Throgton turned and looked the man full in the eye.

"That is not billiard chalk," he said, "it is face powder."

Saying which this big, imperturbable, self-contained man stepped into the elevator and went to the ground floor in one drop.



CHAPTER V

HAS ANYBODY HERE SEEN KELLY?

The inquest upon the body of Kivas Kelly was held upon the following day. Far from offering any solution of what had now become an unfathomable mystery, it only made it deeper still. The medical testimony, though given by the most distinguished consulting expert of the city, was entirely inconclusive. The body, the expert testified, showed evident marks of violence. There was a distinct lesion of the oesophagus and a decided excoriation of the fibula. The mesodenum was gibbous. There was a certain quantity of flab in the binomium and the proscenium was wide open.

One striking fact, however, was decided from the testimony of the expert, namely, that the stomach of the deceased was found to contain half a pint of arsenic. On this point the questioning of the district attorney was close and technical. Was it unusual, he asked, to find arsenic in the stomach? In the stomach of a club man, no. Was not half a pint a large quantity? He would not say that. Was it a small quantity? He should not care to say that it was. Would half a pint of arsenic cause death? Of a club man, no, not necessarily. That was all.

The other testimony submitted to the inquest jury brought out various facts of a substantive character, but calculated rather to complicate than to unravel the mystery. The butler swore that on the very day of the murder he had served his master a half-pint of arsenic at lunch. But he claimed that this was quite a usual happening with his master. On cross-examination it appeared that he meant apollinaris. He was certain, however, that it was half a pint. The butler, it was shown, had been in Kivas Kelly's employ for twenty years.

The coachman, an Irishman, was closely questioned. He had been in Mr. Kelly's employ for three years—ever since his arrival from the old country. Was it true that he had had, on the day of the murder, a violent quarrel with his master? It was. Had he threatened to kill him? No. He had threatened to knock his block off, but not to kill him.

The coroner looked at his notes. "Call Alice Delary," he commanded. There was a deep sensation in the court as Miss Delary quietly stepped forward to her place in the witness-box.

Tall, graceful and willowy, Alice Delary was in her first burst of womanhood. Those who looked at the beautiful girl realized that if her first burst was like this, what would the second, or the third be like?

The girl was trembling, and evidently distressed, but she gave her evidence in a clear, sweet, low voice. She had been in Mr. Kelly's employ three years. She was his stenographer. But she came only in the mornings and always left at lunch-time. The question immediately asked by the jury—"Where did she generally have lunch?"—was disallowed by the coroner. Asked by a member of the jury what system of shorthand she used, she answered, "Pitman's." Asked by another juryman whether she ever cared to go to moving pictures, she said that she went occasionally. This created a favourable impression. "Miss Delary," said the district attorney, "I want to ask if it is your hat that was found hanging in the billiard-room after the crime?"

"Don't you dare ask that girl that," interrupted the magistrate. "Miss Delary, you may step down."

But the principal sensation of the day arose out of the evidence offered by Masterman Throgton, general manager of the Planet. Kivas Kelly, he testified, had dined with him at his club on the fateful evening. He had afterwards driven him to his home.

"When you went into the house with the deceased," asked the district attorney, "how long did you remain there with him?"

"That," said Throgton quietly, "I must refuse to answer."

"Would it incriminate you?" asked the coroner, leaning forward.

"It might," said Throgton.

"Then you're perfectly right not to answer it," said the coroner. "Don't ask him that any more. Ask something else."

"Then did you," questioned the attorney, turning to Throgton again, "play a game of billiards with the deceased?"

"Stop, stop," said the coroner, "that question I can't allow. It's too direct, too brutal; there's something about that question, something mean, dirty. Ask another."

"Very good," said the attorney. "Then tell me, Mr. Throgton, if you ever saw this blue envelope before?" He held up in his hand a long blue envelope.

"Never in my life," said Throgton.

"Of course he didn't," said the coroner. "Let's have a look at it. What is it?"

"This envelope, your Honour, was found sticking out of the waistcoat pocket of the deceased."

"You don't say," said the coroner. "And what's in it?"

Amid breathless silence, the attorney drew forth a sheet of blue paper, bearing a stamp, and read:

"This is the last will and testament of me, Kivas Kelly of New York. I leave everything of which I die possessed to my nephew, Peter Kelly."

The entire room gasped. No one spoke. The coroner looked all around. "Has anybody here seen Kelly?" he asked.

There was no answer.

The coroner repeated the question.

No one moved.

"Mr. Coroner," said the attorney, "it is my opinion that if Peter Kelly is found the mystery is fathomed."

Ten minutes later the jury returned a verdict of murder against a person or persons unknown, adding that they would bet a dollar that Kelly did it.

The coroner ordered the butler to be released, and directed the issue of a warrant for the arrest of Peter Kelly.



CHAPTER VI

SHOW ME THE MAN WHO WORE THOSE BOOTS

The remains of the unhappy club man were buried on the following day as reverently as those of a club man can be. None followed him to the grave except a few morbid curiosity-seekers, who rode on top of the hearse.

The great city turned again to its usual avocations. The unfathomable mystery was dismissed from the public mind.

Meantime Transome Kent was on the trail. Sleepless, almost foodless, and absolutely drinkless, he was everywhere. He was looking for Peter Kelly. Wherever crowds were gathered, the Investigator was there, searching for Kelly. In the great concourse of the Grand Central Station, Kent moved to and fro, peering into everybody's face. An official touched him on the shoulder. "Stop peering into the people's faces," he said. "I am unravelling a mystery," Kent answered. "I beg your pardon, sir," said the man, "I didn't know."

Kent was here, and everywhere, moving ceaselessly, pro and con, watching for Kelly. For hours he stood beside the soda-water fountains examining every drinker as he drank. For three days he sat on the steps of Masterman Throgton's home, disguised as a plumber waiting for a wrench.

But still no trace of Peter Kelly. Young Kelly, it appeared, had lived with his uncle until a little less than three years ago. Then suddenly he had disappeared. He had vanished, as a brilliant writer for the New York Press framed it, as if the earth had swallowed him up.

Transome Kent, however, was not a man to be baffled by initial defeat.

A week later, the Investigator called in at the office of Inspector Edwards.

"Inspector," he said, "I must have some more clues. Take me again to the Kelly residence. I must re-analyse my first diaeresis."

Together the two friends went to the house. "It is inevitable," said Kent, as they entered again the fateful billiard-room, "that we have overlooked something."

"We always do," said Edwards gloomily.

"Now tell me," said Kent, as they stood beside the billiard table, "what is your own theory, the police theory, of this murder? Give me your first theory first, and then go on with the others."

"Our first theory, Mr. Kent, was that the murder was committed by a sailor with a wooden leg, newly landed from Java."

"Quite so, quite proper," nodded Kent.

"We knew that he was a sailor," the Inspector went on, dropping again into his sing-song monotone, "by the extraordinary agility needed to climb up the thirty feet of bare brick wall to the window—a landsman could not have climbed more than twenty; the fact that he was from the East Indies we knew from the peculiar knot about his victim's neck. We knew that he had a wooden leg——"

The Inspector paused and looked troubled.

"We knew it." He paused again. "I'm afraid I can't remember that one."

"Tut, tut," said Kent gently, "you knew it, Edwards, because when he leaned against the billiard table the impress of his hand on the mahogany was deeper on one side than the other. The man was obviously top heavy. But you abandoned this first theory."

"Certainly, Mr. Kent, we always do. Our second theory was——"

But Kent had ceased to listen. He had suddenly stooped down and picked up something off the floor.

"Ha ha!" he exclaimed. "What do you make of this?" He held up a square fragment of black cloth.

"We never saw it," said Edwards.

"Cloth," muttered Kent, "the missing piece of Kivas Kelly's dinner jacket." He whipped out a magnifying glass. "Look," he said, "it's been stamped upon—by a man wearing hob-nailed boots—made in Ireland—a man of five feet nine and a half inches high——"

"One minute, Mr. Kent," interrupted the Inspector, greatly excited, "I don't quite get it."

"The depth of the dint proves the lift of his foot," said Kent impatiently, "and the lift of the foot indicates at once the man's height. Edwards, find me the man who wore these boots and the mystery is solved!"

At that very moment a heavy step, unmistakably to the trained ear that of a man in hob-nailed boots, was heard upon the stair. The door opened and a man stood hesitating in the doorway.

Both Kent and Edwards gave a start, two starts, of surprise.

The man was exactly five feet nine and a half inches high. He was dressed in coachman's dress. His face was saturnine and evil.

It was Dennis, the coachman of the murdered man.

"If you're Mr. Kent," he said, "there's a lady here asking for you."



CHAPTER VII

OH, MR. KENT, SAVE ME!

In another moment an absolutely noiseless step was heard upon the stair.

A young girl entered, a girl, tall, willowy and beautiful, in the first burst, or just about the first burst, of womanhood.

It was Alice Delary.

She was dressed with extreme taste, but Kent's quick eye noted at once that she wore no hat.

"Mr. Kent," she cried, "you are Mr. Kent, are you not? They told me that you were here. Oh, Mr. Kent, help me, save me!"

She seemed to shudder into herself a moment. Her breath came and went quickly.

She reached out her two hands.

"Calm yourself, my dear young lady," said Kent, taking them. "Don't let your breath come and go so much. Trust me. Tell me all."

"Mr. Kent," said Delary, regaining her control, but still trembling, "I want my hat."

Kent let go the beautiful girl's hands. "Sit down," he said. Then he went across the room and fetched the hat, the light gossamer hat, with flowers in it, that still hung on a peg.

"Oh, I am so glad to get it back," cried the girl. "I can never thank you enough. I was afraid to come for it."

"It is all right," said the Inspector. "The police theory was that it was the housekeeper's hat. You are welcome to it."

Kent had been looking closely at the girl before him.

"You have more to say than that," he said. "Tell me all."

"Oh, I will, I will, Mr. Kent. That dreadful night! I was here. I saw, at least I heard it all."

She shuddered.

"Oh, Mr. Kent, it was dreadful! I had come back that evening to the library to finish some work. I knew that Mr. Kelly was to dine out and that I would be alone. I had been working quietly for some time when I became aware of voices in the billiard-room. I tried not to listen, but they seemed to be quarrelling, and I couldn't help hearing. Oh, Mr. Kent, was I wrong?"

