The Strand 1912-12 Vol-XLIV № 264 December mich

No. I. A puff-ball a little over tour times the size oi a boy'i head. The Record Growth-Maker. The Giant Puff-Bali: A Mushroom Which Adds a Pound or More to its \\Veight in a Day. By JOHN J. WARD, F.E.S. UFF-BALLS are weird-looking fungi which spring up unex- pectedly on the lawn, the golf - course, and in other grassy situations. Some of the larger kinds not infre- quently surprise those who meet with them ; especially is this the case when the giant puff-ball is in question. It is during the late months of the year when this object is most frequently seen. Perhaps we have taken a turn with the lawn-mower in the early morning, and then while crossing the lawn in the afternoon we kick off a mushroom or toadstool growth a little larger than a golf-ball, which is appa- rently lying there, and give no further thought to the matter. We have not realized that the fungus had actually grown there since we cut the grass in the morning. If, instead of being broken off, it had been left for a few days, and its subsequent growth watched, it would probably have consider- ably astonished its observer, who might then have kicked at something of the dimensions of a football, or even much larger. Let us investigate what this weird object, which almost visibly increases in size while we watch it, really is. To put the matter simply, a puff-ball is a species of mushroom of rounded form, or one without \" gills\" beneath its cap, differing essentially in this feature from the common mushroom. The latter bears beneath its cap a series of plates, or \" gills,\" and between which innumerable reproductive spores are developed as the mushroom matures, these being scattered broadcast over the grass blades, and subse- quently distributed farther afield by animal agency. The point, however, that we need to give particular attention to here is that the mushroom is not the plant; indeed, the mushroom plant is a mass of extremely delicate interwoven threads beneath the so;i known as the mycelium, or, to the mushr

704 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. cultivator, more familiarly as the spawn. The mushroom itself (which arises from these mycelium threads) may be regarded as the \" flowering \" or reproductive portion of the plant, which gives origin to the \" seeds,\" or spores. Now, the puff-ball develops much in the same manner as the common edible mush- room, but, like that fungus, it has its likes and dislikes. We may sow the mushroom spawn on rich soil and offer it every encouragement, but it does not follow by any means that we shall be rewarded with a fruitful crop ; or, in contrast to this, we may sometimes find that a carelessly-sown spawn will provide an abundant supply. It is safe to say that the successful result depends purely on striking a happy combination of those conditions of temperature, moisture, and food material On the golfing-ground referred to I had several other puff-balls under my own observa- tion, and, as I am not aware of any complete records of the time occupied by these enormous fungi in completing their growth, the stating of a typical case may prove of interest. It is a common statement in books dealing with fungi that the giant puff-ball \" sometimes attains the size of a child's head.\" The photograph in Fig. i shows very clearly that it sometimes aspires to a much greater accomplishment: indeed, just how large it is possible for this species of puff-ball to grow is a question to which there is no satis- factory answer, and one which the numerous readers of THE STRAND MAGAZINE might be able to assist in answering, by measuring large specimens with which they happen to meet.* No. 2. The puff-ball appears above the toil. No. 3. The puff-ball shown in Fig. 2. when seven days old. No. 4. On the tenth day it was Inll- grown. It then measured forty-four inches in circumference. which the fungus loves best. The same applies to both the mushroom and the puff- ball when growing at large in the fields ; if the conditions are perfectly adjusted, rapid growth immediately takes place, otherwise poor results are attained. When the conditions for the growth of the puff-ball are favourable it can perform some astonishing developments. A golfing friend recently brought to me a \" toadstool\" (which was really a young giant puff-ball) to inquire if it were possible for it to grow while he played a round at golf ? It appeared that just before commencing to play the cutter was run over the green, but on starting for a second round between three and four hours later he discovered this fungus (as large as a golf-ball) growing above the short grass. Such growth was quite feasible. The ground at the time was exceedingly moist from many days of intermittent rains, and. as I afterwards discovered, the soil was extremely rich and favourable for puff-ball

THE RECORD GROWTH-MAKER. 70S saturated condition, they also produce a powerful and repulsive smell, which makes attack, to say the least of it, a plucky undertaking. The puff-ball is not yet ready to receive a kick from a passing animal, which will puff into the atmosphere No. 5. The puff-ball after one day's growth, and also after ten days' growth, shown m comparison wuh an ordinary loaf. myriads of its reproductive spores; con- sequently it remains more or less obnoxious until its spores are ripe. When about half-grown it provides a most excellent breakfast-dish, even though the family may be large. Indeed, its flavour is said by connoisseurs of our various edible fungi to be quite superior to that of ordinary mushrooms. A highly-recommended method of cooking is to cut in slices, peel off the outer skin,and then, after dipping each slice in beaten egg and sprinkling with bread-crumbs, to fry in butter, adding a little salt and pepper. This is a comparatively safe fungus to eat, No. 6. The interior of the puff-ball shown on Ine right in Fig. 5.—How did the Sint*itone become embedded near the centre 1 Vol. xliv.—63. as its large size and smooth, kid-like skin prevent it being confounded with any other species. A word of warning is, however, necessary. The puff-ball must be fresh. When cut it should be of a creamy white colour throughout. If any yellow patches or marks appear, it has then passed the edible stage, and should not be eaten. A few days after its saturated and obnoxious stage the puff-ball begins to rapidly dry and lose weight. In Fig. 5 comparative examples are shown, together with a two-pound loaf. The large example, when fresh, weighed approximately eight pounds. Five days after it was cut its weight was reduced to five and a quarter pounds; a fortnight later still, although its size re- in a in ed almost the same, it was less than half a pound. It is obvious, therefore, that the main con- stituent of a puff-ball is water. If cut open when dry (Fig. 6) the interior is seen to con- sist of a dusty and felt-like mass of a snuff colour, the

706 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. soil. When the soil is dug up these minute threads, even when aggregated in their thousands, are scarcely noticeable. However, they are the vegetative part of the puff-ball fungus—i.e., the puff-ball plant proper. In Fig. 9 some of these threads are shown magnified about two hundred and fifty diameters, and it is from these delicate structures that the huge puff-ball arises. In conclusion, we may again glance at the photo- graph shown in Fig. 6, where a flint-stone will be seen embedded near the centre. No. 7. A mmute portion of the fine threads and tiny spores of which the interior of the huge puff- ball is built—highly magnified. No. 8. When the puff-ball is touched n \" puffs\" into the atmosphere millions of tiny spores, which appear to the eye like clouds of smoke. The numerous spores shown here are hiahly magnified, and would, together with their inter- vening space, fit, with room to spare, in the eye of a fine needle. felt-like material, when torn, giving out smoke- like fumes, but which are really myriads of spores, separating from the innumerable threads amongst which they have formed (Fig. 7). The whole structure, then consists of nothing more than a mass of extremely fine and i n te rwoven threads, intermixed with billions of spores, enclosed in a soft, leather-like skin. In the normal way the skin becomes ruptured in several places, and then, whenever the puff-ball is touched by a passing animal, myriads of its spores are puffed like smoke (Fig. 8) through the ruptures into the atmosphere. So minute and light are the spores that, when once in the air, they may remain there for several days before again alighting. Not infrequently, too, the whole puff-ball becomes detached, and is trundled about the field by strong winds and animal agency, dispersing its spores by myriads as it goes. From the vast quantities of spores produced it is obvious that their chances of survival, and repro- duction of the species, are very small. Nevertheless, an occasional spore does sometimes alight in a favourable situation, and there this tiny atom of living matter buds out a still more minute germ- tube, but which rapidly increases in length, and then branches in all directions, forming a delicate film of greyish appearance amongst the particles of Since the puff-ball appears above the soil as a roundish knob completely covered with a tight skin, which simply expands as the in- ternal growth in- creases, it is quite a

Hostag By HERMAN SCHEFFAUER Illustrated by \\Varwick Reynolds. T was almost midnight. The city of New York lay gasping. The sky belied its dark, cool blue, for it was like one enor- mous sheet of heated armour- plate. Across this expanse the sullen sheet-lightnings flashed at intervals. It was as though some giant winked. Here, in this suffering region of the East Side, there were also lightnings from the earth, flung up by the passing electric cars and trains. They splashed the houses and streets with a greenish glare. They drew lines of spurting and crackling flame across the gigantic bridge that leaped over the river into the night—an August night, broiling and unbearable, with its simooms of fiery air. The tenement in which Joseph Marsum, a tailor in a sweat-shop, lived with his young wife and baby, stood close to the new bridge. When that monster viaduct cut its path of steel diagonally between the huddled blocks and houses, this five-storey tenement escaped destruction by a single foot. One corner almost touched the iron parapet. The cornice overhung one of the ponderous main cables which curved up to the top of the mighty granite buttresses. The fire-escapes were packed with mat- tresses. The mattresses were covered with prostrate human beings. On the balcony at the third floor a man lay sprawling in an attitude of utter exhaustion. He was a swarthy man with dark ringlets and a small black moustache. In his ears there were little hoops of gold. Beside him lay coiled a dark object, which at first glance appeared to be a dog. But when it stirred and thrust out its paws the creature resolved itself into a large monkey. There was a collar about its neck ; from this hung a long, bright chain. It was Minta, the faithful comrade and partner of 'Sandro Prelli, the organ-grinder —the bare, shaggy man who lay coiled on the mattress like one long dead. From the skies immediately overhead there came the crying of a child—a thin, sharp wailing that rose and sank in the hot, stagnant air. Minta raised her head, her sharp ears twitched ; she stood erect, with curving tail. For her species she was un- commonly large and strong. The cry that came from above was a familiar cry to Minta. She knew it well, and her heart responded to its appeal. She clambered swiftly up the fire-escape, dragging her tinkling chain, and disappeared over the cornice of the roof. The roof was one vast bedroom—a welter of half-naked human forms and white sheets tossing in distress under the torrid heavens. Nimbly Minta made her way into a corner, where a young woman lay with a baby at

7o8 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. excellent friends. The monkey squatted down, stretched out her little black paw, and touched the child. Instantly the tiny thing ceased its wailing and smiled up into Minta's face. Minta rocked herself to and fro and stroked the soft, half-naked body of the baby boy. Limp, weary, and pale, Mrs. Marsum lay motionless upon her pillow. So far she had felt no jealousy of Minta. Suddenly Minta sneezed and the baby Among them was the thin and weedy Joseph Marsum, bare-headed and dressed only in shirt, trousers, and slippers. His tape- measure fluttered from his shoulders. \" Fire ! Fire ! \" came the shout. A jet of flame shot from the rear of the house and lighted up the adjoining wall. The terrified people rushed for the door—a packed mass that jerked, pushed, and pounded itself down the stairs. \"THE TINY THING CEASED ITS WAILING AND SMILKD UP INTO MINTA'S FACE.\" coughed lightly. Mrs. Marsum woke from her drowse. The other sleepers stirred and sniffed. Was it growing hotter ? Was there not a scent of smoke in the sweltering air ? A violent uproar now came from below. Several frantic men and women came burst- ing through the door that led to the roof. \" Sarah, come ! \" shouted Marsum to his wife. \" We must first save mother. You must help me carry her out. Leave the baby here. I will come back and get him.\" The mother snatched up the child. \" No, no ! \" she protested. \" I will take him now.\"

THE HOSTAGE IN THE AIR. 709 \" 1 tell you he is safer here ! I will come back and get him,\" replied her husband. \" No; I will take him now/' she repeated. He tore the child from her arms and placed it on the mattress. Minta pressed close to it and put her arms about it, with an impul- sive, maternal gesture. The father and mother went down to transport Marsum's bedridden mother three storeys to the street below. The halls and stairways were packed with the terror-stricken tenants and littered with their possessions. Only after a long delay- were Marsum and his wife able to carry the ponderous burden of his old mother to the street. Then the little tailor rushed back and attempted to reach the top floor and the roof. A screen of flame threshed and roared over the stair-well. Thick torrents of acrid smoke rolled in his face. Blinded, choking, gasping for air, Joseph Marsum fell back, staggered down the stairs, and collapsed in the arms of his agonized wife. \" My child ! my child ! \" screamed the mother, and tried to rush into the house. Helmeted firemen barred her way. The house was now a roaring cage of fire, every window a furious furnace. The heat was intolerable, the hissing streams from the hose- pipes seemed to burn like oil. With scorched faces and withered throats the crowd fell back. The glare lit up the tall granite piers and steel framework of the stupendous bridge. A floor fell with a dull crash, and millions of sparks sailed up to assault the skies, which shook in the vibrating haze. Then the roof fell, and soon the gutted building, a black and reeking ruin, stood smoking and steaming to the stars. Marsum's young wife lay against the granite base of one of the gigantic piers under the roadway of the bridge, her head in the lap of a neighbour woman. She kept calling for her baby in a strange and hopeless monotone. Beside her, gazing dully at her surroundings, was Marsum's mother—an old woman of enormous size, who wagged her round head with its little black wig to and fro. Marsum would kneel and stroke first the forehead of his wife, then that of his mother. His pinched face, with its thin, straggling beard, looked worn and white. 'Sandro Prelli had rescued his organ from the hallway of the house. Now he wandered about disconsolately, searching for his beloved Minta. But Minta, like the baby, had vanished. An ambitious young reporter had already begun to write a pathetic account of how baby and monkey had perished together. The night wore on. The crowd disappeared, the cars and trains thundered less frequently over the bridge. In the early morning hours the burning summer air appeared to be stirred by a cool wind. The terrible oppression of the night was lifted, and when dawn came a certain freshness fell over the stewing streets. Ashen grey the light streamed from the skies. The early morning traffic began to roll to and fro. Then someone high up on the bridge

