MOON-FACE AND OTHER STORIES

By Jack London

CONTENTS

 MOON-FACE THE LEOPARD MAN'S STORY LOCAL COLOR AMATEUR NIGHT THE MINIONS OF MIDAS THE SHADOW AND THE FLASH ALL GOLD CANYON PLANCHETTE

MOON-FACE

John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-boneswide apart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete theperfect round, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from thecircumference, flattened against the very centre of the face like adough-ball upon the ceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for trulyhe had become an offense to my eyes, and I believed the earth tobe cumbered with his presence. Perhaps my mother may have beensuperstitious of the moon and looked upon it over the wrong shoulder atthe wrong time. 

Be that as it may, I hated John Claverhouse. Not that he had done mewhat society would consider a wrong or an ill turn. Far from it. Theevil was of a deeper, subtler sort; so elusive, so intangible, as todefy clear, definite analysis in words. We all experience such thingsat some period in our lives. For the first time we see a certainindividual, one who the very instant before we did not dream existed;and yet, at the first moment of meeting, we say: "I do not like thatman. " Why do we not like him? Ah, we do not know why; we know only thatwe do not. We have taken a dislike, that is all. And so I with JohnClaverhouse. 

What right had such a man to be happy? Yet he was an optimist. He wasalways gleeful and laughing. All things were always all right, cursehim! Ah I how it grated on my soul that he should be so happy! Othermen could laugh, and it did not bother me. I even used to laughmyself--before I met John Claverhouse. 

But his laugh! It irritated me, maddened me, as nothing else under thesun could irritate or madden me. It haunted me, gripped hold of me, andwould not let me go. It was a huge, Gargantuan laugh. Waking or sleepingit was always with me, whirring and jarring across my heart-strings likean enormous rasp. At break of day it came whooping across the fields tospoil my pleasant morning revery. Under the aching noonday glare, whenthe green things drooped and the birds withdrew to the depths of theforest, and all nature drowsed, his great "Ha! ha!" and "Ho! ho!" roseup to the sky and challenged the sun. And at black midnight, from thelonely cross-roads where he turned from town into his own place, camehis plaguey cachinnations to rouse me from my sleep and make me writheand clench my nails into my palms. 

I went forth privily in the night-time, and turned his cattle into hisfields, and in the morning heard his whooping laugh as he drove them outagain. "It is nothing, " he said; "the poor, dumb beasties are not to beblamed for straying into fatter pastures. "

He had a dog he called "Mars, " a big, splendid brute, part deer-houndand part blood-hound, and resembling both. Mars was a great delight tohim, and they were always together. But I bided my time, and one day, when opportunity was ripe, lured the animal away and settled for himwith strychnine and beefsteak. It made positively no impression on JohnClaverhouse. His laugh was as hearty and frequent as ever, and his faceas much like the full moon as it always had been. 

Then I set fire to his haystacks and his barn. But the next morning, being Sunday, he went forth blithe and cheerful. 

"Where are you going?" I asked him, as he went by the cross-roads. 

"Trout, " he said, and his face beamed like a full moon. "I just dote ontrout. "

Was there ever such an impossible man! His whole harvest had gone up inhis haystacks and barn. It was uninsured, I knew. And yet, in the faceof famine and the rigorous winter, he went out gayly in quest of a messof trout, forsooth, because he "doted" on them! Had gloom but rested, no matter how lightly, on his brow, or had his bovine countenance grownlong and serious and less like the moon, or had he removed that smilebut once from off his face, I am sure I could have forgiven him forexisting. But no, he grew only more cheerful under misfortune. 

I insulted him. He looked at me in slow and smiling surprise. 

"I fight you? Why?" he asked slowly. And then he laughed. "You are sofunny! Ho! ho! You'll be the death of me! He! he! he! Oh! Ho! ho! ho!"

What would you? It was past endurance. By the blood of Judas, how Ihated him! Then there was that name--Claverhouse! What a name! Wasn't itabsurd? Claverhouse! Merciful heaven, WHY Claverhouse? Again and again Iasked myself that question. I should not have minded Smith, or Brown, or Jones--but CLAVERHOUSE! I leave it to you. Repeat it toyourself--Claverhouse. Just listen to the ridiculous sound ofit--Claverhouse! Should a man live with such a name? I ask of you. "No, "you say. And "No" said I. 

But I bethought me of his mortgage. What of his crops and barndestroyed, I knew he would be unable to meet it. So I got a shrewd, close-mouthed, tight-fisted money-lender to get the mortgagetransferred to him. I did not appear but through this agent I forcedthe foreclosure, and but few days (no more, believe me, than the lawallowed) were given John Claverhouse to remove his goods and chattelsfrom the premises. Then I strolled down to see how he took it, forhe had lived there upward of twenty years. But he met me with hissaucer-eyes twinkling, and the light glowing and spreading in his facetill it was as a full-risen moon. 

"Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed. "The funniest tike, that youngster of mine!Did you ever hear the like? Let me tell you. He was down playing by theedge of the river when a piece of the bank caved in and splashed him. 'Opapa!' he cried; 'a great big puddle flewed up and hit me. '"

He stopped and waited for me to join him in his infernal glee. 

"I don't see any laugh in it, " I said shortly, and I know my face wentsour. 

He regarded me with wonderment, and then came the damnable light, glowing and spreading, as I have described it, till his face shone softand warm, like the summer moon, and then the laugh--"Ha! ha! That'sfunny! You don't see it, eh? He! he! Ho! ho! ho! He doesn't see it! Why, look here. You know a puddle--"

But I turned on my heel and left him. That was the last. I could standit no longer. The thing must end right there, I thought, curse him! Theearth should be quit of him. And as I went over the hill, I could hearhis monstrous laugh reverberating against the sky. 

Now, I pride myself on doing things neatly, and when I resolved to killJohn Claverhouse I had it in mind to do so in such fashion that I shouldnot look back upon it and feel ashamed. I hate bungling, and I hatebrutality. To me there is something repugnant in merely striking a manwith one's naked fist--faugh! it is sickening! So, to shoot, or stab, or club John Claverhouse (oh, that name!) did not appeal to me. And notonly was I impelled to do it neatly and artistically, but also in suchmanner that not the slightest possible suspicion could be directedagainst me. 

To this end I bent my intellect, and, after a week of profoundincubation, I hatched the scheme. Then I set to work. I bought a waterspaniel bitch, five months old, and devoted my whole attention to hertraining. Had any one spied upon me, they would have remarked that thistraining consisted entirely of one thing--RETRIEVING. I taught the dog, which I called "Bellona, " to fetch sticks I threw into the water, andnot only to fetch, but to fetch at once, without mouthing or playingwith them. The point was that she was to stop for nothing, but todeliver the stick in all haste. I made a practice of running away andleaving her to chase me, with the stick in her mouth, till she caughtme. She was a bright animal, and took to the game with such eagernessthat I was soon content. 

After that, at the first casual opportunity, I presented Bellona toJohn Claverhouse. I knew what I was about, for I was aware of a littleweakness of his, and of a little private sinning of which he wasregularly and inveterately guilty. 

"No, " he said, when I placed the end of the rope in his hand. "No, youdon't mean it. " And his mouth opened wide and he grinned all over hisdamnable moon-face. 

"I--I kind of thought, somehow, you didn't like me, " he explained. "Wasn't it funny for me to make such a mistake?" And at the thought heheld his sides with laughter. 

"What is her name?" he managed to ask between paroxysms. 

"Bellona, " I said. 

"He! he!" he tittered. "What a funny name. "

I gritted my teeth, for his mirth put them on edge, and snapped outbetween them, "She was the wife of Mars, you know. "

Then the light of the full moon began to suffuse his face, until heexploded with: "That was my other dog. Well, I guess she's a widow now. Oh! Ho! ho! E! he! he! Ho!" he whooped after me, and I turned and fledswiftly over the hill. 

The week passed by, and on Saturday evening I said to him, "You go awayMonday, don't you?"

He nodded his head and grinned. 

"Then you won't have another chance to get a mess of those trout youjust 'dote' on. "

But he did not notice the sneer. "Oh, I don't know, " he chuckled. "I'mgoing up to-morrow to try pretty hard. "

Thus was assurance made doubly sure, and I went back to my house huggingmyself with rapture. 

Early next morning I saw him go by with a dip-net and gunnysack, andBellona trotting at his heels. I knew where he was bound, and cut outby the back pasture and climbed through the underbrush to the top of themountain. Keeping carefully out of sight, I followed the crest alongfor a couple of miles to a natural amphitheatre in the hills, where thelittle river raced down out of a gorge and stopped for breath in a largeand placid rock-bound pool. That was the spot! I sat down on the croupof the mountain, where I could see all that occurred, and lighted mypipe. 

Ere many minutes had passed, John Claverhouse came plodding up the bedof the stream. Bellona was ambling about him, and they were in highfeather, her short, snappy barks mingling with his deeper chest-notes. Arrived at the pool, he threw down the dip-net and sack, and drew fromhis hip-pocket what looked like a large, fat candle. But I knew it tobe a stick of "giant"; for such was his method of catching trout. Hedynamited them. He attached the fuse by wrapping the "giant" tightlyin a piece of cotton. Then he ignited the fuse and tossed the explosiveinto the pool. 

Like a flash, Bellona was into the pool after it. I could have shriekedaloud for joy. Claverhouse yelled at her, but without avail. He peltedher with clods and rocks, but she swam steadily on till she got thestick of "giant" in her mouth, when she whirled about and headed forshore. Then, for the first time, he realized his danger, and started torun. As foreseen and planned by me, she made the bank and took out afterhim. Oh, I tell you, it was great! As I have said, the pool lay in asort of amphitheatre. Above and below, the stream could be crossedon stepping-stones. And around and around, up and down and across thestones, raced Claverhouse and Bellona. I could never have believedthat such an ungainly man could run so fast. But run he did, Bellonahot-footed after him, and gaining. And then, just as she caught up, he in full stride, and she leaping with nose at his knee, there was asudden flash, a burst of smoke, a terrific detonation, and where man anddog had been the instant before there was naught to be seen but a bighole in the ground. 

"Death from accident while engaged in illegal fishing. " That was theverdict of the coroner's jury; and that is why I pride myself on theneat and artistic way in which I finished off John Claverhouse. Therewas no bungling, no brutality; nothing of which to be ashamed inthe whole transaction, as I am sure you will agree. No more does hisinfernal laugh go echoing among the hills, and no more does his fatmoon-face rise up to vex me. My days are peaceful now, and my night'ssleep deep. 

THE LEOPARD MAN'S STORY

He had a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, and his sad, insistentvoice, gentle-spoken as a maid's, seemed the placid embodiment of somedeep-seated melancholy. He was the Leopard Man, but he did not lookit. His business in life, whereby he lived, was to appear in a cage ofperforming leopards before vast audiences, and to thrill those audiencesby certain exhibitions of nerve for which his employers rewarded him ona scale commensurate with the thrills he produced. 

As I say, he did not look it. He was narrow-hipped, narrow-shouldered, and anaemic, while he seemed not so much oppressed by gloom as by asweet and gentle sadness, the weight of which was as sweetly and gentlyborne. For an hour I had been trying to get a story out of him, buthe appeared to lack imagination. To him there was no romance in hisgorgeous career, no deeds of daring, no thrills--nothing but a graysameness and infinite boredom. 

Lions? Oh, yes! he had fought with them. It was nothing. All you had todo was to stay sober. Anybody could whip a lion to a standstill with anordinary stick. He had fought one for half an hour once. Just hit himon the nose every time he rushed, and when he got artful and rushed withhis head down, why, the thing to do was to stick out your leg. When hegrabbed at the leg you drew it back and hit hint on the nose again. Thatwas all. 

With the far-away look in his eyes and his soft flow of words he showedme his scars. There were many of them, and one recent one where atigress had reached for his shoulder and gone down to the bone. I couldsee the neatly mended rents in the coat he had on. His right arm, from the elbow down, looked as though it had gone through a threshingmachine, what of the ravage wrought by claws and fangs. But it wasnothing, he said, only the old wounds bothered him somewhat when rainyweather came on. 

Suddenly his face brightened with a recollection, for he was really asanxious to give me a story as I was to get it. 

"I suppose you've heard of the lion-tamer who was hated by another man?"he asked. 

He paused and looked pensively at a sick lion in the cage opposite. 

"Got the toothache, " he explained. "Well, the lion-tamer's big play tothe audience was putting his head in a lion's mouth. The man who hatedhim attended every performance in the hope sometime of seeing that lioncrunch down. He followed the show about all over the country. The yearswent by and he grew old, and the lion-tamer grew old, and the lion grewold. And at last one day, sitting in a front seat, he saw what he hadwaited for. The lion crunched down, and there wasn't any need to call adoctor. "

The Leopard Man glanced casually over his finger nails in a manner whichwould have been critical had it not been so sad. 

"Now, that's what I call patience, " he continued, "and it's my style. But it was not the style of a fellow I knew. He was a little, thin, sawed-off, sword-swallowing and juggling Frenchman. De Ville, he calledhimself, and he had a nice wife. She did trapeze work and used to divefrom under the roof into a net, turning over once on the way as nice asyou please. 

"De Ville had a quick temper, as quick as his hand, and his hand was asquick as the paw of a tiger. One day, because the ring-master called hima frog-eater, or something like that and maybe a little worse, he shovedhim against the soft pine background he used in his knife-throwing act, so quick the ring-master didn't have time to think, and there, beforethe audience, De Ville kept the air on fire with his knives, sinkingthem into the wood all around the ring-master so close that they passedthrough his clothes and most of them bit into his skin. 

"The clowns had to pull the knives out to get him loose, for he waspinned fast. So the word went around to watch out for De Ville, and noone dared be more than barely civil to his wife. And she was a sly bitof baggage, too, only all hands were afraid of De Ville. 

"But there was one man, Wallace, who was afraid of nothing. He was thelion-tamer, and he had the self-same trick of putting his head intothe lion's mouth. He'd put it into the mouths of any of them, thoughhe preferred Augustus, a big, good-natured beast who could always bedepended upon. 

"As I was saying, Wallace--'King' Wallace we called him--was afraidof nothing alive or dead. He was a king and no mistake. I've seen himdrunk, and on a wager go into the cage of a lion that'd turned nasty, and without a stick beat him to a finish. Just did it with his fist onthe nose. 

"Madame de Ville--"

At an uproar behind us the Leopard Man turned quietly around. It wasa divided cage, and a monkey, poking through the bars and around thepartition, had had its paw seized by a big gray wolf who was trying topull it off by main strength. The arm seemed stretching out longer endlonger like a thick elastic, and the unfortunate monkey's mates wereraising a terrible din. No keeper was at hand, so the Leopard Manstepped over a couple of paces, dealt the wolf a sharp blow on the nosewith the light cane he carried, and returned with a sadly apologeticsmile to take up his unfinished sentence as though there had been nointerruption. 

"--looked at King Wallace and King Wallace looked at her, while De Villelooked black. We warned Wallace, but it was no use. He laughed at us, as he laughed at De Ville one day when he shoved De Ville's head into abucket of paste because he wanted to fight. 

"De Ville was in a pretty mess--I helped to scrape him off; but he wascool as a cucumber and made no threats at all. But I saw a glitter inhis eyes which I had seen often in the eyes of wild beasts, and I wentout of my way to give Wallace a final warning. He laughed, but he didnot look so much in Madame de Ville's direction after that. 

"Several months passed by. Nothing had happened and I was beginning tothink it all a scare over nothing. We were West by that time, showing in'Frisco. It was during the afternoon performance, and the big tent wasfilled with women and children, when I went looking for Red Denny, thehead canvas-man, who had walked off with my pocket-knife. 

"Passing by one of the dressing tents I glanced in through a hole in thecanvas to see if I could locate him. He wasn't there, but directly infront of me was King Wallace, in tights, waiting for his turn to go onwith his cage of performing lions. He was watching with much amusement aquarrel between a couple of trapeze artists. All the rest of the peoplein the dressing tent were watching the same thing, with the exceptionof De Ville whom I noticed staring at Wallace with undisguised hatred. Wallace and the rest were all too busy following the quarrel to noticethis or what followed. 

"But I saw it through the hole in the canvas. De Ville drew hishandkerchief from his pocket, made as though to mop the sweat fromhis face with it (it was a hot day), and at the same time walked pastWallace's back. The look troubled me at the time, for not only did I seehatred in it, but I saw triumph as well. 

"'De Ville will bear watching, ' I said to myself, and I really breathedeasier when I saw him go out the entrance to the circus grounds andboard an electric car for down town. A few minutes later I was in thebig tent, where I had overhauled Red Denny. King Wallace was doinghis turn and holding the audience spellbound. He was in a particularlyvicious mood, and he kept the lions stirred up till they were allsnarling, that is, all of them except old Augustus, and he was just toofat and lazy and old to get stirred up over anything. 

"Finally Wallace cracked the old lion's knees with his whip and got himinto position. Old Augustus, blinking good-naturedly, opened his mouthand in popped Wallace's head. Then the jaws came together, CRUNCH, justlike that. "

The Leopard Man smiled in a sweetly wistful fashion, and the far-awaylook came into his eyes. 

"And that was the end of King Wallace, " he went on in his sad, lowvoice. "After the excitement cooled down I watched my chance and bentover and smelled Wallace's head. Then I sneezed. "

"It. .. It was. .. ?" I queried with halting eagerness. 

"Snuff--that De Ville dropped on his hair in the dressing tent. OldAugustus never meant to do it. He only sneezed. "

LOCAL COLOR

"I do not see why you should not turn this immense amount of unusualinformation to account, " I told him. "Unlike most men equipped withsimilar knowledge, YOU have expression. Your style is--"

"Is sufficiently--er--journalese?" he interrupted suavely. 

"Precisely! You could turn a pretty penny. "

But he interlocked his fingers meditatively, shrugged his shoulders, anddismissed the subject. 

"I have tried it. It does not pay. "

"It was paid for and published, " he added, after a pause. "And I wasalso honored with sixty days in the Hobo. "

"The Hobo?" I ventured. 

"The Hobo--" He fixed his eyes on my Spencer and ran along the titleswhile he cast his definition. "The Hobo, my dear fellow, is the name forthat particular place of detention in city and county jails wherein areassembled tramps, drunks, beggars, and the riff-raff of petty offenders. The word itself is a pretty one, and it has a history. Hautbois--there'sthe French of it. Haut, meaning high, and bois, wood. In Englishit becomes hautboy, a wooden musical instrument of two-foot tone, Ibelieve, played with a double reed, an oboe, in fact. You remember in'Henry IV'--

 "'The case of a treble hautboy Was a mansion for him, a court. '

"From this to ho-boy is but a step, and for that matter the Englishused the terms interchangeably. But--and mark you, the leap paralyzesone--crossing the Western Ocean, in New York City, hautboy, or ho-boy, becomes the name by which the night-scavenger is known. In a way oneunderstands its being born of the contempt for wandering players andmusical fellows. But see the beauty of it! the burn and the brand!The night-scavenger, the pariah, the miserable, the despised, the manwithout caste! And in its next incarnation, consistently and logically, it attaches itself to the American outcast, namely, the tramp. Then, as others have mutilated its sense, the tramp mutilates its form, andho-boy becomes exultantly hobo. Wherefore, the large stone and brickcells, lined with double and triple-tiered bunks, in which the Law iswont to incarcerate him, he calls the Hobo. Interesting, isn't it?"

And I sat back and marvelled secretly at this encyclopaedic-minded man, this Leith Clay-Randolph, this common tramp who made himself at home inmy den, charmed such friends as gathered at my small table, outshone mewith his brilliance and his manners, spent my spending money, smoked mybest cigars, and selected from my ties and studs with a cultivated anddiscriminating eye. 

He absently walked over to the shelves and looked into Loria's "EconomicFoundation of Society. "

"I like to talk with you, " he remarked. "You are not indifferentlyschooled. You've read the books, and your economic interpretation ofhistory, as you choose to call it" (this with a sneer), "eminently fitsyou for an intellectual outlook on life. But your sociologic judgmentsare vitiated by your lack of practical knowledge. Now I, who know thebooks, pardon me, somewhat better than you, know life, too. I have livedit, naked, taken it up in both my hands and looked at it, and tasted it, the flesh and the blood of it, and, being purely an intellectual, I havebeen biased by neither passion nor prejudice. All of which is necessaryfor clear concepts, and all of which you lack. Ah! a really cleverpassage. Listen!"

And he read aloud to me in his remarkable style, paralleling the textwith a running criticism and commentary, lucidly wording involved andlumbering periods, casting side and cross lights upon the subject, introducing points the author had blundered past and objections he hadignored, catching up lost ends, flinging a contrast into a paradoxand reducing it to a coherent and succinctly stated truth--in short, flashing his luminous genius in a blaze of fire over pages erstwhiledull and heavy and lifeless. 

It is long since that Leith Clay-Randolph (note the hyphenated surname)knocked at the back door of Idlewild and melted the heart of Gunda. NowGunda was cold as her Norway hills, though in her least frigid moods shewas capable of permitting especially nice-looking tramps to sit on theback stoop and devour lone crusts and forlorn and forsaken chops. Butthat a tatterdemalion out of the night should invade the sanctity of herkitchen-kingdom and delay dinner while she set a place for him in thewarmest corner, was a matter of such moment that the Sunflower wentto see. Ah, the Sunflower, of the soft heart and swift sympathy! LeithClay-Randolph threw his glamour over her for fifteen long minutes, whilst I brooded with my cigar, and then she fluttered back with vaguewords and the suggestion of a cast-off suit I would never miss. 

"Surely I shall never miss it, " I said, and I had in mind the dark graysuit with the pockets draggled from the freightage of many books--booksthat had spoiled more than one day's fishing sport. 

"I should advise you, however, " I added, "to mend the pockets first. "

But the Sunflower's face clouded. "N--o, " she said, "the black one. "

"The black one!" This explosively, incredulously. "I wear it quiteoften. I--I intended wearing it to-night. "

"You have two better ones, and you know I never liked it, dear, " theSunflower hurried on. "Besides, it's shiny--"

"Shiny!"

"It--it soon will be, which is just the same, and the man is reallyestimable. He is nice and refined, and I am sure he--"

"Has seen better days. "

"Yes, and the weather is raw and beastly, and his clothes arethreadbare. And you have many suits--"

"Five, " I corrected, "counting in the dark gray fishing outfit with thedraggled pockets. "

"And he has none, no home, nothing--"

"Not even a Sunflower, "--putting my arm around her, --"wherefore he isdeserving of all things. Give him the black suit, dear--nay, the bestone, the very best one. Under high heaven for such lack there must becompensation!"

"You ARE a dear!" And the Sunflower moved to the door and looked backalluringly. "You are a PERFECT dear. "

And this after seven years, I marvelled, till she was back again, timidand apologetic. 

"I--I gave him one of your white shirts. He wore a cheap horrid cottonthing, and I knew it would look ridiculous. And then his shoes were soslipshod, I let him have a pair of yours, the old ones with the narrowcaps--"

"Old ones!"

"Well, they pinched horribly, and you know they did. "

It was ever thus the Sunflower vindicated things. 

And so Leith Clay-Randolph came to Idlewild to stay, how long I didnot dream. Nor did I dream how often he was to come, for he was like anerratic comet. Fresh he would arrive, and cleanly clad, from grand folkwho were his friends as I was his friend, and again, weary and worn, he would creep up the brier-rose path from the Montanas or Mexico. Andwithout a word, when his wanderlust gripped him, he was off and awayinto that great mysterious underworld he called "The Road. "

"I could not bring myself to leave until I had thanked you, you of theopen hand and heart, " he said, on the night he donned my good blacksuit. 

And I confess I was startled when I glanced over the top of my paper andsaw a lofty-browed and eminently respectable-looking gentleman, boldlyand carelessly at ease. The Sunflower was right. He must have knownbetter days for the black suit and white shirt to have effected such atransformation. Involuntarily I rose to my feet, prompted to meet him onequal ground. And then it was that the Clay-Randolph glamour descendedupon me. He slept at Idlewild that night, and the next night, and formany nights. And he was a man to love. The Son of Anak, otherwise Rufusthe Blue-Eyed, and also plebeianly known as Tots, rioted with him frombrier-rose path to farthest orchard, scalped him in the haymow withbarbaric yells, and once, with pharisaic zeal, was near to crucifyinghim under the attic roof beams. The Sunflower would have loved himfor the Son of Anak's sake, had she not loved him for his own. As formyself, let the Sunflower tell, in the times he elected to be gone, of how often I wondered when Leith would come back again, Leith theLovable. Yet he was a man of whom we knew nothing. Beyond the fact thathe was Kentucky-born, his past was a blank. He never spoke of it. Andhe was a man who prided himself upon his utter divorce of reason fromemotion. To him the world spelled itself out in problems. I charged himonce with being guilty of emotion when roaring round the den withthe Son of Anak pickaback. Not so, he held. Could he not cuddle asense-delight for the problem's sake?

He was elusive. A man who intermingled nameless argot with polysyllabicand technical terms, he would seem sometimes the veriest criminal, inspeech, face, expression, everything; at other times the cultured andpolished gentleman, and again, the philosopher and scientist. Butthere was something glimmering; there which I never caught--flashesof sincerity, of real feeling, I imagined, which were sped ere I couldgrasp; echoes of the man he once was, possibly, or hints of the manbehind the mask. But the mask he never lifted, and the real man we neverknew. 

"But the sixty days with which you were rewarded for your journalism?" Iasked. "Never mind Loria. Tell me. "

"Well, if I must. " He flung one knee over the other with a short laugh. 

"In a town that shall be nameless, " he began, "in fact, a city of fiftythousand, a fair and beautiful city wherein men slave for dollars andwomen for dress, an idea came to me. My front was prepossessing, asfronts go, and my pockets empty. I had in recollection a thought I onceentertained of writing a reconciliation of Kant and Spencer. Not thatthey are reconcilable, of course, but the room offered for scientificsatire--"

I waved my hand impatiently, and he broke off. 

"I was just tracing my mental states for you, in order to show thegenesis of the action, " he explained. "However, the idea came. Whatwas the matter with a tramp sketch for the daily press? TheIrreconcilability of the Constable and the Tramp, for instance? So I hitthe drag (the drag, my dear fellow, is merely the street), or the highplaces, if you will, for a newspaper office. The elevator whisked meinto the sky, and Cerberus, in the guise of an anaemic office boy, guarded the door. Consumption, one could see it at a glance; nerve, Irish, colossal; tenacity, undoubted; dead inside the year. 

"'Pale youth, ' quoth I, 'I pray thee the way to the sanctum-sanctorum, to the Most High Cock-a-lorum. '

"He deigned to look at me, scornfully, with infinite weariness. 

"'G'wan an' see the janitor. I don't know nothin' about the gas. '

"'Nay, my lily-white, the editor. '

"'Wich editor?' he snapped like a young bullterrier. 'Dramatic?Sportin'? Society? Sunday? Weekly? Daily? Telegraph? Local? News?Editorial? Wich?'

"Which, I did not know. 'THE Editor, ' I proclaimed stoutly. 'The ONLYEditor. '

"'Aw, Spargo!' he sniffed. 

"'Of course, Spargo, ' I answered. 'Who else?'

"'Gimme yer card, ' says he. 

"'My what?'

"'Yer card--Say! Wot's yer business, anyway?'

"And the anaemic Cerberus sized me up with so insolent an eye that Ireached over and took him out of his chair. I knocked on his meagrechest with my fore knuckle, and fetched forth a weak, gaspy cough; buthe looked at me unflinchingly, much like a defiant sparrow held in thehand. 

"'I am the census-taker Time, ' I boomed in sepulchral tones. 'Bewarelest I knock too loud. '

"'Oh, I don't know, ' he sneered. 

"Whereupon I rapped him smartly, and he choked and turned purplish. 

"'Well, whatcher want?' he wheezed with returning breath. 

"'I want Spargo, the only Spargo. '

"'Then leave go, an' I'll glide an' see. '

"'No you don't, my lily-white. ' And I took a tighter grip on his collar. 'No bouncers in mine, understand! I'll go along. '"

Leith dreamily surveyed the long ash of his cigar and turned to me. "Do you know, Anak, you can't appreciate the joy of being the buffoon, playing the clown. You couldn't do it if you wished. Your pitiful littleconventions and smug assumptions of decency would prevent. But simply toturn loose your soul to every whimsicality, to play the fool unafraid ofany possible result, why, that requires a man other than a householderand law-respecting citizen. 

"However, as I was saying, I saw the only Spargo. He was a big, beefy, red-faced personage, full-jowled and double-chinned, sweating at hisdesk in his shirt-sleeves. It was August, you know. He was talking intoa telephone when I entered, or swearing rather, I should say, andthe while studying me with his eyes. When he hung up, he turned to meexpectantly. 