"No," said Kent, taking her hand a moment, "you were not."

"I heard one say, 'Get your foot off the table, you've no right to put your foot on the table.' Then the other said, 'Well, you keep your stomach off the cushion then.'" The girl shivered. "Then presently one said, quite fiercely, 'Get back into balk there, get back fifteen inches,' and the other voice said, 'By God! I'll shoot from here.' Then there was a dead stillness, and then a voice almost screamed, 'You've potted me. You've potted me. That ends it.' And then I heard the other say in a low tone, 'Forgive me, I didn't mean it. I never meant it to end that way.'

"I was so frightened, Mr. Kent, I couldn't stay any longer. I rushed downstairs and ran all the way home. Then next day I read what had happened, and I knew that I had left my hat there, and was afraid. Oh, Mr. Kent, save me!"

"Miss Delary," said the Investigator, taking again the girl's hands and looking into her eyes, "you are safe. Tell me only one thing. The man who played against Kivas Kelly—did you see him?"

"Only for one moment"—the girl paused—"through the keyhole."

"What was he like?" asked Kent. "Had he an impenetrable face?"

"He had."

"Was there anything massive about his face?"

"Oh, yes, yes, it was all massive."

"Miss Delary," said Kent, "this mystery is now on the brink of solution. When I have joined the last links of the chain, may I come and tell you all?"

She looked full in his face.

"At any hour of the day or night," she said, "you may come."

Then she was gone.



CHAPTER VIII

YOU ARE PETER KELLY

Within a few moments Kent was at the phone.

"I want four, four, four, four. Is that four, four, four, four? Mr. Throgton's house? I want Mr. Throgton. Mr. Throgton speaking? Mr. Throgton, Kent speaking. The Riverside mystery is solved."

Kent waited in silence a moment. Then he heard Throgton's voice—not a note in it disturbed:

"Has anybody found Kelly?"

"Mr. Throgton," said Kent, and he spoke with a strange meaning in his tone, "the story is a long one. Suppose I relate it to you"—he paused, and laid a peculiar emphasis on what followed—"over a game of billiards."

"What the devil do you mean?" answered Throgton.

"Let me come round to your house and tell the story. There are points in it that I can best illustrate over a billiard table. Suppose I challenge you to a fifty point game before I tell my story."

It required no little hardihood to challenge Masterman Throgton at billiards. His reputation at his club as a cool, determined player was surpassed by few. Throgton had been known to run nine, ten, and even twelve at a break. It was not unusual for him to drive his ball clear off the table. His keen eye told him infallibly where each of the three balls was; instinctively he knew which to shoot with.

In Kent, however, he had no mean adversary. The young reporter, though he had never played before, had studied his book to some purpose. His strategy was admirable. Keeping his ball well under the shelter of the cushion, he eluded every stroke of his adversary, and in his turn caused his ball to leap or dart across the table with such speed as to bury itself in the pocket at the side.

The score advanced rapidly, both players standing precisely equal. At the end of the first half-hour it stood at ten all. Throgton, a grim look upon his face, had settled down to work, playing with one knee on the table. Kent, calm but alive with excitement, leaned well forward to his stroke, his eye held within an inch of the ball.

At fifteen they were still even. Throgton with a sudden effort forced a break of three; but Kent rallied and in another twenty minutes they were even again at nineteen all.

But it was soon clear that Transome Kent had something else in mind than to win the game. Presently his opportunity came. With a masterly stroke, such as few trained players could use, he had potted his adversary's ball. The red ball was left over the very jaws of the pocket. The white was in the centre.

Kent looked into Throgton's face.

The balls were standing in the very same position on the table as on the night of the murder.

"I did that on purpose," said Kent quietly.

"What do you mean?" asked Throgton.

"The position of those balls," said Kent. "Mr. Throgton, come into the library. I have something to say to you. You know already what it is."

They went into the library. Throgton, his hand unsteady, lighted a cigar.

"Well," he said, "what is it?"

"Mr. Throgton," said Kent, "two weeks ago you gave me a mystery to solve. To-night I can give you the solution. Do you want it?"

Throgton's face never moved.

"Well," he said.

"A man's life," Kent went on, "may be played out on a billiard table. A man's soul, Throgton, may be pocketed."

"What devil's foolery is this?" said Throgton. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that your crime is known—plotter, schemer that you are, you are found out—hypocrite, traitor; yes, Masterman Throgton, or rather—let me give you your true name-Peter Kelly, murderer, I denounce you!"

Throgton never flinched. He walked across to where Kent stood, and with his open palm he slapped him over the mouth.

"Transome Kent," he said, "you're a liar."

Then he walked back to his chair and sat down.

"Kent," he continued, "from the first moment of your mock investigation, I knew who you were. Your every step was shadowed, your every movement dogged. Transome Kent—by your true name, Peter Kelly, murderer, I denounce you."

Kent walked quietly across to Throgton and dealt him a fearful blow behind the ear.

"You're a liar," he said, "I am not Peter Kelly."

They sat looking at one another.

At that moment Throgton's servant appeared at the door.

"A gentleman to see you, sir."

"Who?" said Throgton.

"I don't know, sir, he gave his card."

Masterman Throgton took the card.

On it was printed:

PETER KELLY



CHAPTER IX

LET ME TELL YOU THE STORY OF MY LIFE

For a moment Throgton and Kent sat looking at one another.

"Show the man up," said Throgton.

A minute later the door opened and a man entered. Kent's keen eye analysed him as he stood. His blue clothes, his tanned face, and the extraordinary dexterity of his fingers left no doubt of his calling. He was a sailor.

"Sit down," said Throgton.

"Thank you," said the sailor, "it rests my wooden leg."

The two men looked again. One of the sailor's legs was made of wood. With a start Kent noticed that it was made of East Indian sandalwood.

"I've just come from Java," said Kelly quietly, as he sat down.

Kent nodded. "I see it all now," he said. "Throgton, I wronged you. We should have known it was a sailor with a wooden leg from Java. There is no other way."

"Gentlemen," said Peter Kelly, "I've come to make my confession. It is the usual and right thing to do, gentlemen, and I want to go through with it while I can."

"One moment," said Kent, "do you mind interrupting yourself with a hacking cough?"

"Thank you, sir," said Kelly, "I'll get to that a little later. Let me begin by telling you the story of my life."

"No, no," urged Throgton and Kent, "don't do that!"

Kelly frowned. "I think I have a right to," he said. "You've got to hear it. As a boy I had a wild, impulsive nature. Had it been curbed——"

"But it wasn't," said Throgton. "What next?"

"I was the sole relative of my uncle, and heir to great wealth. Pampered with every luxury, I was on a footing of——"

"One minute," interrupted Kent, rapidly analysing as he listened. "How many legs had you then?"

"Two—on a footing of ease and indolence. I soon lost——"

"Your leg," said Throgton. "Mr. Kelly, pray come to the essential things."

"I will," said the sailor. "Gentlemen, bad as I was, I was not altogether bad."

"Of course not," said Kent and Throgton soothingly. "Probably not more than ninety per cent."

"Even into my life, gentlemen, love entered. If you had seen her you would have known that she is as innocent as the driven snow. Three years ago she came to my uncle's house. I loved her. One day, hardly knowing what I was doing, I took her——" he paused.

"Yes, yes," said Throgton and Kent, "you took her?"

"To the Aquarium. My uncle heard of it. There was a violent quarrel. He disinherited me and drove me from the house. I had a liking for the sea from a boy."

"Excuse me," said Kent, "from what boy?"

Kelly went right on. "I ran away as a sailor before the mast."

"Pardon me," interrupted Kent, "I am not used to sea terms. Why didn't you run behind the mast?"

"Hear me out," said Kelly, "I am nearly done. We sailed for the East Indies—for Java. There a Malay pirate bit off my leg. I returned home, bitter, disillusioned, the mere wreck that you see. I had but one thought. I meant to kill my uncle."

For a moment a hacking cough interrupted Kelly. Kent and Throgton nodded quietly to one another.

"I came to his house at night. With the aid of my wooden leg I scaled the wall, lifted the window and entered the billiard-room. There was murder in my heart. Thank God I was spared from that. At the very moment when I got in, a light was turned on in the room and I saw before me—but no, I will not name her—my better angel. 'Peter!' she cried, then with a woman's intuition she exclaimed, 'You have come to murder your uncle. Don't do it.' My whole mood changed. I broke down and cried like a—like a——"

Kelly paused a moment.

"Like a boob," said Kent softly. "Go on."

"When I had done crying, we heard voices. 'Quick,' she exclaimed, 'flee, hide, he must not see you.' She rushed into the adjoining room, closing the door. My eye had noticed already the trap above. I climbed up to it. Shall I explain how?"

"Don't," said Kent, "I can analyse it afterwards."

"There I saw what passed. I saw Mr. Throgton and Kivas Kelly come in. I watched their game. They were greatly excited and quarrelled over it. Throgton lost."

The big man nodded with a scowl. "By his potting the white," he said.

"Precisely," said Kelly, "he missed the red. Your analysis was wrong, Mr. Kent. The game ended. You started your reasoning from a false diaeresis. In billiards people never mark the last point. The board still showed ninety-nine all. Throgton left and my uncle, as often happens, kept trying over the last shot—a half-ball shot, sir, with the red over the pocket. He tried again and again. He couldn't make it. He tried various ways. His rest was too unsteady. Finally he made his tie into a long loop round his neck and put his cue through it. 'Now, by gad!' he said, 'I can do it.'"

"Ha!" said Kent. "Fool that I was."

"Exactly," continued Kelly. "In the excitement of watching my uncle I forgot where I was, I leaned too far over and fell out of the trap. I landed on uncle, just as he was sitting on the table to shoot. He fell."

"I see it all!" said Kent. "He hit his head, the loop tightened, the cue spun round and he was dead."

"That's it," said Kelly. "I saw that he was dead, and I did not dare to remain. I straightened the knot in his tie, laid his hands reverently across his chest, and departed as I had come."

"Mr. Kelly," said Throgton thoughtfully, "the logic of your story is wonderful. It exceeds anything in its line that I have seen published for months. But there is just one point that I fail to grasp. The two bullet holes?"

"They were old ones," answered the sailor quietly. "My uncle in his youth had led a wild life in the west; he was full of them."