7io THE STRAND MAGAZINE. in the street below. Heads were thrust from all the visible windows. A gust of wonder and horror swept over the people. Close to the long curve of the thick-girthed main cables the black, naked walls of the tenement building reared aloft. Minta, with the baby in her arms, had leaped from the cornice of the blazing house to the thick steel cylinder. Then she had clambered up this to the top of the great stone pier where she now sat, the mite of humanity she had learned to love clasped tightly in her arms. A dozen plans for rescuing the child were excitedly made. A young lineman offered to climb to the top of the buttress and bring down the child. He began walking up on the huge iron-cased cables, holding fast by the two wire ropes that ran above it like two rails. Higher and higher he went—the slope grew steeper at every step. From below he re- sembled some two-legged spider crawling along a curved twig. As he neared the top a shout went up from the crowd. But it was not a shout of joy, but of terror. Minta had observed the human monkey below steadily climbing higher. She rose, half crouching, and peered over into the abyss. She bared her teeth in a snarl. Perhaps the old instinct overcame her, as when, cowering in a banyan tree, she had glared down at the hunters who came to seize her and her hairy offspring. Her whole attitude bristled with defence and indignation. She mouthed at the sea of faces beneath her—white, frenzied faces, staring eyes, and open mouths from which came a storm of shouts and cries. From the top of the soaring buttress of stone another sound now fell over the tumult and the crowd—a shrill, piercing wail, an infant's cry. The baby lived ! Wildly the crowd cheered and yelled. Minta put up her tiny black hand and stroked the child, and its crying ceased. \" Come back ! Come back ! \" yelled the spectators. The lineman hesitated, then crept slowly down. It was useless to attempt to rescue the child in that way. The jealous and terrified animal would have fought like a demon—or like a mother—for its treasure. Or, as is the habit of monkeys, tossed what it had been holding high into the air. \" The animal must be hungry—and thirsty,\" said someone. \" Try it with food.\" In a little while a tempting show of oranges, nuts, cakes, and milk in a basin was spread on the cornice of the highest house imme- diately below the pier. Several men and boys called and coaxed the monkey with various cries ; but Minta sat immovable, her little face tragically grave. Her eyes wandered out anxiously over the glancing waves of the East River, crawling far below. She seemed oblivious to all the commotion in the world beneath her. She was aware only that she had escaped the cruel, writhing flames—that some deep need in her shaggy mother's breast was satisfied at last—that her little charge

THE HOSTAGE IN THE AIR. 711 MINTA ROSE FOR A MOMENT ON HER HIND LEGS.\"

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. 712 \"A MURMUR OK PITY WL.NT UP FROM TBN THOUSAND LIPS.

THE HOSTAGE IN THE AIR. 713 the man with .the gun. Once before had she seen such dark and shiny things—in her early youth, when men came through the forest spreading thunder and flame before them, and scores of her friends and relations fell dead about her. More tightly than ever she hugged her treasure to her. A thin, dark rill began to creep over the edge of the moulded cornice-of the pier. It ran down the side in a long, straight line, which almost reached the footway of the bridge. It was blood that oozed from the wound in Minta's shoulder. A murmur of pity went up from ten thousand lips ; a gust of uncontrollable emotion swept over the sea of faces. The third plan had also miscarried. Fresh suggestions, advice, commands, flew thickly through the air. But all were unwise, rash, fantastic. All would have driven Minta to desperation, and thus endangered the life of the human mite which had suddenly grown so precious. The Chief of Police now came whirling down in his motor and stood baffled, as helpless as the rest. His own idea was a brilliant one. He proposed to surround the pier at the bridge level and the street level with a cordon of police, who were to hold a net prepared to catch the child as it fell from .the skies. He confessed that the chance of separating the monkey from the baby by sending up one of his men with a bamboo pole and a noose was, naturally, attended with some danger. \" No, no ! \" exclaimed little Marsum. the tailor, who still wore the same scanty clothing in which he had escaped from the burning house. \" I will not permit it; my child will be killed ! \" The mother became eloquent in her hysteria. Her exclamations and sobs shook the hearts of the immediate bystanders. The Chief of Police gave up his plan and con- fessed his helplessness to the perspiring Commissioner of Streets, who had just arrived. This official was wrestling with his own problem of how the streets might be cleared of their excited thousands. The Commissioner of the Fire Department arrived soon after. But the problem of the baby and the monkey on the pier left that brilliant Irishman full of silence and'confusion. The outskirts of the crowd were now troubled by a commotion of cries and exclama- tions, and the frantic efforts of a dark-haired man with golden ringlets in his ears to wedge a passage through the congested mass. He cried out loudly in Italian and gesticulated furiously. It became obvious that he was the owner of the monkey, 'Sandro Prelli. Vol. xliv.^63. He had just returned from the house of a fellow-countryman, where he had spent the remainder of the night. The human floods along the incline of the bridge opened and made way for him. Prelli, wild-eyed and voluble, came running to the open space which the police had cleared at the foot of the buttress. Here stood the parents of the

714 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. organ before him. The crowd parted and once more made a lane for him as he came up the long incline of the bridge. He wheeled the heavy and gaudy instrument to the foot of the granite pillar. Then, with dra- matic gestures, he addressed the puzzled and futile functionaries of the city government. Not one of them understood a word that Prelli shouted. Then a ragged youth spoke up and interpreted the Italian. \" He says to stop the noise of the cars and wagons, or the monkey won't hear the music.\" The three imperious commissioners, like an old Roman triumvirate, laughed at the idea. When they spoke they were themselves forced to shout in order to be heard above the sonorous thunder and rattle of the traffic. In addition to the uproar of the cars and trains there came a clamour of heavy trucks and rumbling wagons and all the noises which build up their daily pandemonium over and under and about the gigantic bridge. But soon a more terrible and menacing thunder broke loose. The request of 'Sandro Prelli had echoed and re-echoed among the multi- tude, and the multitude waxed angry and impatient. \" Stop the traffic ! Stop the cars ! \" came a roar from five thousand throats. The three public functionaries heard for once in their lives the voice they were wont to natter at election time by calling it the voice of God. For once in their career they, the servants of the public, were given the opportunity of obeying the direct and imperious command of their masters. \" Stop the traffic ! \" bellowed the mob. The traffic, after some delay, was stopped. No train, no car rumbled over the bridge, either east or west. In the neighbouring streets policemen dammed up the congested rivers of motors, vans, and trucks. The great crowd itself grew hushed and still. Never had such a silence reigned in this busy region in the broad of day. In it was some- thing ominously impending, as of doom. Then, clear and loud, a sudden powerful music broke upon the unearthly stillness. It was Prelli's piano-organ, flooding the air with its anvil-like notes. They rose and fluttered and beat upon the human hearts, and throbbed like a flock of birds against the brick walls of the houses. The entire bridge seemed to vibrate with the melody. It was as if the great cables and the little cables were turned into the strings of one enormous harp of steel. The crowd recognized the familiar •ne, \" La Donna e Mobile,\" from \" Rigo- o,\" and swaved in unison with the irresistible lilt and dancing fire of the move- ment. Triumphantly, joyously, the roaring, ham- mering music went storming up. Only Prelli knew what a magic that particular air exercised over the heart of his Minta. Invari- ably it affected her in just the same way, causing her to run from wherever she might be and leap into his arms.

*** Cmldren's Chatter. By J. C. \\VRIGHT, F.R.S.L. Illustrated by A. D. Carse. VER a century ago Blake por- trayed happy childhood in his \" Songs of Innocence.\" He believed that to a child the world is a source of infinite pleasure and delight. And the pleasure arises from the simplest things. \" The sunlight sleep- ing on the grass, the first fall of snow in winter, the daisy-stars he strings upon the meadow, the fish leaping in the stream, the warm air which caresses his cheek, the passing of the great wagon in the street, the swallow's nest above his bedroom window, the hour of rest at night, and his prayers at his mother's knee—all are loved lightly and felt keenly, and touch him with a poetic pleasure.\" Ch'ldren are born with a taste for know- ledge. They want to know, and they want to know the right things. They ask ques- tions, and are not easily satisfied. They are fond of imitating what they see around them. They are highly imaginative. They clothe their ideas in concrete forms. There was a time when they were regarded as immature adults ; we have learnt that the main aim of a teacher must be to give the right tone to the feelings—goodness in the abstract is of little avail ; the imagination must be stirred. We are accustomed to believe that there is little reflection on the part of children, and yet one cannot but see now and again gleams of thought which suggest a hidden mental power working almost unconsciously. The little girl who \" gathered sunlight in her hands and put it on her face \" knew some- thing of the effects of heat. And how full of humour are some of the sayings of children. It was Punch, we believe, who depicted Tommy, after he had been severely corrected, as exclaiming : \" I fink I'll go back to heaven, where I came from.\" And what a fund of suggestion was conveyed by the little girl who, on hearing a running tap, said that \" the water was coughing \" ! The poetry of life is frequently seen in childhood. We have this illustrated in the description of butterflies as \" pansies flying.\" \" A star is a cinder from God's great star \" has a wealth of unconscious meaning. But perhaps the finest approach to poetry was made by a tiny tot who defined dew as \" the grass crying.\" \" Oh, auntie 1 \" said a little girl, \" I've just seen a pencil walking.\" The nurse, who had grown out of fairyland, explained that it was only an ordinary worm. The questions of size and sense of propor- tion and colour are often curiously exhibited in very young children. How natural was the retort of Tom, when Dick told his friend that his mother had a new fan, hand-painted. \" Pooh ! \" said Tom. \" Our whole fence is.\"

716 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. (Q \"Ill CO back to hearen.- \" Gathered •unlight in her handt.\" Looking up to the ceiling, which had been much blackened by the lamp, a little three - year - old girl exclaimed: \"The sky of your room is dirty.\" A little Yorkshire lad, a typical son of his county, was asked by his teacher what England was called. \" A country,\" replied the boy. \" But what is Yorkshire?\" was the next question. \" A continent, sir.\" The same spirit, tinged with boastfulness, was exhibited by a tiny girl who declared her \" father kept a carriage.\" \" Ah, but,\" was the triumphant reply of her friend, \" my father drives an omnibus.\" Children have curious notions of religion sometimes. \" Mamma, I want some water to christen my doll,\" exclaimed a little girl. \" No, dear,\" replied her mother ; \" you should not make fun of such things.\" \" Well, then, I \" I've seen a pencil walk- want some wax to waxinate her. \"The Krau wa» crying.\" \"The sky of your room is dirty.\" \" Our whole fence i> hand- paint sd.\" She's old enough to have something done.\" Yet, as Professor Muirhead has said, \" The study of the child showed that religion was the natural product of the human soul, and the interest in religion was shown by such questions as, ' Who made God ? ' ' Does God make some good and others bad ? \" We are so accustomed to regard the child of a past age as abnormally pious that we feel inclined to be , shocked with the modern little girl who, after a month spent with her mother in a remote country cottage, walking through the fields one even- ing, suddenly exclaimed:— \" I do wish God was with me now, mummy.\" \" Why, darling ? \" replied her mother. The child heaved a sigh. \" I'm getting a little bit tired of you, mummy.\" There is a straightforwardness about a child which, unfortunately, he loses as he grows older. The story of the boy who was heroic- ally trying to save his pennies, put into con- crete form the petition in the Lord's Prayer when one night he began,\" 0 Lord, help me to

