before I took the road over the downs to
Effingham. But I was scarce turned into the yard ere a light flaring
through the window poured on a face that changed all the notions in my
skull. ’Twas Grubbe!
Leaving the horses by I returned to the front of the inn, and says I to
the coachman that waited there, as I rapped loud on the door:
“’Tis shrewish tonight.”
“Aye,” says he in a grumbling, surly voice. “I would the country were
in hell.”
“Why, so ’twill be in good time,” said I cheerfully; and then to the
man that came, “Fetch me two quarts well laced with gin,” says I, “for
to keep the chill of the night and the fear o’ death out.”
The coachman laughed a little shortly, for he knew that this was his
invitation.
“Whence come you then?” said I, delivering him the pot that was fetched
out.
He threw an arm out. “Lewes,” said he, “under charge with a tobyman
that was for chains yonder.”
He nodded toward the downs and drank. I cast my eyes up and the loom of
the hill just t’other side of the village was black and ominous.
“Oh,” says I, “he hangs there?”
“At the top of London Road,” says he, dipping his nose again. “There
stands the gallows, where the roads cross and near the Gate.”
“Gallows Gate,” said I, laughing. “Well, ’twas a merry job enough.”
“Aye,” says he. “But by this we might ha’ been far toward London Town,
whither most of us are already gone. But ’twas not his wish. He must
come back with the Lewes sheriff and drink him farewell.”
“Leaving a poor likely young man such as yourself to starve of cold and
a empty belly here,” said I. “Well, I would learn such a one manners in
your place, and you shall have another tankard of dogs-nose for your
pains,” says I, whereat I called out the innkeeper again, but took care
that he had my share of the gin in addition to his own. By that time
he was garrulous, and had lost his caution, so, keeping him in talk a
little and dragging his wits along from point to point, I presently
called to him.
“Come down,” said I, “and stamp your feet. ’Twill warm you without as
the liquor within.” And he did as I had suggested without demur.
“Run round to the back,” says I, “and get yourself a noggin, and if
so be you see a gentleman on horseback there asleep, why, ’tis only a
friend of mine that is weary of his long journey. I will call you if
there be occasion.”
He hesitated a moment, but I set a crown on his palm, and his scruples
vanished. He limped into the darkness.
’Twas no more than two minutes later that I heard voices in the
doorway, and next came Timothy Grubbe into the night, in talk with
someone. At which it took me but thirty seconds to whip me into the
seat and pull the coachman’s cloak about me, so that I sat stark and
black in the starlight. Grubbe left the man he talked with and came
forward.
“You shall drink when ye reach Cobham, Crossway,” says he, looking up at
me, “and mind your ways, damn ye!”
And at that he made no more ado, but humming an air he lurched into the
carriage. I pulled out the nags, and turned their heads so that they
were set for the north. And then I whistled low and short—a whistle I
knew that the mare would heed, and I trusted that she would bring her
companion with her. The wheels rolled out upon the road and Timothy
Grubbe and I were bound for London all alone.
As I turned up the London road that swept steeply up the downs I looked
back, and behind the moon shone faintly on Calypso and behind her on
the dead man wagging awkwardly in his stirrups.
I pushed the horses on as fast as might be, but the ruts were still
deep in mud, and the carriage jolted and rocked and swayed as we went.
The wind came now with a little moaning sound from the bottom of the
valley, and the naked branches creaked above my head, for that way was
sunken and tangled with the thickets of nut and yew. And presently I
was forced to go at a foot pace, so abrupt was the height. The moon
struck through the trees and peered on us, and Grubbe put his head
forth of the window.
“Why go you not faster, damn ye?” says he, being much in liquor.
“’Tis the hill, your honor,” said I.
He glanced up and down.
“What is it comes up behind?” says he, shouting. “There is a noise of
horses that pounds upon the road.”
“’Tis the wind,” says I, “that comes off the valley and makes play
among the branches.”
He sank back in his seat, and we went forward slowly. But he was
presently out again, screaming on the night.
“There is a horseman behind,” says he. “What does he there?”
“’Tis a traveler, your honor,” says I, “that goes, no doubt, by our
road, and is bound for London.”
“He shall be bound for hell,” says he tipsily, and falls back again.
The horses wound up foot by foot and emerged now into a space of better
light, and I looked around, and there was Grubbe, with his head through
the window and his eyes cast backward.
“What fool is this,” says he, “that rides so awkwardly, and drives a
spare horse? If he ride no better, I will ask him to keep me company,
if he be a gentleman. Many gentlemen have rode along of me, and have
rode to the gallows tree,” and he chuckled harshly.
“Maybe he will ride with you to the Gallows Gate, sir,” says I.