There was silence for a moment. Then Kelly spoke again:

"My time, gentlemen, is short." (A hacking cough interrupted him.) "I feel that I am withering. It rests with you, gentlemen, whether or not I walk out of this room a free man."

Transome Kent rose and walked over to the sailor.

"Mr. Kelly," he said, "here is my hand."



CHAPTER X

SO DO I

A few days after the events last narrated, Transome Kent called at the boarding-house of Miss Alice Delary. The young Investigator wore a light grey tweed suit, with a salmon-coloured geranium in his buttonhole. There was something exultant yet at the same time grave in his expression, as of one who has taken a momentous decision, affecting his future life.

"I wonder," he murmured, "whether I am acting for my happiness."

He sat down for a moment on the stone steps and analysed himself.

Then he rose.

"I am," he said, and rang the bell.

"Miss Delary?" said a maid, "she left here two days ago. If you are Mr. Kent, the note on the mantelpiece is for you."

Without a word (Kent never wasted them) the Investigator opened the note and read:

"Dear Mr. Kent,

"Peter and I were married yesterday morning, and have taken an apartment in Java, New Jersey. You will be glad to hear that Peter's cough is ever so much better. The lawyers have given Peter his money without the least demur.

"We both feel that your analysis was simply wonderful. Peter says he doesn't know where he would be without it.

"Very sincerely,

"Alice Kelly.

"P.S.—I forgot to mention to you that I saw Peter in the billiard-room. But your analysis was marvellous just the same."

That evening Kent sat with Throgton talking over the details of the tragedy.

"Throgton," he said, "it has occurred to me that there were points about that solution that we didn't get exactly straight somehow."

"So do I," said Throgton.



V

BROKEN BARRIERS

OR, RED LOVE ON A BLUE ISLAND

(The kind of thing that has replaced the good Old Sea Story)



V.—Broken Barriers; or, Red Love on a Blue Island.

It was on a bright August afternoon that I stepped on board the steamer Patagonia at Southampton outward bound for the West Indies and the Port of New Orleans.

I had at the time no presentiment of disaster. I remember remarking to the ship's purser, as my things were being carried to my state-room, that I had never in all my travels entered upon any voyage with so little premonition of accident. "Very good, Mr. Borus," he answered. "You will find your state-room in the starboard aisle on the right." I distinctly recall remarking to the Captain that I had never, in any of my numerous seafarings, seen the sea of a more limpid blue. He agreed with me so entirely, as I recollect it, that he did not even trouble to answer.

Had anyone told me on that bright summer afternoon that our ship would within a week be wrecked among the Dry Tortugas, I should have laughed. Had anyone informed me that I should find myself alone on a raft in the Caribbean Sea, I should have gone into hysterics.

We had hardly entered the waters of the Caribbean when a storm of unprecedented violence broke upon us. Even the Captain had never, so he said, seen anything to compare with it. For two days and nights we encountered and endured the full fury of the sea. Our soup plates were secured with racks and covered with lids. In the smoking-room our glasses had to be set in brackets, and as our steward came and went, we were from moment to moment in imminent danger of seeing him washed overboard.

On the third morning just after daybreak the ship collided with something, probably either a floating rock or one of the dry Tortugas. She blew out her four funnels, the bowsprit dropped out of its place, and the propeller came right off. The Captain, after a brief consultation, decided to abandon her. The boats were lowered, and, the sea being now quite calm, the passengers were emptied into them.

By what accident I was left behind I cannot tell. I had been talking to the second mate and telling him of a rather similar experience of mine in the China Sea, and holding him by the coat as I did so, when quite suddenly he took me by the shoulders, and rushing me into the deserted smoking-room said, "Sit there, Mr. Borus, till I come back for you." The fellow spoke in such a menacing way that I thought it wiser to comply.

When I came out they were all gone. By good fortune I found one of the ship's rafts still lying on the deck. I gathered together such articles as might be of use and contrived, though how I do not know, to launch it into the sea.

On my second morning on my raft I was sitting quietly polishing my boots and talking to myself when I became aware of an object floating in the sea close beside the raft. Judge of my feelings when I realized it to be the inanimate body of a girl. Hastily finishing my boots and stopping talking to myself, I made shift as best I could to draw the unhappy girl towards me with a hook.

After several ineffectual attempts I at last managed to obtain a hold of the girl's clothing and drew her on to the raft.

She was still unconscious. The heavy lifebelt round her person must (so I divined) have kept her afloat after the wreck. Her clothes were sodden, so I reasoned, with the sea-water.

On a handkerchief which was still sticking into the belt of her dress, I could see letters embroidered. Realizing that this was no time for hesitation, and that the girl's life might depend on my reading her name, I plucked it forth. It was Edith Croyden.

As vigorously as I could I now set to work to rub her hands. My idea was (partly) to restore her circulation. I next removed her boots, which were now rendered useless, as I argued, by the sea-water, and began to rub her feet.

I was just considering what to remove next, when the girl opened her eyes. "Stop rubbing my feet," she said.

"Miss Croyden," I said, "you mistake me."

I rose, with a sense of pique which I did not trouble to conceal, and walked to the other end of the raft. I turned my back upon the girl and stood looking out upon the leaden waters of the Caribbean Sea. The ocean was now calm. There was nothing in sight.

I was still searching the horizon when I heard a soft footstep on the raft behind me, and a light hand was laid upon my shoulder. "Forgive me," said the girl's voice.

I turned about. Miss Croyden was standing behind me. She had, so I argued, removed her stockings and was standing in her bare feet. There is something, I am free to confess, about a woman in her bare feet which hits me where I live. With instinctive feminine taste the girl had twined a piece of seaweed in her hair. Seaweed, as a rule, gets me every time. But I checked myself.

"Miss Croyden," I said, "there is nothing to forgive."

At the mention of her name the girl blushed for a moment and seemed about to say something, but stopped.

"Where are we?" she queried presently.

"I don't know," I answered, as cheerily as I could, "but I am going to find out."

"How brave you are!" Miss Croyden exclaimed.

"Not at all," I said, putting as much heartiness into my voice as I was able to.

The girl watched my preparations with interest.

With the aid of a bent pin hoisted on a long pole I had no difficulty in ascertaining our latitude.

"Miss Croydon," I said, "I am now about to ascertain our longitude. To do this I must lower myself down into the sea. Pray do not be alarmed or anxious. I shall soon be back."

With the help of a long line I lowered myself deep down into the sea until I was enabled to ascertain, approximately at any rate, our longitude. A fierce thrill went through me at the thought that this longitude was our longitude, hers and mine. On the way up, hand over hand, I observed a long shark looking at me. Realizing that the fellow if voracious might prove dangerous, I lost but little time—indeed, I may say I lost absolutely no time—in coming up the rope.

The girl was waiting for me.

"Oh, I am so glad you have come back," she exclaimed, clasping her hands.

"It was nothing," I said, wiping the water from my ears, and speaking as melodiously as I could.

"Have you found our whereabouts?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered. "Our latitude is normal, but our longitude is, I fear, at least three degrees out of the plumb. I am afraid, Miss Croyden," I added, speaking as mournfully as I knew how, "that you must reconcile your mind to spending a few days with me on this raft."

"Is it as bad as that?" she murmured, her eyes upon the sea.

In the long day that followed, I busied myself as much as I could with my work upon the raft, so as to leave the girl as far as possible to herself. It was, so I argued, absolutely necessary to let her feel that she was safe in my keeping. Otherwise she might jump off the raft and I should lose her.

I sorted out my various cans and tins, tested the oil in my chronometer, arranged in neat order my various ropes and apparatus, and got my frying-pan into readiness for any emergency. Of food we had for the present no lack.

With the approach of night I realized that it was necessary to make arrangements for the girl's comfort. With the aid of a couple of upright poles I stretched a grey blanket across the raft so as to make a complete partition.

"Miss Croyden," I said, "this end of the raft is yours. Here you may sleep in peace."

"How kind you are," the girl murmured.

"You will be quite safe from interference," I added. "I give you my word that I will not obtrude upon you in any way."

"How chivalrous you are," she said.

"Not at all," I answered, as musically as I could. "Understand me, I am now putting my head over this partition for the last time. If there is anything you want, say so now."

"Nothing," she answered.

"There is a candle and matches beside you. If there is anything that you want in the night, call me instantly. Remember, at any hour I shall be here. I promise it."

"Good night," she murmured. In a few minutes her soft regular breathing told me that she was asleep.

I went forward and seated myself in a tar-bucket, with my head against the mast, to get what sleep I could.

But for some time—why, I do not know—sleep would not come.

The image of Edith Croyden filled my mind. In vain I told myself that she was a stranger to me: that—beyond her longitude—I knew nothing of her. In some strange way this girl had seized hold of me and dominated my senses.

The night was very calm and still, with great stars in a velvet sky. In the darkness I could hear the water lapping the edge of the raft.

I remained thus in deep thought, sinking further and further into the tar-bucket. By the time I reached the bottom of it I realized that I was in love with Edith Croyden.

Then the thought of my wife occurred to me and perplexed me. Our unhappy marriage had taken place three years before. We brought to one another youth, wealth and position. Yet our marriage was a failure. My wife—for what reason I cannot guess—seemed to find my society irksome. In vain I tried to interest her with narratives of my travels. They seemed—in some way that I could not divine—to fatigue her. "Leave me for a little, Harold," she would say (I forgot to mention that my name is Harold Borus), "I have a pain in my neck." At her own suggestion I had taken a trip around the world. On my return she urged me to go round again. I was going round for the third time when the wrecking of the steamer had interrupted my trip.

On my own part, too, I am free to confess that my wife's attitude had aroused in me a sense of pique, not to say injustice. I am not in any way a vain man. Yet her attitude wounded me. I would no sooner begin, "When I was in the Himalayas hunting the humpo or humped buffalo," than she would interrupt and say, "Oh, Harold, would you mind going down to the billiard-room and seeing if I left my cigarettes under the billiard-table?" When I returned, she was gone.

By agreement we had arranged for a divorce. On my completion of my third voyage we were to meet in New Orleans. Clara was to go there on a separate ship, giving me the choice of oceans.

Had I met Edith Croyden three months later I should have been a man free to woo and win her. As it was I was bound. I must put a clasp of iron on my feelings. I must wear a mask. Cheerful, helpful, and full of narrative, I must yet let fall no word of love to this defenceless girl.