CHILDREN'S CHATTER. setting traps to catch birds. Asked what she did, she replied: \"I prayed that the traps might not catch the birds.\" \" Anything else ? \" \" Yes/' she said. \" I then prayed that God would prevent the birds getting into the traps,\" and, as if to illustrate ' I want come water - christen my doll.\" I I'm netting a bit tired of you.\" little dear ? \" O Lord, help me to save my money.\" \" Kicked the traps all to piece*.\" of faith and works, she added: \"I went and kicked the traps all to pieces.\" The literal interpretation of words is well seen in the following story. Two lovers tried to keep the railway carriage to themselves. At a certain station they were somewhat annoyed to find the guard place a small girl in their compartment. She began to stare about her. \" What is the matter, my inquired the man, kindly. \" I don't see the birds,\" said the small girl, plaintively, still looking round. \" Birds—what birds ? \" queried the young man. The explanation came immediately :— \" When I entered from the other train your guard said to my guard, ' Oh, shove her along with the love-birds.' \" Humour is constantly revealing itself in the conversation of young children, and the humour is almost always distinguished by its quaintness. A small girl, espying a dead cat lying on the dust-heap, remarked :— \" Oh, mamma, what waste! They've thrown away quite a good cat.\" There was something remarkably diplo- matic in the reply of a boy whose father was busy and did not wish to be disturbed. \" Pa, it's raining,\" said the little fellow. \" Well, let it rain,\" said the father. \" Yes, pa ; I was going to.\" But there is a kind of humour sometimes shown which is altogether delightful. Here is a specimen. A polite little girl was dining one day with her grandmother. Everything at the table was dainty and unexceptionable, but the little girl found a hair in her fish. \" Grandmamma,\" she said, \" what kind of fish is this ? \" \" Halibut, my dear.\" '\" Oh,\" said \"I don't see

7i8 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" ' V e«.' she replied. 'if. Cod', hokey- pokey.'\" \"The little .girl looked, then ..ml. ' Not my finf en.'\" o the child, \" I thought perhaps it was mermaid.\" That children are original thinkers is evinced by the following stories:— We believe it was Mr. George R. Sims who took his little niece to Hampstead Heath one day. It was Bank Holiday, and there was the inevitable hokey-pokey man. Mr. Sims explained to the child what hokey-pokey was made of, its colour and taste, and the little one was quite satisfied. But some time after snow fell. She watched it. \" You know what snow is ? \" said her uncle. \" Yes,\" she re- \"She never brought the present\" \" Nailing on it* back feet\" plied, very thoughtfully, \" it's God's hokey- pokey.\" \" Are you hungry, little girl,\" said Dr. Wendell Holmes to one whom he saw looking with longing eyes at the good things before her. \" Yes, sir,\" was the reply. \" Then why don't you take a sand- wich ? \" \" Because I haven't any fork.\" \" Fingers were made before forks,\" said the Doctor, smiling. The \"They will know when I've finiihed it\" littlegirl looked. then boy. j' answered t the pain'* said : \" Not my fingers.\" A child once went home almost broken-hearted from a school she had entered only that day, saying through her tears:— \" The teacher told me to ' sit there for the present,' and she never brought it.\" \" Oh, mamma,\" said a little boy, after coming in from a walk, \" I've seen a man who makes horses.\" \" Are you sure ? \" asked his mother. \" Yes,\"

CHILDREN'S CHATTER. 719 turn it is going to take. It is frequently dogmatic. A small girl was drawing a picture \" out of her head.\" \"What are you drawing ? \" asked her mother. \" God,\" replied the child, simply. \" But you can't draw God,\" protested the mother, \" because you have never seen Him, and no one has ever seen Him, and no one knows what He is like.\" The small child licked her pencil and put on another touch. \" They will know when I've finished it,\" she said. There was more of logic in the following : A teacher famous for his patriotic fervour asked one of his boys what he would think if he saw the Union Jack waving proudly over the field of battle. \" I should think,\" said the boy, \" that the wind was blowing.\" \" Are you in pain, my little man ? \" asked a gentleman. \" No,\" answered the boy ; \" the pain's in me.\" The misunderstanding of words frequently causes strange answers. A child who had been taught that Socrates had a wife who was unpleasant to him, and that the great philosopher drank hemlock, when asked the cause of his death, replied :— \" Socrates died from an overdose of wedlock.\" Of an entirely different character is the following: A little girl, wanting to know something that had been said, abruptly ejaculated : \" What ? \" Her father, who was particular in his speech, remarked :— \" You should never say ' What ? ' my dear ; always say, ' I beg your pardon.' \" The following day the five-year-older, pointing to a blossom in the garden, said :— \" I beg your pardon is the name of that flower ! \" One more illustration of the misunder- standing may be taken from school life. It was the Scripture lesson. The subject was the call of Samuel. The children had sung, \" Hushed was the evening hymn,\" which describes the call. The teacher then asked a few questions, one being, \" What did Samuel do while Eli was asleep ? \" \" Stole his watch,\" was the prompt reply from one of the girls. The teacher, somewhat annoyed at such an apparently senseless answer, called for the second verse :— His watch the Temple child, The little Levite, kept. Now came the child's turn. \" Please, teacher, doesn't that mean that Samuel kept the old man's watch for himself ? \" In closing \" Children's Chatter \" we may use the words of Francis Thompson : \" Know you what it is to be a child ? It is to be something very different from the man of to-day. It is to have a spirit yet streaming

Tne Shadowed Curtain. By CHARLES GARVICE. Illustrated ty H. M. Brock, R.I. HEN Heriot stepped on board the small but admirably found steamer which was to convey him from Loch Awe Station to Portsonachan, the loch was in one of its worst tempers. A blusterous wind had churned the sometimes placid waters into big waves; a leaden sky hung sullenly about Ben Cruachan; the heavy rain drove savagely along the deck, and beat like a series of drum-taps on Heriot's waterproof and sou'-wester. But, with all its morose- ness, the wonderful loch was grandly beautiful, and its mood suited Heriot well enough; for when a man is down on his luck a Reckitt's- blue sky and a photographer's sun are both irritating and oppressive. And Heriot was very much down on his luck indeed ; for he had lost nearly all his money in foreign financial ventures, and the girl he had intended to marry, and with whom he had been, or thought he had been, very much in love, had-jilted him. He had come to England in search of some absolutely secluded spot in which he could, so to speak, catch his breath, tighten his mental belt, and pre- pare for another struggle ; for, though Heriot had been \" downed,\" as gentlemen of the ring say, he had not been knocked out com- pletely ; he came of a Scottish stock, which is not easy to knock out. He had been, when a boy, at Loch Awe ; and it seemed to him that no place could be more congenial to his present mood than that inland water over which Ben Cruachan and Ledi throw their shadows, and which, in October, is not troubled by the tourist and the excursionist. At the inn at Portsonachan Heriot received that welcome of which Dr. Johnson spoke so tenderly. There was only one visitor—an enthusiastic fisherman—remaining in the place; and Heriot saw that he was going to have the quiet time for which he hungered. Having bathed and fed, he strolled leisurely up the hill which leads to Dalmally, some nine miles distant. The road was quite empty; there were just a few cottages, occupied by the fishermen; and the shore of Loch Awe seemed as desolate as the water. Presently he came to a house on the hill-side to the right of him. It was a sombre-looking place, stoutly built to resist such weather as this, and its grim front was broken only by a bay-window, through the curtains of which a light shone. A figure, that of a young girl, came to the window ; she opened it, leant with both hands on the sill, looked out, then turned her head and evidently addressed someone; in response to her remark an old man, with a long, white beard, came to her side. They stood gazing out, and, unconsciously, Heriot stood and looked up at them. The girl turned her face once or twice, and he saw that she was extremely pretty; he had already noticed the grace of her movements. There

THE SHADOWED CURTAIN. 721 A Scottish breakfast at Portsonachan is one of the things at which an Englishman marvels, and for which he thanks Heaven. Heriot had had a dip in the loch, and the keen water and keener air had given him a keen appetite. He found his boat and man waiting for him, was pulled down to one of the bays, and began to fish. The wind had abated, but the water was still broken after the fashion which a fisherman loves ; and presently there was a screech of the reel, and ten minutes later a seven-pound grilse lay gleaming in the bottom of the boat. \" Tis a good fish,\" remarked Andrew, laconically ; \" and she's not the first you've taken,\" he added. \" Nor the last, I hope,\" responded Heriot, as he handed his whisky-flask for Andrew to wet the fish. A few minutes later a boat put off from the shore ; it was pulled by a lad, and in the stern was seated the girl Heriot had seen at the window on the preceding night. Andrew glanced towards the new-comers with just a touch of contempt in his eyes, which attracted Heriot's attention. \" Who is that ? \" he asked. \" 'Tis the young lady from the Grey House,\" replied Andrew. \" Is she a good fisherman ? \" asked Heriot. \" No,\" replied Andrew, laconically. \" She's keen enough, and she's no afraid of the weather; she's out most days, saving the worst; but she's not likely to take any fish. You want to know the loch ; and what should a young farm-boy—him as is rowing her— ken o' the proper places ?\" A couple of hours later they got into another fish, a large one this time ; and while Heriot was landing it he saw, from the tail of his eye, the other boat approaching them. The girl was standing up, her hands gripping the side of the boat, and she was watching him with intense interest. Having landed his fish Heriot turned his head towards her ; she sat down at once and looked away from him; but the boy called out to Andrew :— \" What's the weight, Andy ? \" \" A good twelve pounds,\" replied Andy, grimly. Heriot lifted up the fish, and the girl uttered an involuntary cry of admiration and envy. \" Oh, what a beauty ! \" she exclaimed, in a clear young voice, only slightly marked by a foreign accent. \" Pull nearer,\" said Heriot, in a low voice. He hated women ; but he was a sportsman, and it went against the grain that girl or man should fish in a hopeless spot. \" You'd do better if you fished in shallower water,\" he said, almost as grimly as Andrew had spoken. She coloured slightly; but she smiled as she said, gratefully :— \" Oh, thank you very much.\" \" Pull on in front,\" said Heriot to the boy, Andrew glowered at him by way of remon- strance and growled :—

T-.2 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" Pull up,\" said Heriot to Andrew ; and when they got near enough Heriot, seizing the psychological moment, gaffed the fish and threw it into her boat. \" I congratulate you',\" he said. \" It's a splendid fish.\" The girl surveyed her catch with pride, then turned her eyes to Heriot; they were beautiful eyes, and very grateful ones. \" I thank you very much,\" she said. \" I should have lost it but for your kindness. It is wonderful that a woman should be able to catch so large a fish, and with so small a thing as a rod.\" She signed to the boy to turn the boat ; Heriot raised his hat, and passed on to another bay. He took no more fish, and returned to the hotel earlier than he had intended. Mr. Bowden had had a bad day ; but he enjoyed hearing of Heriot's sport, and when he was told of the girl's big fish commented enviously on her luck. \" It's generally the way,\" he said. \" The novice always gets the big fish—and every- thing else. I was stationed in the Soudan once; got a lot of big game; everything but a lion. Couldn't get one, though my shikari and I hunted for all we were worth. Young \"SUB ROSE AND BEGAN TO 1'LAV THE FISH.\" \" Yours is not very small; it is too heavy for you,\" said Heriot. She handed him the rod for inspection, and, glancing at it, he saw the name of a Swedish tackle-maker engraved on it. \" You have been fishing in Sweden ? \" he said. \" No ; I have never fished before I came to England. I bought the rod in Russia,\" she said. Heriot told himself that he was not curious ; but he could not refrain from asking :— \" You are Russian, mademoiselle ? \" \" Only partly,\" she replied. \" My mother was of that nation. My father was English.\" She stopped suddenly, and Heriot, accepting the hint, said :— \" If you are rested, you might try that bay in front of you ; you may get another fish there.\" fellow came to stay with me ; greenhorn; couldn't shoot for nuts ; one day borrowed my rifle, met a lion mile and a half from the camp, shut his eyes and fired, and brought - him down ; fine lion, with a black mane. Always the way. Rather rum, isn't it, for a girl, a foreigner especially, to be fishing by herself on Loch Awe ? \" \" There's an old man with her,\" said Heriot. \" I know. They came about a fortnight ago ; the old man is her grandfather, and is seldom seen outside the Grey House, as they call it. I suppose he's an invalid.\" The following morning Heriot went into the little post-office attached to the hotel; the contents of the mail-bag, which had just come in, were lying on the counter, and he turned them over to see if there were any letters for him. In doing so, he noticed one