"'You are a very busy man, ' I said. 

"He jerked a nod with his head, and waited. 

"'And after all, is it worth it?' I went on. 'What does life mean thatit should make you sweat? What justification do you find in sweat? Nowlook at me. I toil not, neither do I spin--'

"'Who are you? What are you?' he bellowed with a suddenness that was, well, rude, tearing the words out as a dog does a bone. 

"'A very pertinent question, sir, ' I acknowledged. 'First, I am aman; next, a down-trodden American citizen. I am cursed with neitherprofession, trade, nor expectations. Like Esau, I am pottageless. My residence is everywhere; the sky is my coverlet. I am one of thedispossessed, a sansculotte, a proletarian, or, in simpler phraseologyaddressed to your understanding, a tramp. '

"'What the hell--?'

"'Nay, fair sir, a tramp, a man of devious ways and strange lodgementsand multifarious--'

"'Quit it!' he shouted. 'What do you want?'

"'I want money. '

"He started and half reached for an open drawer where must have reposeda revolver, then bethought himself and growled, 'This is no bank. '

"'Nor have I checks to cash. But I have, sir, an idea, which, by yourleave and kind assistance, I shall transmute into cash. In short, howdoes a tramp sketch, done by a tramp to the life, strike you? Are youopen to it? Do your readers hunger for it? Do they crave after it? Canthey be happy without it?'

"I thought for a moment that he would have apoplexy, but he quelled theunruly blood and said he liked my nerve. I thanked him and assured him Iliked it myself. Then he offered me a cigar and said he thought he'd dobusiness with me. 

"'But mind you, ' he said, when he had jabbed a bunch of copy paper intomy hand and given me a pencil from his vest pocket, 'mind you, I won'tstand for the high and flighty philosophical, and I perceive you havea tendency that way. Throw in the local color, wads of it, and a bit ofsentiment perhaps, but no slumgullion about political economy nor socialstrata or such stuff. Make it concrete, to the point, with snap and goand life, crisp and crackling and interesting--tumble?'

"And I tumbled and borrowed a dollar. 

"'Don't forget the local color!' he shouted after me through the door. 

"And, Anak, it was the local color that did for me. 

"The anaemic Cerberus grinned when I took the elevator. 'Got the bounce, eh?'

"'Nay, pale youth, so lily-white, ' I chortled, waving the copy paper;'not the bounce, but a detail. I'll be City Editor in three months, andthen I'll make you jump. '

"And as the elevator stopped at the next floor down to take on a pairof maids, he strolled over to the shaft, and without frills or verbiageconsigned me and my detail to perdition. But I liked him. He had pluckand was unafraid, and he knew, as well as I, that death clutched himclose. "

"But how could you, Leith, " I cried, the picture of the consumptive ladstrong before me, "how could you treat him so barbarously?"

Leith laughed dryly. "My dear fellow, how often must I explain to youyour confusions? Orthodox sentiment and stereotyped emotion masteryou. And then your temperament! You are really incapable of rationaljudgments. Cerberus? Pshaw! A flash expiring, a mote of fading sparkle, a dim-pulsing and dying organism--pouf! a snap of the fingers, a puff ofbreath, what would you? A pawn in the game of life. Not even a problem. There is no problem in a stillborn babe, nor in a dead child. They neverarrived. Nor did Cerberus. Now for a really pretty problem--"

"But the local color?" I prodded him. 

"That's right, " he replied. "Keep me in the running. Well, I took myhandful of copy paper down to the railroad yards (for local color), dangled my legs from a side-door Pullman, which is another name for abox-car, and ran off the stuff. Of course I made it clever and brilliantand all that, with my little unanswerable slings at the state and mysocial paradoxes, and withal made it concrete enough to dissatisfy theaverage citizen. 

"From the tramp standpoint, the constabulary of the township wasparticularly rotten, and I proceeded to open the eyes of the goodpeople. It is a proposition, mathematically demonstrable, that it coststhe community more to arrest, convict, and confine its tramps in jail, than to send them as guests, for like periods of time, to the besthotel. And this I developed, giving the facts and figures, the constablefees and the mileage, and the court and jail expenses. Oh, it wasconvincing, and it was true; and I did it in a lightly humorous fashionwhich fetched the laugh and left the sting. The main objection to thesystem, I contended, was the defraudment and robbery of the tramp. Thegood money which the community paid out for him should enable him toriot in luxury instead of rotting in dungeons. I even drew the figuresso fine as to permit him not only to live in the best hotel but to smoketwo twenty-five-cent cigars and indulge in a ten-cent shine each day, and still not cost the taxpayers so much as they were accustomed to payfor his conviction and jail entertainment. And, as subsequent eventsproved, it made the taxpayers wince. 

"One of the constables I drew to the life; nor did I forget a certainSol Glenhart, as rotten a police judge as was to be found between theseas. And this I say out of a vast experience. While he was notoriousin local trampdom, his civic sins were not only not unknown but a cryingreproach to the townspeople. Of course I refrained from mentioning nameor habitat, drawing the picture in an impersonal, composite sort ofway, which none the less blinded no one to the faithfulness of the localcolor. 

"Naturally, myself a tramp, the tenor of the article was a protestagainst the maltreatment of the tramp. Cutting the taxpayers to the pitsof their purses threw them open to sentiment, and then in I tossed thesentiment, lumps and chunks of it. Trust me, it was excellently done, and the rhetoric--say! Just listen to the tail of my peroration:

"'So, as we go mooching along the drag, with a sharp lamp out for JohnLaw, we cannot help remembering that we are beyond the pale; that ourways are not their ways; and that the ways of John Law with us aredifferent from his ways with other men. Poor lost souls, wailing for acrust in the dark, we know full well our helplessness and ignominy. Andwell may we repeat after a stricken brother over-seas: "Our pride it isto know no spur of pride. " Man has forgotten us; God has forgotten us;only are we remembered by the harpies of justice, who prey upon ourdistress and coin our sighs and tears into bright shining dollars. '

"Incidentally, my picture of Sol Glenhart, the police judge, was good. A striking likeness, and unmistakable, with phrases tripping along likethis: 'This crook-nosed, gross-bodied harpy'; 'this civic sinner, thisjudicial highwayman'; 'possessing the morals of the Tenderloin and anhonor which thieves' honor puts to shame'; 'who compounds criminalitywith shyster-sharks, and in atonement railroads the unfortunate andimpecunious to rotting cells, '--and so forth and so forth, stylesophomoric and devoid of the dignity and tone one would employ in adissertation on 'Surplus Value, ' or 'The Fallacies of Marxism, ' but justthe stuff the dear public likes. 

"'Humph!' grunted Spargo when I put the copy in his fist. 'Swift gaityou strike, my man. '

"I fixed a hypnotic eye on his vest pocket, and he passed out one of hissuperior cigars, which I burned while he ran through the stuff. Twice orthrice he looked over the top of the paper at me, searchingly, but saidnothing till he had finished. 

"'Where'd you work, you pencil-pusher?' he asked. 

"'My maiden effort, ' I simpered modestly, scraping one foot and faintlysimulating embarrassment. 

"'Maiden hell! What salary do you want?'

"'Nay, nay, ' I answered. 'No salary in mine, thank you most to death. Iam a free down-trodden American citizen, and no man shall say my time ishis. '

"'Save John Law, ' he chuckled. 

"'Save John Law, ' said I. 

"'How did you know I was bucking the police department?' he demandedabruptly. 

"'I didn't know, but I knew you were in training, ' I answered. 'Yesterday morning a charitably inclined female presented me with threebiscuits, a piece of cheese, and a funereal slab of chocolate cake, allwrapped in the current Clarion, wherein I noted an unholy glee becausethe Cowbell's candidate for chief of police had been turned down. Likewise I learned the municipal election was at hand, and put twoand two together. Another mayor, and the right kind, means new policecommissioners; new police commissioners means new chief of police; newchief of police means Cowbell's candidate; ergo, your turn to play. '

"He stood up, shook my hand, and emptied his plethoric vest pocket. Iput them away and puffed on the old one. 

"'You'll do, ' he jubilated. 'This stuff' (patting my copy) 'is the firstgun of the campaign. You'll touch off many another before we're done. I've been looking for you for years. Come on in on the editorial. '

"But I shook my head. 

"'Come, now!' he admonished sharply. 'No shenanagan! The Cowbell musthave you. It hungers for you, craves after you, won't be happy till itgets you. What say?'

"In short, he wrestled with me, but I was bricks, and at the end of halfan hour the only Spargo gave it up. 

"'Remember, ' he said, 'any time you reconsider, I'm open. No matterwhere you are, wire me and I'll send the ducats to come on at once. '

"I thanked him, and asked the pay for my copy--dope, he called it. 

"'Oh, regular routine, ' he said. 'Get it the first Thursday afterpublication. '

"'Then I'll have to trouble you for a few scad until--'

"He looked at me and smiled. 'Better cough up, eh?'

"'Sure, ' I said. 'Nobody to identify me, so make it cash. '

"And cash it was made, thirty plunks (a plunk is a dollar, my dearAnak), and I pulled my freight. .. Eh?--oh, departed. 

"'Pale youth, ' I said to Cerberus, 'I am bounced. ' (He grinned withpallid joy. ) 'And in token of the sincere esteem I bear you, receivethis little--' (His eyes flushed and he threw up one hand, swiftly, toguard his head from the expected blow)--'this little memento. '

"I had intended to slip a fiver into his hand, but for all his surprise, he was too quick for me. 

"'Aw, keep yer dirt, ' he snarled. 

"'I like you still better, ' I said, adding a second fiver. 'You growperfect. But you must take it. '

"He backed away growling, but I caught him round the neck, roughed whatlittle wind he had out of him, and left him doubled up with the twofives in his pocket. But hardly had the elevator started, when the twocoins tinkled on the roof and fell down between the car and the shaft. As luck had it, the door was not closed, and I put out my hand andcaught them. The elevator boy's eyes bulged. 

"'It's a way I have, ' I said, pocketing them. 

"'Some bloke's dropped 'em down the shaft, ' he whispered, awed by thecircumstance. 

"'It stands to reason, ' said I. 

"'I'll take charge of 'em, ' he volunteered. 

"'Nonsense!'

"'You'd better turn 'em over, ' he threatened, 'or I stop the works. '

"'Pshaw!'

"And stop he did, between floors. 

"'Young man, ' I said, 'have you a mother?' (He looked serious, as thoughregretting his act! and further to impress him I rolled up my rightsleeve with greatest care. ) 'Are you prepared to die?' (I got a stealthycrouch on, and put a cat-foot forward. ) 'But a minute, a brief minute, stands between you and eternity. ' (Here I crooked my right hand into aclaw and slid the other foot up. ) 'Young man, young man, ' I trumpeted, 'in thirty seconds I shall tear your heart dripping from your bosom andstoop to hear you shriek in hell. '

"It fetched him. He gave one whoop, the car shot down, and I was on thedrag. You see, Anak, it's a habit I can't shake off of leaving vividmemories behind. No one ever forgets me. 

"I had not got to the corner when I heard a familiar voice at myshoulder:

"'Hello, Cinders! Which way?'

"It was Chi Slim, who had been with me once when I was thrown off afreight in Jacksonville. 'Couldn't see 'em fer cinders, ' he describedit, and the monica stuck by me. .. . Monica? From monos. The trampnickname. 

"'Bound south, ' I answered. 'And how's Slim?'

"'Bum. Bulls is horstile. '

"'Where's the push?'

"'At the hang-out. I'll put you wise. '

"'Who's the main guy?'

"'Me, and don't yer ferget it. '"

The lingo was rippling from Leith's lips, but perforce I stopped him. "Pray translate. Remember, I am a foreigner. "

"Certainly, " he answered cheerfully. "Slim is in poor luck. Bull meanspoliceman. He tells me the bulls are hostile. I ask where the push is, the gang he travels with. By putting me wise he will direct me to wherethe gang is hanging out. The main guy is the leader. Slim claims thatdistinction. 

"Slim and I hiked out to a neck of woods just beyond town, and there wasthe push, a score of husky hobos, charmingly located on the bank of alittle purling stream. 

"'Come on, you mugs!' Slim addressed them. 'Throw yer feet! Here'sCinders, an' we must do 'em proud. '

"All of which signifies that the hobos had better strike out and do somelively begging in order to get the wherewithal to celebrate my return tothe fold after a year's separation. But I flashed my dough and Slim sentseveral of the younger men off to buy the booze. Take my word for it, Anak, it was a blow-out memorable in Trampdom to this day. It's amazingthe quantity of booze thirty plunks will buy, and it is equally amazingthe quantity of booze outside of which twenty stiffs will get. Beerand cheap wine made up the card, with alcohol thrown in for theblowd-in-the-glass stiffs. It was great--an orgy under the sky, acontest of beaker-men, a study in primitive beastliness. To me there issomething fascinating in a drunken man, and were I a college presidentI should institute P. G. Psychology courses in practical drunkenness. Itwould beat the books and compete with the laboratory. 

"All of which is neither here nor there, for after sixteen hours of it, early next morning, the whole push was copped by an overwhelmingarray of constables and carted off to jail. After breakfast, about teno'clock, we were lined upstairs into court, limp and spiritless, thetwenty of us. And there, under his purple panoply, nose crooked like aNapoleonic eagle and eyes glittering and beady, sat Sol Glenhart. 

"'John Ambrose!' the clerk called out, and Chi Slim, with the ease oflong practice, stood up. 

"'Vagrant, your Honor, ' the bailiff volunteered, and his Honor, notdeigning to look at the prisoner, snapped, 'Ten days, ' and Chi Slim satdown. 

"And so it went, with the monotony of clockwork, fifteen seconds to theman, four men to the minute, the mugs bobbing up and down in turn likemarionettes. The clerk called the name, the bailiff the offence, thejudge the sentence, and the man sat down. That was all. Simple, eh?Superb!

"Chi Slim nudged me. 'Give'm a spiel, Cinders. You kin do it. '

"I shook my head. 

"'G'wan, ' he urged. 'Give 'm a ghost story The mugs'll take it allright. And you kin throw yer feet fer tobacco for us till we get out. '

"'L. C. Randolph!' the clerk called. 

"I stood up, but a hitch came in the proceedings. The clerk whispered tothe judge, and the bailiff smiled. 

"'You are a newspaper man, I understand, Mr. Randolph?' his Honorremarked sweetly. 

"It took me by surprise, for I had forgotten the Cowbell in theexcitement of succeeding events, and I now saw myself on the edge of thepit I had digged. 

"'That's yer graft. Work it, ' Slim prompted. 

"'It's all over but the shouting, ' I groaned back, but Slim, unaware ofthe article, was puzzled. 

"'Your Honor, ' I answered, 'when I can get work, that is my occupation. '

"'You take quite an interest in local affairs, I see. ' (Here his Honortook up the morning's Cowbell and ran his eye up and down a column Iknew was mine. ) 'Color is good, ' he commented, an appreciative twinklein his eyes; 'pictures excellent, characterized by broad, Sargent-likeeffects. Now this. .. T his judge you have depicted. .. You, ah, draw fromlife, I presume?'

"'Rarely, your I Honor, ' I answered. 'Composites, ideals, rather . .. Er, types, I may say. '

"'But you have color, sir, unmistakable color, ' he continued. 

"'That is splashed on afterward, ' I explained. 

"'This judge, then, is not modelled from life, as one might be led tobelieve?'

"'No, your Honor. '

"'Ah, I see, merely a type of judicial wickedness?'

"'Nay, more, your Honor, ' I said boldly, 'an ideal. '

"'Splashed with local color afterward? Ha! Good! And may I venture toask how much you received for this bit of work?'

"'Thirty dollars, your Honor. '

"'Hum, good!' And his tone abruptly changed. 'Young man, local color isa bad thing. I find you guilty of it and sentence you to thirty days'imprisonment, or, at your pleasure, impose a fine of thirty dollars. '

"'Alas!' said I, 'I spent the thirty dollars in riotous living. '

"'And thirty days more for wasting your substance. '

"'Next case!' said his Honor to the clerk. 

"Slim was stunned. 'Gee!' he whispered. 'Gee the push gets ten days andyou get sixty. Gee!'"

Leith struck a match, lighted his dead cigar, and opened the book on hisknees. "Returning to the original conversation, don't you find, Anak, that though Loria handles the bipartition of the revenues withscrupulous care, he yet omits one important factor, namely--"

"Yes, " I said absently; "yes. "

AMATEUR NIGHT

The elevator boy smiled knowingly to himself. When he took her up, hehad noted the sparkle in her eyes, the color in her cheeks. His littlecage had quite warmed with the glow of her repressed eagerness. And now, on the down trip, it was glacier-like. The sparkle and the color weregone. She was frowning, and what little he could see of her eyeswas cold and steel-gray. Oh, he knew the symptoms, he did. He was anobserver, and he knew it, too, and some day, when he was big enough, he was going to be a reporter, sure. And in the meantime he studiedthe procession of life as it streamed up and down eighteensky-scraper floors in his elevator car. He slid the door open for hersympathetically and watched her trip determinedly out into the street. 

There was a robustness in her carriage which came of the soil ratherthan of the city pavement. But it was a robustness in a finer than thewonted sense, a vigorous daintiness, it might be called, which gave animpression of virility with none of the womanly left out. It told ofa heredity of seekers and fighters, of people that worked stoutly withhead and hand, of ghosts that reached down out of the misty past andmoulded and made her to be a doer of things. 

But she was a little angry, and a great deal hurt. "I can guess what youwould tell me, " the editor had kindly but firmly interrupted her lengthypreamble in the long-looked-forward-to interview just ended. "And youhave told me enough, " he had gone on (heartlessly, she was sure, asshe went over the conversation in its freshness). "You have done nonewspaper work. You are undrilled, undisciplined, unhammered into shape. You have received a high-school education, and possibly topped it offwith normal school or college. You have stood well in English. Yourfriends have all told you how cleverly you write, and how beautifully, and so forth and so forth. You think you can do newspaper work, and youwant me to put you on. Well, I am sorry, but there are no openings. Ifyou knew how crowded--"

"But if there are no openings, " she had interrupted, in turn, "how didthose who are in, get in? How am I to show that I am eligible to getin?"

"They made themselves indispensable, " was the terse response. "Makeyourself indispensable. "

"But how can I, if I do not get the chance?"

"Make your chance. "

"But how?" she had insisted, at the same time privately deeming him amost unreasonable man. 

"How? That is your business, not mine, " he said conclusively, risingin token that the interview was at an end. "I must inform you, my dearyoung lady, that there have been at least eighteen other aspiring youngladies here this week, and that I have not the time to tell each andevery one of them how. The function I perform on this paper is hardlythat of instructor in a school of journalism. "

She caught an outbound car, and ere she descended from it she hadconned the conversation over and over again. "But how?" she repeated toherself, as she climbed the three flights of stairs to the rooms whereshe and her sister "bach'ed. " "But how?" And so she continued to put theinterrogation, for the stubborn Scotch blood, though many times removedfrom Scottish soil, was still strong in her. And, further, there wasneed that she should learn how. Her sister Letty and she had come upfrom an interior town to the city to make their way in the world. JohnWyman was land-poor. Disastrous business enterprises had burdened hisacres and forced his two girls, Edna and Letty, into doing something forthemselves. A year of school-teaching and of night-study of shorthandand typewriting had capitalized their city project and fitted them forthe venture, which same venture was turning out anything butsuccessful. The city seemed crowded with inexperienced stenographers andtypewriters, and they had nothing but their own inexperience to offer. Edna's secret ambition had been journalism; but she had planned aclerical position first, so that she might have time and space in whichto determine where and on what line of journalism she would embark. Butthe clerical position had not been forthcoming, either for Letty orher, and day by day their little hoard dwindled, though the room rentremained normal and the stove consumed coal with undiminished voracity. And it was a slim little hoard by now. 

"There's Max Irwin, " Letty said, talking it over. "He's a journalistwith a national reputation. Go and see him, Ed. He knows how, and heshould be able to tell you how. "

"But I don't know him, " Edna objected. 

"No more than you knew the editor you saw to-day. "

"Y-e-s, " (long and judicially), "but that's different. "

"Not a bit different from the strange men and women you'll interviewwhen you've learned how, " Letty encouraged. 

"I hadn't looked at it in that light, " Edna conceded. "After all, where's the difference between interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for somepaper, or interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for myself? It will be practice, too. I'll go and look him up in the directory. "

"Letty, I know I can write if I get the chance, " she announceddecisively a moment later. "I just FEEL that I have the feel of it, ifyou know what I mean. "

And Letty knew and nodded. "I wonder what he is like?" she asked softly. 

"I'll make it my business to find out, " Edna assured her; "and I'll letyou know inside forty-eight hours. "

Letty clapped her hands. "Good! That's the newspaper spirit! Make ittwenty-four hours and you are perfect!"

 * * *

"--and I am very sorry to trouble you, " she concluded the statement ofher case to Max Irwin, famous war correspondent and veteran journalist. 

"Not at all, " he answered, with a deprecatory wave of the hand. "If youdon't do your own talking, who's to do it for you? Now I understand yourpredicament precisely. You want to get on the Intelligencer, you wantto get in at once, and you have had no previous experience. In the firstplace, then, have you any pull? There are a dozen men in the city, aline from whom would be an open-sesame. After that you would stand orfall by your own ability. There's Senator Longbridge, for instance, and Claus Inskeep the street-car magnate, and Lane, and McChesney--" Hepaused, with voice suspended. 

"I am sure I know none of them, " she answered despondently. 

"It's not necessary. Do you know any one that knows them? or any onethat knows any one else that knows them?"

Edna shook her head. 

"Then we must think of something else, " he went on, cheerfully. "You'llhave to do something yourself. Let me see. "

He stopped and thought for a moment, with closed eyes and wrinkledforehead. She was watching him, studying him intently, when his blueeyes opened with a snap and his face suddenly brightened. 

"I have it! But no, wait a minute. "

And for a minute it was his turn to study her. And study her he did, till she could feel her cheeks flushing under his gaze. 

"You'll do, I think, though it remains to be seen, " he saidenigmatically. "It will show the stuff that's in you, besides, and itwill be a better claim upon the Intelligencer people than all the linesfrom all the senators and magnates in the world. The thing for you is todo Amateur Night at the Loops. "

"I--I hardly understand, " Edna said, for his suggestion conveyed nomeaning to her. "What are the 'Loops'? and what is 'Amateur Night'?"

"I forgot you said you were from the interior. But so much the better, if you've only got the journalistic grip. It will be a first impression, and first impressions are always unbiased, unprejudiced, fresh, vivid. The Loops are out on the rim of the city, near the Park, --a place ofdiversion. There's a scenic railway, a water toboggan slide, a concertband, a theatre, wild animals, moving pictures, and so forth and soforth. The common people go there to look at the animals and enjoythemselves, and the other people go there to enjoy themselvesby watching the common people enjoy themselves. A democratic, fresh-air-breathing, frolicking affair, that's what the Loops are. 

"But the theatre is what concerns you. It's vaudeville. One turn followsanother--jugglers, acrobats, rubber-jointed wonders, fire-dancers, coon-song artists, singers, players, female impersonators, sentimentalsoloists, and so forth and so forth. These people are professionalvaudevillists. They make their living that way. Many are excellentlypaid. Some are free rovers, doing a turn wherever they can get anopening, at the Obermann, the Orpheus, the Alcatraz, the Louvre, andso forth and so forth. Others cover circuit pretty well all over thecountry. An interesting phase of life, and the pay is big enough toattract many aspirants. 

"Now the management of the Loops, in its bid for popularity, institutedwhat is called 'Amateur Night'; that is to say, twice a week, afterthe professionals have done their turns, the stage is given over tothe aspiring amateurs. The audience remains to criticise. The populacebecomes the arbiter of art--or it thinks it does, which is the samething; and it pays its money and is well pleased with itself, andAmateur Night is a paying proposition to the management. 

"But the point of Amateur Night, and it is well to note it, is thatthese amateurs are not really amateurs. They are paid for doing theirturn. At the best, they may be termed 'professional amateurs. ' It standsto reason that the management could not get people to face a rampantaudience for nothing, and on such occasions the audience certainly goesmad. It's great fun--for the audience. But the thing for you to do, andit requires nerve, I assure you, is to go out, make arrangements for twoturns, (Wednesday and Saturday nights, I believe), do your two turns, and write it up for the Sunday Intelligencer. "

"But--but, " she quavered, "I--I--" and there was a suggestion ofdisappointment and tears in her voice. 

"I see, " he said kindly. "You were expecting something else, somethingdifferent, something better. We all do at first. But remember theadmiral of the Queen's Na-vee, who swept the floor and polished upthe handle of the big front door. You must face the drudgery ofapprenticeship or quit right now. What do you say?"

The abruptness with which he demanded her decision startled her. As shefaltered, she could see a shade of disappointment beginning to darkenhis face. 

"In a way it must be considered a test, " he added encouragingly. "Asevere one, but so much the better. Now is the time. Are you game?"

"I'll try, " she said faintly, at the same time making a note of thedirectness, abruptness, and haste of these city men with whom she wascoming in contact. 

"Good! Why, when I started in, I had the dreariest, deadliest detailsimaginable. And after that, for a weary time, I did the police anddivorce courts. But it all came well in the end and did me good. Youare luckier in making your start with Sunday work. It's not particularlygreat. What of it? Do it. Show the stuff you're made of, and you'll geta call for better work--better class and better pay. Now you go out thisafternoon to the Loops, and engage to do two turns. "

"But what kind of turns can I do?" Edna asked dubiously. 

"Do? That's easy. Can you sing? Never mind, don't need to sing. Screech, do anything--that's what you're paid for, to afford amusement, to givebad art for the populace to howl down. And when you do your turn, takesome one along for chaperon. Be afraid of no one. Talk up. Move aboutamong the amateurs waiting their turn, pump them, study them, photographthem in your brain. Get the atmosphere, the color, strong color, lots ofit. Dig right in with both hands, and get the essence of it, the spirit, the significance. What does it mean? Find out what it means. That's whatyou're there for. That's what the readers of the Sunday Intelligencerwant to know. 

"Be terse in style, vigorous of phrase, apt, concretely apt, insimilitude. Avoid platitudes and commonplaces. Exercise selection. Seizeupon things salient, eliminate the rest, and you have pictures. Paintthose pictures in words and the Intelligencer will have you. Get holdof a few back numbers, and study the Sunday Intelligencer feature story. Tell it all in the opening paragraph as advertisement of contents, andin the contents tell it all over again. Then put a snapper at the end, so if they're crowded for space they can cut off your contents anywhere, reattach the snapper, and the story will still retain form. There, that's enough. Study the rest out for yourself. "

They both rose to their feet, Edna quite carried away by his enthusiasmand his quick, jerky sentences, bristling with the things she wanted toknow. 

"And remember, Miss Wyman, if you're ambitious, that the aim and end ofjournalism is not the feature article. Avoid the rut. The feature is atrick. Master it, but don't let it master you. But master it you must;for if you can't learn to do a feature well, you can never expect to doanything better. In short, put your whole self into it, and yet, outsideof it, above it, remain yourself, if you follow me. And now good luck toyou. "

They had reached the door and were shaking hands. 

"And one thing more, " he interrupted her thanks, "let me see yourcopy before you turn it in. I may be able to put you straight here andthere. "

Edna found the manager of the Loops a full-fleshed, heavy-jowledman, bushy of eyebrow and generally belligerent of aspect, with anabsent-minded scowl on his face and a black cigar stuck in the midstthereof. Symes was his name, she had learned, Ernst Symes. 

"Whatcher turn?" he demanded, ere half her brief application had lefther lips. 

"Sentimental soloist, soprano, " she answered promptly, rememberingIrwin's advice to talk up. 

"Whatcher name?" Mr. Symes asked, scarcely deigning to glance at her. 

She hesitated. So rapidly had she been rushed into the adventure thatshe had not considered the question of a name at all. 

"Any name? Stage name?" he bellowed impatiently. 

"Nan Bellayne, " she invented on the spur of the moment. "B-e-l-l-a-y-n-e. Yes, that's it. "

He scribbled it into a notebook. "All right. Take your turn Wednesdayand Saturday. "

"How much do I get?" Edna demanded. 

"Two-an'-a-half a turn. Two turns, five. Getcher pay first Monday aftersecond turn. "

And without the simple courtesy of "Good day, " he turned his back on herand plunged into the newspaper he had been reading when she entered. 