After a great struggle I rose at last from the tar-bucket, feeling, if not a brighter, at least a cleaner man.

Dawn was already breaking. I looked about me. As the sudden beams of the tropic sun illumined the placid sea, I saw immediately before me, only a hundred yards away, an island. A sandy beach sloped back to a rocky eminence, broken with scrub and jungle. I could see a little stream leaping among the rocks. With eager haste I paddled the raft close to the shore till it ground in about ten inches of water.

I leaped into the water.

With the aid of a stout line, I soon made the raft fast to a rock. Then as I turned I saw that Miss Croyden was standing upon the raft, fully dressed, and gazing at me. The morning sunlight played in her hair, and her deep blue eyes were as soft as the Caribbean Sea itself.

"Don't attempt to wade ashore, Miss Croyden," I cried in agitation. "Pray do nothing rash. The waters are simply infested with bacilli."

"But how can I get ashore?" she asked, with a smile which showed all, or nearly all, of her pearl-like teeth.

"Miss Croyden," I said, "there is only one way. I must carry you."

In another moment I had walked back to the raft and lifted her as tenderly and reverently as if she had been my sister—indeed more so—in my arms.

Her weight seemed nothing. When I get a girl like that in my arms I simply don't feel it. Just for one moment as I clasped her thus in my arms, a fierce thrill ran through me. But I let it run.

When I had carried her well up the sand close to the little stream, I set her down. To my surprise, she sank down in a limp heap.

The girl had fainted.

I knew that it was no time for hesitation.

Running to the stream, I filled my hat with water and dashed it in her face. Then I took up a handful of mud and threw it at her with all my force. After that I beat her with my hat.

At length she opened her eyes and sat up.

"I must have fainted," she said, with a little shiver. "I am cold. Oh, if we could only have a fire."

"I will do my best to make one, Miss Croyden," I replied, speaking as gymnastically as I could. "I will see what I can do with two dry sticks."

"With dry sticks?" queried the girl. "Can you light a fire with that? How wonderful you are!"

"I have often seen it done," I replied thoughtfully; "when I was hunting the humpo, or humped buffalo, in the Himalayas, it was our usual method."

"Have you really hunted the humpo?" she asked, her eyes large with interest.

"I have indeed," I said, "but you must rest; later on I will tell you about it."

"I wish you could tell me now," she said with a little moan.

Meantime I had managed to select from the driftwood on the beach two sticks that seemed absolutely dry. Placing them carefully together, in Indian fashion, I then struck a match and found no difficulty in setting them on fire.

In a few moments the girl was warming herself beside a generous fire.

Together we breakfasted upon the beach beside the fire, discussing our plans like comrades.

Our meal over, I rose.

"I will leave you here a little," I said, "while I explore."

With no great difficulty I made my way through the scrub and climbed the eminence of tumbled rocks that shut in the view.

On my return Miss Croyden was still seated by the fire, her head in her hands.

"Miss Croyden," I said, "we are on an island."

"Is it inhabited?" she asked.

"Once, perhaps, but not now. It is one of the many keys of the West Indies. Here, in old buccaneering days, the pirates landed and careened their ships."

"How did they do that?" she asked, fascinated.

"I am not sure," I answered. "I think with white-wash. At any rate, they gave them a good careening. But since then these solitudes are only the home of the sea-gull, the sea-mew, and the albatross."

The girl shuddered.

"How lonely!" she said.

"Lonely or not," I said with a laugh (luckily I can speak with a laugh when I want to), "I must get to work."

I set myself to work to haul up and arrange our effects. With a few stones I made a rude table and seats. I took care to laugh and sing as much as possible while at my work. The close of the day found me still busy with my labours.

"Miss Croyden," I said, "I must now arrange a place for you to sleep."

With the aid of four stakes driven deeply into the ground and with blankets strung upon them, I managed to fashion a sort of rude tent, roofless, but otherwise quite sheltered.

"Miss Croyden," I said when all was done, "go in there."

Then, with little straps which I had fastened to the blankets, I buckled her in reverently.

"Good night, Miss Croyden," I said.

"But you," she exclaimed, "where will you sleep?"

"Oh, I?" I answered, speaking as exuberantly as I could, "I shall do very well on the ground. But be sure to call me at the slightest sound."

Then I went out and lay down in a patch of cactus plants.

I need not dwell in detail upon the busy and arduous days that followed our landing upon the island. I had much to do. Each morning I took our latitude and longitude. By this I then set my watch, cooked porridge, and picked flowers till Miss Croyden appeared.

With every day the girl came forth from her habitation as a new surprise in her radiant beauty. One morning she had bound a cluster of wild arbutus about her brow. Another day she had twisted a band of convolvulus around her waist. On a third she had wound herself up in a mat of bulrushes.

With her bare feet and wild bulrushes all around her, she looked as a cave woman might have looked, her eyes radiant with the Caribbean dawn. My whole frame thrilled at the sight of her. At times it was all I could do not to tear the bulrushes off her and beat her with the heads of them. But I schooled myself to restraint, and handed her a rock to sit upon, and passed her her porridge on the end of a shovel with the calm politeness of a friend.

Our breakfast over, my more serious labours of the day began. I busied myself with hauling rocks or boulders along the sand to build us a house against the rainy season. With some tackle from the raft I had made myself a set of harness, by means of which I hitched myself to a boulder. By getting Miss Croyden to beat me over the back with a stick, I found that I made fair progress.

But even as I worked thus for our common comfort, my mind was fiercely filled with the thought of Edith Croyden. I knew that if once the barriers broke everything would be swept away. Heaven alone knows the effort that it cost me. At times nothing but the sternest resolution could hold my fierce impulses in check. Once I came upon the girl writing in the sand with a stick. I looked to see what she had written. I read my own name "Harold." With a wild cry I leapt into the sea and dived to the bottom of it. When I came up I was calmer. Edith came towards me; all dripping as I was, she placed her hands upon my shoulders. "How grand you are!" she said. "I am," I answered; then I added, "Miss Croyden, for Heaven's sake don't touch me on the ear. I can't stand it." I turned from her and looked out over the sea. Presently I heard something like a groan behind me. The girl had thrown herself on the sand and was coiled up in a hoop. "Miss Croyden," I said, "for God's sake don't coil up in a hoop."

I rushed to the beach and rubbed gravel on my face.

With such activities, alternated with wild bursts of restraint, our life on the island passed as rapidly as in a dream. Had I not taken care to notch the days upon a stick and then cover the stick with tar, I could not have known the passage of the time. The wearing out of our clothing had threatened a serious difficulty. But by good fortune I had seen a large black and white goat wandering among the rocks and had chased it to a standstill. From its skin, leaving the fur still on, Edith had fashioned us clothes. Our boots we had replaced with alligator hide. I had, by a lucky chance, found an alligator upon the beach, and attaching a string to the fellow's neck I had led him to our camp. I had then poisoned the fellow with tinned salmon and removed his hide.

Our costume was now brought into harmony with our surroundings. For myself, garbed in goatskin with the hair outside, with alligator sandals on my feet and with whiskers at least six inches long, I have no doubt that I resembled the beau ideal of a cave man. With the open-air life a new agility seemed to have come into my limbs. With a single leap in my alligator sandals I was enabled to spring into a coco-nut tree.

As for Edith Croyden, I can only say that as she stood beside me on the beach in her suit of black goatskin (she had chosen the black spots) there were times when I felt like seizing her in the frenzy of my passion and hurling her into the sea. Fur always acts on me just like that.

It was at the opening of the fifth week of our life upon the island that a new and more surprising turn was given to our adventure. It arose out of a certain curiosity, harmless enough, on Edith Croyden's part. "Mr. Borus," she said one morning, "I should like so much to see the rest of our island. Can we?"

"Alas, Miss Croyden," I said, "I fear that there is but little to see. Our island, so far as I can judge, is merely one of the uninhabited keys of the West Indies. It is nothing but rock and sand and scrub. There is no life upon it. I fear," I added, speaking as jauntily as I could, "that unless we are taken off it we are destined to stay on it."

"Still I should like to see it," she persisted.

"Come on, then," I answered, "if you are good for a climb we can take a look over the ridge of rocks where I went up on the first day."

We made our way across the sand of the beach, among the rocks and through the close matted scrub, beyond which an eminence of rugged boulders shut out the further view.

Making our way to the top of this we obtained a wide look over the sea. The island stretched away to a considerable distance to the eastward, widening as it went, the complete view of it being shut off by similar and higher ridges of rock.

But it was the nearer view, the foreground, that at once arrested our attention. Edith seized my arm. "Look, oh, look!" she said.

Down just below us on the right hand was a similar beach to the one that we had left. A rude hut had been erected on it and various articles lay strewn about.

Seated on a rock with their backs towards us were a man and a woman. The man was dressed in goatskins, and his whiskers, so I inferred from what I could see of them from the side, were at least as exuberant as mine. The woman was in white fur with a fillet of seaweed round her head. They were sitting close together as if in earnest colloquy.

"Cave people," whispered Edith, "aborigines of the island."

But I answered nothing. Something in the tall outline of the seated woman held my eye. A cruel presentiment stabbed me to the heart.

In my agitation my foot overset a stone, which rolled noisily down the rocks. The noise attracted the attention of the two seated below us. They turned and looked searchingly towards the place where we were concealed. Their faces were in plain sight. As I looked at that of the woman I felt my heart cease beating and the colour leave my face.

I looked into Edith's face. It was as pale as mine.

"What does it mean?" she whispered.

"Miss Croyden," I answered, "Edith—it means this. I have never found the courage to tell you. I am a married man. The woman seated there is my wife. And I love you."

Edith put out her arms with a low cry and clasped me about the neck. "Harold," she murmured, "my Harold."

"Have I done wrong?" I whispered.

"Only what I have done too," she answered. "I, too, am married, Harold, and the man sitting there below, John Croyden, is my husband."

With a wild cry such as a cave man might have uttered, I had leapt to my feet.

"Your husband!" I shouted. "Then, by the living God, he or I shall never leave this place alive."

He saw me coming as I bounded down the rocks. In an instant he had sprung to his feet. He gave no cry. He asked no question. He stood erect as a cave man would, waiting for his enemy.

And there upon the sands beside the sea we fought, barehanded and weaponless. We fought as cave men fight.