THE SHADOWED CURTAIN. 723 addressed to \" Miss Helen Harness.\" There was nothing for him, and he was moving away when the young girl entered. She bowed to Heriot, who could do no less than give her \" Good morning \" and repeat his congratu- lations. \" Yes, I'm so delighted, that I'm going out again to-day,\" she said. \" Are there any letters for me ? \" she asked at the counter. The St. Petersburg one was handed to her. She took it quickly and, with another bow to Heriot, went out. An hour later he saw her on the loch, and purposely had his boat rowed, to the other side, leaving her the best fishing-ground. The day was a good one for sport, cloudy and windy, and threatening rain. It came pre- sently, and too lavishly. The loch was almost as angry as on the night he had arrived. The wind howled, the waves rolled heavily, the rain came down in a blinding sheet. \" We'll have to make for the shore,\" said Andy ; and, as he put the boat round, Heriot saw the other one beating about; too near the middle of the loch for safety. \" That fool of a boy won't make it if he don't take a care,\" remarked Andy. Heriot was silent for a moment or two; then he said firmly, but reluctantly :— \" Pull out to her, Andy.\" They reached the other boat; the boy was evidently nervous, but the girl was quite calm—perhaps because of her ignorance of the danger. \" It is very rough,\" she said. Heriot made no response, but, gripping the gunwale of her boat, shouted to the boy to get into Andy's. With some difficulty the boy complied, and Heriot took his place. \" But is it necessary ? \" asked the girl, with heightened colour. \" You'll be safer nearer shore,\" he said, as he took the oars and began to pull. \" Oh, but this is very kind of you,\" she said in as low a voice as the wind and rain would permit. \" I am greatly indebted to you.\" \" Not at all, Miss Harness,\" he said. Her face grew red, and she bent forward towards him. \" You know my name ? \" Heriot bit his lip at his slip. \" I saw it on the letter they gave to you this morning.\" \" Ah, yes,\" she said, with what seemed an air of relief. \" I understand. I thought \" She paused. The expression in which she said \" I thought\" was tantamount to \" I feared.\" \" You see, it is an English name,\" she said ; \" but I have never been to England before.\" \" You speak English very well,\" he said. \" Oh, yes; I had a governess from home— as I call it. Will you tell me your name ? \" \" Temple Heriot.\" Her lips moved as if she were repeating it, and she said, aloud, \" No, I have not heard it before.\"

724 THE STRAND MAGAZIXE. impossible that he should not speak of some of his trouble ; and, in doing so. he inadver- tently referred to his fallen fortunes. She listened intently, the dark-grey eyes turning to him sympathetically, comprehendingly. \" Oh, but that doesn't matter to a man,\" she said. \" He's a free agent, as you say; he can go where he pleases, do what he liken ; he has his fortune in his own hands—especially an Englishman. With us women—ah. well, we are slaves still. Hut this is freedom,\" she added, half to herself, as she looked round the loch and up at the clouds. \" Yes, this is freedom. I think you English—I mean you who have not lived abroad all your lives—do not know quite what the word means to us who have not been so happily placed. There is no country like England.\" \" We are in Scotland, where the people draw in freedom with every breath,\" said Heriot, with a smile. \" Yes ; that is what I like, what I admire,\" she said. \" But the storm is lifting now, and I am keeping you from your fishing. 1 think I must not come on the loch again until you have gone ; for I seem bound to be a nuisance and a hindrance to you, Mr. Heriot.\" \" No, no,\" said Heriot, with an alacrity and earnestness which surprised himself. \" On the contrary, it's nice to have a—a companion, a fellow-sportsman.\" \" Yes,\" she assented ; \" it is' very nice for me. It is—lonely sometimes,\" she added, with a little sigh. \" We can go on again now,\" said Heriot, suddenly. \" Look here, Miss Harness, if you've no objection, I'll go in your boat with you ; these storms have a trick of whipping up suddenly.\" She hesitated for just a moment; then she said, quietly :— \" It is very good of you.\" When they had nearly reached the other shore they struck a fish. \" It is yours,\" she said. But Heriot shook his head. \" Take care how you stand,\" he said ; \" it is not too easy with this roll on.\" The fish was a small one, and he instructed her how to play it. He was leaning forward to gaff it when that which he had feared happened—she lost her footing, and would have fallen against the side of the boat, and possibly out of it; but Heriot let the fish go and caught her, just in time. He had to hold her for nearly a minute, but she was by no means discomposed, and as she slipped from his arms to the seat she looked up with a smile and a laugh, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. \" And the fish ? \" she asked. \" Oh, he's gone,\" said Heriot. He was not nearly so composed as she ; it was some time since he had held a woman in his arms, and the contact with this one awakened memories, poignant and bitter- sweet. \" We won't try again,\" he said. \" It's too late.\"

THE SHADOWED CURTAIN, 725 'AM) SO THEY ATE THEIR LUNCH, SF.ATBD SIDE BY SIDE AND QUITE CLOSE 1O EACH OTHF.R.\"

THE STRAXD MAGAZINE. \" I am afraid you will think me very inhos- pitable, very discourteous, not to ask you to enter; but my grandfather is very old and feeble, and a little excites him greatly.\" \" Not at all,\" said Heriot. \" I quite under- stand.\" \" Ah, but you don't—not fully,\" she said, quickly. \" I wish that 1 could explain to you ; but I cannot.\" \" There's no need,\" he said, with the Englishman's awkwardness. \" I mean—that it is not necessary for you to tell me anything.\" He moved from the gate, but turned to her again. \"But if there is anything I can do —I mean to help you \" \" You would do it,\" she said, her eyes rest- ing on him gratefully. \" Yes, I know you would. But there is nothing.\" \" All right,\" he said, raising his hat. As Heriot dressed for dinner he pondered, naturally enough, over these words of Miss Harness's ; there was a touch of mystery in them which increased his interest in the girl of the Grey House ; and he was compelled to admit that during the last few: days his interest had grown very acute; in fact, much to his surprise, he found himself dwell- ing on the undeniable charm which she possessed. Comparisons are always odious, but he could not refrain from comparing her with the worthless woman who had jilted him. It was impossible to conceive Helen Harness being capable of falsity ; the man who would succeed in winning her would be an extremely fortunate one. He did not think of himself as that person, for he had determined not to marry; but all the same he could not help envying the prospective man who should be lucky enough to win her love. To be loved by such a girl as Helen Harness The thought was dispelled by the sound of a man's voice, a strange voice, speaking, curiously enough, with a foreign accent ; two foreigners might be certainly accounted rarce aves at such a place as Loch Awe in October ; but three ! As he went down the stairs he saw a short, thick-set man stand- ing in the hall; he had a bullet-head, with closely-cut hair, and a round, clean-shaven face, swarthy of complexion, with eyes of the poached-egg variety, with dark bulbs under them. It was not a prepossessing face, but the owner turned and greeted Heriot with an extremely courteous bow, which Heriot returned with a curt English nod. Beside the new-comer stood, in an attitude of attention, a tall and wiry-looking fellow, evidently a servant. This man glanced out of the tail of his eye at Heriot; then looked down, as if for a moment he had been taken off his guard. Bowden looked up as Heriot entered the smoking-room. \" Got some new visitors,\" he said. \" Of a rum kind, too. What the deuce does a Russian Count want at Loch Awe ? \" \" How do you know he's a Count ? \" asked Heriot, instantly thinking of the people up

THE SHADOWED CURTAIN. 727 information which would help the Govern- ment.\" \" And he will not give it ? \" \" Why, no,\" she said, simply. \" That's all right,\" said Heriot, quietly. \" The Count—I'm sorry I can't get his name —can't do anything. This is England, not Russia.\" \" Ah, yes,\" she said, with a sigh of relief. \" He can do nothing; but he has upset my grandfather, who is not strong enough to be worried.\" \" You have told the Count so ? \" \" Yes, and he was most courteous—they are always so courteous ! He says that he will leave Loch Awe and return to Russia as soon as he has rested.\" \" Of course. There is nothing else he could do.\" She was silent for a moment; then she said, hesitatingly, and in a low voice :— \" I don't know.\" \" Oh, but come !\" said Heriot, with a laugh. \" As I said before, this is England. The Count can't compel your grandfather to go back to Russia, nor to say what he doesn't want to say. I'm afraid this affair is worrying you. Is there anything I can do ? \" \" No, nothing,\" she said. \" All right,\" said Heriot. \" Please don't forget that I'm entirely at your service.\" \" I know it,\" she said ; \" and I can't tell you how grateful I am, or what a difference it makes to me. I feel—as if—as if I were being watched over—guarded. But I have no right \" \" Yes, you have,\" said Heriot. \" The right which every lonely woman has to the protection of any man worth the name. Besides \" He paused; perhaps he suddenly remembered that he hated women. \" We've been good friends—pals, as we rail it,\" he went on, lamely ; \" and it's the duty of one pal to protect another. By George, there's a fish ! Only a small trout.\" Nothing more was said on the subject; Helen grew less disturbed as the day wore on, and there was a happy light in her eyes and as happy a curve on her lips as she gave him her hand at parting. Perhaps Heriot was not aware that he pressed it; but she must have felt the pressure, for she blushed divinely, and gave him a shy glance before she turned away with downcast eyes. When Heriot reached the hotel a powerfi 1 motor-car was standing outside. Naturally enough, he thought it was the Count's; but Bowden, who was standing beside it, said, apologetically:— \" This beastly thing's just turned up. It see;ns that a fortnight ago I told my man to bring it up here. I'd forgotten all about it; but here it is.\" \" It's a splendacious one,\" remarked Heriot. \" What's the power ? \" \" Forty,\" grunted Bowden, as he trudged towards the smoking-room. It will be surmised that Heriot went up

738 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. a shrug of his shoulders. \" My man under- stands the engine, the working of the boat; and there is no danger.\" \" That's all right,\" said Heriot. \" But I thought you were leaving us ? \" he added, interrogatively. \" Oh, yes, presently,\" said the Count, suavely. \" But I am so enchanted with the quiet, the seclusion of this romantic1 spot \" Heriot nodded and went in. Presently he lit his pipe and went down to the loch. The motor-launch was not at the pier; turning to Bowden, who had followed him, he said :— \" Those fellows have gone out.\" \" Yes,\" said Bowden. \" They'll come to grief, if they don't mind. They don't know anything about the rocks in the loch. Any- how, they must have plenty of pluck; it's a dangerous kind of amusement.\" Heriot went up the hill-road. He walked quicker than usual, and. half-unconsciously, he drew a breath of relief as he saw the two shadows on the curtain. They were less clearly defined than usual, the lamp evidently being turned down. He stopped and looked for a minute or two ; then he turned away. But presently he paused, for he was assailed by a kind of uneasiness difficult to define. It seemed to him that Miss Harness should be told that the Count was going to remain at Porlsonachan. He went back to the house and knocked gently at the door ; there was no response. He knocked louder, but still without effect. He went to the garden, and looked up at the window ; perhaps it would be possible to attract Helen's attention without alarming the old man. He knew how quick she was, and how slight a sound would reach her ears. He took up a few small stones and threw them gently at her shadow. To his surprise, though he could hear the gravel rattling on the glass, she did not move. He waited a moment or two, then threw some larger stones more violently; still the figure did not move. He drew nearer, and looked keenly, scrutinizingly. There was something weird, discomposing in the motionless, inert fashion which the old man and the girl main- tained ; it was almost as if they were both asleep, or He could not complete the sentence ; a kind of chill assailed him, and almost involuntarily he called, not loudly, but clearly :— \" Helen—Miss Harness ! \" She could not fail to have heard him, but still she did not turn her head, and remained motionless, absolutely motionless. An inde- finable dread took hold of Heriot; without thinking of what he was doing, of the alarm or distress he might cause, he went to the door and knocked loudly. He waited only a moment or two; then he put his knee against the lock and, exerting all his strength, forced the door open. There was a dim light burning in the hall, and he sprang upstairs and opened the door of the sitting- room. There they were, at the window.