Edna came early on Wednesday evening, Letty with her, and in a telescopebasket her costume--a simple affair. A plaid shawl borrowed from thewasherwoman, a ragged scrubbing skirt borrowed from the charwoman, and agray wig rented from a costumer for twenty-five cents a night, completedthe outfit; for Edna had elected to be an old Irishwoman singingbroken-heartedly after her wandering boy. 

Though they had come early, she found everything in uproar. The mainperformance was under way, the orchestra was playing and the audienceintermittently applauding. The infusion of the amateurs clogged theworking of things behind the stage, crowded the passages, dressingrooms, and wings, and forced everybody into everybody else's way. This was particularly distasteful to the professionals, who carriedthemselves as befitted those of a higher caste, and whose behaviortoward the pariah amateurs was marked by hauteur and even brutality. AndEdna, bullied and elbowed and shoved about, clinging desperately to herbasket and seeking a dressing room, took note of it all. 

A dressing room she finally found, jammed with three other amateur"ladies, " who were "making up" with much noise, high-pitched voices, andsquabbling over a lone mirror. Her own make-up was so simple that it wasquickly accomplished, and she left the trio of ladies holding an armedtruce while they passed judgment upon her. Letty was close at hershoulder, and with patience and persistence they managed to get a nookin one of the wings which commanded a view of the stage. 

A small, dark man, dapper and debonair, swallow-tailed and top-hatted, was waltzing about the stage with dainty, mincing steps, and in a thinlittle voice singing something or other about somebody or somethingevidently pathetic. As his waning voice neared the end of the lines, alarge woman, crowned with an amazing wealth of blond hair, thrust rudelypast Edna, trod heavily on her toes, and shoved her contemptuously tothe side. "Bloomin' hamateur!" she hissed as she went past, and the nextinstant she was on the stage, graciously bowing to the audience, whilethe small, dark man twirled extravagantly about on his tiptoes. 

"Hello, girls!"

This greeting, drawled with an inimitable vocal caress in everysyllable, close in her ear, caused Edna to give a startled little jump. A smooth-faced, moon-faced young man was smiling at her good-naturedly. His "make-up" was plainly that of the stock tramp of the stage, thoughthe inevitable whiskers were lacking. 

"Oh, it don't take a minute to slap'm on, " he explained, divining thesearch in her eyes and waving in his hand the adornment in question. "They make a feller sweat, " he explained further. And then, "What's yerturn?"

"Soprano--sentimental, " she answered, trying to be offhand and at ease. 

"Whata you doin' it for?" he demanded directly. 

"For fun; what else?" she countered. 

"I just sized you up for that as soon as I put eyes on you. You ain'tgraftin' for a paper, are you?"

"I never met but one editor in my life, " she replied evasively, "and I, he--well, we didn't get on very well together. "

"Hittin' 'm for a job?"

Edna nodded carelessly, though inwardly anxious and cudgelling herbrains for something to turn the conversation. 

"What'd he say?"

"That eighteen other girls had already been there that week. "

"Gave you the icy mit, eh?" The moon-faced young man laughed and slappedhis thighs. "You see, we're kind of suspicious. The Sunday papers 'dlike to get Amateur Night done up brown in a nice little package, andthe manager don't see it that way. Gets wild-eyed at the thought of it. "

"And what's your turn?" she asked. 

"Who? me? Oh, I'm doin' the tramp act tonight. I'm Charley Welsh, youknow. "

She felt that by the mention of his name he intended to convey to hercomplete enlightenment, but the best she could do was to say politely, "Oh, is that so?"

She wanted to laugh at the hurt disappointment which came into his face, but concealed her amusement. 

"Come, now, " he said brusquely, "you can't stand there and tell meyou've never heard of Charley Welsh? Well, you must be young. Why, I'man Only, the Only amateur at that. Sure, you must have seen me. I'meverywhere. I could be a professional, but I get more dough out of it bydoin' the amateur. "

"But what's an 'Only'?" she queried. "I want to learn. "

"Sure, " Charley Welsh said gallantly. "I'll put you wise. An 'Only' isa nonpareil, the feller that does one kind of a turn better'n any otherfeller. He's the Only, see?"

And Edna saw. 

"To get a line on the biz, " he continued, "throw yer lamps on me. I'mthe Only all-round amateur. To-night I make a bluff at the tramp act. It's harder to bluff it than to really do it, but then it's acting, it'samateur, it's art. See? I do everything, from Sheeny monologue to teamsong and dance and Dutch comedian. Sure, I'm Charley Welsh, the OnlyCharley Welsh. "

And in this fashion, while the thin, dark man and the large, blond womanwarbled dulcetly out on the stage and the other professionals followedin their turns, did Charley Welsh put Edna wise, giving her muchmiscellaneous and superfluous information and much that she stored awayfor the Sunday Intelligencer. 

"Well, tra la loo, " he said suddenly. "There's his highness chasin'you up. Yer first on the bill. Never mind the row when you go on. Justfinish yer turn like a lady. "

It was at that moment that Edna felt her journalistic ambition departingfrom her, and was aware of an overmastering desire to be somewhere else. But the stage manager, like an ogre, barred her retreat. She could hearthe opening bars of her song going up from the orchestra and the noisesof the house dying away to the silence of anticipation. 

"Go ahead, " Letty whispered, pressing her hand; and from the other sidecame the peremptory "Don't flunk!" of Charley Welsh. 

But her feet seemed rooted to the floor, and she leaned weakly againsta shift scene. The orchestra was beginning over again, and a lone voicefrom the house piped with startling distinctness:

"Puzzle picture! Find Nannie!"

A roar of laughter greeted the sally, and Edna shrank back. But thestrong hand of the manager descended on her shoulder, and with a quick, powerful shove propelled her out on to the stage. His hand and armhad flashed into full view, and the audience, grasping the situation, thundered its appreciation. The orchestra was drowned out by theterrible din, and Edna could see the bows scraping away across theviolins, apparently without sound. It was impossible for her to beginin time, and as she patiently waited, arms akimbo and ears straining forthe music, the house let loose again (a favorite trick, she afterwardlearned, of confusing the amateur by preventing him or her from hearingthe orchestra). 

But Edna was recovering her presence of mind. She became aware, pit todome, of a vast sea of smiling and fun-distorted faces, of vast roars oflaughter, rising wave on wave, and then her Scotch blood went cold andangry. The hard-working but silent orchestra gave her the cue, and, without making a sound, she began to move her lips, stretch forth herarms, and sway her body, as though she were really singing. The noise inthe house redoubled in the attempt to drown her voice, but she serenelywent on with her pantomime. This seemed to continue an interminabletime, when the audience, tiring of its prank and in order to hear, suddenly stilled its clamor, and discovered the dumb show she had beenmaking. For a moment all was silent, save for the orchestra, her lipsmoving on without a sound, and then the audience realized that it hadbeen sold, and broke out afresh, this time with genuine applause inacknowledgment of her victory. She chose this as the happy moment forher exit, and with a bow and a backward retreat, she was off the stagein Letty's arms. 

The worst was past, and for the rest of the evening she moved aboutamong the amateurs and professionals, talking, listening, observing, finding out what it meant and taking mental notes of it all. CharleyWelsh constituted himself her preceptor and guardian angel, and so welldid he perform the self-allotted task that when it was all over she feltfully prepared to write her article. But the proposition had been to dotwo turns, and her native pluck forced her to live up to it. Also, inthe course of the intervening days, she discovered fleeting impressionsthat required verification; so, on Saturday, she was back again, withher telescope basket and Letty. 

The manager seemed looking for her, and she caught an expression ofrelief in his eyes when he first saw her. He hurried up, greeted her, and bowed with a respect ludicrously at variance with his previousogre-like behavior. And as he bowed, across his shoulders she sawCharley Welsh deliberately wink. 

But the surprise had just begun. The manager begged to be introducedto her sister, chatted entertainingly with the pair of them, and strovegreatly and anxiously to be agreeable. He even went so far as to giveEdna a dressing room to herself, to the unspeakable envy of the threeother amateur ladies of previous acquaintance. Edna was nonplussed, and it was not till she met Charley Welsh in the passage that light wasthrown on the mystery. 

"Hello!" he greeted her. "On Easy Street, eh? Everything slidin' yourway. "

She smiled brightly. 

"Thinks yer a female reporter, sure. I almost split when I saw'm layin'himself out sweet an' pleasin'. Honest, now, that ain't yer graft, isit?"

"I told you my experience with editors, " she parried. "And honest now, it was honest, too. "

But the Only Charley Welsh shook his head dubiously. "Not that I carea rap, " he declared. "And if you are, just gimme a couple of lines ofnotice, the right kind, good ad, you know. And if yer not, why yer allright anyway. Yer not our class, that's straight. "

After her turn, which she did this time with the nerve of an oldcampaigner, the manager returned to the charge; and after saying nicethings and being generally nice himself, he came to the point. 

"You'll treat us well, I hope, " he said insinuatingly. "Do the rightthing by us, and all that?"

"Oh, " she answered innocently, "you couldn't persuade me to do anotherturn; I know I seemed to take and that you'd like to have me, but Ireally, really can't. "

"You know what I mean, " he said, with a touch of his old bulldozingmanner. 

"No, I really won't, " she persisted. "Vaudeville's too--too wearing onthe nerves, my nerves, at any rate. "

Whereat he looked puzzled and doubtful, and forbore to press the pointfurther. 

But on Monday morning, when she came to his office to get her pay forthe two turns, it was he who puzzled her. 

"You surely must have mistaken me, " he lied glibly. "I remember sayingsomething about paying your car fare. We always do this, you know, butwe never, never pay amateurs. That would take the life and sparkle outof the whole thing. No, Charley Welsh was stringing you. He gets paidnothing for his turns. No amateur gets paid. The idea is ridiculous. However, here's fifty cents. It will pay your sister's car fare also. And, "--very suavely, --"speaking for the Loops, permit me to thank youfor the kind and successful contribution of your services. "

That afternoon, true to her promise to Max Irwin, she placed hertypewritten copy into his hands. And while he ran over it, he nodded hishead from time to time, and maintained a running fire of commendatoryremarks: "Good!--that's it!--that's the stuff!--psychology's allright!--the very idea!--you've caught it!--excellent!--missed it abit here, but it'll go--that's vigorous!--strong!--vivid!--pictures!pictures!--excellent!--most excellent!"

And when he had run down to the bottom of the last page, holding outhis hand: "My dear Miss Wyman, I congratulate you. I must say you haveexceeded my expectations, which, to say the least, were large. You area journalist, a natural journalist. You've got the grip, and you're sureto get on. The Intelligencer will take it, without doubt, and take youtoo. They'll have to take you. If they don't, some of the other paperswill get you. "

"But what's this?" he queried, the next instant, his face going serious. "You've said nothing about receiving the pay for your turns, and that'sone of the points of the feature. I expressly mentioned it, if you'llremember. "

"It will never do, " he said, shaking his head ominously, when she hadexplained. "You simply must collect that money somehow. Let me see. Letme think a moment. "

"Never mind, Mr. Irwin, " she said. "I've bothered you enough. Let me useyour 'phone, please, and I'll try Mr. Ernst Symes again. "

He vacated his chair by the desk, and Edna took down the receiver. 

"Charley Welsh is sick, " she began, when the connection had been made. "What? No I'm not Charley Welsh. Charley Welsh is sick, and his sisterwants to know if she can come out this afternoon and draw his pay forhim?"

"Tell Charley Welsh's sister that Charley Welsh was out this morning, and drew his own pay, " came back the manager's familiar tones, crispwith asperity. 

"All right, " Edna went on. "And now Nan Bellayne wants to know if sheand her sister can come out this afternoon and draw Nan Bellayne's pay?"

"What'd he say? What'd he say?" Max Irwin cried excitedly, as she hungup. 

"That Nan Bellayne was too much for him, and that she and her sistercould come out and get her pay and the freedom of the Loops, to boot. "

"One thing, more, " he interrupted her thanks at the door, as on herprevious visit. "Now that you've shown the stuff you're made of, Ishould esteem it, ahem, a privilege to give you a line myself to theIntelligencer people. "

THE MINIONS OF MIDAS

Wade Atsheler is dead--dead by his own hand. To say that this wasentirely unexpected by the small coterie which knew him, would be to sayan untruth; and yet never once had we, his intimates, ever canvassedthe idea. Rather had we been prepared for it in some incomprehensiblesubconscious way. Before the perpetration of the deed, its possibilityis remotest from our thoughts; but when we did know that he was dead, itseemed, somehow, that we had understood and looked forward to it all thetime. This, by retrospective analysis, we could easily explain by thefact of his great trouble. I use "great trouble" advisedly. Young, handsome, with an assured position as the right-hand man of Eben Hale, the great street-railway magnate, there could be no reason for him tocomplain of fortune's favors. Yet we had watched his smooth brow furrowand corrugate as under some carking care or devouring sorrow. We hadwatched his thick, black hair thin and silver as green grain underbrazen skies and parching drought. Who can forget, in the midst of thehilarious scenes he toward the last sought with greater and greateravidity--who can forget, I say, the deep abstractions and black moodsinto which he fell? At such times, when the fun rippled and soared fromheight to height, suddenly, without rhyme or reason, his eyes would turnlacklustre, his brows knit, as with clenched hands and face overshotwith spasms of mental pain he wrestled on the edge of the abyss withsome unknown danger. 

He never spoke of his trouble, nor were we indiscreet enough to ask. But it was just as well; for had we, and had he spoken, our helpand strength could have availed nothing. When Eben Hale died, whoseconfidential secretary he was--nay, well-nigh adopted son and fullbusiness partner--he no longer came among us. Not, as I now know, thatour company was distasteful to him, but because his trouble had so grownthat he could not respond to our happiness nor find surcease with us. Why this should be so we could not at the time understand, for when EbenHale's will was probated, the world learned that he was sole heir tohis employer's many millions, and it was expressly stipulated that thisgreat inheritance was given to him without qualification, hitch, orhindrance in the exercise thereof. Not a share of stock, not a pennyof cash, was bequeathed to the dead man's relatives. As for his directfamily, one astounding clause expressly stated that Wade Atsheler was todispense to Eben Hale's wife and sons and daughters whatever moneys hisjudgement dictated, at whatever times he deemed advisable. Had therebeen any scandal in the dead man's family, or had his sons been wildor undutiful, then there might have been a glimmering of reason inthis most unusual action; but Eben Hale's domestic happiness had beenproverbial in the community, and one would have to travel far and wideto discover a cleaner, saner, wholesomer progeny of sons and daughters. While his wife--well, by those who knew her best she was endearinglytermed "The Mother of the Gracchi. " Needless to state, this inexplicablewill was a nine day's wonder; but the expectant public was disappointedin that no contest was made. 

It was only the other day that Eben Hale was laid away in his statelymarble mausoleum. And now Wade Atsheler is dead. The news was printedin this morning's paper. I have just received through the mail a letterfrom him, posted, evidently, but a short hour before he hurled himselfinto eternity. This letter, which lies before me, is a narrative inhis own handwriting, linking together numerous newspaper clippings andfacsimiles of letters. The original correspondence, he has told me, is in the hands of the police. He has begged me, also, as a warning tosociety against a most frightful and diabolical danger which threatensits very existence, to make public the terrible series of tragedies inwhich he has been innocently concerned. I herewith append the text infull:

It was in August, 1899, just after my return from my summer vacation, that the blow fell. We did not know it at the time; we had not yetlearned to school our minds to such awful possibilities. Mr. Hale openedthe letter, read it, and tossed it upon my desk with a laugh. When I hadlooked it over, I also laughed, saying, "Some ghastly joke, Mr. Hale, and one in very poor taste. " Find here, my dear John, an exact duplicateof the letter in question. 

OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. August 17, 1899. 

MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:

Dear Sir, --We desire you to realize upon whatever portion of your vastholdings is necessary to obtain, IN CASH, twenty millions of dollars. This sum we require you to pay over to us, or to our agents. You willnote we do not specify any given time, for it is not our wish to hurryyou in this matter. You may even, if it be easier for you, pay usin ten, fifteen, or twenty instalments; but we will accept no singleinstalment of less than a million. 

Believe us, dear Mr. Hale, when we say that we embark upon this courseof action utterly devoid of animus. We are members of that intellectualproletariat, the increasing numbers of which mark in red lettering thelast days of the nineteenth century. We have, from a thorough studyof economics, decided to enter upon this business. It has many merits, chief among which may be noted that we can indulge in large andlucrative operations without capital. So far, we have been fairlysuccessful, and we hope our dealings with you may be pleasant andsatisfactory. 

Pray attend while we explain our views more fully. At the base of thepresent system of society is to be found the property right. And thisright of the individual to hold property is demonstrated, in the lastanalysis, to rest solely and wholly upon MIGHT. The mailed gentlemen ofWilliam the Conqueror divided and apportioned England amongst themselveswith the naked sword. This, we are sure you will grant, is true ofall feudal possessions. With the invention of steam and the IndustrialRevolution there came into existence the Capitalist Class, in the modernsense of the word. These capitalists quickly towered above the ancientnobility. The captains of industry have virtually dispossessed thedescendants of the captains of war. Mind, and not muscle, wins into-day's struggle for existence. But this state of affairs is none theless based upon might. The change has been qualitative. The old-timeFeudal Baronage ravaged the world with fire and sword; the modernMoney Baronage exploits the world by mastering and applying the world'seconomic forces. Brain, and not brawn, endures; and those best fitted tosurvive are the intellectually and commercially powerful. 

We, the M. Of M. , are not content to become wage slaves. The greattrusts and business combinations (with which you have your rating)prevent us from rising to the place among you which our intellectsqualify us to occupy. Why? Because we are without capital. We are of theunwashed, but with this difference: our brains are of the best, and wehave no foolish ethical nor social scruples. As wage slaves, toilingearly and late, and living abstemiously, we could not save in threescoreyears--nor in twenty times threescore years--a sum of money sufficientsuccessfully to cope with the great aggregations of massed capital whichnow exist. Nevertheless, we have entered the arena. We now throw downthe gage to the capital of the world. Whether it wishes to fight or not, it shall have to fight. 

Mr. Hale, our interests dictate us to demand of you twenty millions ofdollars. While we are considerate enough to give you reasonable time inwhich to carry out your share of the transaction, please do not delaytoo long. When you have agreed to our terms, insert a suitable noticein the agony column of the "Morning Blazer. " We shall then acquaint youwith our plan for transferring the sum mentioned. You had better do thissome time prior to October 1st. If you do not, in order to show thatwe are in earnest we shall on that date kill a man on East Thirty-ninthStreet. He will be a workingman. This man you do not know; nor do we. You represent a force in modern society; we also represent a force--anew force. Without anger or malice, we have closed in battle. As youwill readily discern, we are simply a business proposition. You are theupper, and we the nether, millstone; this man's life shall be groundout between. You may save him if you agree to our conditions and act intime. 

There was once a king cursed with a golden touch. His name we have takento do duty as our official seal. Some day, to protect ourselves againstcompetitors, we shall copyright it. 

We beg to remain, THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. 

I leave it to you, dear John, why should we not have laughed over sucha preposterous communication? The idea, we could not but grant, was wellconceived, but it was too grotesque to be taken seriously. Mr. Hale saidhe would preserve it as a literary curiosity, and shoved it away in apigeonhole. Then we promptly forgot its existence. And as promptly, onthe 1st of October, going over the morning mail, we read the following:

OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. , October 1, 1899. 

MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:

Dear Sir, --Your victim has met his fate. An hour ago, on EastThirty-ninth Street, a workingman was thrust through the heart with aknife. Ere you read this his body will be lying at the Morgue. Go andlook upon your handiwork. 

On October 14th, in token of our earnestness in this matter, and in caseyou do not relent, we shall kill a policeman on or near the corner ofPolk Street and Clermont Avenue. 

Very cordially, THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. 

Again Mr. Hale laughed. His mind was full of a prospective deal with aChicago syndicate for the sale of all his street railways in that city, and so he went on dictating to the stenographer, never giving it asecond thought. But somehow, I know not why, a heavy depressionfell upon me. What if it were not a joke, I asked myself, and turnedinvoluntarily to the morning paper. There it was, as befitted an obscureperson of the lower classes, a paltry half-dozen lines tucked away in acorner, next a patent medicine advertisement:

Shortly after five o'clock this morning, on East Thirty-ninth Street, a laborer named Pete Lascalle, while on his way to work, was stabbed tothe heart by an unknown assailant, who escaped by running. The policehave been unable to discover any motive for the murder. 

"Impossible!" was Mr. Hale's rejoinder, when I had read the item aloud;but the incident evidently weighed upon his mind, for late in theafternoon, with many epithets denunciatory of his foolishness, he askedme to acquaint the police with the affair. I had the pleasure of beinglaughed at in the Inspector's private office, although I went away withthe assurance that they would look into it and that the vicinity of Polkand Clermont would be doubly patrolled on the night mentioned. There itdropped, till the two weeks had sped by, when the following note came tous through the mail:

OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. October 15, 1899. 

MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:

Dear Sir, --Your second victim has fallen on schedule time. We are in nohurry; but to increase the pressure we shall henceforth kill weekly. Toprotect ourselves against police interference we shall hereafter informyou of the event but a little prior to or simultaneously with the deed. Trusting this finds you in good health, We are, THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. 

This time Mr. Hale took up the paper, and after a brief search, read tome this account:

A DASTARDLY CRIME

Joseph Donahue, assigned only last night to special patrol duty in theEleventh Ward, at midnight was shot through the brain and instantlykilled. The tragedy was enacted in the full glare of the street lightson the corner of Polk Street and Clermont Avenue. Our society is indeedunstable when the custodians of its peace are thus openly and wantonlyshot down. The police have so far been unable to obtain the slightestclue. 

Barely had he finished this when the police arrived--the Inspectorhimself and two of his keenest sleuths. Alarm sat upon their faces, andit was plain that they were seriously perturbed. Though the facts wereso few and simple, we talked long, going over the affair again andagain. When the Inspector went away, he confidently assured us thateverything would soon be straightened out and the assassins run toearth. In the meantime he thought it well to detail guards for theprotection of Mr. Hale and myself, and several more to be constantly onthe vigil about the house and grounds. After the lapse of a week, at oneo'clock in the afternoon, this telegram was received:

OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. October 21, 1899. 

MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:

Dear Sir, --We are sorry to note how completely you have misunderstoodus. You have seen fit to surround yourself and household with armedguards, as though, forsooth, we were common criminals, apt to break inupon you and wrest away by force your twenty millions. Believe us, thisis farthest from our intention. 

You will readily comprehend, after a little sober thought, that yourlife is dear to us. Do not be afraid. We would not hurt you for theworld. It is our policy to cherish you tenderly and protect you from allharm. Your death means nothing to us. If it did, rest assured that wewould not hesitate a moment in destroying you. Think this over, Mr. Hale. When you have paid us our price, there will be need ofretrenchment. Dismiss your guards now, and cut down your expenses. 

Within minutes of the time you receive this a nurse-girl will havebeen choked to death in Brentwood Park. The body may be found inthe shrubbery lining the path which leads off to the left from theband-stand. 

Cordially yours, THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. 

The next instant Mr. Hale was at the telephone, warning the Inspector ofthe impending murder. The Inspector excused himself in order to callup Police Sub-station F and despatch men to the scene. Fifteen minuteslater he rang us up and informed us that the body had been discovered, yet warm, in the place indicated. That evening the papers teemed withglaring Jack-the-Strangler headlines, denouncing the brutality ofthe deed and complaining about the laxity of the police. We were alsocloseted with the Inspector, who begged us by all means to keep theaffair secret. Success, he said, depended upon silence. 

As you know, John, Mr. Hale was a man of iron. He refused to surrender. But, oh, John, it was terrible, nay, horrible--this awful something, this blind force in the dark. We could not fight, could not plan, coulddo nothing save hold our hands and wait. And week by week, as certain asthe rising of the sun, came the notification and death of some person, man or woman, innocent of evil, but just as much killed by us asthough we had done it with our own hands. A word from Mr. Hale and theslaughter would have ceased. But he hardened his heart and waited, thelines deepening, the mouth and eyes growing sterner and firmer, andthe face aging with the hours. It is needless for me to speak of myown suffering during that frightful period. Find here the letters andtelegrams of the M. Of M. , and the newspaper accounts, etc. , of thevarious murders. 

You will notice also the letters warning Mr. Hale of certainmachinations of commercial enemies and secret manipulations of stock. The M. Of M. Seemed to have its hand on the inner pulse of the businessand financial world. They possessed themselves of and forwarded to usinformation which our agents could not obtain. One timely note fromthem, at a critical moment in a certain deal, saved all of five millionsto Mr. Hale. At another time they sent us a telegram which probably wasthe means of preventing an anarchist crank from taking my employer'slife. We captured the man on his arrival and turned him over to thepolice, who found upon him enough of a new and powerful explosive tosink a battleship. 

We persisted. Mr. Hale was grit clear through. He disbursed at the rateof one hundred thousand per week for secret service. The aid of thePinkertons and of countless private detective agencies was called in, and in addition to this thousands were upon our payroll. Our agentsswarmed everywhere, in all guises, penetrating all classes of society. They grasped at a myriad clues; hundreds of suspects were jailed, and atvarious times thousands of suspicious persons were under surveillance, but nothing tangible came to light. With its communications the M. OfM. Continually changed its method of delivery. And every messengerthey sent us was arrested forthwith. But these inevitably proved to beinnocent individuals, while their descriptions of the persons who hademployed them for the errand never tallied. On the last day of Decemberwe received this notification:

OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. , December 31, 1899. 

MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:

Dear Sir, --Pursuant of our policy, with which we flatter ourselves youare already well versed, we beg to state that we shall give a passportfrom this Vale of Tears to Inspector Bying, with whom, because of ourattentions, you have become so well acquainted. It is his custom to bein his private office at this hour. Even as you read this he breatheshis last. 

Cordially yours, THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. 

I dropped the letter and sprang to the telephone. Great was my reliefwhen I heard the Inspector's hearty voice. But, even as he spoke, hisvoice died away in the receiver to a gurgling sob, and I heard faintlythe crash of a falling body. Then a strange voice hello'd me, sent methe regards of the M. Of M. , and broke the switch. Like a flash I calledup the public office of the Central Police, telling them to go at onceto the Inspector's aid in his private office. I then held the line, anda few minutes later received the intelligence that he had beenfound bathed in his own blood and breathing his last. There were noeyewitnesses, and no trace was discoverable of the murderer. 

Whereupon Mr. Hale immediately increased his secret service till aquarter of a million flowed weekly from his coffers. He was determinedto win out. His graduated rewards aggregated over ten millions. You havea fair idea of his resources and you can see in what manner he drew uponthem. It was the principle, he affirmed, that he was fighting for, notthe gold. And it must be admitted that his course proved the nobility ofhis motive. The police departments of all the great cities cooperated, and even the United States Government stepped in, and the affair becameone of the highest questions of state. Certain contingent funds ofthe nation were devoted to the unearthing of the M. Of M. , and everygovernment agent was on the alert. But all in vain. The Minions of Midascarried on their damnable work unhampered. They had their way and struckunerringly. 

But while he fought to the last, Mr. Hale could not wash his hands ofthe blood with which they were dyed. Though not technically a murderer, though no jury of his peers would ever have convicted him, none the lessthe death of every individual was due to him. As I said before, a wordfrom him and the slaughter would have ceased. But he refused to givethat word. He insisted that the integrity of society was assailed; thathe was not sufficiently a coward to desert his post; and that it wasmanifestly just that a few should be martyred for the ultimate welfareof the many. Nevertheless this blood was upon his head, and he sank intodeeper and deeper gloom. I was likewise whelmed with the guilt of anaccomplice. Babies were ruthlessly killed, children, aged men; andnot only were these murders local, but they were distributed overthe country. In the middle of February, one evening, as we sat in thelibrary, there came a sharp knock at the door. On responding to it Ifound, lying on the carpet of the corridor, the following missive:

OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. , February 15, 1900. 

MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:

Dear Sir, --Does not your soul cry out upon the red harvest it isreaping? Perhaps we have been too abstract in conducting our business. Let us now be concrete. Miss Adelaide Laidlaw is a talented young woman, as good, we understand, as she is beautiful. She is the daughter of yourold friend, Judge Laidlaw, and we happen to know that you carried her inyour arms when she was an infant. She is your daughter's closest friend, and at present is visiting her. When your eyes have read thus far hervisit will have terminated. 

Very cordially, THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. 

My God! did we not instantly realize the terrible import! We rushedthrough the dayrooms--she was not there--and on to her own apartments. The door was locked, but we crashed it down by hurling ourselves againstit. There she lay, just as she had finished dressing for the opera, smothered with pillows torn from the couch, the flush of life yet on herflesh, the body still flexible and warm. Let me pass over the rest ofthis horror. You will surely remember, John, the newspaper accounts. 