“Why, Crossway,” says he, laughing loudly, “you have turned a wit,” and
once more withdrew his head.
But now we were nigh to the top of the down, and I could see the faint
shadow of the triple beam. With that I knew my journey was done, and
that my work must be accomplished. I pulled to the horses on the rise,
and got down from my seat.
“Why d’ye stop, rascal?” called Grubbe in a fury, but I was by the door
and had it opened.
“Timothy Grubbe,” said I, “ye’re a damned rogue that the devil, your
master, wants and he shall have ye.”
He stared at me in a maze, his nostrils working, and then says he in a
low voice: “So, ’tis you.”
“Your time has come, Timothy,” said I, flinging off my cloak, and I
took my sword. “Out with you, worm.”
He said never a word, but stepped forth, and looked about him. He was
sobered now, as I could see from his face, which had a strange look on
it.
“Ye’re two rascals to one, Dick,” says he slowly, looking on the dead
man on his horse which had come to a stop in the shadows.
“No,” says I, “this gentleman will see fair play for us.”
Grubbe took a step backward. “Sir,” says he, addressing the dead
man—but at that moment Calypso and her companion started, and came
into the open.
The moon shone on the face of the dead. Grubbe uttered a cry, and
turned on me. His teeth showed in a grin.
“No ghost shall haunt me, Dick,” says he. “Rather shall another ghost
keep him company,” and his wry neck moved horribly.
I pointed upward where the tobyman hung in chains, keeping his flocks
by moonlight. “There’s your destiny,” said I. “There’s your doom. Now
defend, damn ye, for I’ll not prick an adder at a disadvantage.”
He drew his blade, for no man could say that Timothy Grubbe,
time-server and traitor as he was, lacked courage. Suddenly he sliced
at me, but I put out and turned off the blow.
“If you will have it so soon,” said I, “in God’s name have it,” and I
ran upon him.
My third stroke went under his guard, and I took him in the midriff. He
gave vent to an oath, cursed me in a torrent, and struck at me weakly
as he went down.
He was as dead as mutton almost ere he touched the ground.
I have never been a man of the church, nor do I lay any claim to own
more religion than such as to make shift by when it comes to the
end. No, nor do I deny that I have sundry offenses on my conscience,
some of which I have narrated in my memoirs. But when it comes to a
reckoning I will make bold to claim credit in that I rid the world he
had encumbered of Timothy Grubbe—the foulest ruffian that ever I did
encounter in the length of my days on the road.
I climbed the beam and lowered the poor tobyman, and it took me but a
little time to make the change. The one I left where he had paid the
quittance in the peace of the earth, and t’other a-swinging under the
light of the moon on Gallows Gate.
I have said my journey was done, but that was not so. There was more
for me to do, which was to deliver poor Masters at his lady-love’s and
break the unhappy news. And so, leaving the carriage where it stood
with the patient horses that were cropping the grass, I mounted the
mare and began to go down the long limb of the downs to the north.
’Twas late—near midnight—when I reached Effingham and found my way
to the manor. I rapped on the door, leaving Calypso and t’other in the
shadows of the house, and presently one answered to my knock.
“What is it?” says she.
“’Tis a stranger,” says I, “that has news of grave import for Mistress
Anne Varley, whom I beg you will call.”
“She cannot hear you,” said she. “’Tis her wedding night.”
“What!” said I in amazement, and instantly there flowed in on me the
meaning of this.
“Curse all women save one or two!” thinks I. And I turned to the maid
again with my mind made up.
“Look you, wench,” said I. “This is urgent. I have an instant message
that presses. And if so be your mistress will bear with me a moment and
hold discourse, I’ll warrant she shall not regret it—nor you,” says I,
with a crown piece in my palm.
She hesitated and then, “Maybe she will refuse,” says she. “She hath
but these few hours been wed.”
“Not she,” said I, “if you will tell her that I bring good news, great
news—news that will ease her spirit and send her to her bridal bed
with a happy heart.”
At that she seemed to assent, and with my crown in her hand she
disappeared into the darkening of the house. It must have been some ten
minutes later that a light flashed in the hall and a voice called to me.
“Who is it?” it asked, “and what want you at this hour?”
I looked at her. She was of a pretty face enough, rather pale of color,
and with eyes that moved restlessly and measured all things. Lord, I
have known women all my life in all stations, and I would ha’ pinned
no certainty on those treacherous eyes. She was young, too, but had an
air of satisfaction in herself, and was in no wise embarrassed by this
interview. I had no mercy on her, with her oaths of constancy writ in
water that figured to be tears and her false features.
“Madam,” said I civilly, “I hear you’re wed today to a gentleman of
standing.”
“What is that to you, sir?” she asked quickly.