THE SHADOWED CURTAIN. 729 to Crinan, where a yacht would be wailing. He ran to the hotel and, pausing for a moment outside to get his breath, went into the smoking-room. Bowden was asleep, and dreaming of a thirty-pound salmon ; Heriot laid his hand on the old man's shoulder and shook him gently. \" What is it ? Are we into a fish ? \" said Bowden. \" I didn't hear the reel.\" \" I want your motor-car—at once,\" said Heriot, as quietly as he could. \" Anybody ill ? \" asked Bowden, starting up. \" Our friend the Count has carried off the \" It's all right,\" said Bowden. as he hurried to the door. \" That motor of mine will do forty miles an hour easily. My man sleeps in the room over the garage. He's a quick chap. Come on ! \" Heriot would find it difficult to describe his sensations while he waited for the car. The time was actually very short, but he seemed to have grown into an old man before he sprang up beside the driver. Bowden offered to accompany them—indeed, begged to be allowed to do so ; but Heriot shook his head ; he had already formed his plan, and the fewer persons concerned in the business \"THEN HE STOPPED, COLD WITH HORROR.\" young girl at the Grey House,\" replied Heriot, laconically. \" I want your motor.\" \" I am not surprised,\" said the old man, coolly. \" I thought he was up to some mis- chief. He's taken them in the launch, of course. I saw it going down the lake half an hour ago.\" Heriot groaned. \" Half an hour's start! \" Vol. xliv.— 64 the better. The road runs beside the loch and is little frequented, even in the day- time ; that night the car had it to itself. It started at a good pace, and Heriot kept his eyes on the loch. The car ran for some miles before he saw two specks of light on the dark surface of the water. \" Now let her out,\" he said.

73° THE STRAND MAGAZINE. The chauffeur, who guessed that they were in pursuit of something, or someone, obeyed willingly enough, and they sped through the air like an express train. As they approached Ford Heriot gave the order to slow up, and some little distance from the pier he stopped the car and got out, telling the man to wait there till he heard a whistle. Keeping in the shadow of the road, Heriot cautiously approached the landing-stage, and, as he had expected, he saw a motor-car drawn up close to it. The lights of the launch could now be discerned plainly, and he could hear the thud of her engine. He was only just in time. He stole up to the car; a man who was so ill- favoured that he might have been the twin brother of the Count's servant was pottering about it. Heriot went up to him and touched him lightly on the shoulder ; the man swung round and uttered an exclamation. \" Shout, call out, and you're a dead man,\" said Heriot, quietly. \" I've got you covered with a revolver \"—it was his pipe—\" through my coat-pocket. I know all about the busi- ness. You are waiting for the Count. Get into the car and sit there, and keep your mouth shut.\" With a guttural oath the man turned as if to obey ; but suddenly he flung up his arm and aimed, with a spanner in his hand, at Heriot's head. But Heriot was on the alert that night, and he dealt the man a blow on the \" point \" which felled him. He took off the man's coat and cap, then gagged and bound him with a rope which, thinking it might be useful, he had snatched up from the garage when they started. Exchanging his own coat and hat for the man's, he took his seat in the car, and the thudding of his heart kept time with the thudding of the launch as it neared the pier. There was no light save that of the lamps in the motor-car and the launch ; and Heriot sat quite still and waited. He heard the launch moor to the quay ; and a minute or two afterwards the Count and his man appeared, bearing the old man. They toiled with their burden up the bank, and, without a word, put him in the car ; then they returned for Miss Helen. This was the most trying moment for Heriot throughout that night's work ; for he was consumed by the desire to spring out and brain both the villains ; but, with clenched teeth, he held himself in hand. After what seemed an eternity the Count and his man reappeared, carrying Helen. They placed her beside the other motionless figure, then the Count, wiping the sweat from his brow, said a few words to his servant, who saluted and returned to the launch. The Count took a flask from his pocket, and the smell of brandy mixed with the odour of chloroform coming from the back of the car. The Count took a drink, then stepped up beside Heriot. \" You know where to go,\" he said. \" Drive like the devil ; I want to reach the ship before the tide turns. Drive straight on ;

THE SHADOWED CURTAIN. 731 \" HERIOT TOOK HER HANDS AND DRKW HER TOWARDS HIM.\" \" And if, like an Englishman, you did not dread anything in the shape of a scandal, you would like to engage in a fight with me,\" broke in the Count, now quite cool and self- possessed. \" I can appreciate your feelings and sympathize with you ; but, my dear Mr. Heriot, you and I are men of the world. We have been engaged in a little contest; you have beaten me, as I have said. And \"— he paused a moment, his features working— \" if you could fully comprehend the harm you have done a friendly State, by your gross interference, you would be quite satisfied with the affair as it stands. I wish you good night.\" He alighted, raised his hat, and turned away. Then he came back and, with an evil smirk, said, \" Forgive me ! I forgot to offer you my congratulations. You have secured a beautiful woman—and a large fortune.\" \" Get out of my sight,\" said Heriot, his fury blazing up, his hand going towards the spanner beside him. The Count laughed, raised his hat again, and disappeared in the darkness. Heriot sprang into the back of the car and —it will be forgiven him—caught Helen to him. He knew he could do nothing but wait;

732 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. and presently she recovered from the anaes- thetic. Her eyes opened with a dawning horror ; but the terror faded from them as she saw the face above her. \" You ! \" she breathed. \" Yes j it's all right,\" said Heriot, with unusual tenderness. \" Don't worry to ask questions ; just close your eyes and rest. We are going back to Portsonachan.\" \" The Count! \" she whispered, with a shudder. \" The Count has gone. Don't think of him.\" \" My grandfather ? \" Mr. Harness came to presently, and between them they succeeded in soothing him. There was no time for explanations ; indeed, both the old man and the girl were used to adven- tures, and accepted this one with a coolness and courage which roused Heriot's admira- tion. He whistled to Bowden-'s man ; Heriot put them into the car, and was for mounting beside the chauffeur ; but at a glance from Helen he changed his mind and took his place between her and her grandfather. \" Thank you,\" she said, meekly. \" It will encourage him to have you near him.\" \" And you ? \" whispered Heriot. \" And me,\" she whispered back, with downcast eyes. H^riot felt for her hand, and, getting it, held it tightly in his. Not a word was spoken until they reached the hotel, where, in the roadway, stood Bowden. \" Is it all right ? \" he grunted. \" Quite all right—thanks to you,\" responded Heriot. He was driving on to the Grey House, but he remembered that there was no one there to receive them ; remembered also the two hideous figures, which he had left at the window ; and he pulled up suddenly. \" Better stay here to-night,\" he said. \" Very well,\" said Helen, meekly. \" Mr. Heriot is right, grandfather ; we shall be better here.\" Heriot stood in the hall and watched them as they were taken upstairs, with a silent but tender regard, by the maid, who, though Bowden had disclosed nothing, guessed that something was wrong, and was full of pity and sympathy. Heriot went into the smoking-room and told Bowden the whole story; and he had scarcely finished when he heard a knock at the door. Thinking it was the maid, come to tell him how the rescued were getting on, he called out, \" Come in.\" The door opened slowly and Helen appeared. She was very pale, but her eyes were glowing. At sight of Mr. Bowden she drew back suddenly; but the old man struggled up from his chair and. muttering something about it being late, shuffled out of the room by the other door. Helen closed the door and stood looking at Heriot ; and he stood looking awkwardly at her ; for he knew that she was going to try and thank him. and. like most English-

Ho k Pigs That Fly.\" \" Blindfold Pigs Indicate Character. By GERTRUDE BACON. T cannot be denied that our character stamps itself all over us, and leaves its un- mistakable impress on even our smallest actions. Every man, woman, and child of us has his or her own and highly characteristic ways of doing things, which are like no one else's. We have our own character- istic hands, ears, and noses, which are ours alone, however much they may seem to re- semble each other's to the superficial view. We know now, some by bitter experience, that even^ our finger- prints are unique. Those who make a study of these matters can learn to argue backwards from effect to cause, and trace the tendencies, the virtues, the foibles of the inner man from his least outward manifestation. The study of handwriting is almost an exact science, defined by well- proved laws and rules. From handwriting a man's character may be read with some- thing approaching absolute precision. And if from handwriting, then, surely, yet more accurately from such an action as the drawing of a \" blindfold pig.\" For handwriting may have a good deal of artificiality about it, being so often, as it is, deliberately manu- factured or moulded on unnatural models. But it is impossible deliberately to manu- facture or copy a pig drawn with your eyes shut. From the moment you take pencil in hand and close your eyes you are bound to follow your own initiative alone. Therefore I think I may safely maintain that a careful and experienced student of character can gather much useful information from the study of an album of blindfold pigs, and even the casual and unskilled observer, turning the pages, may glean more than a hearty laugh or an amused smile from a glance at their contents. \" Specialize, specialize, and again special- ize\" is the motto of to-day. The times are gone for ever when it was possible to cover the whole ground on any one subject. Savants no longer aim at encyclopaedic know- ledge, and even the collector of blindfold pigs must specialize. Following her natural bent, the writer has endeavoured to \" make a corner\" in aviators, and the present short paper is therefore concerned solely with \" Pigs that Fly.\" Some ten years ago there came, one

734 THE STRA.\\D MAGAZINE. aeroplanes and the first men who ever successfully flew ; and long before he died (some two years ago) he was enthusiastically acclaimed, both in Europe and America, as \" the father of modern aviation.\" But he is not the only flying pioneer repre- sented in my highly-prized collection, for a few months before this the world-famous Sir Hiram Maxim had drawn for me, with his eyes shut, a pig that seems to suggest his own Maxim gun, so cunningly are its legs and entire mechanism fitted inside its shapely body with the gun-shaped muzzle, while the ears have apparently just been fired off by the force of an explosion. Nearly twenty years ago this American genius, whose name has become a household word throughout the world, turned his brain to the subject of flight, and produced a mighty flying machine which is often considered to be the first which ever left the ground. The great craft weighed over three tons, and to drive it Maxim produced a steam engine which made a new record for lightness (it was before the days of the petrol motor); and although the first flight ended dis- astrously, and the machine smashed itself up beyond repair, yet it indubitably did fly, and by so doing not only won itself immortal fame, but served to indicate the path which later inventors have followed in their successful efforts towards the conquest of the air. I claim, therefore, my collection of \" Pigs that Fly\" as not only unique, but as truly representative, and, as far as can be, complete, because it starts at the very beginning with the pioneers, the men who led the way, and whose work rendered possible the famous feats that have followed. Undoubtedly the aviator, latest child of progress in the history of the world, is the popular hero of the hour. What soldier, sailor, statesman, traveller, or potentate has ever received a more world-wide ovation than fell to the lot of Bleriot the day he flew the Channel—just over three years ago ? In truth it was a dramatic occasion. The announcement (only half believed) that one of the newly-invented aeroplanes, piloted by a splendid young sportsman, Hubert Latham, was to attempt to cross the sea between France and England ; the expectant crowds that day after day lined the cliffs at Dover ; the unpropitious weather, the long delay, the sneers of the unbelievers, the despair of the newspaper reporters. And then, suddenly, at dawn, when all the world slept, a solitary policeman on the green cliff-summit sees out at sea a small dark bird that nears and nears with incredible speed and loud roar of machinery. Almost at his feet the strange bird hovers and settles, and out there climbs stiffly, not the young semi-Englishman that he and all the country have been expecting, but a thick-set, dark-faced, hawk-nosed Frenchman, with a lame foot (he had just

'PIGS THAT FLY.\" 735 depicted in the animal he drew for these pages ? Note the firm, square body, the pointed, eager nose. The eye lies at his feet, even as the world lay at the feet of the triumphant aviator the day he flew to us across the sea. It was Bleriot's voyage over the Channel that first awakened the Englishman's interest in the new-found discovery of flight. It was the great race from London to Manchester for the Daily Mail's first ten-thousand- pound prize that finally aroused the nation to the fact and possibilities of the coming of the aeroplane. Both heroes of the historic race are repre- sented in our collection. Look first at the pig of the popular favourite, the darling of the crowd, Claude Grahame-White. The word that is written so plainly all over it is \"Success.\" the dashing curves, the been patiently, laboriously, carefully won. From tight-rope-walker, sailor, and airship mechanic his progress has been rapid and wonderful indeed ; but it has been achieved solely by ability, by patience, and the curling ears, the flourishing signature. Even the pig itself is successful beyond the usual wont, for the artist has succeeded accurately in joining the body, in accurately placing the eye. There is an easy self-confidence, an absolute self-reliance and self-possession about this animal. It knmvs it is successful and popular, even as its artist knows as he guides his machine, as if it were a veritable part of himself, above the heads of the cheering crowd who adore him. Paulhan's pig, too, has the stamp of success, but somehow it seems to suggest that more deliberate effort has been made to secure it. Every step of the modest, retiring, pleasantly-smiling Frenchman has neglecting of no possible oppor- tunity. There is not a little artistic promise about Paulhan's pig, as well as imagination and care and a just sense of pro- portion. Altogether a pig to be reckoned with. When Octave Chanute came to Europe ten years ago he found skilled men in France working—perhaps on slightly different lines — on the same problem that had occupied him and others in America — the problem of flight. In both coun- tries the solution was very near at hand, and when, in 1906, Santos-Dumont's aeroplane flew for seventy yards Europe claimed the triumph as her own. She did not know, or rather she did not believe, that America had beaten her until suddenly the mysterious brothers Wright broke their