Late that night Mr. Hale summoned me to him, and before God did pledgeme most solemnly to stand by him and not to compromise, even if all kithand kin were destroyed. 

The next day I was surprised at his cheerfulness. I had thought he wouldbe deeply shocked by this last tragedy--how deep I was soon to learn. All day he was light-hearted and high-spirited, as though at last he hadfound a way out of the frightful difficulty. The next morning wefound him dead in his bed, a peaceful smile upon his carewornface--asphyxiation. Through the connivance of the police and theauthorities, it was given out to the world as heart disease. We deemedit wise to withhold the truth; but little good has it done us, littlegood has anything done us. 

Barely had I left that chamber of death, when--but too late--thefollowing extraordinary letter was received:

OFFICE OF THE M. Of M. , February 17, 1900. 

MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:

Dear Sir, --You will pardon our intrusion, we hope, so closely upon thesad event of day before yesterday; but what we wish to say may be ofthe utmost importance to you. It is in our mind that you may attemptto escape us. There is but one way, apparently, as you have ere thisdoubtless discovered. But we wish to inform you that even this oneway is barred. You may die, but you die failing and acknowledging yourfailure. Note this: WE ARE PART AND PARCEL OF YOUR POSSESSIONS. WITHYOUR MILLIONS WE PASS DOWN TO YOUR HEIRS AND ASSIGNS FOREVER. 

We are the inevitable. We are the culmination of industrial andsocial wrong. We turn upon the society that has created us. We are thesuccessful failures of the age, the scourges of a degraded civilization. 

We are the creatures of a perverse social selection. We meet force withforce. Only the strong shall endure. We believe in the survival of thefittest. You have crushed your wage slaves into the dirt and you havesurvived. The captains of war, at your command, have shot down likedogs your employees in a score of bloody strikes. By such means you haveendured. We do not grumble at the result, for we acknowledge and haveour being in the same natural law. And now the question has arisen:UNDER THE PRESENT SOCIAL ENVIRONMENT, WHICH OF US SHALL SURVIVE? Webelieve we are the fittest. You believe you are the fittest. We leavethe eventuality to time and law. 

Cordially yours, THE MINIONS OF MIDAS. 

John, do you wonder now that I shunned pleasure and avoided friends?But why explain? Surely this narrative will make everything clear. Threeweeks ago Adelaide Laidlaw died. Since then I have waited in hope andfear. Yesterday the will was probated and made public. Today I wasnotified that a woman of the middle class would be killed in Golden GatePark, in faraway San Francisco. The despatches in to-night's papers givethe details of the brutal happening--details which correspond with thosefurnished me in advance. 

It is useless. I cannot struggle against the inevitable. I have beenfaithful to Mr. Hale and have worked hard. Why my faithfulness shouldhave been thus rewarded I cannot understand. Yet I cannot be false to mytrust, nor break my word by compromising. Still, I have resolved thatno more deaths shall be upon my head. I have willed the many millions Ilately received to their rightful owners. Let the stalwart sons of EbenHale work out their own salvation. Ere you read this I shall have passedon. The Minions of Midas are all-powerful. The police are impotent. I have learned from them that other millionnaires have been likewisemulcted or persecuted--how many is not known, for when one yields to theM. Of M. , his mouth is thenceforth sealed. Those who have not yieldedare even now reaping their scarlet harvest. The grim game is beingplayed out. The Federal Government can do nothing. I also understandthat similar branch organizations have made their appearance in Europe. Society is shaken to its foundations. Principalities and powers are asbrands ripe for the burning. Instead of the masses against the classes, it is a class against the classes. We, the guardians of human progress, are being singled out and struck down. Law and order have failed. 

The officials have begged me to keep this secret. I have done so, butcan do so no longer. It has become a question of public import, fraughtwith the direst consequences, and I shall do my duty before I leave thisworld by informing it of its peril. Do you, John, as my last request, make this public. Do not be frightened. The fate of humanity rests inyour hand. Let the press strike off millions of copies; let the electriccurrents sweep it round the world; wherever men meet and speak, let themspeak of it in fear and trembling. And then, when thoroughly aroused, let society arise in its might and cast out this abomination. 

Yours, in long farewell, WADE ATSHELER. 

THE SHADOW AND THE FLASH

When I look back, I realize what a peculiar friendship it was. First, there was Lloyd Inwood, tall, slender, and finely knit, nervous anddark. And then Paul Tichlorne, tall, slender, and finely knit, nervousand blond. Each was the replica of the other in everything except color. Lloyd's eyes were black; Paul's were blue. Under stress of excitement, the blood coursed olive in the face of Lloyd, crimson in the face ofPaul. But outside this matter of coloring they were as like as two peas. Both were high-strung, prone to excessive tension and endurance, andthey lived at concert pitch. 

But there was a trio involved in this remarkable friendship, and thethird was short, and fat, and chunky, and lazy, and, loath to say, itwas I. Paul and Lloyd seemed born to rivalry with each other, and I tobe peacemaker between them. We grew up together, the three of us, andfull often have I received the angry blows each intended for the other. They were always competing, striving to outdo each other, and whenentered upon some such struggle there was no limit either to theirendeavors or passions. 

This intense spirit of rivalry obtained in their studies and theirgames. If Paul memorized one canto of "Marmion, " Lloyd memorized twocantos, Paul came back with three, and Lloyd again with four, till eachknew the whole poem by heart. I remember an incident that occurredat the swimming hole--an incident tragically significant of thelife-struggle between them. The boys had a game of diving to the bottomof a ten-foot pool and holding on by submerged roots to see who couldstay under the longest. Paul and Lloyd allowed themselves to be banteredinto making the descent together. When I saw their faces, set anddetermined, disappear in the water as they sank swiftly down, I felta foreboding of something dreadful. The moments sped, the ripples diedaway, the face of the pool grew placid and untroubled, and neither blacknor golden head broke surface in quest of air. We above grew anxious. The longest record of the longest-winded boy had been exceeded, andstill there was no sign. Air bubbles trickled slowly upward, showingthat the breath had been expelled from their lungs, and after that thebubbles ceased to trickle upward. Each second became interminable, and, unable longer to endure the suspense, I plunged into the water. 

I found them down at the bottom, clutching tight to the roots, theirheads not a foot apart, their eyes wide open, each glaring fixedly atthe other. They were suffering frightful torment, writhing and twistingin the pangs of voluntary suffocation; for neither would let go andacknowledge himself beaten. I tried to break Paul's hold on the root, but he resisted me fiercely. Then I lost my breath and came to thesurface, badly scared. I quickly explained the situation, and half adozen of us went down and by main strength tore them loose. By thetime we got them out, both were unconscious, and it was only after muchbarrel-rolling and rubbing and pounding that they finally came to theirsenses. They would have drowned there, had no one rescued them. 

When Paul Tichlorne entered college, he let it be generally understoodthat he was going in for the social sciences. Lloyd Inwood, enteringat the same time, elected to take the same course. But Paul had hadit secretly in mind all the time to study the natural sciences, specializing on chemistry, and at the last moment he switched over. Though Lloyd had already arranged his year's work and attended the firstlectures, he at once followed Paul's lead and went in for the naturalsciences and especially for chemistry. Their rivalry soon became a notedthing throughout the university. Each was a spur to the other, and theywent into chemistry deeper than did ever students before--so deep, infact, that ere they took their sheepskins they could have stumped anychemistry or "cow college" professor in the institution, save "old"Moss, head of the department, and even him they puzzled and edified morethan once. Lloyd's discovery of the "death bacillus" of the sea toad, and his experiments on it with potassium cyanide, sent his name and thatof his university ringing round the world; nor was Paul a whitbehind when he succeeded in producing laboratory colloids exhibitingamoeba-like activities, and when he cast new light upon the processesof fertilization through his startling experiments with simple sodiumchlorides and magnesium solutions on low forms of marine life. 

It was in their undergraduate days, however, in the midst of theirprofoundest plunges into the mysteries of organic chemistry, that DorisVan Benschoten entered into their lives. Lloyd met her first, but withintwenty-four hours Paul saw to it that he also made her acquaintance. Of course, they fell in love with her, and she became the only thing inlife worth living for. They wooed her with equal ardor and fire, and sointense became their struggle for her that half the student-body tookto wagering wildly on the result. Even "old" Moss, one day, after anastounding demonstration in his private laboratory by Paul, wasguilty to the extent of a month's salary of backing him to become thebridegroom of Doris Van Benschoten. 

In the end she solved the problem in her own way, to everybody'ssatisfaction except Paul's and Lloyd's. Getting them together, she saidthat she really could not choose between them because she loved themboth equally well; and that, unfortunately, since polyandry was notpermitted in the United States she would be compelled to forego thehonor and happiness of marrying either of them. Each blamed the otherfor this lamentable outcome, and the bitterness between them grew morebitter. 

But things came to a head enough. It was at my home, after they hadtaken their degrees and dropped out of the world's sight, that thebeginning of the end came to pass. Both were men of means, with littleinclination and no necessity for professional life. My friendship andtheir mutual animosity were the two things that linked them in anyway together. While they were very often at my place, they made ita fastidious point to avoid each other on such visits, though it wasinevitable, under the circumstances, that they should come upon eachother occasionally. 

On the day I have in recollection, Paul Tichlorne had been mooning allmorning in my study over a current scientific review. This left mefree to my own affairs, and I was out among my roses when Lloyd Inwoodarrived. Clipping and pruning and tacking the climbers on the porch, with my mouth full of nails, and Lloyd following me about and lending ahand now and again, we fell to discussing the mythical race of invisiblepeople, that strange and vagrant people the traditions of which havecome down to us. Lloyd warmed to the talk in his nervous, jerky fashion, and was soon interrogating the physical properties and possibilities ofinvisibility. A perfectly black object, he contended, would elude anddefy the acutest vision. 

"Color is a sensation, " he was saying. "It has no objective reality. Without light, we can see neither colors nor objects themselves. Allobjects are black in the dark, and in the dark it is impossible to seethem. If no light strikes upon them, then no light is flung back fromthem to the eye, and so we have no vision-evidence of their being. "

"But we see black objects in daylight, " I objected. 

"Very true, " he went on warmly. "And that is because they are notperfectly black. Were they perfectly black, absolutely black, as itwere, we could not see them--ay, not in the blaze of a thousand sunscould we see them! And so I say, with the right pigments, properlycompounded, an absolutely black paint could be produced which wouldrender invisible whatever it was applied to. "

"It would be a remarkable discovery, " I said non-committally, for thewhole thing seemed too fantastic for aught but speculative purposes. 

"Remarkable!" Lloyd slapped me on the shoulder. "I should say so. Why, old chap, to coat myself with such a paint would be to put the world atmy feet. The secrets of kings and courts would be mine, the machinationsof diplomats and politicians, the play of stock-gamblers, the plansof trusts and corporations. I could keep my hand on the inner pulse ofthings and become the greatest power in the world. And I--" He brokeoff shortly, then added, "Well, I have begun my experiments, and I don'tmind telling you that I'm right in line for it. "

A laugh from the doorway startled us. Paul Tichlorne was standing there, a smile of mockery on his lips. 

"You forget, my dear Lloyd, " he said. 

"Forget what?"

"You forget, " Paul went on--"ah, you forget the shadow. "

I saw Lloyd's face drop, but he answered sneeringly, "I can carry asunshade, you know. " Then he turned suddenly and fiercely upon him. "Look here, Paul, you'll keep out of this if you know what's good foryou. "

A rupture seemed imminent, but Paul laughed good-naturedly. "I wouldn'tlay fingers on your dirty pigments. Succeed beyond your most sanguineexpectations, yet you will always fetch up against the shadow. You can'tget away from it. Now I shall go on the very opposite tack. In the verynature of my proposition the shadow will be eliminated--"

"Transparency!" ejaculated Lloyd, instantly. "But it can't be achieved. "

"Oh, no; of course not. " And Paul shrugged his shoulders and strolledoff down the briar-rose path. 

This was the beginning of it. Both men attacked the problem with allthe tremendous energy for which they were noted, and with a rancor andbitterness that made me tremble for the success of either. Each trustedme to the utmost, and in the long weeks of experimentation that followedI was made a party to both sides, listening to their theorizings andwitnessing their demonstrations. Never, by word or sign, did I convey toeither the slightest hint of the other's progress, and they respected mefor the seal I put upon my lips. 

Lloyd Inwood, after prolonged and unintermittent application, when thetension upon his mind and body became too great to bear, had a strangeway of obtaining relief. He attended prize fights. It was at one ofthese brutal exhibitions, whither he had dragged me in order to tell hislatest results, that his theory received striking confirmation. 

"Do you see that red-whiskered man?" he asked, pointing across the ringto the fifth tier of seats on the opposite side. "And do you see thenext man to him, the one in the white hat? Well, there is quite a gapbetween them, is there not?"

"Certainly, " I answered. "They are a seat apart. The gap is theunoccupied seat. "

He leaned over to me and spoke seriously. "Between the red-whiskeredman and the white-hatted man sits Ben Wasson. You have heard me speakof him. He is the cleverest pugilist of his weight in the country. Heis also a Caribbean negro, full-blooded, and the blackest in the UnitedStates. He has on a black overcoat buttoned up. I saw him when he camein and took that seat. As soon as he sat down he disappeared. Watchclosely; he may smile. "

I was for crossing over to verify Lloyd's statement, but he restrainedme. "Wait, " he said. 

I waited and watched, till the red-whiskered man turned his head asthough addressing the unoccupied seat; and then, in that empty space, Isaw the rolling whites of a pair of eyes and the white double-crescentof two rows of teeth, and for the instant I could make out a negro'sface. But with the passing of the smile his visibility passed, and thechair seemed vacant as before. 

"Were he perfectly black, you could sit alongside him and not see him, "Lloyd said; and I confess the illustration was apt enough to make mewell-nigh convinced. 

I visited Lloyd's laboratory a number of times after that, and foundhim always deep in his search after the absolute black. His experimentscovered all sorts of pigments, such as lamp-blacks, tars, carbonizedvegetable matters, soots of oils and fats, and the various carbonizedanimal substances. 

"White light is composed of the seven primary colors, " he argued to me. "But it is itself, of itself, invisible. Only by being reflected fromobjects do it and the objects become visible. But only that portionof it that is reflected becomes visible. For instance, here is ablue tobacco-box. The white light strikes against it, and, with oneexception, all its component colors--violet, indigo, green, yellow, orange, and red--are absorbed. The one exception is BLUE. It is notabsorbed, but reflected. Wherefore the tobacco-box gives us a sensationof blueness. We do not see the other colors because they are absorbed. We see only the blue. For the same reason grass is GREEN. The greenwaves of white light are thrown upon our eyes. "

"When we paint our houses, we do not apply color to them, " he said atanother time. "What we do is to apply certain substances that have theproperty of absorbing from white light all the colors except thosethat we would have our houses appear. When a substance reflects all thecolors to the eye, it seems to us white. When it absorbs all the colors, it is black. But, as I said before, we have as yet no perfect black. Allthe colors are not absorbed. The perfect black, guarding against highlights, will be utterly and absolutely invisible. Look at that, forexample. "

He pointed to the palette lying on his work-table. Different shades ofblack pigments were brushed on it. One, in particular, I could hardlysee. It gave my eyes a blurring sensation, and I rubbed them and lookedagain. 

"That, " he said impressively, "is the blackest black you or any mortalman ever looked upon. But just you wait, and I'll have a black so blackthat no mortal man will be able to look upon it--and see it!"

On the other hand, I used to find Paul Tichlorne plunged as deeply intothe study of light polarization, diffraction, and interference, singleand double refraction, and all manner of strange organic compounds. 

"Transparency: a state or quality of body which permits all rays oflight to pass through, " he defined for me. "That is what I am seeking. Lloyd blunders up against the shadow with his perfect opaqueness. But Iescape it. A transparent body casts no shadow; neither does it reflectlight-waves--that is, the perfectly transparent does not. So, avoidinghigh lights, not only will such a body cast no shadow, but, since itreflects no light, it will also be invisible. "

We were standing by the window at another time. Paul was engagedin polishing a number of lenses, which were ranged along the sill. Suddenly, after a pause in the conversation, he said, "Oh! I've droppeda lens. Stick your head out, old man, and see where it went to. "

Out I started to thrust my head, but a sharp blow on the foreheadcaused me to recoil. I rubbed my bruised brow and gazed with reproachfulinquiry at Paul, who was laughing in gleeful, boyish fashion. 

"Well?" he said. 

"Well?" I echoed. 

"Why don't you investigate?" he demanded. And investigate I did. Beforethrusting out my head, my senses, automatically active, had toldme there was nothing there, that nothing intervened between me andout-of-doors, that the aperture of the window opening was utterly empty. I stretched forth my hand and felt a hard object, smooth and cool andflat, which my touch, out of its experience, told me to be glass. Ilooked again, but could see positively nothing. 

"White quartzose sand, " Paul rattled off, "sodic carbonate, slaked lime, cutlet, manganese peroxide--there you have it, the finest French plateglass, made by the great St. Gobain Company, who made the finest plateglass in the world, and this is the finest piece they ever made. It costa king's ransom. But look at it! You can't see it. You don't know it'sthere till you run your head against it. 

"Eh, old boy! That's merely an object-lesson--certain elements, inthemselves opaque, yet so compounded as to give a resultant body whichis transparent. But that is a matter of inorganic chemistry, you say. Very true. But I dare to assert, standing here on my two feet, that inthe organic I can duplicate whatever occurs in the inorganic. 

"Here!" He held a test-tube between me and the light, and I noted thecloudy or muddy liquid it contained. He emptied the contents of anothertest-tube into it, and almost instantly it became clear and sparkling. 

"Or here!" With quick, nervous movements among his array of test-tubes, he turned a white solution to a wine color, and a light yellow solutionto a dark brown. He dropped a piece of litmus paper into an acid, whenit changed instantly to red, and on floating it in an alkali it turnedas quickly to blue. 

"The litmus paper is still the litmus paper, " he enunciated in theformal manner of the lecturer. "I have not changed it into somethingelse. Then what did I do? I merely changed the arrangement of itsmolecules. Where, at first, it absorbed all colors from the light butred, its molecular structure was so changed that it absorbed red and allcolors except blue. And so it goes, ad infinitum. Now, what I purposeto do is this. " He paused for a space. "I purpose to seek--ay, and tofind--the proper reagents, which, acting upon the living organism, will bring about molecular changes analogous to those you have justwitnessed. But these reagents, which I shall find, and for that matter, upon which I already have my hands, will not turn the living body toblue or red or black, but they will turn it to transparency. All lightwill pass through it. It will be invisible. It will cast no shadow. "

A few weeks later I went hunting with Paul. He had been promising me forsome time that I should have the pleasure of shooting over a wonderfuldog--the most wonderful dog, in fact, that ever man shot over, so heaverred, and continued to aver till my curiosity was aroused. But onthe morning in question I was disappointed, for there was no dog inevidence. 

"Don't see him about, " Paul remarked unconcernedly, and we set offacross the fields. 

I could not imagine, at the time, what was ailing me, but I had afeeling of some impending and deadly illness. My nerves were all awry, and, from the astounding tricks they played me, my senses seemed to haverun riot. Strange sounds disturbed me. At times I heard the swish-swishof grass being shoved aside, and once the patter of feet across a patchof stony ground. 

"Did you hear anything, Paul?" I asked once. 

But he shook his head, and thrust his feet steadily forward. 

While climbing a fence, I heard the low, eager whine of a dog, apparently from within a couple of feet of me; but on looking about me Isaw nothing. 

I dropped to the ground, limp and trembling. 

"Paul, " I said, "we had better return to the house. I am afraid I amgoing to be sick. "

"Nonsense, old man, " he answered. "The sunshine has gone to your headlike wine. You'll be all right. It's famous weather. "

But, passing along a narrow path through a clump of cottonwoods, someobject brushed against my legs and I stumbled and nearly fell. I lookedwith sudden anxiety at Paul. 

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Tripping over your own feet?"

I kept my tongue between my teeth and plodded on, though sore perplexedand thoroughly satisfied that some acute and mysterious malady hadattacked my nerves. So far my eyes had escaped; but, when we got to theopen fields again, even my vision went back on me. Strange flashes ofvari-colored, rainbow light began to appear and disappear on thepath before me. Still, I managed to keep myself in hand, till thevari-colored lights persisted for a space of fully twenty seconds, dancing and flashing in continuous play. Then I sat down, weak andshaky. 

"It's all up with me, " I gasped, covering my eyes with my hands. "It hasattacked my eyes. Paul, take me home. "

But Paul laughed long and loud. "What did I tell you?--the mostwonderful dog, eh? Well, what do you think?"

He turned partly from me and began to whistle. I heard the patter offeet, the panting of a heated animal, and the unmistakable yelp of adog. Then Paul stooped down and apparently fondled the empty air. 

"Here! Give me your fist. "

And he rubbed my hand over the cold nose and jowls of a dog. A dog itcertainly was, with the shape and the smooth, short coat of a pointer. 

Suffice to say, I speedily recovered my spirits and control. Paul puta collar about the animal's neck and tied his handkerchief to its tail. And then was vouchsafed us the remarkable sight of an empty collar anda waving handkerchief cavorting over the fields. It was something to seethat collar and handkerchief pin a bevy of quail in a clump of locustsand remain rigid and immovable till we had flushed the birds. 

Now and again the dog emitted the vari-colored light-flashes I havementioned. The one thing, Paul explained, which he had not anticipatedand which he doubted could be overcome. 

"They're a large family, " he said, "these sun dogs, wind dogs, rainbows, halos, and parhelia. They are produced by refraction of light frommineral and ice crystals, from mist, rain, spray, and no end of things;and I am afraid they are the penalty I must pay for transparency. Iescaped Lloyd's shadow only to fetch up against the rainbow flash. "

A couple of days later, before the entrance to Paul's laboratory, Iencountered a terrible stench. So overpowering was it that it was easyto discover the source--a mass of putrescent matter on the doorstepwhich in general outlines resembled a dog. 

Paul was startled when he investigated my find. It was his invisibledog, or rather, what had been his invisible dog, for it was now plainlyvisible. It had been playing about but a few minutes before in allhealth and strength. Closer examination revealed that the skull had beencrushed by some heavy blow. While it was strange that the animal shouldhave been killed, the inexplicable thing was that it should so quicklydecay. 

"The reagents I injected into its system were harmless, " Paul explained. "Yet they were powerful, and it appears that when death comes they forcepractically instantaneous disintegration. Remarkable! Most remarkable!Well, the only thing is not to die. They do not harm so long as onelives. But I do wonder who smashed in that dog's head. "

Light, however, was thrown upon this when a frightened housemaid broughtthe news that Gaffer Bedshaw had that very morning, not more than anhour back, gone violently insane, and was strapped down at home, inthe huntsman's lodge, where he raved of a battle with a ferocious andgigantic beast that he had encountered in the Tichlorne pasture. Heclaimed that the thing, whatever it was, was invisible, that with hisown eyes he had seen that it was invisible; wherefore his tearful wifeand daughters shook their heads, and wherefore he but waxed the moreviolent, and the gardener and the coachman tightened the straps byanother hole. 

Nor, while Paul Tichlorne was thus successfully mastering the problem ofinvisibility, was Lloyd Inwood a whit behind. I went over in answer to amessage of his to come and see how he was getting on. Now his laboratoryoccupied an isolated situation in the midst of his vast grounds. It wasbuilt in a pleasant little glade, surrounded on all sides by a denseforest growth, and was to be gained by way of a winding and erraticpath. But I have travelled that path so often as to know every foot ofit, and conceive my surprise when I came upon the glade and found nolaboratory. The quaint shed structure with its red sandstone chimneywas not. Nor did it look as if it ever had been. There were no signs ofruin, no debris, nothing. 

I started to walk across what had once been its site. "This, " I said tomyself, "should be where the step went up to the door. " Barely were thewords out of my mouth when I stubbed my toe on some obstacle, pitchedforward, and butted my head into something that FELT very much like adoor. I reached out my hand. It WAS a door. I found the knob and turnedit. And at once, as the door swung inward on its hinges, the wholeinterior of the laboratory impinged upon my vision. Greeting Lloyd, Iclosed the door and backed up the path a few paces. I could see nothingof the building. Returning and opening the door, at once all thefurniture and every detail of the interior were visible. It was indeedstartling, the sudden transition from void to light and form and color. 

"What do you think of it, eh?" Lloyd asked, wringing my hand. "I slappeda couple of coats of absolute black on the outside yesterday afternoonto see how it worked. How's your head? you bumped it pretty solidly, Iimagine. "

"Never mind that, " he interrupted my congratulations. "I've somethingbetter for you to do. "

While he talked he began to strip, and when he stood naked before me hethrust a pot and brush into my hand and said, "Here, give me a coat ofthis. "

It was an oily, shellac-like stuff, which spread quickly and easily overthe skin and dried immediately. 

"Merely preliminary and precautionary, " he explained when I hadfinished; "but now for the real stuff. "

I picked up another pot he indicated, and glanced inside, but could seenothing. 

"It's empty, " I said. 

"Stick your finger in it. "

I obeyed, and was aware of a sensation of cool moistness. On withdrawingmy hand I glanced at the forefinger, the one I had immersed, but it haddisappeared. I moved and knew from the alternate tension and relaxationof the muscles that I moved it, but it defied my sense of sight. To allappearances I had been shorn of a finger; nor could I get any visualimpression of it till I extended it under the skylight and saw itsshadow plainly blotted on the floor. 

Lloyd chuckled. "Now spread it on, and keep your eyes open. "

I dipped the brush into the seemingly empty pot, and gave him a longstroke across his chest. With the passage of the brush the livingflesh disappeared from beneath. I covered his right leg, and he wasa one-legged man defying all laws of gravitation. And so, stroke bystroke, member by member, I painted Lloyd Inwood into nothingness. Itwas a creepy experience, and I was glad when naught remained in sightbut his burning black eyes, poised apparently unsupported in mid-air. 

"I have a refined and harmless solution for them, " he said. "A finespray with an air-brush, and presto! I am not. "

This deftly accomplished, he said, "Now I shall move about, and do youtell me what sensations you experience. "

"In the first place, I cannot see you, " I said, and I could hear hisgleeful laugh from the midst of the emptiness. "Of course, " I continued, "you cannot escape your shadow, but that was to be expected. When youpass between my eye and an object, the object disappears, but so unusualand incomprehensible is its disappearance that it seems to me as thoughmy eyes had blurred. When you move rapidly, I experience a bewilderingsuccession of blurs. The blurring sensation makes my eyes ache and mybrain tired. "

"Have you any other warnings of my presence?" he asked. 

"No, and yes, " I answered. "When you are near me I have feelings similarto those produced by dank warehouses, gloomy crypts, and deep mines. Andas sailors feel the loom of the land on dark nights, so I think I feelthe loom of your body. But it is all very vague and intangible. "

Long we talked that last morning in his laboratory; and when I turned togo, he put his unseen hand in mine with nervous grip, and said, "NowI shall conquer the world!" And I could not dare to tell him of PaulTichlorne's equal success. 

At home I found a note from Paul, asking me to come up immediately, andit was high noon when I came spinning up the driveway on my wheel. Paulcalled me from the tennis court, and I dismounted and went over. But thecourt was empty. As I stood there, gaping open-mouthed, a tennis ballstruck me on the arm, and as I turned about, another whizzed past myear. For aught I could see of my assailant, they came whirling at mefrom out of space, and right well was I peppered with them. But whenthe balls already flung at me began to come back for a second whack, Irealized the situation. Seizing a racquet and keeping my eyes open, Iquickly saw a rainbow flash appearing and disappearing and darting overthe ground. I took out after it, and when I laid the racquet upon it fora half-dozen stout blows, Paul's voice rang out:

"Enough! Enough! Oh! Ouch! Stop! You're landing on my naked skin, youknow! Ow! O-w-w! I'll be good! I'll be good! I only wanted you to seemy metamorphosis, " he said ruefully, and I imagined he was rubbing hishurts. 

A few minutes later we were playing tennis--a handicap on my part, for Icould have no knowledge of his position save when all the angles betweenhimself, the sun, and me, were in proper conjunction. Then heflashed, and only then. But the flashes were more brilliant than therainbow--purest blue, most delicate violet, brightest yellow, and allthe intermediary shades, with the scintillant brilliancy of the diamond, dazzling, blinding, iridescent. 