For a while we circled round one another, growling. We circled four times, each watching for an opportunity. Then I picked up a great handful of sand and threw it flap into his face. He grabbed a coco-nut and hit me with it in the stomach. Then I seized a twisted strand of wet seaweed and landed him with it behind the ear. For a moment he staggered. Before he could recover I jumped forward, seized him by the hair, slapped his face twice and then leaped behind a rock. Looking from the side I could see that Croyden, though half dazed, was feeling round for something to throw. To my horror I saw a great stone lying ready to his hand. Beside me was nothing. I gave myself up for lost, when at that very moment I heard Edith's voice behind me saying, "The shovel, quick, the shovel!" The noble girl had rushed back to our encampment and had fetched me the shovel. "Swat him with that," she cried. I seized the shovel, and with the roar of a wounded bull—or as near as I could make it—I rushed out from the rock, the shovel swung over my head.

But the fight was all out of Croyden.

"Don't strike," he said, "I'm all in. I couldn't stand a crack with that kind of thing."

He sat down upon the sand, limp. Seen thus, he somehow seemed to be quite a small man, not a cave man at all. His goatskin suit shrunk in on him. I could hear his pants as he sat.

"I surrender," he said. "Take both the women. They are yours."

I stood over him leaning upon the shovel. The two women had closed in near to us.

"I suppose you are her husband, are you?" Croyden went on.

I nodded.

"I thought you were. Take her."

Meantime Clara had drawn nearer to me. She looked somehow very beautiful with her golden hair in the sunlight, and the white furs draped about her.

"Harold!" she exclaimed. "Harold, is it you? How strange and masterful you look. I didn't know you were so strong."

I turned sternly towards her.

"When I was alone," I said, "on the Himalayas hunting the humpo or humped buffalo——"

Clara clasped her hands, looking into my face.

"Yes," she said, "tell me about it."

Meantime I could see that Edith had gone over to John Croyden.

"John," she said, "you shouldn't sit on the wet sand like that. You will get a chill. Let me help you to get up."

I looked at Clara and at Croyden.

"How has this happened?" I asked. "Tell me."

"We were on the same ship," Croyden said. "There came a great storm. Even the Captain had never seen——"

"I know," I interrupted, "so had ours."

"The ship struck a rock, and blew out her four funnels——"

"Ours did too," I nodded.

"The bowsprit was broken, and the steward's pantry was carried away. The Captain gave orders to leave the ship——"

"It is enough, Croyden," I said, "I see it all now. You were left behind when the boats cleared, by what accident you don't know——"

"I don't," said Croyden.

"As best you could, you constructed a raft, and with such haste as you might you placed on it such few things——"

"Exactly," he said, "a chronometer, a sextant——"

"I know," I continued, "two quadrants, a bucket of water, and a lightning rod. I presume you picked up Clara floating in the sea."

"I did," Croyden said; "she was unconscious when I got her, but by rubbing——"

"Croyden," I said, raising the shovel again, "cut that out."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's all right. But you needn't go on. I see all the rest of your adventures plainly enough."

"Well, I'm done with it all anyway," said Croyden gloomily. "You can do what you like. As for me, I've got a decent suit back there at our camp, and I've got it dried and pressed and I'm going to put it on."

He rose wearily, Edith standing beside him.

"What's more, Borus," he said, "I'll tell you something. This island is not uninhabited at all."

"Not uninhabited!" exclaimed Clara and Edith together. I saw each of them give a rapid look at her goatskin suit.

"Nonsense, Croyden," I said, "this island is one of the West Indian keys. On such a key as this the pirates used to land. Here they careened their ships——"

"Did what to them?" asked Croyden.

"Careened them all over from one end to the other," I said. "Here they got water and buried treasure; but beyond that the island was, and remained, only the home of the wild gull and the sea-mews——"

"All right," said Croyden, "only it doesn't happen to be that kind of key. It's a West Indian island all right, but there's a summer hotel on the other end of it not two miles away."

"A summer hotel!" we exclaimed.

"Yes, a hotel. I suspected it all along. I picked up a tennis racket on the beach the first day; and after that I walked over the ridge and through the jungle and I could see the roof of the hotel. Only," he added rather shamefacedly, "I didn't like to tell her."

"Oh, you coward!" cried Clara. "I could slap you."

"Don't you dare," said Edith. "I'm sure you knew it as well as he did. And anyway, I was certain of it myself. I picked up a copy of last week's paper in a lunch-basket on the beach, and hid it from Mr. Borus. I didn't want to hurt his feelings."

At that moment Croyden pointed with a cry towards the sea.

"Look," he said, "for Heaven's sake, look!"

He turned.

Less than a quarter of a mile away we could see a large white motor launch coming round the corner. The deck was gay with awnings and bright dresses and parasols.

"Great Heavens!" said Croyden. "I know that launch. It's the Appin-Joneses'."

"The Appin-Joneses'!" cried Clara. "Why, we know them too. Don't you remember, Harold, the Sunday we spent with them on the Hudson?"

Instinctively we had all jumped for cover, behind the rocks.

"Whatever shall we do?" I exclaimed.

"We must get our things," said Edith Croyden. "Jack, if your suit is ready run and get it and stop the launch. Mrs. Borus and Mr. Borus and I can get our things straightened up while you keep them talking. My suit is nearly ready anyway; I thought some one might come. Mr. Borus, would you mind running and fetching me my things, they're all in a parcel together? And perhaps if you have a looking-glass and some pins, Mrs. Borus, I could come over and dress with you."

That same evening we found ourselves all comfortably gathered on the piazza of the Hotel Christopher Columbus. Appin-Jones insisted on making himself our host, and the story of our adventures was related again and again to an admiring audience, with the accompaniment of cigars and iced champagne. Only one detail was suppressed, by common instinct. Both Clara and I felt that it would only raise needless comment to explain that Mr. and Mrs. Croyden had occupied separate encampments.

Nor is it necessary to relate our safe and easy return to New York.

Both Clara and I found Mr. and Mrs. Croyden delightful travelling companions, though perhaps we were not sorry when the moment came to say good-bye.

"The word 'good-bye,'" I remarked to Clara, as we drove away, "is always a painful one. Oddly enough when I was hunting the humpo, or humped buffalo, of the Himalayas——"

"Do tell me about it, darling," whispered Clara, as she nestled beside me in the cab.



VI

THE KIDNAPPED PLUMBER

A TALE OF THE NEW TIME

(Being one chapter—and quite enough—-from the Reminiscences of an Operating Plumber)



VI.—The Kidnapped Plumber: A Tale of the New Time.

"Personally," said Thornton, speaking for the first time, "I never care to take a case that involves cellar work."

We were sitting—a little group of us—round about the fire in a comfortable corner of the Steam and Air Club. Our talk had turned, as always happens with a group of professional men, into more or less technical channels. I will not say that we were talking shop; the word has an offensive sound and might be misunderstood. But we were talking as only a group of practising plumbers—including some of the biggest men in the profession—would talk. With the exception of Everett, who had a national reputation as a Consulting Barber, and Thomas, who was a vacuum cleaner expert, I think we all belonged to the same profession. We had been holding a convention, and Fortescue, who had one of the biggest furnace practices in the country, had read us a paper that afternoon—a most revolutionary thing—on External Diagnosis of Defective Feed Pipes, and naturally the thing had bred discussion. Fortescue, who is one of the most brilliant men in the profession, had stoutly maintained his thesis that the only method of diagnosis for trouble in a furnace is to sit down in front of it and look at it for three days; others held out for unscrewing it and carrying it home for consideration; others of us, again, claimed that by tapping the affected spot with a wrench the pipe might be fractured in such a way as to prove that it was breakable. It was at this point that Thornton interrupted with his remark about never being willing to accept a cellar case.

Naturally all the men turned to look at the speaker. Henry Thornton, at the time of which I relate, was at the height of his reputation. Beginning, quite literally, at the bottom of the ladder, he had in twenty years of practice as an operating plumber raised himself to the top of his profession. There was much in his appearance to suggest the underlying reasons of his success. His face, as is usual with men of our calling, had something of the dreamer in it, but the bold set of the jaw indicated determination of an uncommon kind. Three times President of the Plumbers' Association, Henry Thornton had enjoyed the highest honours of his chosen profession. His book on Nut Coal was recognized as the last word on the subject, and had been crowned by the French Academy of Nuts.

I suppose that one of the principal reasons for his success was his singular coolness and resource. I have seen Thornton enter a kitchen, with that quiet reassuring step of his, and lay out his instruments on the table, while a kitchen tap with a broken washer was sprizzling within a few feet of him, as calmly and as quietly as if he were in his lecture-room of the Plumbers' College.

"You never go into a cellar?" asked Fortescue. "But hang it, man, I don't see how one can avoid it!"

"Well, I do avoid it," answered Thornton, "at least as far as I possibly can. I send down my solderist, of course, but personally, unless it is absolutely necessary, I never go down."

"That's all very well, my dear fellow," Fortescue cut in, "but you know as well as I do that you get case after case where the cellar diagnosis is simply vital. I had a case last week, a most interesting thing—" he turned to the group of us as he spoke—"a double lesion of a gas-pipe under a cement floor—half a dozen of my colleagues had been absolutely baffled. They had made an entirely false diagnosis, operated on the dining-room floor, which they removed and carried home, and when I was called in they had just obtained permission from the Stone Mason's Protective Association to knock down one side of the house."

"Excuse me interrupting just a minute," interjected a member of the group who hailed from a distant city, "have you much trouble about that? I mean about knocking the sides out of houses?"

"No trouble now," said Fortescue. "We did have. But the public is getting educated up to it. Our law now allows us to knock the side out of a house when we feel that we would really like to see what is in it. We are not allowed, of course, to build it up again."

"No, of course not," said the other speaker. "But I suppose you can throw the bricks out on the lawn."

"Yes," said Fortescue, "and sit on them to eat lunch. We had a big fight in the legislature over that, but we got it through."

"Thank you, but I feel I am interrupting."