“’Tis nothing, for sure,” said I, “but to a friend of mine that I value
deeply ’tis much.”
“You speak of Mr. Masters,” said she sharply, and with discomposure.
“Sure, if he be a gentleman, he will not trouble me when he knows.”
“Anne!” said a voice from the top of the stairs, “Anne!”
’Twas her bridegroom calling. Well, she should go to him in what mood
she might when I had done with her.
“He will never know,” says I, “unless he hear it from yourself.”
“Anne!” said the voice above the stairs.
“He shall not—I will not,” she cried angrily. “I will not be
persecuted. ’Twas all a mistake.”
I whistled. Calypso emerged from the night, and behind Calypso was
the horse with its burden. An anxious look dawned in her face. “I am
insulted,” says she and paused quickly.
“Edward!” she called, and put a hand to her bosom.
“Anne, darling!” cried the voice, “where are you? Come, child, ’tis
late.”
The horse came to a stop before the door with the body on the saddle,
bound to the crupper.
“What is it?” she cried in alarm, and suddenly she shrieked,
recognizing what was there. “It is an omen—my wedding night!”
“Aye,” says I, “which be your bridegroom, he that calls or he that is
silent? Call on him and he hears not.”
Peal after peal went up now from her, and the house was awake with
alarm. I turned away, leaving her on the doorstep, and mounted the mare.
As I cantered off into the night I cast a glance behind me, and a group
was gathered at the door, and in that group lay Mistress Anne fallen in
a swoon, with the sleeping figure on the horse before her.
_The Judge and the Jack Tar_
BY HENRY H. CORNISH
It’s like this here, Your Honor, see?
As near as I can tell,
A gentleman hired my boat, and he
Was quite a proper swell.
He brought a lady down with him
To make a longish trip
And so we scrubbed her thoroughly—
_Judge_—The lady?
_Tar_—No! The ship
Well—cutting off my story short
To come to what befell
We started, but put back to port
Which much annoyed the swell.
She fell between two waterways
And got a nasty nip,
So we rigged her out with brand-new stays—
_Judge_—The lady?
_Tar_—No-o! The ship.
At last we put to sea again
And started for the west,
All spick and span without a stain
When all at once, I’m blest,
Her blooming timbers got misplaced,
Which quite upset the trip,
The water washed around her waist—
_Judge_—The lady’s?
_Tar_ (_nodding_)—And the ship’s.
That’s all, I think, Your Honor, now,
I’ll state to you my claim.
Five hundred dollars, you’ll allow,
Won’t build her up the same.
Her rudder’s gone, her nose is broke,
Her flag I’ve had to dip
She’s lying now upon the mud—
_Judge_—The lady?
_Tar_—No-o-o-o! The ship.
_Object, Matrimony_
BY CAROLINE LOCKHART
With a turn of his red wrist, Porcupine Jim guided his horse in and
out among the badger holes which made riding dangerous business on
the Blackfoot Reservation. Perplexity and discontent rested upon
Porcupine’s not too lofty brow. Though he looked at the badger holes
and avoided them mechanically, he saw them not.
“Would you tank, would you tank,” he burst out finally in a voice which
rasped with irritation, “dat a girl like Belle Dashiel would rudder
have dat pigeon-toed, smart-Aleck breed dan me?”
Porcupine’s pinto cayuse threw back one ear and listened attentively to
the naïve conceit of his rider’s soliloquy.
“Look at me!” demanded Porcupine, changing the reins to his left hand
that he might make a more emphatic gesture with his right. “A honest
Swede, able to make fifteen dollars a day at my trade. Me as has
sheared sheep from Montany to the Argentine Republic, gittin’ bounced
for dat lazy half-breed dat can’t hold a yob two mont’!”
Porcupine’s thoughts upon any subject were not varied, and he burst
forth at intervals with a reiteration of the same idea until he came
to the ridge where he could look down upon the house of Dashiel, the
squaw-man, who kept a sort of post office in a soapbox.
Porcupine had come twenty-five miles for his mail. Not that he expected
any, but to be gibed at by Belle Dashiel had the same fascination for
him that biting on a sore tooth has for a small boy. Gradually the
knowledge had come to his slow-working mind that the half-breed girl’s
interest in him rose solely from the fact that John Laney was his
partner in the assessment work which they were doing in the mountains
on a tenderfoot’s copper claim.
Laney’s father had been an Irish steamboat captain on Lake Superior,
his mother, a Chippewa squaw, and the cross had produced an unusual
type. The Indian blood which keeps a half-breed silent and shy before
strangers had no such effect upon Laney. His prowess was his theme and
his vanity was a byword on the Reservation. He obtained his fashions
from the catalogue of a wholesale house in Chicago which furnishes the
trusting pioneer with the latest thing in oil drills or feather boas.