But in the midst of our play I felt a sudden cold chill, reminding meof deep mines and gloomy crypts, such a chill as I had experienced thatvery morning. The next moment, close to the net, I saw a ball rebound inmid-air and empty space, and at the same instant, a score of feet away, Paul Tichlorne emitted a rainbow flash. It could not be he from whomthe ball had rebounded, and with sickening dread I realized that LloydInwood had come upon the scene. To make sure, I looked for his shadow, and there it was, a shapeless blotch the girth of his body, (the sun wasoverhead), moving along the ground. I remembered his threat, and feltsure that all the long years of rivalry were about to culminate inuncanny battle. 

I cried a warning to Paul, and heard a snarl as of a wild beast, and ananswering snarl. I saw the dark blotch move swiftly across the court, and a brilliant burst of vari-colored light moving with equal swiftnessto meet it; and then shadow and flash came together and there was thesound of unseen blows. The net went down before my frightened eyes. Isprang toward the fighters, crying:

"For God's sake!"

But their locked bodies smote against my knees, and I was overthrown. 

"You keep out of this, old man!" I heard the voice of Lloyd Inwood fromout of the emptiness. And then Paul's voice crying, "Yes, we've hadenough of peacemaking!"

From the sound of their voices I knew they had separated. I could notlocate Paul, and so approached the shadow that represented Lloyd. Butfrom the other side came a stunning blow on the point of my jaw, and Iheard Paul scream angrily, "Now will you keep away?"

Then they came together again, the impact of their blows, their groansand gasps, and the swift flashings and shadow-movings telling plainly ofthe deadliness of the struggle. 

I shouted for help, and Gaffer Bedshaw came running into the court. Icould see, as he approached, that he was looking at me strangely, but hecollided with the combatants and was hurled headlong to the ground. Withdespairing shriek and a cry of "O Lord, I've got 'em!" he sprang to hisfeet and tore madly out of the court. 

I could do nothing, so I sat up, fascinated and powerless, and watchedthe struggle. The noonday sun beat down with dazzling brightness on thenaked tennis court. And it was naked. All I could see was the blotch ofshadow and the rainbow flashes, the dust rising from the invisible feet, the earth tearing up from beneath the straining foot-grips, and the wirescreen bulge once or twice as their bodies hurled against it. That wasall, and after a time even that ceased. There were no more flashes, andthe shadow had become long and stationary; and I remembered their setboyish faces when they clung to the roots in the deep coolness of thepool. 

They found me an hour afterward. Some inkling of what had happened gotto the servants and they quitted the Tichlorne service in a body. Gaffer Bedshaw never recovered from the second shock he received, andis confined in a madhouse, hopelessly incurable. The secrets of theirmarvellous discoveries died with Paul and Lloyd, both laboratories beingdestroyed by grief-stricken relatives. As for myself, I no longer carefor chemical research, and science is a tabooed topic in my household. Ihave returned to my roses. Nature's colors are good enough for me. 

ALL GOLD CANYON

It was the green heart of the canyon, where the walls swerved back fromthe rigid plan and relieved their harshness of line by making a littlesheltered nook and filling it to the brim with sweetness and roundnessand softness. Here all things rested. Even the narrow stream ceased itsturbulent down-rush long enough to form a quiet pool. Knee-deep in thewater, with drooping head and half-shut eyes, drowsed a red-coated, many-antlered buck. 

On one side, beginning at the very lip of the pool, was a tiny meadow, a cool, resilient surface of green that extended to the base of thefrowning wall. Beyond the pool a gentle slope of earth ran up and upto meet the opposing wall. Fine grass covered the slope--grass that wasspangled with flowers, with here and there patches of color, orange andpurple and golden. Below, the canyon was shut in. There was no view. Thewalls leaned together abruptly and the canyon ended in a chaos of rocks, moss-covered and hidden by a green screen of vines and creepers andboughs of trees. Up the canyon rose far hills and peaks, the bigfoothills, pine-covered and remote. And far beyond, like clouds uponthe border of the slay, towered minarets of white, where the Sierra'seternal snows flashed austerely the blazes of the sun. 

There was no dust in the canyon. The leaves and flowers were clean andvirginal. The grass was young velvet. Over the pool three cottonwoodssent their scurvy fluffs fluttering down the quiet air. On the slopethe blossoms of the wine-wooded manzanita filled the air with springtimeodors, while the leaves, wise with experience, were already beginningtheir vertical twist against the coming aridity of summer. In the openspaces on the slope, beyond the farthest shadow-reach of the manzanita, poised the mariposa lilies, like so many flights of jewelled mothssuddenly arrested and on the verge of trembling into flight again. Hereand there that woods harlequin, the madrone, permitting itself tobe caught in the act of changing its pea-green trunk to madder-red, breathed its fragrance into the air from great clusters of waxen bells. Creamy white were these bells, shaped like lilies-of-the-valley, withthe sweetness of perfume that is of the springtime. 

There was not a sigh of wind. The air was drowsy with its weight ofperfume. It was a sweetness that would have been cloying had theair been heavy and humid. But the air was sharp and thin. It wasas starlight transmuted into atmosphere, shot through and warmed bysunshine, and flower-drenched with sweetness. 

An occasional butterfly drifted in and out through the patches of lightand shade. And from all about rose the low and sleepy hum of mountainbees--feasting Sybarites that jostled one another good-naturedly at theboard, nor found time for rough discourtesy. So quietly did the littlestream drip and ripple its way through the canyon that it spoke only infaint and occasional gurgles. The voice of the stream was as a drowsywhisper, ever interrupted by dozings and silences, ever lifted again inthe awakenings. 

The motion of all things was a drifting in the heart of the canyon. Sunshine and butterflies drifted in and out among the trees. The hum ofthe bees and the whisper of the stream were a drifting of sound. And thedrifting sound and drifting color seemed to weave together in the makingof a delicate and intangible fabric which was the spirit of the place. It was a spirit of peace that was not of death, but of smooth-pulsinglife, of quietude that was not silence, of movement that was not action, of repose that was quick with existence without being violent withstruggle and travail. The spirit of the place was the spirit ofthe peace of the living, somnolent with the easement and content ofprosperity, and undisturbed by rumors of far wars. 

The red-coated, many-antlered buck acknowledged the lordship of thespirit of the place and dozed knee-deep in the cool, shaded pool. Thereseemed no flies to vex him and he was languid with rest. Sometimes hisears moved when the stream awoke and whispered; but they moved lazily, with, foreknowledge that it was merely the stream grown garrulous atdiscovery that it had slept. 

But there came a time when the buck's ears lifted and tensed with swifteagerness for sound. His head was turned down the canyon. His sensitive, quivering nostrils scented the air. His eyes could not pierce the greenscreen through which the stream rippled away, but to his ears came thevoice of a man. It was a steady, monotonous, singsong voice. Once thebuck heard the harsh clash of metal upon rock. At the sound he snortedwith a sudden start that jerked him through the air from water tomeadow, and his feet sank into the young velvet, while he pricked hisears and again scented the air. Then he stole across the tiny meadow, pausing once and again to listen, and faded away out of the canyon likea wraith, soft-footed and without sound. 

The clash of steel-shod soles against the rocks began to be heard, andthe man's voice grew louder. It was raised in a sort of chant and becamedistinct with nearness, so that the words could be heard:

 "Turn around an' tu'n yo' face Untoe them sweet hills of grace (D' pow'rs of sin yo' am scornin'!). Look about an' look aroun', Fling yo' sin-pack on d' groun' (Yo' will meet wid d' Lord in d' mornin'!). "

A sound of scrambling accompanied the song, and the spirit of the placefled away on the heels of the red-coated buck. The green screen wasburst asunder, and a man peered out at the meadow and the pool and thesloping side-hill. He was a deliberate sort of man. He took in the scenewith one embracing glance, then ran his eyes over the details to verifythe general impression. Then, and not until then, did he open his mouthin vivid and solemn approval:

"Smoke of life an' snakes of purgatory! Will you just look at that! Woodan' water an' grass an' a side-hill! A pocket-hunter's delight an' acayuse's paradise! Cool green for tired eyes! Pink pills for pale peopleain't in it. A secret pasture for prospectors and a resting-place fortired burros, by damn!"

He was a sandy-complexioned man in whose face geniality and humor seemedthe salient characteristics. It was a mobile face, quick-changing toinward mood and thought. Thinking was in him a visible process. Ideaschased across his face like wind-flaws across the surface of a lake. Hishair, sparse and unkempt of growth, was as indeterminate and colorlessas his complexion. It would seem that all the color of his frame hadgone into his eyes, for they were startlingly blue. Also, they werelaughing and merry eyes, within them much of the naivete and wonder ofthe child; and yet, in an unassertive way, they contained much of calmself-reliance and strength of purpose founded upon self-experience andexperience of the world. 

From out the screen of vines and creepers he flung ahead of him aminer's pick and shovel and gold-pan. Then he crawled out himself intothe open. He was clad in faded overalls and black cotton shirt, withhobnailed brogans on his feet, and on his head a hat whose shapelessnessand stains advertised the rough usage of wind and rain and sun andcamp-smoke. He stood erect, seeing wide-eyed the secrecy of the sceneand sensuously inhaling the warm, sweet breath of the canyon-gardenthrough nostrils that dilated and quivered with delight. His eyesnarrowed to laughing slits of blue, his face wreathed itself in joy, andhis mouth curled in a smile as he cried aloud:

"Jumping dandelions and happy hollyhocks, but that smells good to me!Talk about your attar o' roses an' cologne factories! They ain't in it!"

He had the habit of soliloquy. His quick-changing facial expressionsmight tell every thought and mood, but the tongue, perforce, ran hardafter, repeating, like a second Boswell. 

The man lay down on the lip of the pool and drank long and deep of itswater. "Tastes good to me, " he murmured, lifting his head and gazingacross the pool at the side-hill, while he wiped his mouth with the backof his hand. The side-hill attracted his attention. Still lying on hisstomach, he studied the hill formation long and carefully. It was apractised eye that travelled up the slope to the crumbling canyon-walland back and down again to the edge of the pool. He scrambled to hisfeet and favored the side-hill with a second survey. 

"Looks good to me, " he concluded, picking up his pick and shovel andgold-pan. 

He crossed the stream below the pool, stepping agilely from stone tostone. Where the sidehill touched the water he dug up a shovelful ofdirt and put it into the gold-pan. He squatted down, holding the pan inhis two hands, and partly immersing it in the stream. Then he impartedto the pan a deft circular motion that sent the water sluicing in andout through the dirt and gravel. The larger and the lighter particlesworked to the surface, and these, by a skilful dipping movement ofthe pan, he spilled out and over the edge. Occasionally, to expeditematters, he rested the pan and with his fingers raked out the largepebbles and pieces of rock. 

The contents of the pan diminished rapidly until only fine dirt and thesmallest bits of gravel remained. At this stage he began to work verydeliberately and carefully. It was fine washing, and he washed fine andfiner, with a keen scrutiny and delicate and fastidious touch. Atlast the pan seemed empty of everything but water; but with a quicksemicircular flirt that sent the water flying over the shallow rim intothe stream, he disclosed a layer of black sand on the bottom of the pan. So thin was this layer that it was like a streak of paint. He examinedit closely. In the midst of it was a tiny golden speck. He dribbled alittle water in over the depressed edge of the pan. With a quick flirthe sent the water sluicing across the bottom, turning the grains ofblack sand over and over. A second tiny golden speck rewarded hiseffort. 

The washing had now become very fine--fine beyond all need of ordinaryplacer-mining. He worked the black sand, a small portion at a time, upthe shallow rim of the pan. Each small portion he examined sharply, sothat his eyes saw every grain of it before he allowed it to slide overthe edge and away. Jealously, bit by bit, he let the black sand slipaway. A golden speck, no larger than a pin-point, appeared on the rim, and by his manipulation of the riveter it returned to the bottom of thepan. And in such fashion another speck was disclosed, and another. Greatwas his care of them. Like a shepherd he herded his flock of goldenspecks so that not one should be lost. At last, of the pan of dirtnothing remained but his golden herd. He counted it, and then, after allhis labor, sent it flying out of the pan with one final swirl of water. 

But his blue eyes were shining with desire as he rose to his feet. "Seven, " he muttered aloud, asserting the sum of the specks for which hehad toiled so hard and which he had so wantonly thrown away. "Seven, "he repeated, with the emphasis of one trying to impress a number on hismemory. 

He stood still a long while, surveying the hill-side. In his eyes wasa curiosity, new-aroused and burning. There was an exultance about hisbearing and a keenness like that of a hunting animal catching the freshscent of game. 

He moved down the stream a few steps and took a second panful of dirt. 

Again came the careful washing, the jealous herding of the goldenspecks, and the wantonness with which he sent them flying into thestream when he had counted their number. 

"Five, " he muttered, and repeated, "five. "

He could not forbear another survey of the hill before filling the panfarther down the stream. His golden herds diminished. "Four, three, two, two, one, " were his memory-tabulations as he moved down the stream. Whenbut one speck of gold rewarded his washing, he stopped and built a fireof dry twigs. Into this he thrust the gold-pan and burned it till itwas blue-black. He held up the pan and examined it critically. Then henodded approbation. Against such a color-background he could defy thetiniest yellow speck to elude him. 

Still moving down the stream, he panned again. A single speck was hisreward. A third pan contained no gold at all. Not satisfied with this, he panned three times again, taking his shovels of dirt within a footof one another. Each pan proved empty of gold, and the fact, instead ofdiscouraging him, seemed to give him satisfaction. His elation increasedwith each barren washing, until he arose, exclaiming jubilantly:

"If it ain't the real thing, may God knock off my head with sourapples!"

Returning to where he had started operations, he began to pan up thestream. At first his golden herds increased--increased prodigiously. "Fourteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-six, " ran his memorytabulations. Just above the pool he struck his richest pan--thirty-fivecolors. 

"Almost enough to save, " he remarked regretfully as he allowed the waterto sweep them away. 

The sun climbed to the top of the sky. The man worked on. Pan by pan, hewent up the stream, the tally of results steadily decreasing. 

"It's just booful, the way it peters out, " he exulted when a shovelfulof dirt contained no more than a single speck of gold. 

And when no specks at all were found in several pans, he straightened upand favored the hillside with a confident glance. 

"Ah, ha! Mr. Pocket!" he cried out, as though to an auditor hiddensomewhere above him beneath the surface of the slope. "Ah, ha! Mr. Pocket! I'm a-comin', I'm a-comin', an' I'm shorely gwine to get yer!You heah me, Mr. Pocket? I'm gwine to get yer as shore as punkins ain'tcauliflowers!"

He turned and flung a measuring glance at the sun poised above him inthe azure of the cloudless sky. Then he went down the canyon, followingthe line of shovel-holes he had made in filling the pans. He crossed thestream below the pool and disappeared through the green screen. Therewas little opportunity for the spirit of the place to return with itsquietude and repose, for the man's voice, raised in ragtime song, stilldominated the canyon with possession. 

After a time, with a greater clashing of steel-shod feet on rock, hereturned. The green screen was tremendously agitated. It surged back andforth in the throes of a struggle. There was a loud grating and clangingof metal. The man's voice leaped to a higher pitch and was sharp withimperativeness. A large body plunged and panted. There was a snappingand ripping and rending, and amid a shower of falling leaves a horseburst through the screen. On its back was a pack, and from this trailedbroken vines and torn creepers. The animal gazed with astonished eyes atthe scene into which it had been precipitated, then dropped its head tothe grass and began contentedly to graze. A second horse scrambled intoview, slipping once on the mossy rocks and regaining equilibriumwhen its hoofs sank into the yielding surface of the meadow. It wasriderless, though on its back was a high-horned Mexican saddle, scarredand discolored by long usage. 

The man brought up the rear. He threw off pack and saddle, with aneye to camp location, and gave the animals their freedom to graze. Heunpacked his food and got out frying-pan and coffee-pot. He gathered anarmful of dry wood, and with a few stones made a place for his fire. 

"My!" he said, "but I've got an appetite. I could scoff iron-filings an'horseshoe nails an' thank you kindly, ma'am, for a second helpin'. "

He straightened up, and, while he reached for matches in the pocket ofhis overalls, his eyes travelled across the pool to the side-hill. Hisfingers had clutched the match-box, but they relaxed their hold andthe hand came out empty. The man wavered perceptibly. He looked at hispreparations for cooking and he looked at the hill. 

"Guess I'll take another whack at her, " he concluded, starting to crossthe stream. 

"They ain't no sense in it, I know, " he mumbled apologetically. "Butkeepin' grub back an hour ain't goin' to hurt none, I reckon. "

A few feet back from his first line of test-pans he started a secondline. The sun dropped down the western sky, the shadows lengthened, but the man worked on. He began a third line of test-pans. He wascross-cutting the hillside, line by line, as he ascended. The centre ofeach line produced the richest pans, while the ends came where nocolors showed in the pan. And as he ascended the hillside the lines grewperceptibly shorter. The regularity with which their length diminishedserved to indicate that somewhere up the slope the last line would be soshort as to have scarcely length at all, and that beyond could come onlya point. The design was growing into an inverted "V. " The convergingsides of this "V" marked the boundaries of the gold-bearing dirt. 

The apex of the "V" was evidently the man's goal. Often he ran his eyealong the converging sides and on up the hill, trying to divine theapex, the point where the gold-bearing dirt must cease. Here resided"Mr. Pocket"--for so the man familiarly addressed the imaginary pointabove him on the slope, crying out:

"Come down out o' that, Mr. Pocket! Be right smart an' agreeable, an'come down!"

"All right, " he would add later, in a voice resigned to determination. "All right, Mr. Pocket. It's plain to me I got to come right up an'snatch you out bald-headed. An' I'll do it! I'll do it!" he wouldthreaten still later. 

Each pan he carried down to the water to wash, and as he went higherup the hill the pans grew richer, until he began to save the gold in anempty baking-powder can which he carried carelessly in his hip-pocket. So engrossed was he in his toil that he did not notice the long twilightof oncoming night. It was not until he tried vainly to see the goldcolors in the bottom of the pan that he realized the passage of time. Hestraightened up abruptly. An expression of whimsical wonderment and aweoverspread his face as he drawled:

"Gosh darn my buttons! if I didn't plumb forget dinner!"

He stumbled across the stream in the darkness and lighted hislong-delayed fire. Flapjacks and bacon and warmed-over beans constitutedhis supper. Then he smoked a pipe by the smouldering coals, listening tothe night noises and watching the moonlight stream through the canyon. After that he unrolled his bed, took off his heavy shoes, and pulled theblankets up to his chin. His face showed white in the moonlight, likethe face of a corpse. But it was a corpse that knew its resurrection, for the man rose suddenly on one elbow and gazed across at his hillside. 

"Good night, Mr. Pocket, " he called sleepily. "Good night. "

He slept through the early gray of morning until the direct rays ofthe sun smote his closed eyelids, when he awoke with a start and lookedabout him until he had established the continuity of his existence andidentified his present self with the days previously lived. 

To dress, he had merely to buckle on his shoes. He glanced at hisfireplace and at his hillside, wavered, but fought down the temptationand started the fire. 

"Keep yer shirt on, Bill; keep yer shirt on, " he admonished himself. "What's the good of rushin'? No use in gettin' all het up an' sweaty. Mr. Pocket'll wait for you. He ain't a-runnin' away before you can getyer breakfast. Now, what you want, Bill, is something fresh in yer billo' fare. So it's up to you to go an' get it. "

He cut a short pole at the water's edge and drew from one of his pocketsa bit of line and a draggled fly that had once been a royal coachman. 

"Mebbe they'll bite in the early morning, " he muttered, as he made hisfirst cast into the pool. And a moment later he was gleefully crying:"What'd I tell you, eh? What'd I tell you?"

He had no reel, nor any inclination to waste time, and by main strength, and swiftly, he drew out of the water a flashing ten-inch trout. Threemore, caught in rapid succession, furnished his breakfast. When he cameto the stepping-stones on his way to his hillside, he was struck by asudden thought, and paused. 

"I'd just better take a hike down-stream a ways, " he said. "There's notellin' what cuss may be snoopin' around. "

But he crossed over on the stones, and with a "I really oughter takethat hike, " the need of the precaution passed out of his mind and hefell to work. 

At nightfall he straightened up. The small of his back was stifffrom stooping toil, and as he put his hand behind him to soothe theprotesting muscles, he said:

"Now what d'ye think of that, by damn? I clean forgot my dinner again!If I don't watch out, I'll sure be degeneratin' into a two-meal-a-daycrank. "

"Pockets is the damnedest things I ever see for makin' a manabsent-minded, " he communed that night, as he crawled into his blankets. Nor did he forget to call up the hillside, "Good night, Mr. Pocket! Goodnight!"

Rising with the sun, and snatching a hasty breakfast, he was earlyat work. A fever seemed to be growing in him, nor did the increasingrichness of the test-pans allay this fever. There was a flush in hischeek other than that made by the heat of the sun, and he was obliviousto fatigue and the passage of time. When he filled a pan with dirt, heran down the hill to wash it; nor could he forbear running up the hillagain, panting and stumbling profanely, to refill the pan. 

He was now a hundred yards from the water, and the inverted "V" wasassuming definite proportions. The width of the pay-dirt steadilydecreased, and the man extended in his mind's eye the sides of the "V"to their meeting-place far up the hill. This was his goal, the apex ofthe "V, " and he panned many times to locate it. 

"Just about two yards above that manzanita bush an' a yard to theright, " he finally concluded. 

Then the temptation seized him. "As plain as the nose on your face, "he said, as he abandoned his laborious cross-cutting and climbed to theindicated apex. He filled a pan and carried it down the hill to wash. Itcontained no trace of gold. He dug deep, and he dug shallow, fillingand washing a dozen pans, and was unrewarded even by the tiniest goldenspeck. He was enraged at having yielded to the temptation, and cursedhimself blasphemously and pridelessly. Then he went down the hill andtook up the cross-cutting. 

"Slow an' certain, Bill; slow an' certain, " he crooned. "Short-cuts tofortune ain't in your line, an' it's about time you know it. Get wise, Bill; get wise. Slow an' certain's the only hand you can play; so go toit, an' keep to it, too. "

As the cross-cuts decreased, showing that the sides of the "V" wereconverging, the depth of the "V" increased. The gold-trace was dippinginto the hill. It was only at thirty inches beneath the surface thathe could get colors in his pan. The dirt he found at twenty-five inchesfrom the surface, and at thirty-five inches, yielded barren pans. At thebase of the "V, " by the water's edge, he had found the gold colors atthe grass roots. The higher he went up the hill, the deeper the golddipped. 

To dig a hole three feet deep in order to get one test-pan was a taskof no mean magnitude; while between the man and the apex intervenedan untold number of such holes to be. "An' there's no tellin' how muchdeeper it'll pitch, " he sighed, in a moment's pause, while his fingerssoothed his aching back. 

Feverish with desire, with aching back and stiffening muscles, with pickand shovel gouging and mauling the soft brown earth, the man toiled upthe hill. Before him was the smooth slope, spangled with flowers andmade sweet with their breath. Behind him was devastation. It looked likesome terrible eruption breaking out on the smooth skin of the hill. Hisslow progress was like that of a slug, befouling beauty with a monstroustrail. 

Though the dipping gold-trace increased the man's work, he foundconsolation in the increasing richness of the pans. Twenty cents, thirtycents, fifty cents, sixty cents, were the values of the gold found inthe pans, and at nightfall he washed his banner pan, which gave him adollar's worth of gold-dust from a shovelful of dirt. 

"I'll just bet it's my luck to have some inquisitive cuss come buttin'in here on my pasture, " he mumbled sleepily that night as he pulled theblankets up to his chin. 

Suddenly he sat upright. "Bill!" he called sharply. "Now, listen to me, Bill; d'ye hear! It's up to you, to-morrow mornin', to mosey round an'see what you can see. Understand? Tomorrow morning, an' don't you forgetit!"

He yawned and glanced across at his side-hill. "Good night, Mr. Pocket, "he called. 

In the morning he stole a march on the sun, for he had finishedbreakfast when its first rays caught him, and he was climbing the wallof the canyon where it crumbled away and gave footing. From the outlookat the top he found himself in the midst of loneliness. As far as hecould see, chain after chain of mountains heaved themselves into hisvision. To the east his eyes, leaping the miles between range and rangeand between many ranges, brought up at last against the white-peakedSierras--the main crest, where the backbone of the Western worldreared itself against the sky. To the north and south he could see moredistinctly the cross-systems that broke through the main trend of thesea of mountains. To the west the ranges fell away, one behind theother, diminishing and fading into the gentle foothills that, in turn, descended into the great valley which he could not see. 

And in all that mighty sweep of earth he saw no sign of man nor of thehandiwork of man--save only the torn bosom of the hillside at his feet. The man looked long and carefully. Once, far down his own canyon, hethought he saw in the air a faint hint of smoke. He looked againand decided that it was the purple haze of the hills made dark by aconvolution of the canyon wall at its back. 

"Hey, you, Mr. Pocket!" he called down into the canyon. "Stand out fromunder! I'm a-comin', Mr. Pocket! I'm a-comin'!"

The heavy brogans on the man's feet made him appear clumsy-footed, buthe swung down from the giddy height as lightly and airily as a mountaingoat. A rock, turning under his foot on the edge of the precipice, didnot disconcert him. He seemed to know the precise time required for theturn to culminate in disaster, and in the meantime he utilized the falsefooting itself for the momentary earth-contact necessary to carry him oninto safety. Where the earth sloped so steeply that it was impossible tostand for a second upright, the man did not hesitate. His foot pressedthe impossible surface for but a fraction of the fatal second and gavehim the bound that carried him onward. Again, where even the fraction ofa second's footing was out of the question, he would swing his bodypast by a moment's hand-grip on a jutting knob of rock, a crevice, ora precariously rooted shrub. At last, with a wild leap and yell, heexchanged the face of the wall for an earth-slide and finished thedescent in the midst of several tons of sliding earth and gravel. 

His first pan of the morning washed out over two dollars in coarse gold. It was from the centre of the "V. " To either side the diminution inthe values of the pans was swift. His lines of crosscutting holes weregrowing very short. The converging sides of the inverted "V" were only afew yards apart. Their meeting-point was only a few yards above him. Butthe pay-streak was dipping deeper and deeper into the earth. By earlyafternoon he was sinking the test-holes five feet before the pans couldshow the gold-trace. 

For that matter, the gold-trace had become something more than a trace;it was a placer mine in itself, and the man resolved to come back afterhe had found the pocket and work over the ground. But the increasingrichness of the pans began to worry him. By late afternoon the worth ofthe pans had grown to three and four dollars. The man scratched his headperplexedly and looked a few feet up the hill at the manzanita bush thatmarked approximately the apex of the "V. " He nodded his head and saidoracularly:

"It's one o' two things, Bill; one o' two things. Either Mr. Pocket'sspilled himself all out an' down the hill, or else Mr. Pocket's thatdamned rich you maybe won't be able to carry him all away with you. Andthat'd be hell, wouldn't it, now?" He chuckled at contemplation of sopleasant a dilemma. 

Nightfall found him by the edge of the stream his eyes wrestling withthe gathering darkness over the washing of a five-dollar pan. 

"Wisht I had an electric light to go on working. " he said. 

He found sleep difficult that night. Many times he composed himself andclosed his eyes for slumber to overtake him; but his blood pounded withtoo strong desire, and as many times his eyes opened and he murmuredwearily, "Wisht it was sun-up. "

Sleep came to him in the end, but his eyes were open with the firstpaling of the stars, and the gray of dawn caught him with breakfastfinished and climbing the hillside in the direction of the secretabiding-place of Mr. Pocket. 

The first cross-cut the man made, there was space for only threeholes, so narrow had become the pay-streak and so close was he to thefountainhead of the golden stream he had been following for four days. 

"Be ca'm, Bill; be ca'm, " he admonished himself, as he broke ground forthe final hole where the sides of the "V" had at last come together in apoint. 

"I've got the almighty cinch on you, Mr. Pocket, an' you can't lose me, "he said many times as he sank the hole deeper and deeper. 

Four feet, five feet, six feet, he dug his way down into the earth. Thedigging grew harder. His pick grated on broken rock. He examined therock. "Rotten quartz, " was his conclusion as, with the shovel, hecleared the bottom of the hole of loose dirt. He attacked the crumblingquartz with the pick, bursting the disintegrating rock asunder withevery stroke. 

He thrust his shovel into the loose mass. His eye caught a gleam ofyellow. He dropped the shovel and squatted suddenly on his heels. As afarmer rubs the clinging earth from fresh-dug potatoes, so the man, apiece of rotten quartz held in both hands, rubbed the dirt away. 

"Sufferin' Sardanopolis!" he cried. "Lumps an' chunks of it! Lumps an'chunks of it!"