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. twenty-seven minutes—a wonderful feat for 1909. The man who made this record for France was Roger Sommer, whose blindfold pig graces our pages. Curiously enough, it bears a most marked resemblance to the pig of Paulhan — particularly in the shape of the head and the twist of the tail, wrhich are prac- tically identical. But then in certain re- spects the men them- selves have much in common. Both are small, alert, quick of movement, of imper- turbable nerve, yet careful withal, modest and charm- ing.. Both are mag- nificent flyers, of course, and both are also inventors and constructors, for each of them has now turned his attention to the construction, rather than the mere flying, of aeroplanes, and has produced, and is pro- ducing, successful machines that bear his name. To the question, \" Who is the greatest aviator of the present day?\" only one answer can be returned— Lieutenant de Conneau, the French sailor - aviator who flies under the name of \" Andre Beaumont.\" In three great races, the three greatest tests of endurance, courage, and skill yet offered to the flying men of the world, he has come off victorious— the race from Paris to Rome, the circuit of Europe, and the circuit of Britain. The man with a record like this to his credit must be something mora than a superb flyer — many of his less successful rivals have been that—he must be possessed of the most perfect judgment and a cool- headedness that no sudden danger or unforeseen difficulty can for a moment disturb. It is to his previous training as a naval officer, and the qualities which such a calling brings forth, that Beaumont owes his success. A perfectly-balanced mind, perfectly- controlled nerve, and, above all, consummate judgment are the attributes to be sought for and found in artist and \" pig.\" In two of the three great events aforesaid Beaumont had as a worthy antagonist that dashing young Englishman, James Valentine. Readers will remem- her that out of the thirty starters for that tremendous and exacting feat, the race round the

\"PIGS THAT FLY.\" 737 credit he himself would probably find it difficult to enumerate. Was there ever a more charac- teristic animal than the pig he has drawn with his eyes shut ? Speed, dash, and go—the veriest baby can trace their unmistak- able impress. Gustav Hamel, that most beloved of aviators, darling of the crowd, favourite of his com- peers, strikes a new note with his rectangular and somewhat conventionalised \" porker.\" He cannot be said to have taken much trouble about it. With his slow, lazy smile and unruffled good nature he dashed off the few straight lines and wriggly eye that may stand as the Egyptian hieroglyphic of a pig, but which nevertheless bears the hall- mark of his personality. Apparently without trouble or effort, with perfect and smiling good- nature and absolute imperturbability, Hamel goes about his work, flies in perilous winds to prevent disappointing the crowd, takes extra- ordinary risks to uphold the honour of his country in international races (vide the Gordon-Bennett race of last year), bears that courageous lady Miss Trehawke Davies for an afternoon's flight from London to Paris or wafts her four thousand five hundred feet into the sky, carries the mails from Hendon to Windsor in impossible weather conditions —anything, in fact, that he is asked to do, ever smiling, good-natured, imperturbable— like his pig ! Look at the originality and humour of the creature (is it a pig or a heraldic griffon ?) to which T. 0. Sopwith has signed his name. Mr. Sopwith is, above all, a flyer of originality and ideas. It was the happiest thought that led him to fly one afternoon from Brooklands to Windsor, and, alighting gracefully in front of the Castle, call for a cup of afternoon tea on his highly-interested and delighted Sovereign. It was certainly original to fly one winter's day one hundred and sixty-nine miles from Brooklands into Belgium (all other aviators have been content with France for a conti- nental trip), and incidentally carry off the De Forrest four-thousand-pound prize. Bril- liant originality characterizes Sopwith, both as aviator and artist. It is worth noting how closely the pigs of Beaumont and W. Moorhoase resemble each other, particularly in the heads. This is a curious but not inexplicable fact when one compares the flying of the two men. The other day I asked a certain famous expert, who knows more about flying men and their machines than probably any man living, to sum up in a phrase, crystallize as it were. Moorhouse's genius as an aviator. \" I should say of him,\" he replied, \" that he is the man who makes a speciality of cross-country flying in very bad weather, and whose delight it is to go up in thunderstorms and dodge the lightning.\" It is in cross-country flying in

738 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. And who will deny that versatility is the watchwordof Gordon-Bell—man and blindfold pig ? This aviator, by the way, proudly boasts that he is the only man in the world to fly from Europe to Asia and back. He has done so several times—across the Bosphorus ! Better proof of his versatile genius lies in the fact that he can fly more different makes of machine than any man living. Our little haphazard collection of \"Pigs that Fly '' has begun with two pioneer constructors. It fitly closes with two more. At a time when flying was in its veriest infancy. Mr. A. V. Roe was patiently ex- perimenting with his own highly original machines. A. V. Roe was certainly one of the first three men to fly in England, and to him are due the first flights made by an \"All British\" aeroplane, accomplished, moreover, with an engine of only nine horse-power. Since these very early days he has met with the success he has so well deserved, and his \" Avros \" are among the best-known and highest esteemed of British flying machines. His pig, therefore, is the pig of a mechanical genius. Note the highly original idea of the snout, in which is em- bodied a clever notion for rooting for acorns. Last—but certainly not least—behold the pig of our dear old friend and magnificent sportsman, Mr. Cody. Cody himself writes of it, \" Evidently I was thinking of breakfast (can he have meant Bacon ?) when I drew little piggie, which I intended to be a very fat one, judging by the top tail.\" But Mr. Cody does himself less than justice. He was really, when he penned the sketch, placing on paper, however unconsciously, his own charac- teristics, and evolving a pig whose war-cry is, \" I shall get there.\" This is what Cody has said all through his romantic career, when one November night, nine years ago, he skimmed all alone across the Channel in a little boat harnessed to one of his wonderful man-lifting kites—when in January, 1909, he made the first observed flight in this country in the big aeroplane that he had constructed for the British Army— when, through long months and years of cruellest ill-luck and the jeers of a fickle and ignorant crowd, he doggedly fought his way- step by step towards success—when he flew two hundred miles on end over Laffan's Plain in the chill December morning of the last day of 1910—when he slogged along round Great Britain, the fourth and last man in (but the only man flying an all- British biplane, and one of his own design and construction to boot)in last year's great race—and. finally, when he won the Govern- ment prize of five thousand pounds on Salisbury Plain last August. \" I shall get there ! \" said Cody on these and innumerable similar occasions. \" I shall get there !\" says his sturdy, indomitable, bold, and original pig. And both are right 1

Illustrated by Will Owen. ANDSOME is as 'andsome does,\" said the night-watch- man. It's an old saying, but it's true. Give a chap good looks, and it's precious little else that is given to 'im. He's lucky when 'is good looks 'ave gorn—or partly gorn—to get a berth as night-watchman, or some other hard and bad-paid job. One drawback to a good-looking man is that he generally marries young ; not because 'e wants to, but because somebody else wants 'im to. And that ain't the worst of it: the handsomest chap I ever knew married five times, and got seven years for it. It wasn't his fault, pore chap ; he simply couldn't say \" No.\" One o' the best-looking men I ever knew was Cap'n Bill Smithers, wot used to come up here once a week with a schooner called the Wild Rose. Funny thing about 'im was he didn't seem to know about 'is good looks, and he was one o' the quietest, best-behaved men that ever came up the London river. Considering that he was mistook for me more than once, it was just as well. He didn't marry until 'e was close on forty ; and then 'e made the mistake of marrying a widder-woman. She was like all the rest of 'em—only worse. Afore she was married Copyright, 1912, butter wouldn't melt in 'er mouth, but as soon as she 'ad got her \" lines \" safe she began to make up for it. For the fust month or two 'e didn't mind it, 'e rather liked being fussed arter, but when he found that he couldn't go out for arf an hour without having 'er with 'im he began to get tired of it. Her idea was that 'e was too handsome to be trusted out alone ; and every trip he made 'e had to write up in a book, day by day, wot 'e did with himself. Even then she wasn't satisfied, and, arter saying that a wife's place was by the side of 'er husband, she took to sailing with 'im every v'y'ge. Wot he could ha' seen in 'er I don't know. I asked 'im one evening—in a roundabout way—and he answered in such a long, round- about way that I didn't know wot to make of it till I see that she was standing just behind me. listening. Arter that I heard 'er asking questions about me, but I didn't 'ave to listen: I could hear 'er twenty yards away, and singing to myself at the same time. Arter that she treated me as if I was the dirt beneath 'er feet. She never spoke to me, but used to speak against me to other people. She was always talking to them about the \" sleeping-sickness \" and things o' that kind. She said night-watchmen always made 'er think of it somehow, but she didn't know why, and she couldn't tell you if you by W. W. Jacobs.

740 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. was to ask her. The only thing I was thank- ful for was that I wasn't 'er husband. She stuck to 'im like his shadow, and I began to think at last it was a pity she 'adn't got something to be jealous about and something to occupy her mind with instead o' me. \" She ought to 'ave a lesson,\" I ses to the skipper one evening. \" Are you going to be follered about like this all your life ? If she was made to see the foolishness of 'er ways she might get sick of it.\" My idea was to send her on a wild-goose chase, and while the Wild Rose was away I thought it out. I wrote a love-letter to \"the skipper signed with the name of \" Dorothy,\" and asked 'im to meet me at Cleopatra's Needle on the Embankment at eight o'clock on Wednesday. I told 'im to look out for a tall girl (Mrs. Smithers was as short as they make 'em) with mischievous brown eyes, in a blue 'at with red roses on it. I read it over careful, and arter marking it \" Private,\" twice in front and once on the back, I stuck it down so that it could be blown open a'most, and waited for the schooner to come back. Then I gave a van-boy twopence to 'and it to Mrs. Smithers, wot was sitting on the deck alone, and tell 'er that he 'ad got a letter for Captain Smithers. I was busy with a barge wot happened to be handy at the time, but I 'card her say that she would take it and give it to 'im. When I peeped round she 'ad got the letter open and was leaning over the side to wind'ard trying to get 'er breath. Every now and then she'd give another look at the letter and open 'er mouth and gasp; but by and by she got calmer, and, arter putting it back in the envelope, she gave it a lick as though she was going to bite it, and stuck it down agin. Then she went off the wharf, and I'm blest if, five minutes arterwards, a young fellow didn't come down to the ship with the same letter and ask for the skipper. \" Who gave it to you ? \" ses the skipper, as soon as 'e could speak. \" A lady,\" ses the young fellow. The skipper waved 'im away, and then 'e walked up and down the deck like a man in a dream. \" Bad news ?\" I ses, looking up and catching 'is eye. \" No,\" he ses ; \" no. Only a note about a couple o' casks o' soda.\" He stuffed the letter in 'is pocket and sat on the side smoking till his wife came back in five minutes' time, smiling all over with good temper. \" It's a nice evening,\" she ses, \" and I think I'll just run over to Dalston and see my Cousin Joe.\" The skipper got up like a lamb and said he'd go and clean 'imself. \" You needn't come if you feel tired,\" she ses, smiling at 'im. The skipper could 'ardly believe his ears. \" I do feel tired,\" he ses. \" I've had a heavy day, and I feel more like bed than