"Well, I was only saying that, as soon as I had made up my mind that the trouble was in the cellar, the whole case was simple. I took my colleagues down at once, and we sat on the floor of the cellar and held a consultation till the overpowering smell of gas convinced me that there was nothing for it but an operation on the floor. The whole thing was most successful. I was very glad, as it happened that the proprietor of the house was a very decent fellow, employed, I think, as a manager of a bank, or something of the sort. He was most grateful. It was he who gave me the engraved monkey wrench that some of you were admiring before dinner. After we had finished the whole operation—I forgot to say that we had thrown the coal out on the lawn to avoid any complication—he quite broke down. He offered us to take his whole house and keep it."

"You don't do that, do you?" asked the outsider.

"Oh no, never," said Fortescue. "We've made a very strict professional rule against it. We found that some of the younger men were apt to take a house when they were given it, and we had to frown down on it. But, gentlemen, I feel that when Mr. Thornton says that he never goes down into a cellar there must be a story behind it. I think we should invite him to relate it to us."

A murmur of assent greeted the speaker's suggestion. For myself I was particularly pleased, inasmuch as I have long felt that Thornton as a raconteur was almost as interesting as in the role of an operating plumber. I have often told him that, if he had not happened to meet success in his chosen profession, he could have earned a living as a day writer: a suggestion which he has always taken in good part and without offence.

Those of my readers who have looked through the little volume of Reminiscences which I have put together, will recall the narrative of The Missing Nut and the little tale entitled The Blue Blow Torch as instances in point.

"Not much of a story, perhaps," said Thornton, "but such as it is you are welcome to it. So, if you will just fill up your glasses with raspberry vinegar, you may have the tale for what it is worth."

We gladly complied with the suggestion and Thornton continued:

"It happened a good many years ago at a time when I was only a young fellow fresh from college, very proud of my Plumb. B., and inclined to think that I knew it all. I had done a little monograph on Choked Feed in the Blow Torch, which had attracted attention, and I suppose that altogether I was about as conceited a young puppy as one would find in the profession. I should mention that at this time I was not married, but had set up a modest apartment of my own with a consulting-room and a single manservant. Naturally I could not afford the services of a solderist or a gassist and did everything for myself, though Simmons, my man, could at a pinch be utilized to tear down plaster and break furniture."

Thornton paused to take a sip of raspberry vinegar and went on:

"Well, then. I had come home to dinner particularly tired after a long day. I had sat in an attic the greater part of the afternoon (a case of top story valvular trouble) and had had to sit in a cramped position which practically forbade sleep. I was feeling, therefore, none too well pleased, when a little while after dinner the bell rang and Simmons brought word to the library that there was a client in the consulting-room. I reminded the fellow that I could not possibly consider a case at such an advanced hour unless I were paid emergency overtime wages with time and a half during the day of recovery."

"One moment," interrupted the outside member. "You don't mention compensation for mental shock. Do you not draw that here?"

"We do now" explained Thornton, "but the time of which I speak is some years ago and we still got nothing for mental shock, nor disturbance of equilibrium. Nowadays, of course, one would insist on a substantial retainer in advance.

"Well, to continue. Simmons, to my surprise, told me that he had already informed the client of this fact, and that the answer had only been a plea that the case was too urgent to admit of delay. He also supplied the further information that the client was a young lady. I am afraid," added Thornton, looking round his audience with a sympathetic smile, "that Simmons (I had got him from Harvard and he had not yet quite learned his place) even said something about her being strikingly handsome."

A general laugh greeted Thornton's announcement.

"After all," said Fortescue, "I never could see why an Ice Man should be supposed to have a monopoly on gallantry."

"Oh, I don't know," said Thornton. "For my part—I say it without affectation—the moment I am called in professionally, women, as women, cease to exist for me. I can stand beside them in the kitchen and explain to them the feed tap of a kitchen range without feeling them to be anything other than simply clients. And for the most part, I think, they reciprocate that attention. There are women, of course, who will call a man in with motives—but that's another story. I must get back to what I was saying.

"On entering the consulting-room I saw at once that Simmons had exaggerated nothing in describing my young client as beautiful. I have seldom, even among our own class, seen a more strikingly handsome girl. She was dressed in a very plain and simple fashion which showed me at once that she belonged merely to the capitalist class. I am, as I think you know, something of an observer, and my eye at once noted the absence of heavy gold ear-rings and wrist-bangles. The blue feathers at the side of her hat were none of them more than six inches long, and the buttons on her jacket were so inconspicuous that one would hardly notice them. In short, while her dress was no doubt good and serviceable, there was an absence of chic, a lack of noise about it, that told at once the tale of narrow circumstances.

"She was evidently in great distress.

"'Oh, Mr. Thornton,' she exclaimed, advancing towards me, 'do come to our house at once. I simply don't know what to do.'

"She spoke with great emotion, and seemed almost on the point of breaking into tears.

"'Pray, calm yourself, my dear young lady,' I said, 'and try to tell me what is the trouble.'

"'Oh, don't lose any time,' she said, 'do, do come at once.'

"'We will lose no time' I said reassuringly, as I looked at my watch. 'It is now seven-thirty. We will reckon the time from now, with overtime at time and a half. But if I am to do anything for you I must have some idea of what has happened.'

"'The cellar boiler,' she moaned, clasping her hands together, 'the cellar boiler won't work!'

"'Ah!' I said soothingly. 'The cellar boiler won't work. Now tell me, is the feed choked, miss?'

"'I don't know,' she exclaimed.

"'Have you tried letting off the exhaust?'

"She shook her head with a doleful look.

"'I don't know what it is,' she said.

"But already I was hastily gathering together a few instruments, questioning her rapidly as I did so.

"'How's your pressure gauge?' I asked. 'How's your water? Do you draw from the mains or are you on the high level reservoir?'

"It had occurred to me at once that it might be merely a case of stoppage of her main feed, complicated, perhaps, with a valvular trouble in her exhaust. On the other hand it was clear enough that, if her feed was full and her gauges working, her trouble was more likely a leak somewhere in her piping.

"But all attempts to draw from the girl any clear idea of the symptoms were unavailing. All she could tell me was that the cellar boiler wouldn't work. Beyond that her answers were mere confusion. I gathered enough, however, to feel sure that her main feed was still working, and that her top story check valve was probably in order. With that I had to be content.

"As a young practitioner, I had as yet no motor car. Simmons, however, summoned me a taxi, into which I hurriedly placed the girl and my basket of instruments, and was soon speeding in the direction she indicated. It was a dark, lowering night, with flecks of rain against the windows of the cab, and there was something in the lateness of the hour (it was now after half-past eight) and the nature of my mission which gave me a stimulating sense of adventure. The girl directed me, as I felt sure she would, towards the capitalist quarter of the town. We had soon sped away from the brightly lighted streets and tall apartment buildings among which my usual practice lay, and entered the gloomy and dilapidated section of the city where the unhappy capitalist class reside. I need not remind those of you who know it that it is scarcely a cheerful place to find oneself in after nightfall. The thick growth of trees, the silent gloom of the ill-lighted houses, and the rank undergrowth of shrubs give it an air of desolation, not to say danger. It is certainly not the place that a professional man would choose to be abroad in after dark. The inhabitants, living, so it is said, on their scanty dividends and on such parts of their income as our taxation is still unable to reach, are not people that one would care to fall in with after nightfall.

"Since the time of which I speak we have done much to introduce a better state of things. The opening of day schools of carpentry, plumbing and calcimining for the children of the capitalist is already producing results. Strange though it may seem, one of the most brilliant of our boiler fitters of to-day was brought up haphazard in this very quarter of the town and educated only by a French governess and a university tutor. But at the time practically nothing had been done. The place was infested with consumers, and there were still, so it was said, servants living in some of the older houses. A butler had been caught one night in a thick shrubbery beside one of the gloomy streets.

"We alighted at one of the most sombre of the houses, and our taxi-driver, with evident relief, made off in the darkness.

"The girl admitted us into a dark hall, where she turned on an electric light. 'We have light,' she said, with that peculiar touch of pride that one sees so often in her class, 'we have four bulbs.'

"Then she called down a flight of stairs that apparently led to the cellar:

"'Father, the plumber has come. Do come up now, dear, and rest.'

"A step sounded on the stairs, and there appeared beside us one of the most forbidding-looking men that I have ever beheld. I don't know whether any of you have ever seen an Anglican Bishop. Probably not. Outside of the bush, they are now never seen. But at the time of which I speak there were a few still here and there in the purlieus of the city. The man before us was tall and ferocious, and his native ferocity was further enhanced by the heavy black beard which he wore in open defiance of the compulsory shaving laws. His black shovel-shaped hat and his black clothes lent him a singularly sinister appearance, while his legs were bound in tight gaiters, as if ready for an instant spring. He carried in his hand an enormous monkey wrench, on which his fingers were clasped in a restless grip.

"'Can you fix the accursed thing?' he asked.

"I was not accustomed to being spoken to in this way, but I was willing for the girl's sake to strain professional courtesy to the limit.

"'I don't know,' I answered, 'but if you will have the goodness first to fetch me a little light supper, I shall be glad to see what I can do afterwards.'

"My firm manner had its effect. With obvious reluctance the fellow served me some biscuits and some not bad champagne in the dining-room.

"The girl had meantime disappeared upstairs.

"'If you're ready now,' said the Bishop, 'come on down.'

"We went down to the cellar. It was a huge, gloomy place, with a cement floor, lighted by a dim electric bulb. I could see in the corner the outline of a large furnace (in those days the poorer classes had still no central heat) and near it a tall boiler. In front of this a man was kneeling, evidently trying to unscrew a nut, but twisting it the wrong way. He was an elderly man with a grey moustache, and was dressed, in open defiance of the law, in a military costume or uniform.

"He turned round towards us and rose from his knees.

"'I'm dashed if I can make the rotten thing go round,' he said.

"'It's all right, General,' said the Bishop. 'I have brought a plumber.'

"For the next few minutes my professional interest absorbed all my faculties. I laid out my instruments upon a board, tapped the boiler with a small hammer, tested the feed-tube, and in a few moments had made what I was convinced was a correct diagnosis of the trouble.

"But here I encountered the greatest professional dilemma in which I have ever been placed. There was nothing wrong with the boiler at all. It connected, as I ascertained at once by a thermo-dynamic valvular test, with the furnace (in fact, I could see it did), and the furnace quite evidently had been allowed to go out.

"What was I to do? If I told them this, I broke every professional rule of our union. If the thing became known I should probably be disbarred and lose my overalls for it. It was my plain professional duty to take a large hammer and knock holes in the boiler with it, smash up the furnace pipes, start a leak of gas, and then call in three or more of my colleagues.