It was only half rock he held in his hand. The other half was virgingold. He dropped it into his pan and examined another piece. Littleyellow was to be seen, but with his strong fingers he crumbled therotten quartz away till both hands were filled with glowing yellow. Herubbed the dirt away from fragment after fragment, tossing them intothe gold-pan. It was a treasure-hole. So much had the quartz rotted awaythat there was less of it than there was of gold. Now and again he founda piece to which no rock clung--a piece that was all gold. A chunk, where the pick had laid open the heart of the gold, glittered like ahandful of yellow jewels, and he cocked his head at it and slowly turnedit around and over to observe the rich play of the light upon it. 

"Talk about yer Too Much Gold diggin's!" the man snorted contemptuously. "Why, this diggin' 'd make it look like thirty cents. This diggin'is All Gold. An' right here an' now I name this yere canyon 'All GoldCanyon, ' b' gosh!"

Still squatting on his heels, he continued examining the fragments andtossing them into the pan. Suddenly there came to him a premonition ofdanger. It seemed a shadow had fallen upon him. But there was no shadow. His heart had given a great jump up into his throat and was choking him. Then his blood slowly chilled and he felt the sweat of his shirt coldagainst his flesh. 

He did not spring up nor look around. He did not move. He wasconsidering the nature of the premonition he had received, trying tolocate the source of the mysterious force that had warned him, strivingto sense the imperative presence of the unseen thing that threatenedhim. There is an aura of things hostile, made manifest by messengersrefined for the senses to know; and this aura he felt, but knew not howhe felt it. His was the feeling as when a cloud passes over the sun. It seemed that between him and life had passed something dark andsmothering and menacing; a gloom, as it were, that swallowed up life andmade for death--his death. 

Every force of his being impelled him to spring up and confront theunseen danger, but his soul dominated the panic, and he remainedsquatting on his heels, in his hands a chunk of gold. He did not dare tolook around, but he knew by now that there was something behind him andabove him. He made believe to be interested in the gold in his hand. He examined it critically, turned it over and over, and rubbed the dirtfrom it. And all the time he knew that something behind him was lookingat the gold over his shoulder. 

Still feigning interest in the chunk of gold in his hand, he listenedintently and he heard the breathing of the thing behind him. His eyessearched the ground in front of him for a weapon, but they saw onlythe uprooted gold, worthless to him now in his extremity. There was hispick, a handy weapon on occasion; but this was not such an occasion. The man realized his predicament. He was in a narrow hole that was sevenfeet deep. His head did not come to the surface of the ground. He was ina trap. 

He remained squatting on his heels. He was quite cool and collected; buthis mind, considering every factor, showed him only his helplessness. He continued rubbing the dirt from the quartz fragments and throwingthe gold into the pan. There was nothing else for him to do. Yet he knewthat he would have to rise up, sooner or later, and face the danger thatbreathed at his back. 

The minutes passed, and with the passage of each minute he knew that byso much he was nearer the time when he must stand up, or else--and hiswet shirt went cold against his flesh again at the thought--or else hemight receive death as he stooped there over his treasure. 

Still he squatted on his heels, rubbing dirt from gold and debating injust what manner he should rise up. He might rise up with a rush andclaw his way out of the hole to meet whatever threatened on the evenfooting above ground. Or he might rise up slowly and carelessly, andfeign casually to discover the thing that breathed at his back. Hisinstinct and every fighting fibre of his body favored the mad, clawingrush to the surface. His intellect, and the craft thereof, favored theslow and cautious meeting with the thing that menaced and which he couldnot see. And while he debated, a loud, crashing noise burst on his ear. At the same instant he received a stunning blow on the left side ofthe back, and from the point of impact felt a rush of flame through hisflesh. He sprang up in the air, but halfway to his feet collapsed. Hisbody crumpled in like a leaf withered in sudden heat, and he came down, his chest across his pan of gold, his face in the dirt and rock, hislegs tangled and twisted because of the restricted space at the bottomof the hole. His legs twitched convulsively several times. His body wasshaken as with a mighty ague. There was a slow expansion of the lungs, accompanied by a deep sigh. Then the air was slowly, very slowly, exhaled, and his body as slowly flattened itself down into inertness. 

Above, revolver in hand, a man was peering down over the edge of thehole. He peered for a long time at the prone and motionless body beneathhim. After a while the stranger sat down on the edge of the hole so thathe could see into it, and rested the revolver on his knee. Reachinghis hand into a pocket, he drew out a wisp of brown paper. Into thishe dropped a few crumbs of tobacco. The combination became a cigarette, brown and squat, with the ends turned in. Not once did he take his eyesfrom the body at the bottom of the hole. He lighted the cigarette anddrew its smoke into his lungs with a caressing intake of the breath. Hesmoked slowly. Once the cigarette went out and he relighted it. And allthe while he studied the body beneath him. 

In the end he tossed the cigarette stub away and rose to his feet. Hemoved to the edge of the hole. Spanning it, a hand resting on each edge, and with the revolver still in the right hand, he muscled his bodydown into the hole. While his feet were yet a yard from the bottom hereleased his hands and dropped down. 

At the instant his feet struck bottom he saw the pocket-miner's arm leapout, and his own legs knew a swift, jerking grip that overthrew him. Inthe nature of the jump his revolver-hand was above his head. Swiftlyas the grip had flashed about his legs, just as swiftly he broughtthe revolver down. He was still in the air, his fall in process ofcompletion, when he pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafeningin the confined space. The smoke filled the hole so that he couldsee nothing. He struck the bottom on his back, and like a cat's thepocket-miner's body was on top of him. Even as the miner's body passedon top, the stranger crooked in his right arm to fire; and even in thatinstant the miner, with a quick thrust of elbow, struck his wrist. Themuzzle was thrown up and the bullet thudded into the dirt of the side ofthe hole. 

The next instant the stranger felt the miner's hand grip his wrist. Thestruggle was now for the revolver. Each man strove to turn it againstthe other's body. The smoke in the hole was clearing. The stranger, lying on his back, was beginning to see dimly. But suddenly he wasblinded by a handful of dirt deliberately flung into his eyes by hisantagonist. In that moment of shock his grip on the revolver was broken. In the next moment he felt a smashing darkness descend upon his brain, and in the midst of the darkness even the darkness ceased. 

But the pocket-miner fired again and again, until the revolver wasempty. Then he tossed it from him and, breathing heavily, sat down onthe dead man's legs. 

The miner was sobbing and struggling for breath. "Measly skunk!" hepanted; "a-campin' on my trail an' lettin' me do the work, an' thenshootin' me in the back!"

He was half crying from anger and exhaustion. He peered at the face ofthe dead man. It was sprinkled with loose dirt and gravel, and it wasdifficult to distinguish the features. 

"Never laid eyes on him before, " the miner concluded his scrutiny. "Justa common an' ordinary thief, damn him! An' he shot me in the back! Heshot me in the back!"

He opened his shirt and felt himself, front and back, on his left side. 

"Went clean through, and no harm done!" he cried jubilantly. "I'll bethe aimed right all right, but he drew the gun over when he pulled thetrigger--the cuss! But I fixed 'm! Oh, I fixed 'm!"

His fingers were investigating the bullet-hole in his side, and a shadeof regret passed over his face. "It's goin' to be stiffer'n hell, " hesaid. "An' it's up to me to get mended an' get out o' here. "

He crawled out of the hole and went down the hill to his camp. Half anhour later he returned, leading his pack-horse. His open shirt disclosedthe rude bandages with which he had dressed his wound. He was slow andawkward with his left-hand movements, but that did not prevent his usingthe arm. 

The bight of the pack-rope under the dead man's shoulders enabled himto heave the body out of the hole. Then he set to work gathering up hisgold. He worked steadily for several hours, pausing often to rest hisstiffening shoulder and to exclaim:

"He shot me in the back, the measly skunk! He shot me in the back!"

When his treasure was quite cleaned up and wrapped securely into anumber of blanket-covered parcels, he made an estimate of its value. 

"Four hundred pounds, or I'm a Hottentot, " he concluded. "Say twohundred in quartz an' dirt--that leaves two hundred pounds of gold. Bill! Wake up! Two hundred pounds of gold! Forty thousand dollars! An'it's yourn--all yourn!"

He scratched his head delightedly and his fingers blundered into anunfamiliar groove. They quested along it for several inches. It was acrease through his scalp where the second bullet had ploughed. 

He walked angrily over to the dead man. 

"You would, would you?" he bullied. "You would, eh? Well, I fixed yougood an' plenty, an' I'll give you decent burial, too. That's more'nyou'd have done for me. "

He dragged the body to the edge of the hole and toppled it in. It struckthe bottom with a dull crash, on its side, the face twisted up to thelight. The miner peered down at it. 

"An' you shot me in the back!" he said accusingly. 

With pick and shovel he filled the hole. Then he loaded the gold on hishorse. It was too great a load for the animal, and when he had gainedhis camp he transferred part of it to his saddle-horse. Even so, hewas compelled to abandon a portion of his outfit--pick and shovel andgold-pan, extra food and cooking utensils, and divers odds and ends. 

The sun was at the zenith when the man forced the horses at the screenof vines and creepers. To climb the huge boulders the animals werecompelled to uprear and struggle blindly through the tangled mass ofvegetation. Once the saddle-horse fell heavily and the man removed thepack to get the animal on its feet. After it started on its way againthe man thrust his head out from among the leaves and peered up at thehillside. 

"The measly skunk!" he said, and disappeared. 

There was a ripping and tearing of vines and boughs. The trees surgedback and forth, marking the passage of the animals through the midstof them. There was a clashing of steel-shod hoofs on stone, and now andagain an oath or a sharp cry of command. Then the voice of the man wasraised in song:--

 "Tu'n around an' tu'n yo' face Untoe them sweet hills of grace (D' pow'rs of sin yo' am scornin'!). Look about an, look aroun', Fling yo' sin-pack on d' groun' (Yo' will meet wid d' Lord in d' mornin'!). "

The song grew faint and fainter, and through the silence crept back thespirit of the place. The stream once more drowsed and whispered; the humof the mountain bees rose sleepily. Down through the perfume-weightedair fluttered the snowy fluffs of the cottonwoods. The butterfliesdrifted in and out among the trees, and over all blazed the quietsunshine. Only remained the hoof-marks in the meadow and the tornhillside to mark the boisterous trail of the life that had broken thepeace of the place and passed on. 

PLANCHETTE

"It is my right to know, " the girl said. 

Her voice was firm-fibred with determination. There was no hint ofpleading in it, yet it was the determination that is reached through along period of pleading. But in her case it had been pleading, not ofspeech, but of personality. Her lips had been ever mute, but her faceand eyes, and the very attitude of her soul, had been for a long timeeloquent with questioning. This the man had known, but he had neveranswered; and now she was demanding by the spoken word that he answer. 

"It is my right, " the girl repeated. 

"I know it, " he answered, desperately and helplessly. 

She waited, in the silence which followed, her eyes fixed upon the lightthat filtered down through the lofty boughs and bathed the great redwoodtrunks in mellow warmth. This light, subdued and colored, seemed almosta radiation from the trunks themselves, so strongly did they saturateit with their hue. The girl saw without seeing, as she heard, withouthearing, the deep gurgling of the stream far below on the canyon bottom. 

She looked down at the man. "Well?" she asked, with the firmness whichfeigns belief that obedience will be forthcoming. 

She was sitting upright, her back against a fallen tree-trunk, whilehe lay near to her, on his side, an elbow on the ground and the handsupporting his head. 

"Dear, dear Lute, " he murmured. 

She shivered at the sound of his voice--not from repulsion, but fromstruggle against the fascination of its caressing gentleness. She hadcome to know well the lure of the man--the wealth of easement and restthat was promised by every caressing intonation of his voice, by themere touch of hand on hand or the faint impact of his breath on neckor cheek. The man could not express himself by word nor look nor touchwithout weaving into the expression, subtly and occultly, the feeling asof a hand that passed and that in passing stroked softly and soothingly. Nor was this all-pervading caress a something that cloyed with too greatsweetness; nor was it sickly sentimental; nor was it maudlin with love'smadness. It was vigorous, compelling, masculine. For that matter, it waslargely unconscious on the man's part. He was only dimly aware of it. It was a part of him, the breath of his soul as it were, involuntary andunpremeditated. 

But now, resolved and desperate, she steeled herself against him. Hetried to face her, but her gray eyes looked out to him, steadily, fromunder cool, level brows, and he dropped his head upon her knee. Her handstrayed into his hair softly, and her face melted into solicitude andtenderness. But when he looked up again, her gray eyes were steady, herbrows cool and level. 

"What more can I tell you?" the man said. He raised his head and mether gaze. "I cannot marry you. I cannot marry any woman. I love you--youknow that--better than my own life. I weigh you in the scales againstall the dear things of living, and you outweigh everything. I wouldgive everything to possess you, yet I may not. I cannot marry you. I cannever marry you. "

Her lips were compressed with the effort of control. His head wassinking back to her knee, when she checked him. 

"You are already married, Chris?"

"No! no!" he cried vehemently. "I have never been married. I want tomarry only you, and I cannot!"

"Then--"

"Don't!" he interrupted. "Don't ask me!"

"It is my right to know, " she repeated. 

"I know it, " he again interrupted. "But I cannot tell you. "

"You have not considered me, Chris, " she went on gently. 

"I know, I know, " he broke in. 

"You cannot have considered me. You do not know what I have to bear frommy people because of you. "

"I did not think they felt so very unkindly toward me, " he saidbitterly. 

"It is true. They can scarcely tolerate you. They do not show it to you, but they almost hate you. It is I who have had to bear all this. It wasnot always so, though. They liked you at first as. .. As I liked you. Butthat was four years ago. The time passed by--a year, two years; and thenthey began to turn against you. They are not to be blamed. You spoke noword. They felt that you were destroying my life. It is four years, now, and you have never once mentioned marriage to them. What were they tothink? What they have thought, that you were destroying my life. "

As she talked, she continued to pass her fingers caressingly through hishair, sorrowful for the pain that she was inflicting. 

"They did like you at first. Who can help liking you? You seem to drawaffection from all living things, as the trees draw the moisture fromthe ground. It comes to you as it were your birthright. Aunt Mildred andUncle Robert thought there was nobody like you. The sun rose and set inyou. They thought I was the luckiest girl alive to win the love of a manlike you. 'For it looks very much like it, ' Uncle Robert used to say, wagging his head wickedly at me. Of course they liked you. Aunt Mildredused to sigh, and look across teasingly at Uncle, and say, 'When I thinkof Chris, it almost makes me wish I were younger myself. ' And Unclewould answer, 'I don't blame you, my dear, not in the least. ' And thenthe pair of them would beam upon me their congratulations that I had wonthe love of a man like you. 

"And they knew I loved you as well. How could I hide it?--this great, wonderful thing that had entered into my life and swallowed up all mydays! For four years, Chris, I have lived only for you. Every moment wasyours. Waking, I loved you. Sleeping, I dreamed of you. Every act I haveperformed was shaped by you, by the thought of you. Even my thoughtswere moulded by you, by the invisible presence of you. I had no end, petty or great, that you were not there for me. "

"I had no idea of imposing such slavery, " he muttered. 

"You imposed nothing. You always let me have my own way. It was youwho were the obedient slave. You did for me without offending me. Youforestalled my wishes without the semblance of forestalling them, sonatural and inevitable was everything you did for me. I said, withoutoffending me. You were no dancing puppet. You made no fuss. Don't yousee? You did not seem to do things at all. Somehow they were alwaysthere, just done, as a matter of course. 

"The slavery was love's slavery. It was just my love for you that madeyou swallow up all my days. You did not force yourself into my thoughts. You crept in, always, and you were there always--how much, you willnever know. 

"But as time went by, Aunt Mildred and Uncle grew to dislike you. Theygrew afraid. What was to become of me? You were destroying my life. Mymusic? You know how my dream of it has dimmed away. That spring, when Ifirst met you--I was twenty, and I was about to start for Germany. Iwas going to study hard. That was four years ago, and I am still here inCalifornia. 

"I had other lovers. You drove them away--No! no! I don't mean that. Itwas I that drove them away. What did I care for lovers, for anything, when you were near? But as I said, Aunt Mildred and Uncle grew afraid. There has been talk--friends, busybodies, and all the rest. The timewent by. You did not speak. I could only wonder, wonder. I knew youloved me. Much was said against you by Uncle at first, and then by AuntMildred. They were father and mother to me, you know. I could not defendyou. Yet I was loyal to you. I refused to discuss you. I closed up. There was half-estrangement in my home--Uncle Robert with a face likean undertaker, and Aunt Mildred's heart breaking. But what could I do, Chris? What could I do?"

The man, his head resting on her knee again, groaned, but made no otherreply. 

"Aunt Mildred was mother to me, yet I went to her no more with myconfidences. My childhood's book was closed. It was a sweet book, Chris. The tears come into my eyes sometimes when I think of it. But nevermind that. Great happiness has been mine as well. I am glad I can talkfrankly of my love for you. And the attaining of such frankness has beenvery sweet. I do love you, Chris. I love you. .. I cannot tell you how. You are everything to me, and more besides. You remember that Christmastree of the children?--when we played blindman's buff? and you caughtme by the arm so, with such a clutching of fingers that I cried outwith the hurt? I never told you, but the arm was badly bruised. And suchsweet I got of it you could never guess. There, black and blue, was theimprint of your fingers--your fingers, Chris, your fingers. It wasthe touch of you made visible. It was there a week, and I kissed themarks--oh, so often! I hated to see them go; I wanted to rebruise thearm and make them linger. I was jealous of the returning white thatdrove the bruise away. Somehow, --oh! I cannot explain, but I loved youso!"

In the silence that fell, she continued her caressing of his hair, whileshe idly watched a great gray squirrel, boisterous and hilarious, asit scampered back and forth in a distant vista of the redwoods. Acrimson-crested woodpecker, energetically drilling a fallen trunk, caught and transferred her gaze. The man did not lift his head. Rather, he crushed his face closer against her knee, while his heaving shouldersmarked the hardness with which he breathed. 

"You must tell me, Chris, " the girl said gently. "This mystery--it iskilling me. I must know why we cannot be married. Are we always to bethis way?--merely lovers, meeting often, it is true, and yet with thelong absences between the meetings? Is it all the world holds for youand me, Chris? Are we never to be more to each other? Oh, it is goodjust to love, I know--you have made me madly happy; but one does get sohungry at times for something more! I want more and more of you, Chris. I want all of you. I want all our days to be together. I want all thecompanionship, the comradeship, which cannot be ours now, and which willbe ours when we are married--" She caught her breath quickly. "But weare never to be married. I forgot. And you must tell me why. "

The man raised his head and looked her in the eyes. It was a way he hadwith whomever he talked, of looking them in the eyes. 

"I have considered you, Lute, " he began doggedly. "I did consider you atthe very first. I should never have gone on with it. I should have goneaway. I knew it. And I considered you in the light of that knowledge, and yet. .. I did not go away. My God! what was I to do? I loved you. I could not go away. I could not help it. I stayed. I resolved, butI broke my resolves. I was like a drunkard. I was drunk of you. I wasweak, I know. I failed. I could not go away. I tried. I went away--youwill remember, though you did not know why. You know now. I went away, but I could not remain away. Knowing that we could never marry, I cameback to you. I am here, now, with you. Send me away, Lute. I have notthe strength to go myself. "

"But why should you go away?" she asked. "Besides, I must know why, before I can send you away. "

"Don't ask me. "

"Tell me, " she said, her voice tenderly imperative. 

"Don't, Lute; don't force me, " the man pleaded, and there was appeal inhis eyes and voice. 

"But you must tell me, " she insisted. "It is justice you owe me. "

The man wavered. "If I do. .. " he began. Then he ended withdetermination, "I should never be able to forgive myself. No, I cannottell you. Don't try to compel me, Lute. You would be as sorry as I. "

"If there is anything. .. If there are obstacles. .. If this mystery doesreally prevent. .. " She was speaking slowly, with long pauses, seekingthe more delicate ways of speech for the framing of her thought. "Chris, I do love you. I love you as deeply as it is possible for any woman tolove, I am sure. If you were to say to me now 'Come, ' I would go withyou. I would follow wherever you led. I would be your page, as in thedays of old when ladies went with their knights to far lands. You are myknight, Chris, and you can do no wrong. Your will is my wish. I was onceafraid of the censure of the world. Now that you have come into my lifeI am no longer afraid. I would laugh at the world and its censure foryour sake--for my sake too. I would laugh, for I should have you, andyou are more to me than the good will and approval of the world. If yousay 'Come, ' I will--"

"Don't! Don't!" he cried. "It is impossible! Marriage or not, I cannoteven say 'Come. ' I dare not. I'll show you. I'll tell you. "

He sat up beside her, the action stamped with resolve. He took her handin his and held it closely. His lips moved to the verge of speech. Themystery trembled for utterance. The air was palpitant with its presence. As if it were an irrevocable decree, the girl steeled herself to hear. But the man paused, gazing straight out before him. She felt his handrelax in hers, and she pressed it sympathetically, encouragingly. Butshe felt the rigidity going out of his tensed body, and she knew thatspirit and flesh were relaxing together. His resolution was ebbing. Hewould not speak--she knew it; and she knew, likewise, with the surenessof faith, that it was because he could not. 

She gazed despairingly before her, a numb feeling at her heart, asthough hope and happiness had died. She watched the sun flickering downthrough the warm-trunked redwoods. But she watched in a mechanical, absent way. She looked at the scene as from a long way off, withoutinterest, herself an alien, no longer an intimate part of the earth andtrees and flowers she loved so well. 

So far removed did she seem, that she was aware of a curiosity, strangely impersonal, in what lay around her. Through a near vista shelooked at a buckeye tree in full blossom as though her eyes encounteredit for the first time. Her eyes paused and dwelt upon a yellow clusterof Diogenes' lanterns that grew on the edge of an open space. It was theway of flowers always to give her quick pleasure-thrills, but no thrillwas hers now. She pondered the flower slowly and thoughtfully, as ahasheesh-eater, heavy with the drug, might ponder some whim-flowerthat obtruded on his vision. In her ears was the voice of the stream--ahoarse-throated, sleepy old giant, muttering and mumbling his somnolentfancies. But her fancy was not in turn aroused, as was its wont; sheknew the sound merely for water rushing over the rocks of the deepcanyon-bottom, that and nothing more. 

Her gaze wandered on beyond the Diogenes' lanterns into the openspace. Knee-deep in the wild oats of the hillside grazed two horses, chestnut-sorrels the pair of them, perfectly matched, warm and goldenin the sunshine, their spring-coats a sheen of high-lights shot throughwith color-flashes that glowed like fiery jewels. She recognized, almostwith a shock, that one of them was hers, Dolly, the companion of hergirlhood and womanhood, on whose neck she had sobbed her sorrows andsung her joys. A moistness welled into her eyes at the sight, andshe came back from the remoteness of her mood, quick with passion andsorrow, to be part of the world again. 

The man sank forward from the hips, relaxing entirely, and with a groandropped his head on her knee. She leaned over him and pressed her lipssoftly and lingeringly to his hair. 

"Come, let us go, " she said, almost in a whisper. 

She caught her breath in a half-sob, then tightened her lips as sherose. His face was white to ghastliness, so shaken was he by thestruggle through which he had passed. They did not look at each other, but walked directly to the horses. She leaned against Dolly's neck whilehe tightened the girths. Then she gathered the reins in her hand andwaited. He looked at her as he bent down, an appeal for forgiveness inhis eyes; and in that moment her own eyes answered. Her foot rested inhis hands, and from there she vaulted into the saddle. Without speaking, without further looking at each other, they turned the horses' heads andtook the narrow trail that wound down through the sombre redwood aislesand across the open glades to the pasture-lands below. The trail becamea cow-path, the cow-path became a wood-road, which later joined with ahay-road; and they rode down through the low-rolling, tawny Californiahills to where a set of bars let out on the county road which ranalong the bottom of the valley. The girl sat her horse while the mandismounted and began taking down the bars. 

"No--wait!" she cried, before he had touched the two lower bars. 

She urged the mare forward a couple of strides, and then the animallifted over the bars in a clean little jump. The man's eyes sparkled, and he clapped his hands. 

"You beauty! you beauty!" the girl cried, leaning forward impulsivelyin the saddle and pressing her cheek to the mare's neck where it burnedflame-color in the sun. 

"Let's trade horses for the ride in, " she suggested, when he had ledhis horse through and finished putting up the bars. "You've neversufficiently appreciated Dolly. "

"No, no, " he protested. 

"You think she is too old, too sedate, " Lute insisted. "She's onlysixteen, and she can outrun nine colts out of ten. Only she never cutsup. She's too steady, and you don't approve of her--no, don't deny it, sir. I know. And I know also that she can outrun your vaunted WashoeBan. There! I challenge you! And furthermore, you may ride her yourself. You know what Ban can do; so you must ride Dolly and see for yourselfwhat she can do. "

They proceeded to exchange the saddles on the horses, glad of thediversion and making the most of it. 

"I'm glad I was born in California, " Lute remarked, as she swungastride of Ban. "It's an outrage both to horse and woman to ride in asidesaddle. "

"You look like a young Amazon, " the man said approvingly, his eyespassing tenderly over the girl as she swung the horse around. 

"Are you ready?" she asked. 

"All ready!"

"To the old mill, " she called, as the horses sprang forward. "That'sless than a mile. "

"To a finish?" he demanded. 

She nodded, and the horses, feeling the urge of the reins, caught thespirit of the race. The dust rose in clouds behind as they tore alongthe level road. They swung around the bend, horses and riders tilted atsharp angles to the ground, and more than once the riders ducked low toescape the branches of outreaching and overhanging trees. They clatteredover the small plank bridges, and thundered over the larger iron ones toan ominous clanking of loose rods. 

They rode side by side, saving the animals for the rush at the finish, yet putting them at a pace that drew upon vitality and staying power. Curving around a clump of white oaks, the road straightened out beforethem for several hundred yards, at the end of which they could see theruined mill. 

"Now for it!" the girl cried. 

She urged the horse by suddenly leaning forward with her body, at thesame time, for an instant, letting the rein slack and touching the neckwith her bridle hand. She began to draw away from the man. 

"Touch her on the neck!" she cried to him. 

With this, the mare pulled alongside and began gradually to pass thegirl. Chris and Lute looked at each other for a moment, the mare stilldrawing ahead, so that Chris was compelled slowly to turn his head. Themill was a hundred yards away. 

"Shall I give him the spurs?" Lute shouted. 

The man nodded, and the girl drove the spurs in sharply and quickly, calling upon the horse for its utmost, but watched her own horse forgeslowly ahead of her. 

"Beaten by three lengths!" Lute beamed triumphantly, as they pulled intoa walk. "Confess, sir, confess! You didn't think the old mare had it inher. "

Lute leaned to the side and rested her hand for a moment on Dolly's wetneck. 

"Ban's a sluggard alongside of her, " Chris affirmed. "Dolly's all right, if she is in her Indian Summer. "

Lute nodded approval. "That's a sweet way of putting it--Indian Summer. It just describes her. But she's not lazy. She has all the fire and noneof the folly. She is very wise, what of her years. "

"That accounts for it, " Chris demurred. "Her folly passed with heryouth. Many's the lively time she's given you. "

"No, " Lute answered. "I never knew her really to cut up. I think theonly trouble she ever gave me was when I was training her to open gates. She was afraid when they swung back upon her--the animal's fear of thetrap, perhaps. But she bravely got over it. And she never was vicious. She never bolted, nor bucked, nor cut up in all her life--never, notonce. "

The horses went on at a walk, still breathing heavily from their run. The road wound along the bottom of the valley, now and again crossingthe stream. From either side rose the drowsy purr of mowing-machines, punctuated by occasional sharp cries of the men who were gathering thehay-crop. On the western side of the valley the hills rose green anddark, but the eastern side was already burned brown and tan by the sun. 

"There is summer, here is spring, " Lute said. "Oh, beautiful SonomaValley!"

Her eyes were glistening and her face was radiant with love of theland. Her gaze wandered on across orchard patches and sweeping vineyardstretches, seeking out the purple which seemed to hang like a dim smokein the wrinkles of the hills and in the more distant canyon gorges. Farup, among the more rugged crests, where the steep slopes were coveredwith manzanita, she caught a glimpse of a clear space where the wildgrass had not yet lost its green. 

"Have you ever heard of the secret pasture?" she asked, her eyes stillfixed on the remote green. 

A snort of fear brought her eyes back to the man beside her. Dolly, upreared, with distended nostrils and wild eyes, was pawing the airmadly with her fore legs. Chris threw himself forward against her neckto keep her from falling backward, and at the same time touched her withthe spurs to compel her to drop her fore feet to the ground in order toobey the go-ahead impulse of the spurs. 