THE UNKNOWN. 74i Mrs. Smithers made a gasping sort o' noise, but the skipper didn't answer a word. She shoved him in in front of 'er and stood over 'im while he climbed aboard. When he held out 'is hand to help 'er she struck it away. I didn't get word with 'im till five o'clock next morning, when he came up on deck with his 'air all rough and 'is eyes red for want of sleep. \" Haven't 'ad a wink all night,\" he ses, stepping on to the wharf. I gave a little cough. \" Didn't she 'ave a pleasant time at Dalston ? \" I ses. He walked a little further off from the ship. \" She didn't go there,\" he ses, in a whisper. \" You've got something on your mind,\" I ses. \" Wot is it?\" He wouldn't tell me at fust. but at last he told me all about the letter from Dorothy, and 'is wife reading it unbeknown to 'im and going to meet 'er. \"It was an awful meeting!\" he ses. \"Awful!\" I couldn't think wot to make of it. \" Was the gal there, then ? \" I ses, staring at 'im. \" No,\" ses the skipper ; \" but I was.\" \" You ? \" I ses, starting back. \" You ! Wot for ? I'm surprised at you ! I wouldn't ha' believed it of you ! \" \" I felt a bit curious,\" he ses, with a silly sort o' smile. \" But wot I can't understand is why the gal didn't turn up.\" \" I'm ashamed of you, Bill,\" I ses, very severe. \" P'r'aps she did,\" he ses, 'arf to 'imself, \" and then saw my missis standing there waiting. P'r'aps that was it.\" \" Or p'r'aps it was somebody 'aving a game with you,\" I ses. \" You're getting old, Bill,\" he ses, very short. \" You don't understand. It's some pore gal that's took a fancy to me, and it's my dooty to meet 'er and tell her 'ow things are.\" He walked off with his 'ead in the air, and if 'e took that letter out once and looked at it. he did five times. \" Chuck it away,\" I ses, going up to him. \" Certainly not,\" he ses, folding it up careful and stowing it away in 'is breast- pocket. \" She's took a fancy to me, and it's

74« THE STRAXD MAGAZINE. away, but she was hardly made fast afore I 'ad it all over agin and agin. \"Are you sure there's been no more letters ? \" he ses. \" Sartain,\" I ses. \"That's right,\" he ses; \"that's right. And you 'aven't seen her walking up and down'? \" \" No,\" I ses. \" 'Avc you been on the look-out ? \" he ses. \" I don't suppose a nice gal like that would come and shove her 'ead in at the gate. Did you look up and down the road ? \" \" Yes,\" I ses. \" I've fair made my eyes ache watching for her.\" \" I can't understand it,\" he ses. \" It's a mystery to me. unless p'r'aps she's been taken ill. She must 'ave seen me here in the fust place ; and she managed to get hold of my name. Mark my words, I shall 'ear from her agin.\" \" 'Ow do you know ? \" I ses. \" I feel it \"ere,\" he ses, very solemn, laying his 'and on his chest. I didn't know wot to do. Wot with 'is foolishness and his missis's temper, I see I 'ad made a mess of it. He told me she had 'ardly spoke a word to 'im for two days, and when I said—being a married man myself—that it might ha' been worse, 'e said I didn't know wot I was talking about. I did a bit o' thinking arter he 'ad gorn aboard agin. I dursn't tell 'im that I 'ad wrote the letter, but I thought if he 'ad one or two more he'd see that someone was 'aving a game with 'im, and that it might do 'im good. Besides which it was a little amusement for me. Arter everybody was in their beds asleep . I sat on a clerk's stool in the office and wrote 'im another letter from Dorothy. I called 'im \" Dear Bill,\" and I said 'ow sorry I was that I 'adn't had even a sight of 'im lately, having been laid up with a sprained ankle and 'ad only just got about agin. I asked 'im to meet me at Cleopatra's Needle at eight o'clock, and said that I should wear the blue 'at with red roses. It was a very good letter, but I can see now that I done wrong in writing it. I was going to post it to 'im, but, as I couldn't find an envelope without the name of the blessed wharf on it, I put it in my pocket till I got 'ome. I got 'ome at about a quarter to seven, and slept like a child till pretty near four. Then I went downstairs to 'ave my dinner. The moment I opened the door I see there was something wrong. Three times my missis licked 'er lips afore she could speak. Her face 'ad gone a dirty white colour, and she was leaning forward with her 'ands on her 'ips, trembling all over with temper. \" Is my dinner ready ? \" I ses, easy-likd \" 'Cos I'm ready for it.\" \" I—I wonder I don't tear you limb from limb,\" she ses, catching her breath. \" Wot's the matter ? \" I ses.

THE UNKNOWN. 743 \"Look 'ere,\" I ses, \"if you're going to talk about that forward hussy wot's been writing to you, I ain't. I'm sick and tired of 'er.\" \"Forward hussy!\" he ses. \" Forward hussy ! \" And afore I could drop my broom he gave me a punch in the jaw that pretty near broke it. \" Say another word against her,\" he ses, \"and I'll knock your ugly 'ead off. How dare you insult a lady ? \" I thought I should 'ave gone crazy at fust, but I went off into the office without a word. Some men would ha' knocked 'im down for it, but 1 made allowances for 'is state o' mind, and I stayed inside until I see 'im get aboard agin. He was sitting on deck when I went out, and his missis too, but neither of 'em spoke a word. I picked up my broom and went on sweeping, when suddenly I 'eard a voice at the gate I thought I knew, and in came my wife. \" Ho ! \" she ses, calling out. \" Ain't you gone to meet that gal at Cleopatra's Needle yet ? You ain't going to keep 'er waiting, are you ? '•' \" H'sh I \" I ses. \" H'sh! yourself,\" she ses, shouting. \" I've done nothing to be ashamed of. I don't go to meet other people's husbands in a blue 'at with red roses. / don't write 'em love-letters, and say ' H'sh I' to my wife when she ventures to make a remark about it. I may work myself to skin and bone for a man wot's old enough to know better, but I'm not going to be trod on. Dorothy, indeed ! I'll Dorothy 'er if I get the chance.\" Mrs. Smithers, wot 'ad been listening with all her ears, jumped up, and so did the skipper, .- - WOT 'AVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?' SHE SES, WITH A SCREAM.\" and Mrs. Smithers came to the side in two steps. \" Did you say ' Dorothy,' ma'am ? \" she ses to my missis. \" I did,\" ses my wife. \" She's been writing to my 'usband.\" \" It must be the same one,\" ses Mrs.

744 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" Wot d'ye mean by it ? \" he ses. \" Wot d'ye mean by 'aving letters from Dorothy and not telling me about it ? \" \" I can't help 'aving letters any more than you can,\" I ses. \" Now p'r'aps you'll understand wot I meant by calling 'er a forward hussy.\" \" Fancy 'er writing to you !\" he ses, wrinkling 'is forehead. \" Pph t She must be crazy.\" \" P'r'aps it ain't a gal at all,\" I ses. \" My belief is somebody is 'aving a game with us.\" she'd got me in 'er power. She took two-and- tenpence—all I'd got—and then she ordered me to go and get a cab. \" Me and this lady are going to meet her,\" she ses, sniffing at me. \" And tell 'er wot we think of 'er,\" ses Mrs. Smithers, sniffing too. \" And wot we'll do to 'er,\" ses my missis. I left 'em standing side by side, looking at the skipper as if 'e was a waxwork?, while I went to find a cab. When I came back they was in the same persition, and 'e was smoking with 'is eves shut. ' \"'I WANT SOME MONEY,' SKS MY MISSIS, COMING BACK WITH MKS. SMITHBRS \" \" Don't be a fool,\" he ses. \" I'd like to see the party as would make a fool of me like that. Just see 'im and get my 'ands on him. He wouldn't want to play any more games.\" It was no good talking to 'im. He was 'arf crazy with temper. If I'd said the letter was meant for 'im he'd 'ave asked me wot I meant by opening it and getting 'im into more trouble with 'is missis, instead of giving it to 'im on the quiet. I just stood and suffered in silence, and thought wot a lot of 'arm eddication did for people. \" I want some money,\" ses my missis, coming back at last with Mrs. Smithers. That was the way she always talked when They . went off. side by side in the cab, both of 'em sitting bolt-upright, and only turning their 'eads at the last moment to give us looks we didn't want. \" I don't wish her no 'arm,\" ses the skipper, arter thinking for a long time. \" Was that the fust letter you 'ad from 'er. Bill ? \" \" Fust and last,\" I ses, grinding my teeth. \" I hope they won't meet 'er, pore thing,\" he ses. \" I've been married longer than wot you have,\" I ses, \"and I tell you one thing. It won't make no difference to us whether they do or they don't,\" I ses. And it didn't.

THE CASE OF Examining mole sm.d.11 of his tack Vol. xliv.-66 Copyright, THE PLAIN MAN. First Article : \" ALL MEANS AND NO END.\" By ARNOLD BENNETT. Illustrated by Alfred Leete. I. THE plain man on a plain day wakes up, slowly or quickly according to his tem- perament, and greets the day in a mental posture which might be thus expressed in words:— \" Oh, Lord ! Another day ! What a grind ! \" If you ask me whom I mean by the plain man, my reply is that I mean almost every man. I mean you. I certainly mean me. I mean the rich and the poor, the successful and the unsuc- cessful, the idle and the diligent, the luxurious and the austere. For, what with the limits of digestion, the practical impossibility of wearing two neckties at once, the insecurity of invest- ments, the responsibilities of wealth and of success, the exhaustingness of the search for pleasure, and the cheapness of travel—the real differences between one sort of plain man and another are slight in these times. (And indeed they always were slight.) The plain man has a lot to do before he may have his breakfast—and he must do it. The tyrannic routine begins instantly he is out of bed. To lave limbs, to shave the jaw, to select clothes and assume them—these things are naught. He must exercise his muscles—all his muscles equally and scientifically—with the aid of a text-book and of diagrams on a large card ; which card he often hides if he is expecting visitors in his chamber, for he will not always confess to these exercises; he would have you believe that he alone, in a world of simpletons, is above the faddism of the hour; he is as ashamed of these exercises as of a good resolution, and when his wife happens to burst in on them he will pretend to be doing some common act, such as walking across the room or examining a mole in the small of his back. And yet he will not abandon them. They have an empire over him. To drop them would be to be craven, 1912, by Arnold Bennett.

740 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. inefficient. The text-book asserts that they will form one of the pleasantest parts of the day, and that he will learn to look forward to them. He soon learns to look forward to them, but not with glee. He is relieved and proud when they are over for the day. He would enjoy his breakfast, thanks to the strenuous imitation of diagrams, were it not that, in addition to being generally in a hurry, he is preoccupied. He is preoccupied by the sense of doom, by the sense that he has set out on the appointed path and dare not stray from it. The train or the tram-car or the automobile (same thing) is waiting for him, irrevocable, undeniable, inevitable. He wrenches himself away. He goes forth to his fate, as to the dentist. And just as he would enjoy his breakfast in the home, so he would enjoy his newspaper and cigarette in the vehicle, were it not for that ever-present sense of doom. The idea of business grips him. It matters not what the business is. Business is everything, and everything is business. He reaches his office — whatever his office is. He is in his office. He must plunge—he plunges. The day has genuinely begun now. The appointed path stretches straight in front of him, for five, six, seven, eight hours. Oh ! but he chose his vocation. He likes> it. It satisfies his instincts. It is his life. (So you say.) Well, does he like it ? Does it satisfy his instincts ? Is it his life ? If truly the answer is affirmative, he is at any rate not conscious of the fact. He is aware of no ecstasy. What is the use of being happy unless he knows he is happy ? Some men know that they are happy in the hours of business, but they are few. The majority are not, and the bulk of the majority do not even pretend to be. The whole attitude of the average plain man to business implies that business is a nuisance, scarcely miti- gated. With what secret satisfaction he anticipates that visit to the barber's in the middle of the morning ! With what gusto he hails the arrival of an unexpected inter- rupting friend! With what easement he decides that he may lawfully put off some task till the morrow ! Let him hear a band or a fire-engine in the street, and he will go to the window with the eagerness of a child or of a girl-clerk. If he were working at golf the bands of all the regiments of Hohen- zollern would not make him turn his head, nor the multitudinous blazing of fireproof skyscrapers. No ! Let us be honest. Busi- ness constitutes the steepest, roughest league of the appointed path. Were it otherwise, business would not be universally regarded as a means to an end. Moreover, when the plain man gets home again, does his wife's face say to him : \" I know that your real life is now over for the day, and I regret for your sake that you have to return here. I know that the powerful interest of your life is gone. But I am glad that you have had five, six, seven, or eight