It was common belief that Laney’s high celluloid collar would some day
cut his head off.
Laney’s waking hours were spent in planning schemes of primitive
crudeness whereby he might acquire affluence without labor. In his
dreams the tenderfoot tourist was generally the person who was to
remove him from penury.
“Hello, Porcupine!” called Belle Dashiel, coming to the door with a
pink bow pinned on a pompadour of amazing height.
“Hullo yourself!” replied Porcupine, elated at his ready wit and the
cordiality in her voice.
“How’s John?”
The smile faded from his face.
“Good ’nough,” he replied shortly.
“When’s he comin’ down?”
“Dunno. Any mail for me?”
“A letter and a paper.”
“Who could be writin’ to me?”
Porcupine looked surprised.
“Didn’t you expect nothin’?” Belle Dashiel’s eyes shone mischievously.
“Yass, I tank, mebby.” A deeper red spread over the Swede’s sunburned
face.
He opened his letter and spelled it out laboriously, his chest heaving
with the effort.
“A man over in Chicago he tank I’m in turrible need of a pianny,” he
said in disgust, as he put the circular in the stove.
Porcupine lingered till the chill of the night air crept into the
sunshine of the September day. Then he put spurs to his patient cayuse
and hit the trail which led into the fastnesses of the Rockies.
The light was not quite gone when he happened to think of the
paper he had thrust in his coat-pocket. There might be news in it!
Bacon-Rind-Dick had told Two-Dog-Jack that there was a war over in
Jay-pan. Porcupine removed the wrapper and the words _Wedding Chimes_
stared him in the face.
As he read, he laid the reins on his horse’s neck and let the pinto
pick his own road. The matrimonial sheet opened up a vista of romantic
adventures and possibilities of which the Swede had never dreamed. His
imagination, which naturally was not a winged thing, was fired until he
saw himself leading to his shack up the North Fork of the Belly River
the fairest and richest lady in the land. All he had to do was to send
five dollars to _Wedding Chimes_ and thus join their matrimonial club.
Upon the receipt of the five dollars, the editor would send him the
names and addresses of several ladies who were all young, beautiful,
wealthy and anxious to be married. He could open a correspondence with
one or all of them, and then choose for his bride the lady whose letter
appealed to him most.
Porcupine strained his eyes reading descriptions of lily-white blondes
and dashing brunettes. When he could see no longer, he folded the
precious paper and buttoned it inside his coat.
His cayuse was puffing up the steep mountain trail in the darkness of
the thick pines and spruces when Porcupine suddenly let out a yell
which startled the prowling lynx and made his pinto snort with fright.
It was a wild whoop of exultation. There had come to Porcupine one of
those rare revelations which have made men great. He fairly glowed
and tingled with the inspiration which had flashed upon him as though
someone had gone through his brain with a lantern.
When he rode into camp, where Laney sat before the fire eating bacon
out of a frying-pan, Porcupine’s deep-set blue eyes were shining like
stars on a winter’s night.
“Yass, I got de greatest ting in de mail you ever see, I tank!”
Laney’s face expressed curiosity as the Swede sat down on a log and
turned his felt hat round and round upon his bullet-shaped head—a
trick he had when excited. With great deliberation and impressiveness
he produced the paper and handed it to Laney. Laney set the frying-pan
where his wolfhound could finish the bacon and opened the paper.
“Young, beautiful, immensely rich; obj., mat.,” he read. Laney’s eyes
sparkled. He read for half an hour of successful weddings brought
about by the editorial Cupid. Porcupine at last roused him from his
absorption.
“Laney, I got a scheme, I tank. I’ll join up with one of dem clubs
and you carry out de corryspondance with one of dem ladies. You are a
better scholar den me and write a pooty goot letter. Den, if it goes
all right, I’ll go and see her and tell her I ain’t exactly de man dat
done de writin’, but I’m just as goot.
“’Tain’t no use for you to get into de club, because you are all the
same as promised to Belle Dashiel. Sure,” Porcupine went on, “Belle
ain’t rich nor beautiful like dem ladies in _Weddin’ Chimes_, but she’s
a goot little girl.
“Old Dashiel ain’t got more dan fifty head of beef cattle, and dey say
he got a lot of runts in de last Govermint issue, but a ting like dat
don’t cut no ice if you’re stuck on de girl.”
Laney moved uneasily and avoided Porcupine’s eyes.
“Now for me,” continued the Swede, “I can marry any millionaire I want
to.”
* * * * *
As soon as the mails could get it there, the editor of _Wedding Chimes_
received a neatly penciled and eloquent letter from one John Laney,
setting forth his especial needs and preferences, with considerable
stress laid upon the financial standing of the matrimonial candidates.