"Why, Dolly, this is most remarkable, " Lute began reprovingly. 

But, to her surprise, the mare threw her head down, arched her back asshe went up in the air, and, returning, struck the ground stiff-leggedand bunched. 

"A genuine buck!" Chris called out, and the next moment the mare wasrising under him in a second buck. 

Lute looked on, astounded at the unprecedented conduct of her mare, andadmiring her lover's horsemanship. He was quite cool, and was himselfevidently enjoying the performance. Again and again, half a dozen times, Dolly arched herself into the air and struck, stiffly bunched. Then shethrew her head straight up and rose on her hind legs, pivoting about andstriking with her fore feet. Lute whirled into safety the horse she wasriding, and as she did so caught a glimpse of Dolly's eyes, with thelook in them of blind brute madness, bulging until it seemed they mustburst from her head. The faint pink in the white of the eyes was gone, replaced by a white that was like dull marble and that yet flashed asfrom some inner fire. 

A faint cry of fear, suppressed in the instant of utterance, slippedpast Lute's lips. One hind leg of the mare seemed to collapse, and for amoment the whole quivering body, upreared and perpendicular, swayed backand forth, and there was uncertainty as to whether it would fall forwardor backward. The man, half-slipping sidewise from the saddle, so as tofall clear if the mare toppled backward, threw his weight to the frontand alongside her neck. This overcame the dangerous teetering balance, and the mare struck the ground on her feet again. 

But there was no let-up. Dolly straightened out so that the line of theface was almost a continuation of the line of the stretched neck;this position enabled her to master the bit, which she did by boltingstraight ahead down the road. 

For the first time Lute became really frightened. She spurred Washoe Banin pursuit, but he could not hold his own with the mad mare, and droppedgradually behind. Lute saw Dolly check and rear in the air again, andcaught up just as the mare made a second bolt. As Dolly dashed around abend, she stopped suddenly, stiff-legged. Lute saw her lover torn out ofthe saddle, his thigh-grip broken by the sudden jerk. Though he had losthis seat, he had not been thrown, and as the mare dashed on Lute saw himclinging to the side of the horse, a hand in the mane and a leg acrossthe saddle. With a quick cavort he regained his seat and proceeded tofight with the mare for control. 

But Dolly swerved from the road and dashed down a grassy slope yellowedwith innumerable mariposa lilies. An ancient fence at the bottom wasno obstacle. She burst through as though it were filmy spider-web anddisappeared in the underbrush. Lute followed unhesitatingly, putting Banthrough the gap in the fence and plunging on into the thicket. She layalong his neck, closely, to escape the ripping and tearing of the treesand vines. She felt the horse drop down through leafy branches and intothe cool gravel of a stream's bottom. From ahead came a splashing ofwater, and she caught a glimpse of Dolly, dashing up the small bank andinto a clump of scrub-oaks, against the trunks of which she was tryingto scrape off her rider. 

Lute almost caught up amongst the trees, but was hopelessly outdistancedon the fallow field adjoining, across which the mare tore with a finedisregard for heavy ground and gopher-holes. When she turned at a sharpangle into the thicket-land beyond, Lute took the long diagonal, skirtedthe ticket, and reined in Ban at the other side. She had arrived first. From within the thicket she could hear a tremendous crashing of brushand branches. Then the mare burst through and into the open, fallingto her knees, exhausted, on the soft earth. She arose and staggeredforward, then came limply to a halt. She was in lather-sweat of fear, and stood trembling pitiably. 

Chris was still on her back. His shirt was in ribbons. The backs of hishands were bruised and lacerated, while his face was streaming bloodfrom a gash near the temple. Lute had controlled herself well, but nowshe was aware of a quick nausea and a trembling of weakness. 

"Chris!" she said, so softly that it was almost a whisper. Then shesighed, "Thank God. "

"Oh, I'm all right, " he cried to her, putting into his voice all theheartiness he could command, which was not much, for he had himself beenunder no mean nervous strain. 

He showed the reaction he was undergoing, when he swung down out ofthe saddle. He began with a brave muscular display as he lifted hisleg over, but ended, on his feet, leaning against the limp Dolly forsupport. Lute flashed out of her saddle, and her arms were about him inan embrace of thankfulness. 

"I know where there is a spring, " she said, a moment later. 

They left the horses standing untethered, and she led her lover into thecool recesses of the thicket to where crystal water bubbled from out thebase of the mountain. 

"What was that you said about Dolly's never cutting up?" he asked, whenthe blood had been stanched and his nerves and pulse-beats were normalagain. 

"I am stunned, " Lute answered. "I cannot understand it. She never didanything like it in all her life. And all animals like you so--it's notbecause of that. Why, she is a child's horse. I was only a little girlwhen I first rode her, and to this day--"

"Well, this day she was everything but a child's horse, " Chris broke in. "She was a devil. She tried to scrape me off against the trees, and tobatter my brains out against the limbs. She tried all the lowest andnarrowest places she could find. You should have seen her squeezethrough. And did you see those bucks?"

Lute nodded. 

"Regular bucking-bronco proposition. "

"But what should she know about bucking?" Lute demanded. "She was neverknown to buck--never. "

He shrugged his shoulders. "Some forgotten instinct, perhaps, long-lapsed and come to life again. "

The girl rose to her feet determinedly. "I'm going to find out, " shesaid. 

They went back to the horses, where they subjected Dolly to arigid examination that disclosed nothing. Hoofs, legs, bit, mouth, body--everything was as it should be. The saddle and saddle-cloth wereinnocent of bur or sticker; the back was smooth and unbroken. Theysearched for sign of snake-bite and sting of fly or insect, but foundnothing. 

"Whatever it was, it was subjective, that much is certain, " Chris said. 

"Obsession, " Lute suggested. 

They laughed together at the idea, for both were twentieth-centuryproducts, healthy-minded and normal, with souls that delighted inthe butterfly-chase of ideals but that halted before the brink wheresuperstition begins. 

"An evil spirit, " Chris laughed; "but what evil have I done that Ishould be so punished?"

"You think too much of yourself, sir, " she rejoined. "It is more likelysome evil, I don't know what, that Dolly has done. You were a mereaccident. I might have been on her back at the time, or Aunt Mildred, oranybody. "

As she talked, she took hold of the stirrup-strap and started to shortenit. 

"What are you doing?" Chris demanded. 

"I'm going to ride Dolly in. "

"No, you're not, " he announced. "It would be bad discipline. After whathas happened I am simply compelled to ride her in myself. "

But it was a very weak and very sick mare he rode, stumbling andhalting, afflicted with nervous jerks and recurring muscular spasms--theaftermath of the tremendous orgasm through which she had passed. 

"I feel like a book of verse and a hammock, after all that hashappened, " Lute said, as they rode into camp. 

It was a summer camp of city-tired people, pitched in a grove oftowering redwoods through whose lofty boughs the sunshine trickled down, broken and subdued to soft light and cool shadow. Apart from the maincamp were the kitchen and the servants' tents; and midway between wasthe great dining hall, walled by the living redwood columns, where freshwhispers of air were always to be found, and where no canopy was neededto keep the sun away. 

"Poor Dolly, she is really sick, " Lute said that evening, when they hadreturned from a last look at the mare. "But you weren't hurt, Chris, andthat's enough for one small woman to be thankful for. I thought I knew, but I really did not know till to-day, how much you meant to me. I couldhear only the plunging and struggle in the thicket. I could not see you, nor know how it went with you. "

"My thoughts were of you, " Chris answered, and felt the responsivepressure of the hand that rested on his arm. 

She turned her face up to his and met his lips. 

"Good night, " she said. 

"Dear Lute, dear Lute, " he caressed her with his voice as she moved awayamong the shadows. 

 * * *

"Who's going for the mail?" called a woman's voice through the trees. 

Lute closed the book from which they had been reading, and sighed. 

"We weren't going to ride to-day, " she said. 

"Let me go, " Chris proposed. "You stay here. I'll be down and back in notime. "

She shook her head. 

"Who's going for the mail?" the voice insisted. 

"Where's Martin?" Lute called, lifting her voice in answer. 

"I don't know, " came the voice. "I think Robert took him alongsomewhere--horse-buying, or fishing, or I don't know what. There'sreally nobody left but Chris and you. Besides, it will give you anappetite for dinner. You've been lounging in the hammock all day. AndUncle Robert must have his newspaper. "

"All right, Aunty, we're starting, " Lute called back, getting out of thehammock. 

A few minutes later, in riding-clothes, they were saddling the horses. They rode out on to the county road, where blazed the afternoon sun, and turned toward Glen Ellen. The little town slept in the sun, and thesomnolent storekeeper and postmaster scarcely kept his eyes open longenough to make up the packet of letters and newspapers. 

An hour later Lute and Chris turned aside from the road and dipped alonga cow-path down the high bank to water the horses, before going intocamp. 

"Dolly looks as though she'd forgotten all about yesterday, " Chris said, as they sat their horses knee-deep in the rushing water. "Look at her. "

The mare had raised her head and cocked her ears at the rustling ofa quail in the thicket. Chris leaned over and rubbed around her ears. Dolly's enjoyment was evident, and she drooped her head over against theshoulder of his own horse. 

"Like a kitten, " was Lute's comment. 

"Yet I shall never be able wholly to trust her again, " Chris said. "Notafter yesterday's mad freak. "

"I have a feeling myself that you are safer on Ban, " Lute laughed. "Itis strange. My trust in Dolly is as implicit as ever. I feel confidentso far as I am concerned, but I should never care to see you on herback again. Now with Ban, my faith is still unshaken. Look at that neck!Isn't he handsome! He'll be as wise as Dolly when he is as old as she. "

"I feel the same way, " Chris laughed back. "Ban could never possiblybetray me. "

They turned their horses out of the stream. Dolly stopped to brush a flyfrom her knee with her nose, and Ban urged past into the narrow way ofthe path. The space was too restricted to make him return, save withmuch trouble, and Chris allowed him to go on. Lute, riding behind, dweltwith her eyes upon her lover's back, pleasuring in the lines of the bareneck and the sweep out to the muscular shoulders. 

Suddenly she reined in her horse. She could do nothing but look, sobrief was the duration of the happening. Beneath and above was thealmost perpendicular bank. The path itself was barely wide enough forfooting. Yet Washoe Ban, whirling and rearing at the same time, toppledfor a moment in the air and fell backward off the path. 

So unexpected and so quick was it, that the man was involved in thefall. There had been no time for him to throw himself to the path. Hewas falling ere he knew it, and he did the only thing possible--slippedthe stirrups and threw his body into the air, to the side, and at thesame time down. It was twelve feet to the rocks below. He maintained anupright position, his head up and his eyes fixed on the horse above himand falling upon him. 

Chris struck like a cat, on his feet, on the instant making a leapto the side. The next instant Ban crashed down beside him. The animalstruggled little, but sounded the terrible cry that horses sometimessound when they have received mortal hurt. He had struck almost squarelyon his back, and in that position he remained, his head twisted partlyunder, his hind legs relaxed and motionless, his fore legs futilelystriking the air. 

Chris looked up reassuringly. 

"I am getting used to it, " Lute smiled down to him. "Of course I neednot ask if you are hurt. Can I do anything?"

He smiled back and went over to the fallen beast, letting go the girthsof the saddle and getting the head straightened out. 

"I thought so, " he said, after a cursory examination. "I thought so atthe time. Did you hear that sort of crunching snap?"

She shuddered. 

"Well, that was the punctuation of life, the final period dropped atthe end of Ban's usefulness. " He started around to come up by the path. "I've been astride of Ban for the last time. Let us go home. "

At the top of the bank Chris turned and looked down. 

"Good-by, Washoe Ban!" he called out. "Good-by, old fellow. "

The animal was struggling to lift its head. There were tears in Chris'seyes as he turned abruptly away, and tears in Lute's eyes as they methis. She was silent in her sympathy, though the pressure of her hand wasfirm in his as he walked beside her horse down the dusty road. 

"It was done deliberately, " Chris burst forth suddenly. "There was nowarning. He deliberately flung himself over backward. "

"There was no warning, " Lute concurred. "I was looking. I saw him. Hewhirled and threw himself at the same time, just as if you had done ityourself, with a tremendous jerk and backward pull on the bit. "

"It was not my hand, I swear it. I was not even thinking of him. He wasgoing up with a fairly loose rein, as a matter of course. "

"I should have seen it, had you done it, " Lute said. "But it was alldone before you had a chance to do anything. It was not your hand, noteven your unconscious hand. "

"Then it was some invisible hand, reaching out from I don't know where. "

He looked up whimsically at the sky and smiled at the conceit. 

Martin stepped forward to receive Dolly, when they came into the stableend of the grove, but his face expressed no surprise at sight of Chriscoming in on foot. Chris lingered behind Lute for moment. 

"Can you shoot a horse?" he asked. 

The groom nodded, then added, "Yes, sir, " with a second and deeper nod. 

"How do you do it?"

"Draw a line from the eyes to the ears--I mean the opposite ears, sir. And where the lines cross--"

"That will do, " Chris interrupted. "You know the watering place at thesecond bend. You'll find Ban there with a broken back. "

 * * *

"Oh, here you are, sir. I have been looking for you everywhere sincedinner. You are wanted immediately. "

Chris tossed his cigar away, then went over and pressed his foot on itsglowing fire. 

"You haven't told anybody about it?--Ban?" he queried. 

Lute shook her head. "They'll learn soon enough. Martin will mention itto Uncle Robert tomorrow. "

"But don't feel too bad about it, " she said, after a moment's pause, slipping her hand into his. 

"He was my colt, " he said. "Nobody has ridden him but you. I broke himmyself. I knew him from the time he was born. I knew every bit of him, every trick, every caper, and I would have staked my life that it wasimpossible for him to do a thing like this. There was no warning, nofighting for the bit, no previous unruliness. I have been thinking itover. He didn't fight for the bit, for that matter. He wasn't unruly, nor disobedient. There wasn't time. It was an impulse, and he acted uponit like lightning. I am astounded now at the swiftness with which ittook place. Inside the first second we were over the edge and falling. 

"It was deliberate--deliberate suicide. And attempted murder. It was atrap. I was the victim. He had me, and he threw himself over with me. Yet he did not hate me. He loved me. .. As much as it is possible for ahorse to love. I am confounded. I cannot understand it any more than youcan understand Dolly's behavior yesterday. "

"But horses go insane, Chris, " Lute said. "You know that. It's merelycoincidence that two horses in two days should have spells under you. "

"That's the only explanation, " he answered, starting off with her. "Butwhy am I wanted urgently?"

"Planchette. "

"Oh, I remember. It will be a new experience to me. Somehow I missed itwhen it was all the rage long ago. "

"So did all of us, " Lute replied, "except Mrs. Grantly. It is herfavorite phantom, it seems. "

"A weird little thing, " he remarked. "Bundle of nerves and blackeyes. I'll wager she doesn't weigh ninety pounds, and most of that'smagnetism. "

"Positively uncanny. .. At times. " Lute shivered involuntarily. "Shegives me the creeps. "

"Contact of the healthy with the morbid, " he explained dryly. "You willnotice it is the healthy that always has the creeps. The morbid neverhas the creeps. It gives the creeps. That's its function. Where did youpeople pick her up, anyway?"

"I don't know--yes, I do, too. Aunt Mildred met her in Boston, Ithink--oh, I don't know. At any rate, Mrs. Grantly came to California, and of course had to visit Aunt Mildred. You know the open house wekeep. "

They halted where a passageway between two great redwood trunks gaveentrance to the dining room. Above, through lacing boughs, could be seenthe stars. Candles lighted the tree-columned space. About the table, examining the Planchette contrivance, were four persons. Chris's gazeroved over them, and he was aware of a guilty sorrow-pang as he pausedfor a moment on Lute's Aunt Mildred and Uncle Robert, mellow with ripemiddle age and genial with the gentle buffets life had dealt them. Hepassed amusedly over the black-eyed, frail-bodied Mrs. Grantly, andhalted on the fourth person, a portly, massive-headed man, whose graytemples belied the youthful solidity of his face. 

"Who's that?" Chris whispered. 

"A Mr. Barton. The train was late. That's why you didn't see him atdinner. He's only a capitalist--water-power-long-distance-electricitytransmitter, or something like that. "

"Doesn't look as though he could give an ox points on imagination. "

"He can't. He inherited his money. But he knows enough to hold on to itand hire other men's brains. He is very conservative. "

"That is to be expected, " was Chris's comment. His gaze went back to theman and woman who had been father and mother to the girl beside him. "Doyou know, " he said, "it came to me with a shock yesterday when you toldme that they had turned against me and that I was scarcely tolerated. Imet them afterwards, last evening, guiltily, in fear and trembling--andto-day, too. And yet I could see no difference from of old. "

"Dear man, " Lute sighed. "Hospitality is as natural to them as the actof breathing. But it isn't that, after all. It is all genuine in theirdear hearts. No matter how severe the censure they put upon you whenyou are absent, the moment they are with you they soften and are allkindness and warmth. As soon as their eyes rest on you, affection andlove come bubbling up. You are so made. Every animal likes you. All people like you. They can't help it. You can't help it. You areuniversally lovable, and the best of it is that you don't know it. Youdon't know it now. Even as I tell it to you, you don't realize it, youwon't realize it--and that very incapacity to realize it is one of thereasons why you are so loved. You are incredulous now, and you shakeyour head; but I know, who am your slave, as all people know, for theylikewise are your slaves. 

"Why, in a minute we shall go in and join them. Mark the affection, almost maternal, that will well up in Aunt Mildred's eyes. Listen to thetones of Uncle Robert's voice when he says, 'Well, Chris, my boy?' WatchMrs. Grantly melt, literally melt, like a dewdrop in the sun. 

"Take Mr. Barton, there. You have never seen him before. Why, you willinvite him out to smoke a cigar with you when the rest of us have goneto bed--you, a mere nobody, and he a man of many millions, a man ofpower, a man obtuse and stupid like the ox; and he will follow youabout, smoking; the cigar, like a little dog, your little dog, trottingat your back. He will not know he is doing it, but he will be doing itjust the same. Don't I know, Chris? Oh, I have watched you, watched you, so often, and loved you for it, and loved you again for it, because youwere so delightfully and blindly unaware of what you were doing. "

"I'm almost bursting with vanity from listening to you, " he laughed, passing his arm around her and drawing her against him. 

"Yes, " she whispered, "and in this very moment, when you are laughing atall that I have said, you, the feel of you, your soul, --call it what youwill, it is you, --is calling for all the love that is in me. "

She leaned more closely against him, and sighed as with fatigue. Hebreathed a kiss into her hair and held her with firm tenderness. 

Aunt Mildred stirred briskly and looked up from the Planchette board. 

"Come, let us begin, " she said. "It will soon grow chilly. Robert, whereare those children?"

"Here we are, " Lute called out, disengaging herself. 

"Now for a bundle of creeps, " Chris whispered, as they started in. 

Lute's prophecy of the manner in which her lover would be receivedwas realized. Mrs. Grantly, unreal, unhealthy, scintillant with frigidmagnetism, warmed and melted as though of truth she were dew and he sun. Mr. Barton beamed broadly upon him, and was colossally gracious. AuntMildred greeted him with a glow of fondness and motherly kindness, whileUncle Robert genially and heartily demanded, "Well, Chris, my boy, andwhat of the riding?"

But Aunt Mildred drew her shawl more closely around her and hastenedthem to the business in hand. On the table was a sheet of paper. On thepaper, rifling on three supports, was a small triangular board. Two ofthe supports were easily moving casters. The third support, placed atthe apex of the triangle, was a lead pencil. 

"Who's first?" Uncle Robert demanded. 

There was a moment's hesitancy, then Aunt Mildred placed her hand on theboard, and said: "Some one has always to be the fool for the delectationof the rest. "

"Brave woman, " applauded her husband. "Now, Mrs. Grantly, do yourworst. "

"I?" that lady queried. "I do nothing. The power, or whatever you careto think it, is outside of me, as it is outside of all of you. As towhat that power is, I will not dare to say. There is such a power. Ihave had evidences of it. And you will undoubtedly have evidences ofit. Now please be quiet, everybody. Touch the board very lightly, butfirmly, Mrs. Story; but do nothing of your own volition. "

Aunt Mildred nodded, and stood with her hand on Planchette; while therest formed about her in a silent and expectant circle. But nothinghappened. The minutes ticked away, and Planchette remained motionless. 

"Be patient, " Mrs. Grantly counselled. "Do not struggle against anyinfluences you may feel working on you. But do not do anything yourself. The influence will take care of that. You will feel impelled to dothings, and such impulses will be practically irresistible. "

"I wish the influence would hurry up, " Aunt Mildred protested at the endof five motionless minutes. 

"Just a little longer, Mrs. Story, just a little longer, " Mrs. Grantlysaid soothingly. 

Suddenly Aunt Mildred's hand began to twitch into movement. A mildconcern showed in her face as she observed the movement of her hand andheard the scratching of the pencil-point at the apex of Planchette. 

For another five minutes this continued, when Aunt Mildred withdrew herhand with an effort, and said, with a nervous laugh:

"I don't know whether I did it myself or not. I do know that I wasgrowing nervous, standing there like a psychic fool with all your solemnfaces turned upon me. "

"Hen-scratches, " was Uncle Robert's judgement, when he looked over thepaper upon which she had scrawled. 

"Quite illegible, " was Mrs. Grantly's dictum. "It does not resemblewriting at all. The influences have not got to working yet. Do you tryit, Mr. Barton. "

That gentleman stepped forward, ponderously willing to please, andplaced his hand on the board. And for ten solid, stolid minutes he stoodthere, motionless, like a statue, the frozen personification of thecommercial age. Uncle Robert's face began to work. He blinked, stiffenedhis mouth, uttered suppressed, throaty sounds, deep down; finally hesnorted, lost his self-control, and broke out in a roar of laughter. All joined in this merriment, including Mrs. Grantly. Mr. Barton laughedwith them, but he was vaguely nettled. 

"You try it, Story, " he said. 

Uncle Robert, still laughing, and urged on by Lute and his wife, tookthe board. Suddenly his face sobered. His hand had begun to move, andthe pencil could be heard scratching across the paper. 

"By George!" he muttered. "That's curious. Look at it. I'm not doing it. I know I'm not doing it. Look at that hand go! Just look at it!"

"Now, Robert, none of your ridiculousness, " his wife warned him. 

"I tell you I'm not doing it, " he replied indignantly. "The force hasgot hold of me. Ask Mrs. Grantly. Tell her to make it stop, if you wantit to stop. I can't stop it. By George! look at that flourish. I didn'tdo that. I never wrote a flourish in my life. "

"Do try to be serious, " Mrs. Grantly warned them. "An atmosphere oflevity does not conduce to the best operation of Planchette. "

"There, that will do, I guess, " Uncle Robert said as he took his handaway. "Now let's see. "

He bent over and adjusted his glasses. "It's handwriting at any rate, and that's better than the rest of you did. Here, Lute, your eyes areyoung. "

"Oh, what flourishes!" Lute exclaimed, as she looked at the paper. "Andlook there, there are two different handwritings. "

She began to read: "This is the first lecture. Concentrate on thissentence: 'I am a positive spirit and not negative to any condition. 'Then follow with concentration on positive love. After that peace andharmony will vibrate through and around your body. Your soul--The otherwriting breaks right in. This is the way it goes: Bullfrog 95, Dixie 16, Golden Anchor 65, Gold Mountain 13, Jim Butler 70, Jumbo 75, North Star42, Rescue 7, Black Butte 75, Brown Hope 16, Iron Top 3. "

"Iron Top's pretty low, " Mr. Barton murmured. 

"Robert, you've been dabbling again!" Aunt Mildred cried accusingly. 

"No, I've not, " he denied. "I only read the quotations. But how thedevil--I beg your pardon--they got there on that piece of paper I'd liketo know. "

"Your subconscious mind, " Chris suggested. "You read the quotations into-day's paper. "

"No, I didn't; but last week I glanced over the column. "

"A day or a year is all the same in the subconscious mind, " said Mrs. Grantly. "The subconscious mind never forgets. But I am not saying thatthis is due to the subconscious mind. I refuse to state to what I thinkit is due. "

"But how about that other stuff?" Uncle Robert demanded. "Sounds likewhat I'd think Christian Science ought to sound like. "

"Or theosophy, " Aunt Mildred volunteered. "Some message to a neophyte. "

"Go on, read the rest, " her husband commanded. 

"This puts you in touch with the mightier spirits, " Lute read. "Youshall become one with us, and your name shall be 'Arya, ' and youshall--Conqueror 20, Empire 12, Columbia Mountain 18, Midway 140--and, and that is all. Oh, no! here's a last flourish, Arya, from Kandor--thatmust surely be the Mahatma. "

"I'd like to have you explain that theosophy stuff on the basis of thesubconscious mind, Chris, " Uncle Robert challenged. 

Chris shrugged his shoulders. "No explanation. You must have got amessage intended for some one else. "

"Lines were crossed, eh?" Uncle Robert chuckled. "Multiplex spiritualwireless telegraphy, I'd call it. "

"It IS nonsense, " Mrs. Grantly said. "I never knew Planchette to behaveso outrageously. There are disturbing influences at work. I felt themfrom the first. Perhaps it is because you are all making too much fun ofit. You are too hilarious. "

"A certain befitting gravity should grace the occasion, " Chris agreed, placing his hand on Planchette. "Let me try. And not one of you mustlaugh or giggle, or even think 'laugh' or 'giggle. ' And if you dareto snort, even once, Uncle Robert, there is no telling what occultvengeance may be wreaked upon you. "

"I'll be good, " Uncle Robert rejoined. "But if I really must snort, mayI silently slip away?"

Chris nodded. His hand had already begun to work. There had been nopreliminary twitchings nor tentative essays at writing. At once his handhad started off, and Planchette was moving swiftly and smoothly acrossthe paper. 

"Look at him, " Lute whispered to her aunt. "See how white he is. "

Chris betrayed disturbance at the sound of her voice, and thereaftersilence was maintained. Only could be heard the steady scratching of thepencil. Suddenly, as though it had been stung, he jerked his hand away. With a sigh and a yawn he stepped back from the table, then glanced withthe curiosity of a newly awakened man at their faces. 

"I think I wrote something, " he said. 

"I should say you did, " Mrs. Grantly remarked with satisfaction, holdingup the sheet of paper and glancing at it. 

"Read it aloud, " Uncle Robert said. 

"Here it is, then. It begins with 'beware' written three times, and inmuch larger characters than the rest of the writing. BEWARE! BEWARE!BEWARE! Chris Dunbar, I intend to destroy you. I have already made twoattempts upon your life, and failed. I shall yet succeed. So sure am Ithat I shall succeed that I dare to tell you. I do not need to tell youwhy. In your own heart you know. The wrong you are doing--And here itabruptly ends. "

Mrs. Grantly laid the paper down on the table and looked at Chris, whohad already become the centre of all eyes, and who was yawning as froman overpowering drowsiness. 

"Quite a sanguinary turn, I should say, " Uncle Robert remarked. 

"I have already made two attempts upon your life, " Mrs. Grantly readfrom the paper, which she was going over a second time. 

"On my life?" Chris demanded between yawns. "Why, my life hasn't beenattempted even once. My! I am sleepy!"

"Ah, my boy, you are thinking of flesh-and-blood men, " Uncle Robertlaughed. "But this is a spirit. Your life has been attempted by unseenthings. Most likely ghostly hands have tried to throttle you in yoursleep. "

"Oh, Chris!" Lute cried impulsively. "This afternoon! The hand you saidmust have seized your rein!"

"But I was joking, " he objected. 

"Nevertheless. .. " Lute left her thought unspoken. 

Mrs. Grantly had become keen on the scent. "What was that about thisafternoon? Was your life in danger?"

Chris's drowsiness had disappeared. "I'm becoming interested myself, "he acknowledged. "We haven't said anything about it. Ban broke his backthis afternoon. He threw himself off the bank, and I ran the risk ofbeing caught underneath. "

"I wonder, I wonder, " Mrs. Grantly communed aloud. "There is somethingin this. .. . It is a warning. .. . Ah! You were hurt yesterday riding MissStory's horse! That makes the two attempts!"

She looked triumphantly at them. Planchette had been vindicated. 

"Nonsense, " laughed Uncle Robert, but with a slight hint of irritationin his manner. "Such things do not happen these days. This is thetwentieth century, my dear madam. The thing, at the very latest, smacksof mediaevalism. "

"I have had such wonderful tests with Planchette, " Mrs. Grantly began, then broke off suddenly to go to the table and place her hand on theboard. 

"Who are you?" she asked. "What is your name?"