THE CASE OF THE PLAIN MAN. the appointed path nor lift the doom. Dinner is finished ere he has begun to recover from the varied shock of home. Then his daughter may negligently throw him a few moments of charm- ing cajolery. He may gossip in simple idleness with his wife. He may gambol like any infant with the dog. A yawn. The shadow of the next day is upon him. He must not stay up too late, lest the vigour demanded by the next day should be impaired. Besides, he does not want to stay up. Naught is quite interesting enough to keep him up. And bed, too, is part of the appointed, unescapable path. To bed he goes, carrying ten million preoccupations. And of his state of mind the kindest that can be said is that he is philosophic enough to hope for the best. And after the night he wakes up, slowly or quickly according to his temperament, and greets the day with :— \" Oh, Lord ! Another day ! What a grind ! \" II. THE interesting point about the whole situa- tion is that the plain man seldom or never asks himself a really fundamental question about that appointed path of his—that path from which he dare not and could not wander. Once, perhaps in a parable, the plain man travelling met another traveller. And the plain man demanded of the traveller :— \" Where are you going to ? \" The traveller replied :— \" Now I come to think of it, I don't know.\" The plain man was ruffled by this insensate answer. He said :— \" But you are travelling ? \" The traveller replied :— \" Yes.\" The plain man, beginning to be annoyed, said :— \" Have you never asked yourself where you are going to ? \" Said the traveller :— \" I have not.\" \" But do you mean to tell me,\" protested the plain man, now irritated, \" that you are putting yourself to all this trouble, peril, and expense of trains and steamers without having asked your- self where you are going to ? \" \" It never occurred to me,\" the traveller admitted. \" I just had to start and I started.\" Whereupon the plain man was, as too often with us plain men, staggered and deeply affronted by the illogical absurdity of human nature. \" Was it conceivable,\" he thought, \" that this traveller, presumably in his senses \" etc. (You are familiar with the tone and the style, being a plain man yourself.) And he gave way to moral indignation. He ruNcl not ained for this

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. It occurred to me,\" I'm goirv to . Ttmbuc'too their reports enthusiastic ? Now I must here, in parentheses, firmly state that I happen to be a member of the Society for the Suppression of Moral Indignation. As such, I object to the plain man's moral indigna- tion against the traveller ; and I think that a liability to moral indignation is one of the plain man's most serious defects. As such, my endea- vour is to avoid being staggered and deeply- affronted, or even surprised, by human vagaries. There are too many plain people who are always rediscovering human nature—its turpitudes, fatuities, unreason. They live amid human nature as in a chamber of horrors. And yet, after all these years, we surely ought to have grown used to human nature ! It may be extremely vile — that is not the point. The point is that it constitutes our environment, from which we cannot escape alive. The man who is capable of being deeply affronted by his inevitable environment ought to have the pluck of his convictions and shoot himself. The Society would with pleasure pay his funeral expenses and contribute to the support of his wife and children. Such a man is, without knowing it, a dire enemy of true progress, which can only be planned and executed in an atmosphere from which heated moral superiority is absent. I offer these parenthetical remarks as a guarantee that I shall not over-righteously sneer at the plain man for his share in the sequel to the conversation with the traveller. For there was a sequel to the conversation. \" As questions are being asked, where are you going to ? \" said the traveller. The plain man answered with assurance :— \" Oh, I know exactly where I'm going to. I'm going to Timbuctoo.\" \" Indeed ! \" said the traveller. \" And why are you going to Timbuctoo ? \" Said the plain man : \" I'm going because it's the proper place to go to. Every self-respecting person goes to Timbuctoo.\" \" But why ? \" Said the plain man :— \" Well, it's supposed to be just about unique. You're contented there. You get what you've always wanted. The climate's wonderful.\" \" Indeed ! \" said the traveller again. \" Have you met anybody who's been there ? \" \" Yes. I've met several. I've met a lot. And I've heard from people who are there.\" \" And are their reports enthusiastic ? \" \" Well \" The plain man hesitated. \" Answer me. Are their reports enthusi- astic ? \" the traveller insisted, rather bullyingly. \" Not very,\" the plain man admitted. \" Some say it's very disappointing. And some say it's much like other towns. Everyone say* the climate has grave drawbacks.\"

THE CASE OF THE PLAIN MAN. 749 The traveller demanded :— \" Then why are you going there ? \" Said the plain man :— \" It never occurred to me to ask why. As I say, Timbuctoo's supposed to be \" \" Supposed by whom ? \" \" Well—generally supposed,\" said the plain man, limply. \" Not by the people who've been there ? \" the traveller persevered, with obstinacy. \" Perhaps not,\" breathed the plain man. \" But it's generally supposed \" He faltered. There was a silence, which was broken by the traveller, who inquired :— \" Any interesting places en route 1\" \" I don't know. I never troubled about that,\" said the plain man. \" But do you mean to tell me,\" the traveller exclaimed, \" that you are putting yourself to all this trouble, peril, and expense of trains and steamers and camel-back without having asked yourself why, and without having satisfied your- self that the thing was worth while, and without having even ascertained the most agreeable route ?\" Said the plain man, weakly : \" I just had to ;tart for somewhere, so I started for Timbuctoo.\" Said the traveller : \" Well, I'm of a forgiving disposition. Shake hands.\" III. THE two individuals in the foregoing parable were worrying each other with fundamental questions. And what makes the parable un- realistic is the improbability of real individuals ever doing any such thing. If the plain man, for instance, has almost ceased to deal in funda- mental questions in these days, the reason is not difficult to find. The reason lies in the modern perception that fundamental questions are getting very hard to answer. In a former time a dogmatic answer was ready waiting for every fundamental question. You asked the question, but before you asked it you knew the answer, and so there was no argument and nearly no anxiety. In that former time a mere child could glance at your conduct and tell you with certainty exactly what you would be doing and how you would be feeling ten thousand years hence, if you persisted in the said conduct. But knowledge has advanced since then, and the inconvenience of increased knowledge is that it intensifies the sense of ignorance, with the result that, though we know immensely more than our grandfathers knew, we feel im- mensely more ignorant than they ever felt. They were, indeed, too ignorant to be aware of ignorance—which is perhaps a comfortable state. Thus the plain man nowadays shirks More ignorant th&n. 'they ever felt Something rartKer tiresome The misery of non. - achievement

75° THE STRAND MAGAZINE. fundamental questions. And assuredly no member of the Society for the Suppression of Moral Indignation shall blame him. All fundamental questions resolve them- selves finally into the following assertion and inquiry about life : \" I am now engaged in something rather tiresome. What do I stand to gain by it later on ? \" That is the basic query. It has forms of varying importance. In its supreme form the word \" eternity \" has to be employed. And the plain man is, to-day, so sensitive about this supreme form of the question that, far from asking and trying to answer it, he can scarcely bear to hear it even discussed — I mean discussed with candour. In practice a frank discussion of it usually tempts him to exhibitions of extraordinary heat and bitterness, and wisdom is thereby but obscured. Therefore he prefers the disadvantage of leaving it alone to the dissatisfaction of attempting to deal with it. The disadvantage of leaving it alone is obvious. Existence is, and must be, a com- promise between the claims of the moment and the claims of the future—and how can that compromise be wisely established if one has not somehow made up one's mind about the future ? It cannot. But—I repeat—I would not blame the plain man. I would only just hint to him, while respecting his sensitiveness, that the present hour is just as much a part of eternity as another hour ten thousand years off. The second—the next most important— form of the fundamental question embraces the problem of old age. All plain men will admit, when faithfully cross-examined, a sort of belief that they are on their way to some Timbuctoo situate in the region of old age. It may be the Timbuctoo of a special ambition realized, or the Timbuctoo of luxury, or the Timbuctoo of material security, or the Tim- buctoo of hale health, or the Timbuctoo of knowledge, or the Timbuctoo of power, or even the Timbuctoo of a good conscience. It is anyhow a recognizable and definable Timbuctoo. And the path leading to it is a straight, wide thoroughfare, clearly visible for a long distance ahead. The theory of the mortal journey is simple and seldom challenged. It is a twofold theory —first that the delight of achievement will compensate for the rigours and self-denials of the route, and second that the misery of non- achievement would outweigh the immediate pleasures of dallying* If this theory were not indestructible, for reasons connected with the secret nature of humanity, it would orobably have been destroyed long ago by the mere cumulative battering of experience. For the earth's surface is everywhere thickly dotted with old men who have achieved ambition, old men drenched in luxury, old men as safe as Mont Blanc from overthrow, old men with the health of camels, old men who know more than anybody ever knew before, old men whose nod can ruin a thousand miles of railroad, and old men with consciences of pure snow ; but

THE CASE OF THtL PLAIN MAN. is a compromise between the claims of the present and the claims of the future the pre- sent must be considered, and the plain man ought surely to ask himself the fundamental question in such a form as the following : \" I am now—this morning—engaged in something rather tiresome. What do I stand to gain by it this evening, to-morrow, this week—next week ? \" In this form the fundamental question, once put, can be immediately answered by experience and by experiment. But does the plain man put it ? I mean— does he put it seriously and effectively ? I think that very often, if not as a general rule, he does not. He may—in fact he does—gloomily and savagely mutter: \" What pleasure do I get out of life ? \" But he fails to insist on a clear answer from himself, and even if he obtains a clear answer—even if he makes the candid admis- sion, \" No pleasure,\" or \" Not enough pleasure \" —even then he usually does not insist on modify- ing his life in accordance with the answer. He goes on ignoring all the interesting towns and oases on the way to his Timbuctoo. Excessively uncertain about future joy, and too breathlessly preoccupied to think about joy in the present, he just drives obstinately ahead, rather like a person in a trance. Singular conduct for a plain man priding himself on common sense ! For the case of the plain man, conscientious and able, can only too frequently be summed up thus: Faced with the problem of existence, which is the problem of combining the largest possible amount of present satisfaction with the largest possible amount of security in the future, he has educated himself generally, and he has educated himself specially for a particular profession or trade ; he has adopted the profes- sion or trade, with all its risks and responsi- bilities—risks and responsibilities which often involve the felicity of others; he has bound himself to it for life, almost irrevocably ; he labours for it so many hours a day, and it occu- pies his thoughts for so many hours more. Further, in the quest of satisfaction, he has taken a woman to wife and has had children.. And here it is well to note frankly that his prime object in marrying was not the woman's happiness but his own, and that the children came, not in order that they might be jolly little creatures, but as extensions of the father's individuality. The home, the environment gradually con- structed for these secondary beings, constitutes another complex organization, which he super- imposes on the complex organization of his pro- fession or trade, and his brain has to carry and vitalize the two of them. All his energies are absorbed, and they are absorbed so utterly that once a year he is obliged to take a holiday lest he Cannot Keeps him. on. the trot pleasure do I tout oflifirf Too braxthksbly pre-occupied to think about joy

752 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Gets the same satisfaction. It Complex and should break down, and even the organization of * . _i .. the holiday is complex and exhausting. Now assuming—a tremendous assumption !— that by all this he really is providing security for the future, what conscious direct, personal satisfaction in the present does the onerous pro- gramme actually yield ? I admit that it yields the primitive satisfaction of keeping body and soul together. But a Hottentot in a kraal gets the same satisfaction at less expense. I admit also that it ought theoretically to yield the con- scious satisfaction which accompanies any sus- tained effort of the faculties. I deny that in fact it does yield this satisfaction, for the reason that the man is too busy ever to examine the treasures of his soul. And what else does it yield ? For what other immediate end is the colossal travail being accomplished ? Well, it may, and does, occur that the plain man is practising physical and intellectual calis- thenics, and running a vast business and sending ships and men to the horizons of the earth, and keeping a home in a park, and oscillating like a rapid shuttle daily between office and home, and lying awake at nights, and losing his eyesight and his digestion, and staking his health, and risking misery for the beings whom he cherishes, and enriching insurance companies, and pro- viding joy-rides for nice young women whom he has never seen—and all his present profit there- from is a game of golf with a free mind once a fortnight, or half an hour's intimacy with his wife and a free mind once a week or so, or a ten minutes' duel with that daughter of his and a free mind on an occasional evening ! Nay, it may occur that after forty years of incessant labour, in answer to an inquiry as to where the genuine conscious fun comes in, he has the right only to answer: \" Well, when I have time, I take the dog out for a walk. I enjoy larking with the dog.\" The estimable plain man, with his horror of self-examination,- is apt to forget the immediate end of existence in the means. And so much so, that when the first distant end—that of a secure old age—approaches achievement, he is incapable of admitting it to be achieved, and goes on worry- ing and worrying about the means—from simple habit! And when he does admit the achieve- ment of the desired end, and abandons the means, he has so badly prepared himself to relish the desired end that the mere change kills him ! His epitaph ought to read : \" Here lies the plain man of common sense, whose life was all means and no end.\" A remedy will be worth finding. The second article, entitled \" The Taste Jjr Pleasure,\" will appear next month.