"But somehow I couldn't find it in my heart to do it. The thought of the girl's appealing face arose before me.

"'How long has this trouble been going on?' I asked sternly.

"'Quite a time,' answered the Bishop. 'It began, did it not, General, the same day that the confounded furnace went out? The General here and Admiral Hay and I have been working at it for three days.'

"'Well, gentlemen,' I said, 'I don't want to read you a lesson on your own ineptitude, and I don't suppose you would understand it if I did. But don't you see that the whole trouble is because you let the furnace out? The boiler itself is all right, but you see, gents, it feeds off the furnace.'

"'Ah,' said the Bishop in a deep melodious tone, 'it feeds off the furnace. Now that is most interesting. Let me repeat that; I must try to remember it; it feeds off the furnace. Just so.'

"The upshot was that in twenty minutes we had the whole thing put to rights. I set the General breaking up boxes and had the Bishop rake out the clinkers, and very soon we had the furnace going and the boiler in operation.

"'But now tell me,' said the Bishop, 'suppose one wanted to let the furnace out—suppose, I mean to say, that it was summer-time, and suppose one rather felt that one didn't care about a furnace and yet one wanted one's boiler going for one's hot water, and that sort of thing, what would one do?'

"'In that case,' I said, 'you couldn't run your heating off your furnace: you'd have to connect in your tubing with a gas generator.'

"'Ah, there you get me rather beyond my depth,' said the Bishop.

"The General shook his head. 'Bishop,' he said, 'just step upstairs a minute; I have an idea.'

"They went up together, leaving me below. To my surprise and consternation, as they reached the top of the cellar stairs, I saw the General swing the door shut and heard a key turn in the lock. I rushed to the top of the stairs and tried in vain to open the door. I was trapped. In a moment I realized my folly in trusting myself in the hands of these people.

"I could hear their voices in the hall, apparently in eager discussion.

"'But the fellow is priceless,' the General was saying. 'We could take him round to all the different houses and make him fix them all. Hang it, Bishop, I haven't had a decent tap running for two years, and Admiral Hay's pantry has been flooded since last March.'

"'But one couldn't compel him?'

"'Certainly, why not? I'd compel him bally quick with this.'

"I couldn't see what the General referred to, but had no doubt that it was the huge wrench that he still carried in his hand.

"'We could gag the fellow,' he went on, 'take him from house to house and make him put everything right.'

"'Ah, but afterwards?' said the Bishop.

"'Afterwards,' answered the General, 'why kill him! Knock him on the head and bury him under the cement in the cellar. Hay and I could easily bury him, or for that matter I imagine one could easily use the furnace itself to dispose of him.'

"I must confess that my blood ran cold as I listened.

"'But do you think it right?' objected the Bishop. 'You will say, of course, that it is only killing a plumber; but yet one asks oneself whether it wouldn't be just a leetle bit unjustifiable.'

"'Nonsense,' said the General. 'You remember that last year, when Hay strangled the income tax collector, you yourself were very keen on it.'

"'Ah, that was different,' said the Bishop, 'one felt there that there was an end to serve, but here——'

"'Nonsense,' repeated the General, 'come along and get Hay. He'll make short work of him.'

"I heard their retreating footsteps and then all was still.

"The horror which filled my mind as I sat in the half darkness waiting for their return I cannot describe. My fate appeared sealed and I gave myself up for lost, when presently I heard a light step in the hall and the key turned in the lock.

"The girl stood in front of me. She was trembling with emotion.

"'Quick, quick, Mr. Thornton,' she said. 'I heard all that they said. Oh, I think it's dreadful of them, simply dreadful. Mr. Thornton, I'm really ashamed that Father should act that way.'

"I came out into the hall still half dazed.

"'They've gone over to Admiral Hay's house, there among the trees. That's their lantern. Please, please, don't lose a minute. Do you mind not having a cab? I think really you'd prefer not to wait. And look, won't you please take this?'—she handed me a little packet as she spoke—'this is a piece of pie: you always get that, don't you? and there's a bit of cheese with it, but please run.'

"In another moment I had bounded from the door into the darkness. A wild rush through the darkened streets, and in twenty minutes I was safe back again in my own consulting-room."

Thornton paused in his narrative, and at that moment one of the stewards of the club came and whispered something in his ear.

He rose.

"I'm sorry," he said, with a grave face. "I'm called away; a very old client of mine. Valvular trouble of the worst kind. I doubt if I can do anything, but I must at least go. Please don't let me break up your evening, however."

With a courtly bow he left us.

"And do you know the sequel to Thornton's story?" asked Fortescue with a smile.

We looked expectantly at him.

"Why, he married the girl," explained Fortescue. "You see, he had to go back to her house for his wrench. One always does."

"Of course," we exclaimed.

"In fact he went three times; and the last time he asked the girl to marry him and she said 'yes.' He took her out of her surroundings, had her educated at a cooking school, and had her given lessons on the parlour organ. She's Mrs. Thornton now."

"And the Bishop?" asked some one.

"Oh, Thornton looked after him. He got him a position heating furnaces in the synagogues. He worked at it till he died a few years ago. They say that once he got the trick of it he took the greatest delight in it. Well, I must go too. Good night."



VII

THE BLUE AND THE GREY

A PRE-WAR WAR STORY

(The title is selected for its originality. A set of seventy-five maps will be supplied to any reader free for seventy-five cents. This offer is only open till it is closed)



VII.—The Blue and the Grey: A Pre-War War Story.



CHAPTER I

The scene was a striking one. It was night. Never had the Mississippi presented a more remarkable appearance. Broad bayous, swollen beyond our powers of description, swirled to and fro in the darkness under trees garlanded with Spanish moss. All moss other than Spanish had been swept away by the angry flood of the river.

Eggleston Lee Carey Randolph, a young Virginian, captain of the ——th company of the ——th regiment of ——'s brigade—even this is more than we ought to say, and is hard to pronounce—attached to the Army of the Tennessee, struggled in vain with the swollen waters. At times he sank. At other times he went up.

In the intervals he wondered whether it would ever be possible for him to rejoin the particular platoon of the particular regiment to which he belonged, and of which's whereabouts (not having the volume of the army record at hand) he was in ignorance. In the intervals, also, he reflected on his past life to a sufficient extent to give the reader a more or less workable idea as to who and to what he was. His father, the old grey-haired Virginian aristocrat, he could see him still. "Take this sword, Eggleston," he had said, "use it for the State; never for anything else: don't cut string with it or open tin cans. Never sheathe it till the soil of Virginia is free. Keep it bright, my boy: oil it every now and then, and you'll find it an A 1 sword."

Did Eggleston think, too, in his dire peril of another—younger than his father and fairer? Necessarily, he did. "Go, Eggleston!" she had exclaimed, as they said farewell under the portico of his father's house where she was visiting, "it is your duty. But mine lies elsewhere. I cannot forget that I am a Northern girl. I must return at once to my people in Pennsylvania. Oh, Egg, when will this cruel war end?"

So had the lovers parted.

Meanwhile—while Eggleston is going up and down for the third time, which is of course the last—suppose we leave him, and turn to consider the general position of the Confederacy. All right: suppose we do.



CHAPTER II

At this date the Confederate Army of the Tennessee was extended in a line with its right resting on the Tennessee and its left resting on the Mississippi. Its rear rested on the rugged stone hills of the Chickasaba range, while its front rested on the marshes and bayous of the Yazoo. Having thus—as far as we understand military matters—both its flanks covered and its rear protected, its position was one which we ourselves consider very comfortable.

It was thus in an admirable situation for holding a review or for discussing the Constitution of the United States in reference to the right of secession.

The following generals rode up and down in front of the army, namely, Mr. A. P. Hill, Mr. Longstreet, and Mr. Joseph Johnston. All these three celebrated men are thus presented to our readers at one and the same time without extra charge.

But who is this tall, commanding figure who rides beside them, his head bent as if listening to what they are saying (he really isn't) while his eye alternately flashes with animation or softens to its natural melancholy? (In fact, we can only compare it to an electric light bulb with the power gone wrong.) Who is it? It is Jefferson C. Davis, President, as our readers will be gratified to learn, of the Confederate States.

It being a fine day and altogether suitable for the purpose, General Longstreet reined in his prancing black charger (during this distressed period all the horses in both armies were charged: there was no other way to pay for them), and in a few terse words, about three pages, gave his views on the Constitution of the United States.

Jefferson Davis, standing up in his stirrups, delivered a stirring harangue, about six columns, on the powers of the Supreme Court, admirably calculated to rouse the soldiers to frenzy. After which General A. P. Hill offered a short address, soldier-like and to the point, on the fundamental principles of international law, which inflamed the army to the highest pitch.

At this moment an officer approached the President, saluted and stood rigidly at attention. Davis, with that nice punctilio which marked the Southern army, returned the salute.

"Do you speak first?" he said, "or did I?"

"Let me," said the officer. "Your Excellency," he continued, "a young Virginian officer has just been fished out of the Mississippi."

Davis's eye flashed. "Good!" he said. "Look and see if there are many more," and then he added with a touch of melancholy, "The South needs them: fish them all out. Bring this one here."

Eggleston Lee Carey Randolph, still dripping from the waters of the bayou, was led by the faithful negroes who had rescued him before the generals. Davis, who kept every thread of the vast panorama of the war in his intricate brain, eyed him keenly and directed a few searching questions to him, such as: "Who are you? Where are you? What day of the week is it? How much is nine times twelve?" and so forth. Satisfied with Eggleston's answers, Davis sat in thought a moment, and then continued:

"I am anxious to send some one through the entire line of the Confederate armies in such a way that he will be present at all the great battles and end up at the battle of Gettysburg. Can you do it?"

Randolph looked at his chief with a flush of pride.

"I can."

"Good!" resumed Davis. "To accomplish this task you must carry despatches. What they will be about I have not yet decided. But it is customary in such cases to write them so that they are calculated, if lost, to endanger the entire Confederate cause. The main thing is, can you carry them?"

"Sir," said Eggleston, raising his hand in a military salute, "I am a Randolph."

Davis with soldierly dignity removed his hat. "I am proud to hear it, Captain Randolph," he said.

"And a Carey," continued our hero.