The board immediately began to write. By this time all heads, with theexception of Mr. Barton's, were bent over the table and following thepencil. 

"It's Dick, " Aunt Mildred cried, a note of the mildly hysterical in hervoice. 

Her husband straightened up, his face for the first time grave. 

"It's Dick's signature, " he said. "I'd know his fist in a thousand. "

"'Dick Curtis, '" Mrs. Grantly read aloud. "Who is Dick Curtis?"

"By Jove, that's remarkable!" Mr. Barton broke in. "The handwriting inboth instances is the same. Clever, I should say, really clever, " headded admiringly. 

"Let me see, " Uncle Robert demanded, taking the paper and examining it. "Yes, it is Dick's handwriting. "

"But who is Dick?" Mrs. Grantly insisted. "Who is this Dick Curtis?"

"Dick Curtis, why, he was Captain Richard Curtis, " Uncle Robertanswered. 

"He was Lute's father, " Aunt Mildred supplemented. "Lute took our name. She never saw him. He died when she was a few weeks old. He was mybrother. "

"Remarkable, most remarkable. " Mrs. Grantly was revolving the messagein her mind. "There were two attempts on Mr. Dunbar's life. Thesubconscious mind cannot explain that, for none of us knew of theaccident to-day. "

"I knew, " Chris answered, "and it was I that operated Planchette. Theexplanation is simple. "

"But the handwriting, " interposed Mr. Barton. "What you wrote and whatMrs. Grantly wrote are identical. "

Chris bent over and compared the handwriting. 

"Besides, " Mrs. Grantly cried, "Mr. Story recognizes the handwriting. "

She looked at him for verification. 

He nodded his head. "Yes, it is Dick's fist. I'll swear to that. "

But to Lute had come a visioning. While the rest argued pro and con andthe air was filled with phrases, --"psychic phenomena, " "self-hypnotism, ""residuum of unexplained truth, " and "spiritism, "--she was revivingmentally the girlhood pictures she had conjured of this soldier-fathershe had never seen. She possessed his sword, there were severalold-fashioned daguerreotypes, there was much that had been said of him, stories told of him--and all this had constituted the material out ofwhich she had builded him in her childhood fancy. 

"There is the possibility of one mind unconsciously suggesting toanother mind, " Mrs. Grantly was saying; but through Lute's mind wastrooping her father on his great roan war-horse. Now he was leadinghis men. She saw him on lonely scouts, or in the midst of the yelling, Indians at Salt Meadows, when of his command he returned with one manin ten. And in the picture she had of him, in the physical semblance shehad made of him, was reflected his spiritual nature, reflected by herworshipful artistry in form and feature and expression--his bravery, his quick temper, his impulsive championship, his madness of wrath ina righteous cause, his warm generosity and swift forgiveness, and hischivalry that epitomized codes and ideals primitive as the days ofknighthood. And first, last, and always, dominating all, she saw in theface of him the hot passion and quickness of deed that had earned forhim the name "Fighting Dick Curtis. "

"Let me put it to the test, " she heard Mrs. Grantly saying. "Let MissStory try Planchette. There may be a further message. "

"No, no, I beg of you, " Aunt Mildred interposed. "It is too uncanny. It surely is wrong to tamper with the dead. Besides, I am nervous. Or, better, let me go to bed, leaving you to go on with your experiments. That will be the best way, and you can tell me in the morning. " Mingledwith the "Good-nights, " were half-hearted protests from Mrs. Grantly, asAunt Mildred withdrew. 

"Robert can return, " she called back, "as soon as he has seen me to mytent. "

"It would be a shame to give it up now, " Mrs. Grantly said. "There is notelling what we are on the verge of. Won't you try it, Miss Story?"

Lute obeyed, but when she placed her hand on the board she was consciousof a vague and nameless fear at this toying with the supernatural. Shewas twentieth-century, and the thing in essence, as her uncle had said, was mediaeval. Yet she could not shake off the instinctive fear thatarose in her--man's inheritance from the wild and howling ages whenhis hairy, apelike prototype was afraid of the dark and personified theelements into things of fear. 

But as the mysterious influence seized her hand and sent it meritingacross the paper, all the unusual passed out of the situation and shewas unaware of more than a feeble curiosity. For she was intent onanother visioning--this time of her mother, who was also unrememberedin the flesh. Not sharp and vivid like that of her father, but dim andnebulous was the picture she shaped of her mother--a saint's head in anaureole of sweetness and goodness and meekness, and withal, shotthrough with a hint of reposeful determination, of will, stubborn andunobtrusive, that in life had expressed itself mainly in resignation. 

Lute's hand had ceased moving, and Mrs. Grantly was already reading themessage that had been written. 

"It is a different handwriting, " she said. "A woman's hand. 'Martha, ' itis signed. Who is Martha?"

Lute was not surprised. "It is my mother, " she said simply. "What doesshe say?"

She had not been made sleepy, as Chris had; but the keen edge of hervitality had been blunted, and she was experiencing a sweet and pleasinglassitude. And while the message was being read, in her eyes persistedthe vision of her mother. 

"Dear child, " Mrs. Grantly read, "do not mind him. He was ever quick ofspeech and rash. Be no niggard with your love. Love cannot hurt you. To deny love is to sin. Obey your heart and you can do no wrong. Obeyworldly considerations, obey pride, obey those that prompt you againstyour heart's prompting, and you do sin. Do not mind your father. He isangry now, as was his way in the earth-life; but he will come to seethe wisdom of my counsel, for this, too, was his way in the earth-life. Love, my child, and love well. --Martha. "

"Let me see it, " Lute cried, seizing the paper and devouring thehandwriting with her eyes. She was thrilling with unexpressed love forthe mother she had never seen, and this written speech from the graveseemed to give more tangibility to her having ever existed, than did thevision of her. 

"This IS remarkable, " Mrs. Grantly was reiterating. "There was neveranything like it. Think of it, my dear, both your father and mother herewith us tonight. "

Lute shivered. The lassitude was gone, and she was her natural selfagain, vibrant with the instinctive fear of things unseen. And itwas offensive to her mind that, real or illusion, the presence or thememorized existences of her father and mother should be touched by thesetwo persons who were practically strangers--Mrs. Grantly, unhealthy andmorbid, and Mr. Barton, stolid and stupid with a grossness both ofthe flesh and the spirit. And it further seemed a trespass that thesestrangers should thus enter into the intimacy between her and Chris. 

She could hear the steps of her uncle approaching, and the situationflashed upon her, luminous and clear. She hurriedly folded the sheet ofpaper and thrust it into her bosom. 

"Don't say anything to him about this second message, Mrs. Grantly, please, and Mr. Barton. Nor to Aunt Mildred. It would only cause themirritation and needless anxiety. "

In her mind there was also the desire to protect her lover, for she knewthat the strain of his present standing with her aunt and uncle wouldbe added to, unconsciously in their minds, by the weird message ofPlanchette. 

"And please don't let us have any more Planchette, " Lute continuedhastily. "Let us forget all the nonsense that has occurred. "

"'Nonsense, ' my dear child?" Mrs. Grantly was indignantly protestingwhen Uncle Robert strode into the circle. 

"Hello!" he demanded. "What's being done?"

"Too late, " Lute answered lightly. "No more stock quotations for you. Planchette is adjourned, and we're just winding up the discussion of thetheory of it. Do you know how late it is?"

 * * *

"Well, what did you do last night after we left?"

"Oh, took a stroll, " Chris answered. 

Lute's eyes were quizzical as she asked with a tentativeness that waspalpably assumed, "With--a--with Mr. Barton?"

"Why, yes. "

"And a smoke?"

"Yes; and now what's it all about?"

Lute broke into merry laughter. "Just as I told you that you would do. Am I not a prophet? But I knew before I saw you that my forecast hadcome true. I have just left Mr. Barton, and I knew he had walked withyou last night, for he is vowing by all his fetishes and idols that youare a perfectly splendid young man. I could see it with my eyes shut. The Chris Dunbar glamour has fallen upon him. But I have not finishedthe catechism by any means. Where have you been all morning?"

"Where I am going to take you this afternoon. "

"You plan well without knowing my wishes. "

"I knew well what your wishes are. It is to see a horse I have found. "

Her voice betrayed her delight, as she cried, "Oh, good!"

"He is a beauty, " Chris said. 

But her face had suddenly gone grave, and apprehension brooded in hereyes. 

"He's called Comanche, " Chris went on. "A beauty, a regular beauty, theperfect type of the Californian cow-pony. And his lines--why, what's thematter?"

"Don't let us ride any more, " Lute said, "at least for a while. Really, I think I am a tiny bit tired of it, too. "

He was looking at her in astonishment, and she was bravely meeting hiseyes. 

"I see hearses and flowers for you, " he began, "and a funeral oration; Isee the end of the world, and the stars falling out of the sky, and theheavens rolling up as a scroll; I see the living and the dead gatheredtogether for the final judgement, the sheep and the goats, the lambs andthe rams and all the rest of it, the white-robed saints, the sound ofgolden harps, and the lost souls howling as they fall into the Pit--allthis I see on the day that you, Lute Story, no longer care to ride ahorse. A horse, Lute! a horse!"

"For a while, at least, " she pleaded. 

"Ridiculous!" he cried. "What's the matter? Aren't you well?--you whoare always so abominably and adorably well!"

"No, it's not that, " she answered. "I know it is ridiculous, Chris, Iknow it, but the doubt will arise. I cannot help it. You always say Iam so sanely rooted to the earth and reality and all that, but--perhapsit's superstition, I don't know--but the whole occurrence, the messagesof Planchette, the possibility of my father's hand, I know not how, reaching, out to Ban's rein and hurling him and you to death, thecorrespondence between my father's statement that he has twice attemptedyour life and the fact that in the last two days your life has twicebeen endangered by horses--my father was a great horseman--all this, Isay, causes the doubt to arise in my mind. What if there be something init? I am not so sure. Science may be too dogmatic in its denial of theunseen. The forces of the unseen, of the spirit, may well be toosubtle, too sublimated, for science to lay hold of, and recognize, andformulate. Don't you see, Chris, that there is rationality in the verydoubt? It may be a very small doubt--oh, so small; but I love you toomuch to run even that slight risk. Besides, I am a woman, andthat should in itself fully account for my predisposition towardsuperstition. 

"Yes, yes, I know, call it unreality. But I've heard you paradoxing uponthe reality of the unreal--the reality of delusion to the mind that issick. And so with me, if you will; it is delusion and unreal, but to me, constituted as I am, it is very real--is real as a nightmare is real, inthe throes of it, before one awakes. "

"The most logical argument for illogic I have ever heard, " Chris smiled. "It is a good gaming proposition, at any rate. You manage to embracemore chances in your philosophy than do I in mine. It reminds me ofSam--the gardener you had a couple of years ago. I overheard him andMartin arguing in the stable. You know what a bigoted atheist Martin is. Well, Martin had deluged Sam with floods of logic. Sam pondered awhile, and then he said, 'Foh a fack, Mis' Martin, you jis' tawk like a houseafire; but you ain't got de show I has. ' 'How's that?' Martin asked. 'Well, you see, Mis' Martin, you has one chance to mah two. ' 'I don'tsee it, ' Martin said. 'Mis' Martin, it's dis way. You has jis' dechance, lak you say, to become worms foh de fruitification of de cabbagegarden. But I's got de chance to lif' mah voice to de glory of de Lawdas I go paddin' dem golden streets--along 'ith de chance to be jis'worms along 'ith you, Mis' Martin. '"

"You refuse to take me seriously, " Lute said, when she had laughed herappreciation. 

"How can I take that Planchette rigmarole seriously?" he asked. 

"You don't explain it--the handwriting of my father, which Uncle Robertrecognized--oh, the whole thing, you don't explain it. "

"I don't know all the mysteries of mind, " Chris answered. "But I believesuch phenomena will all yield to scientific explanation in the notdistant future. "

"Just the same, I have a sneaking desire to find out some more fromPlanchette, " Lute confessed. "The board is still down in the diningroom. We could try it now, you and I, and no one would know. "

Chris caught her hand, crying: "Come on! It will be a lark. "

Hand in hand they ran down the path to the tree-pillared room. 

"The camp is deserted, " Lute said, as she placed Planchette on thetable. "Mrs. Grantly and Aunt Mildred are lying down, and Mr. Barton hasgone off with Uncle Robert. There is nobody to disturb us. " She placedher hand on the board. "Now begin. "

For a few minutes nothing happened. Chris started to speak, but shehushed him to silence. The preliminary twitchings had appeared in herhand and arm. Then the pencil began to write. They read the message, word by word, as it was written:

There is wisdom greater than the wisdom of reason. Love proceeds not outof the dry-as-dust way of the mind. Love is of the heart, and isbeyond all reason, and logic, and philosophy. Trust your own heart, my daughter. And if your heart bids you have faith in your lover, thenlaugh at the mind and its cold wisdom, and obey your heart, and havefaith in your lover. --Martha. 

"But that whole message is the dictate of your own heart, " Chriscried. "Don't you see, Lute? The thought is your very own, and yoursubconscious mind has expressed it there on the paper. "

"But there is one thing I don't see, " she objected. 

"And that?"

"Is the handwriting. Look at it. It does not resemble mine at all. Itis mincing, it is old-fashioned, it is the old-fashioned feminine of ageneration ago. "

"But you don't mean to tell me that you really believe that this is amessage from the dead?" he interrupted. 

"I don't know, Chris, " she wavered. "I am sure I don't know. "

"It is absurd!" he cried. "These are cobwebs of fancy. When one dies, heis dead. He is dust. He goes to the worms, as Martin says. The dead? Ilaugh at the dead. They do not exist. They are not. I defy the powers ofthe grave, the men dead and dust and gone!

"And what have you to say to that?" he challenged, placing his hand onPlanchette. 

On the instant his hand began to write. Both were startled by thesuddenness of it. The message was brief:

BEWARE! BEWARE! BEWARE!

He was distinctly sobered, but he laughed. "It is like a miracle play. Death we have, speaking to us from the grave. But Good Deeds, where artthou? And Kindred? and Joy? and Household Goods? and Friendship? and allthe goodly company?"

But Lute did not share his bravado. Her fright showed itself in herface. She laid her trembling hand on his arm. 

"Oh, Chris, let us stop. I am sorry we began it. Let us leave thequiet dead to their rest. It is wrong. It must be wrong. I confess Iam affected by it. I cannot help it. As my body is trembling, so ismy soul. This speech of the grave, this dead man reaching out from themould of a generation to protect me from you. There is reason in it. There is the living mystery that prevents you from marrying me. Were myfather alive, he would protect me from you. Dead, he still strives toprotect me. His hands, his ghostly hands, are against your life!"

"Do be calm, " Chris said soothingly. "Listen to me. It is all a lark. Weare playing with the subjective forces of our own being, with phenomenawhich science has not yet explained, that is all. Psychology is so younga science. The subconscious mind has just been discovered, one mightsay. It is all mystery as yet; the laws of it are yet to be formulated. This is simply unexplained phenomena. But that is no reason that weshould immediately account for it by labelling it spiritism. As yet wedo not know, that is all. As for Planchette--"

He abruptly ceased, for at that moment, to enforce his remark, he hadplaced his hand on Planchette, and at that moment his hand had beenseized, as by a paroxysm, and sent dashing, willy-nilly, across thepaper, writing as the hand of an angry person would write. 

"No, I don't care for any more of it, " Lute said, when the message wascompleted. "It is like witnessing a fight between you and my father inthe flesh. There is the savor in it of struggle and blows. "

She pointed out a sentence that read: "You cannot escape me nor the justpunishment that is yours!"

"Perhaps I visualize too vividly for my own comfort, for I can see hishands at your throat. I know that he is, as you say, dead and dust, butfor all that, I can see him as a man that is alive and walks the earth;I see the anger in his face, the anger and the vengeance, and I see itall directed against you. "

She crumpled up the scrawled sheets of paper, and put Planchette away. 

"We won't bother with it any more, " Chris said. "I didn't think it wouldaffect you so strongly. But it's all subjective, I'm sure, with possiblya bit of suggestion thrown in--that and nothing more. And the wholestrain of our situation has made conditions unusually favorable forstriking phenomena. "

"And about our situation, " Lute said, as they went slowly up the paththey had run down. "What we are to do, I don't know. Are we to go on, aswe have gone on? What is best? Have you thought of anything?"

He debated for a few steps. "I have thought of telling your uncle andaunt. "

"What you couldn't tell me?" she asked quickly. 

"No, " he answered slowly; "but just as much as I have told you. I haveno right to tell them more than I have told you. "

This time it was she that debated. "No, don't tell them, " she saidfinally. "They wouldn't understand. I don't understand, for that matter, but I have faith in you, and in the nature of things they are notcapable of this same implicit faith. You raise up before me a mysterythat prevents our marriage, and I believe you; but they could notbelieve you without doubts arising as to the wrong and ill-nature of themystery. Besides, it would but make their anxieties greater. "

"I should go away, I know I should go away, " he said, half under hisbreath. "And I can. I am no weakling. Because I have failed to remainaway once, is no reason that I shall fail again. "

She caught her breath with a quick gasp. "It is like a bereavement tohear you speak of going away and remaining away. I should never see youagain. It is too terrible. And do not reproach yourself for weakness. It is I who am to blame. It is I who prevented you from remaining awaybefore, I know. I wanted you so. I want you so. 

"There is nothing to be done, Chris, nothing to be done but to go onwith it and let it work itself out somehow. That is one thing we aresure of: it will work out somehow. "

"But it would be easier if I went away, " he suggested. 

"I am happier when you are here. "

"The cruelty of circumstance, " he muttered savagely. 

"Go or stay--that will be part of the working out. But I do not want youto go, Chris; you know that. And now no more about it. Talk cannot mendit. Let us never mention it again--unless. .. Unless some time, somewonderful, happy time, you can come to me and say: 'Lute, all is wellwith me. The mystery no longer binds me. I am free. ' Until that time letus bury it, along with Planchette and all the rest, and make the most ofthe little that is given us. 

"And now, to show you how prepared I am to make the most of that little, I am even ready to go with you this afternoon to see the horse--thoughI wish you wouldn't ride any more. .. For a few days, anyway, or for aweek. What did you say was his name?"

"Comanche, " he answered. "I know you will like him. "

 * * *

Chris lay on his back, his head propped by the bare jutting wall ofstone, his gaze attentively directed across the canyon to the opposingtree-covered slope. There was a sound of crashing through underbrush, the ringing of steel-shod hoofs on stone, and an occasional and mossydescent of a dislodged boulder that bounded from the hill and fetchedup with a final splash in the torrent that rushed over a wild chaos ofrocks beneath him. Now and again he caught glimpses, framed in greenfoliage, of the golden brown of Lute's corduroy riding-habit and of thebay horse that moved beneath her. 

She rode out into an open space where a loose earth-slide deniedlodgement to trees and grass. She halted the horse at the brink of theslide and glanced down it with a measuring eye. Forty feet beneath, the slide terminated in a small, firm-surfaced terrace, the bankedaccumulation of fallen earth and gravel. 

"It's a good test, " she called across the canyon. "I'm going to put himdown it. "

The animal gingerly launched himself on the treacherous footing, irregularly losing and gaining his hind feet, keeping his forelegs stiff, and steadily and calmly, without panic or nervousness, extricating the fore feet as fast as they sank too deep into the slidingearth that surged along in a wave before him. When the firm footingat the bottom was reached, he strode out on the little terrace with aquickness and springiness of gait and with glintings of muscular firesthat gave the lie to the calm deliberation of his movements on theslide. 

"Bravo!" Chris shouted across the canyon, clapping his hands. 

"The wisest-footed, clearest-headed horse I ever saw, " Lute called back, as she turned the animal to the side and dropped down a broken slope ofrubble and into the trees again. 

Chris followed her by the sound of her progress, and by occasionalglimpses where the foliage was more open, as she zigzagged down thesteep and trailless descent. She emerged below him at the rugged rimof the torrent, dropped the horse down a three-foot wall, and halted tostudy the crossing. 

Four feet out in the stream, a narrow ledge thrust above the surface ofthe water. Beyond the ledge boiled an angry pool. But to the left, fromthe ledge, and several feet lower, was a tiny bed of gravel. A giantboulder prevented direct access to the gravel bed. The only way to gainit was by first leaping to the ledge of rock. She studied it carefully, and the tightening of her bridle-arm advertised that she had made up hermind. 

Chris, in his anxiety, had sat up to observe more closely what shemeditated. 

"Don't tackle it, " he called. 

"I have faith in Comanche, " she called in return. 

"He can't make that side-jump to the gravel, " Chris warned. "He'llnever keep his legs. He'll topple over into the pool. Not one horse in athousand could do that stunt. "

"And Comanche is that very horse, " she answered. "Watch him. "

She gave the animal his head, and he leaped cleanly and accurately tothe ledge, striking with feet close together on the narrow space. Onthe instant he struck, Lute lightly touched his neck with the rein, impelling him to the left; and in that instant, tottering on theinsecure footing, with front feet slipping over into the pool beyond, he lifted on his hind legs, with a half turn, sprang to the left, anddropped squarely down to the tiny gravel bed. An easy jump brought himacross the stream, and Lute angled him up the bank and halted before herlover. 

"Well?" she asked. 

"I am all tense, " Chris answered. "I was holding my breath. "

"Buy him, by all means, " Lute said, dismounting. "He is a bargain. Icould dare anything on him. I never in my life had such confidence in ahorse's feet. "

"His owner says that he has never been known to lose his feet, that itis impossible to get him down. "

"Buy him, buy him at once, " she counselled, "before the man changes hismind. If you don't, I shall. Oh, such feet! I feel such confidence inthem that when I am on him I don't consider he has feet at all. And he'squick as a cat, and instantly obedient. Bridle-wise is no name for it!You could guide him with silken threads. Oh, I know I'm enthusiastic, but if you don't buy him, Chris. I shall. Remember, I've secondrefusal. "

Chris smiled agreement as he changed the saddles. Meanwhile she comparedthe two horses. 

"Of course he doesn't match Dolly the way Ban did, " she concludedregretfully; "but his coat is splendid just the same. And think of thehorse that is under the coat!"

Chris gave her a hand into the saddle, and followed her up the slope tothe county road. She reined in suddenly, saying:

"We won't go straight back to camp. "

"You forget dinner, " he warned. 

"But I remember Comanche, " she retorted. "We'll ride directly over tothe ranch and buy him. Dinner will keep. "

"But the cook won't, " Chris laughed. "She's already threatened to leave, what of our late-comings. "

"Even so, " was the answer. "Aunt Mildred may have to get another cook, but at any rate we shall have got Comanche. "

They turned the horses in the other direction, and took the climb of theNun Canyon road that led over the divide and down into the Napa Valley. But the climb was hard, the going was slow. Sometimes they topped thebed of the torrent by hundreds of feet, and again they dipped down andcrossed and recrossed it twenty times in twice as many rods. They rodethrough the deep shade of clean-bunked maples and towering redwoods, toemerge on open stretches of mountain shoulder where the earth lay dryand cracked under the sun. 

On one such shoulder they emerged, where the road stretched level beforethem, for a quarter of a mile. On one side rose the huge bulk of themountain. On the other side the steep wall of the canyon fell away inimpossible slopes and sheer drops to the torrent at the bottom. It wasan abyss of green beauty and shady depths, pierced by vagrant shaftsof the sun and mottled here and there by the sun's broader blazes. Thesound of rushing water ascended on the windless air, and there was a humof mountain bees. 

The horses broke into an easy lope. Chris rode on the outside, lookingdown into the great depths and pleasuring with his eyes in what hesaw. Dissociating itself from the murmur of the bees, a murmur arose offalling water. It grew louder with every stride of the horses. 

"Look!" he cried. 

Lute leaned well out from her horse to see. Beneath them the water slidfoaming down a smooth-faced rock to the lip, whence it leaped clear--apulsating ribbon of white, a-breath with movement, ever falling and everremaining, changing its substance but never its form, an aerial waterwayas immaterial as gauze and as permanent as the hills, that spanned spaceand the free air from the lip of the rock to the tops of the trees farbelow, into whose green screen it disappeared to fall into a secretpool. 

They had flashed past. The descending water became a distant murmur thatmerged again into the murmur of the bees and ceased. Swayed by a commonimpulse, they looked at each other. 

"Oh, Chris, it is good to be alive. .. And to have you here by my side!"

He answered her by the warm light in his eyes. 

All things tended to key them to an exquisite pitch--the movement oftheir bodies, at one with the moving bodies of the animals beneath them;the gently stimulated blood caressing the flesh through and through withthe soft vigors of health; the warm air fanning their faces, flowingover the skin with balmy and tonic touch, permeating them and bathingthem, subtly, with faint, sensuous delight; and the beauty of the world, more subtly still, flowing upon them and bathing them in the delightthat is of the spirit and is personal and holy, that is inexpressibleyet communicable by the flash of an eye and the dissolving of the veilsof the soul. 

So looked they at each other, the horses bounding beneath them, thespring of the world and the spring of their youth astir in their blood, the secret of being trembling in their eyes to the brink of disclosure, as if about to dispel, with one magic word, all the irks and riddles ofexistence. 

The road curved before them, so that the upper reaches of the canyoncould be seen, the distant bed of it towering high above their heads. They were rounding the curve, leaning toward the inside, gazing beforethem at the swift-growing picture. There was no sound of warning. Sheheard nothing, but even before the horse went down she experiencedthe feeling that the unison of the two leaping animals was broken. Sheturned her head, and so quickly that she saw Comanche fall. It was not astumble nor a trip. He fell as though, abruptly, in midleap, he had diedor been struck a stunning blow. 

And in that moment she remembered Planchette; it seared her brain asa lightning-flash of all-embracing memory. Her horse was back on itshaunches, the weight of her body on the reins; but her head was turnedand her eyes were on the falling Comanche. He struck the road-bedsquarely, with his legs loose and lifeless beneath him. 

It all occurred in one of those age-long seconds that embrace aneternity of happening. There was a slight but perceptible rebound fromthe impact of Comanche's body with the earth. The violence with whichhe struck forced the air from his great lungs in an audible groan. Hismomentum swept him onward and over the edge. The weight of the rider onhis neck turned him over head first as he pitched to the fall. 

She was off her horse, she knew not how, and to the edge. Her lover wasout of the saddle and clear of Comanche, though held to the animal byhis right foot, which was caught in the stirrup. The slope was too steepfor them to come to a stop. Earth and small stones, dislodged by theirstruggles, were rolling down with them and before them in a miniatureavalanche. She stood very quietly, holding one hand against her heartand gazing down. But while she saw the real happening, in her eyes wasalso the vision of her father dealing the spectral blow that had smashedComanche down in mid-leap and sent horse and rider hurtling over theedge. 

Beneath horse and man the steep terminated in an up-and-down wall, fromthe base of which, in turn, a second slope ran down to a second wall. A third slope terminated in a final wall that based itself on thecanyon-bed four hundred feet beneath the point where the girl stood andwatched. She could see Chris vainly kicking his leg to free the footfrom the trap of the stirrup. Comanche fetched up hard against anoutputting point of rock. For a fraction of a second his fall wasstopped, and in the slight interval the man managed to grip hold of ayoung shoot of manzanita. Lute saw him complete the grip with his otherhand. Then Comanche's fall began again. She saw the stirrup-strap drawtaut, then her lover's body and arms. The manzanita shoot yielded itsroots, and horse and man plunged over the edge and out of sight. 

They came into view on the next slope, together and rolling over andover, with sometimes the man under and sometimes the horse. Chris nolonger struggled, and together they dashed over to the third slope. Nearthe edge of the final wall, Comanche lodged on a buttock of stone. Helay quietly, and near him, still attached to him by the stirrup, facedownward, lay his rider. 

"If only he will lie quietly, " Lute breathed aloud, her mind at work onthe means of rescue. 

But she saw Comanche begin to struggle again, and clear on her vision, it seemed, was the spectral arm of her father clutching the reins anddragging the animal over. Comanche floundered across the hummock, theinert body following, and together, horse and man, they plunged fromsight. They did not appear again. They had fetched bottom. 

Lute looked about her. She stood alone on the world. Her lover was gone. There was naught to show of his existence, save the marks of Comanche'shoofs on the road and of his body where it had slid over the brink. 

"Chris!" she called once, and twice; but she called hopelessly. 

Out of the depths, on the windless air, arose only the murmur of beesand of running water. 

"Chris!" she called yet a third time, and sank slowly down in the dustof the road. 

She felt the touch of Dolly's muzzle on her arm, and she leaned her headagainst the mare's neck and waited. She knew not why she waited, nor forwhat, only there seemed nothing else but waiting left for her to do.