Davis, with a graciousness all his own, took off his gloves. "I trust you, Major Randolph," he said.

"And I am a Lee," added Eggleston quickly.

Davis with a courtly bow unbuttoned his jacket. "It is enough," he said. "I trust you. You shall carry the despatches. You are to carry them on your person and, as of course you understand, you are to keep on losing them. You are to drop them into rivers, hide them in old trees, bury them under moss, talk about them in your sleep. In fact, sir," said Davis, with a slight gesture of impatience—it was his one fault—"you must act towards them as any bearer of Confederate despatches is expected to act. The point is, can you do it, or can't you?"

"Sir," said Randolph, saluting again with simple dignity, "I come from Virginia."

"Pardon me," said the President, saluting with both hands, "I had forgotten it."



CHAPTER III

Randolph set out that night, mounted upon the fastest horse, in fact the fleetest, that the Confederate Army could supply. He was attended only by a dozen faithful negroes, all devoted to his person.

Riding over the Tennessee mountains by paths known absolutely to no one and never advertised, he crossed the Tombigbee, the Tahoochie and the Tallahassee, all frightfully swollen, and arrived at the headquarters of General Braxton Bragg.

At this moment Bragg was extended over some seven miles of bush and dense swamp. His front rested on the marshes of the Tahoochie River, while his rear was doubled sharply back and rested on a dense growth of cactus plants. Our readers can thus form a fairly accurate idea of Bragg's position. Over against him, not more than fifty miles to the north, his indomitable opponent, Grant, lay in a frog-swamp. The space between them was filled with Union and Confederate pickets, fraternizing, joking, roasting corn, and firing an occasional shot at one another.

One glance at Randolph's despatches was enough.

"Take them at once to General Hood," said Bragg.

"Where is he?" asked Eggleston, with military precision.

Bragg waved his sword towards the east. It was characteristic of the man that even on active service he carried a short sword, while a pistol, probably loaded, protruded from his belt. But such was Bragg. Anyway, he waved his sword. "Over there beyond the Tahoochicaba range," he said. "Do you know it?"

"No," said Randolph, "but I can find it."

"Do," said Bragg, and added, "One thing more. On your present mission let nothing stop you. Go forward at all costs. If you come to a river, swim it. If you come to a tree, cut it down. If you strike a fence, climb over it. But don't stop! If you are killed, never mind. Do you understand?"

"Almost," said Eggleston.

Two days later Eggleston reached the headquarters of General Hood, and flung himself, rather than dismounted, from his jaded horse.

"Take me to the General!" he gasped.

They pointed to the log cabin in which General Hood was quartered.

Eggleston flung himself, rather than stepped, through the door.

Hood looked up from the table.

"Who was that flung himself in?" he asked.

Randolph reached out his hand. "Despatches!" he gasped. "Food, whisky!"

"Poor lad," said the General, "you are exhausted. When did you last have food?"

"Yesterday morning," gasped Eggleston.

"You're lucky," said Hood bitterly. "And when did you last have a drink?"

"Two weeks ago," answered Randolph.

"Great Heaven!" said Hood, starting up. "Is it possible? Here, quick, drink it!"

He reached out a bottle of whisky. Randolph drained it to the last drop.

"Now, General," he said, "I am at your service."

Meanwhile Hood had cast his eye over the despatches.

"Major Randolph," he said, "you have seen General Bragg?"

"I have."

"And Generals Johnston and Smith?"

"Yes."

"You have been through Mississippi and Tennessee and seen all the battles there?"

"I have," said Randolph.

"Then," said Hood, "there is nothing left except to send you at once to the army in Virginia under General Lee. Remount your horse at once and ride to Gettysburg. Lose no time."



CHAPTER IV

It was at Gettysburg in Pennsylvania that Randolph found General Lee.

The famous field is too well known to need description. The armies of the North and the South lay in and around the peaceful village of Gettysburg. About it the yellow cornfields basked in the summer sun. The voices of the teachers and the laughter of merry children rose in the harvest-fields. But already the shadow of war was falling over the landscape. As soon as the armies arrived, the shrewder of the farmers suspected that there would be trouble.

General Lee was seated gravely on his horse, looking gravely over the ground before him.

"Major Randolph," said the Confederate chieftain gravely, "you are just in time. We are about to go into action. I need your advice."

Randolph bowed. "Ask me anything you like," he said.

"Do you like the way I have the army placed?" asked Lee.

Our hero directed a searching look over the field. "Frankly, I don't," he said.

"What's the matter with it?" questioned Lee eagerly. "I felt there was something wrong myself. What is it?"

"Your left," said Randolph, "is too far advanced. It sticks out."

"By Heaven!" said Lee, turning to General Longstreet, "the boy is right! Is there anything else?"

"Yes," said Randolph, "your right is crooked. It is all sideways."

"It is. It is!" said Lee, striking his forehead. "I never noticed it. I'll have it straightened at once. Major Randolph, if the Confederate cause is saved, you, and you alone, have saved it."

"One thing more," said Randolph. "Is your artillery loaded?"

"Major Randolph," said Lee, speaking very gravely, "you have saved us again. I never thought of it."

At this moment a bullet sang past Eggleston's ear. He smiled.

"The battle has begun," he murmured. Another bullet buzzed past his other ear. He laughed softly to himself. A shell burst close to his feet. He broke into uncontrolled laughter. This kind of thing always amused him. Then, turning grave in a moment, "Put General Lee under cover," he said to those about him, "spread something over him."

In a few moments the battle was raging in all directions. The Confederate Army was nominally controlled by General Lee, but in reality by our hero. Eggleston was everywhere. Horses were shot under him. Mules were shot around him and behind him. Shells exploded all over him; but with undaunted courage he continued to wave his sword in all directions, riding wherever the fight was hottest.

The battle raged for three days.

On the third day of the conflict, Randolph, his coat shot to rags, his hat pierced, his trousers practically useless, still stood at Lee's side, urging and encouraging him.

Mounted on his charger, he flew to and fro in all parts of the field, moving the artillery, leading the cavalry, animating and directing the infantry. In fact, he was the whole battle.

But his efforts were in vain.

He turned sadly to General Lee. "It is bootless," he said.

"What is?" asked Lee.

"The army," said Randolph. "We must withdraw it."

"Major Randolph," said the Confederate chief, "I yield to your superior knowledge. We must retreat."

A few hours later the Confederate forces, checked but not beaten, were retiring southward towards Virginia.

Eggleston, his head sunk in thought, rode in the rear.

As he thus slowly neared a farmhouse, a woman—a girl—flew from it towards him with outstretched arms.

"Eggleston!" she cried.

Randolph flung himself from his horse. "Leonora!" he gasped. "You here! In all this danger! How comes it? What brings you here?"

"We live here," she said. "This is Pa's house. This is our farm. Gettysburg is our home. Oh, Egg, it has been dreadful, the noise of the battle! We couldn't sleep for it. Pa's all upset about it. But come in. Do come in. Dinner's nearly ready."

Eggleston gazed a moment at the retreating army. Duty and affection struggled in his heart.

"I will," he said.



CHAPTER V

CONCLUSION

The strife is done. The conflict has ceased. The wounds are healed. North and South are one. East and West are even less. The Civil War is over. Lee is dead. Grant is buried in New York. The Union Pacific runs from Omaha to San Francisco. There is total prohibition in the United States. The output of dressed beef last year broke all records.

And Eggleston Lee Carey Randolph survives, hale and hearty, bright and cheery, free and easy—and so forth. There is grey hair upon his temples (some, not much), and his step has lost something of its elasticity (not a great deal), and his form is somewhat bowed (though not really crooked).

But he still lives there in the farmstead at Gettysburg, and Leonora, now, like himself, an old woman, is still at his side.

You may see him any day. In fact, he is the old man who shows you over the battlefield for fifty cents and explains how he himself fought and won the great battle.



VIII

BUGGAM GRANGE

A GOOD OLD GHOST STORY



VIII.—Buggam Grange: A Good Old Ghost Story.

The evening was already falling as the vehicle in which I was contained entered upon the long and gloomy avenue that leads to Buggam Grange.

A resounding shriek echoed through the wood as I entered the avenue. I paid no attention to it at the moment, judging it to be merely one of those resounding shrieks which one might expect to hear in such a place at such a time. As my drive continued, however I found myself wondering in spite of myself why such a shriek should have been uttered at the very moment of my approach.

I am not by temperament in any degree a nervous man, and yet there was much in my surroundings to justify a certain feeling of apprehension. The Grange is situated in the loneliest part of England, the marsh country of the fens to which civilization has still hardly penetrated. The inhabitants, of whom there are only one and a half to the square mile, live here and there among the fens and eke out a miserable existence by frog-fishing and catching flies. They speak a dialect so broken as to be practically unintelligible, while the perpetual rain which falls upon them renders speech itself almost superfluous.

Here and there where the ground rises slightly above the level of the fens there are dense woods tangled with parasitic creepers and filled with owls. Bats fly from wood to wood. The air on the lower ground is charged with the poisonous gases which exude from the marsh, while in the woods it is heavy with the dank odours of deadly nightshade and poison ivy.

It had been raining in the afternoon, and as I drove up the avenue the mournful dripping of the rain from the dark trees accentuated the cheerlessness of the gloom. The vehicle in which I rode was a fly on three wheels, the fourth having apparently been broken and taken off, causing the fly to sag on one side and drag on its axle over the muddy ground, the fly thus moving only at a foot's pace in a way calculated to enhance the dreariness of the occasion. The driver on the box in front of me was so thickly muffled up as to be indistinguishable, while the horse which drew us was so thickly coated with mist as to be practically invisible. Seldom, I may say, have I had a drive of so mournful a character.

The avenue presently opened out upon a lawn with overgrown shrubberies, and in the half darkness I could see the outline of the Grange itself, a rambling, dilapidated building. A dim light struggled through the casement of a window in a tower room. Save for the melancholy cry of a row of owls sitting on the roof, and croaking of the frogs in the moat which ran around the grounds, the place was soundless. My driver halted his horse at the hither side of the moat. I tried in vain to urge him, by signs, to go further. I could see by the fellow's face that he was in a paroxysm of fear, and indeed nothing but the extra sixpence which I had added to his fare would have made him undertake the drive up the avenue. I had no sooner alighted than he wheeled his cab about and made off.