The Strand 1913-6 Vol_XLV №270 June mich

652 THE STRAND MAGAZINE* \"CRITICISM STRICTLY LIMITED TO UNSTINTED PRAISE.\" of opinion concerning the characters and bodies and souls of all such outside critics as dare to differ from me or express dis- approval of my work. In a word, she should be prepared to find herself in double harness with a wayward, whimsical creature of uncertain temper, for ever kicking over the traces. Perhaps the above explains the fact that I am a bachelor. W. W. JACOBS. When I have had more experience I may be able to give a comprehensive description of the kind of woman a man likes. At present I like so many kinds that it is impossible. Joteph Hocking. Photo. \\.\\ ,1. Weston & Son; Frankfort Monrr Photo, by J. Riixm-H i Sons : Mix Pemlierton, Photo, by Bajmno: Claude Aifcr-v. Robert iii.li.-ii-, anil Tom Uiillun, Phutoe, br Elliott & Fry; Coulnon Koi-nnli.-in. I'Imi-. l.v Kt>nt & I.'uvy ; Tviuple ThunUm. Phi>to. bj Klor«ac« Vamliuuin ; W. D. M . j ». 11, Photo, by O. \\ .in.li k.

POPULAR PICTURES OF THE YEAR BARBARA, D.WGHTKR OF F. M. FRY, ESQ. By K. CADOGAN Cowpi n, A. K A. ./ at Ike Koi/al Academy.

11. THE STRAND MAGAZINE. HEN deciding as to what type of painting one may justly apply the term \" one of the popular pictures of the year\" one must naturally be guided by certain well- defined pictorial qualities. Technique is, of course, the first consideration in the eyes of an artist, though from a popular point of view there must be the power of arresting instant attention, not by Futurist or Cubist methods, but by the ability to depict on canvas a scene that not only makes a direct appeal to the artistic sense, but is capable of taking a strong hold on the imagination. A good \" subject \" picture, in fact, one which tells a story or else proclaims that \" one touch of nature makes the whole world kin.\" Into the latter category falls the painting, by Mr. F. Cadogan Cowper, A.R.A., of Barbara, daughter of F. M. Fry, Esq., in this year's Academy. This is a finely-painted picture of purely domestic interest, just a baby staring in wonder at a beautiful big cat. Who is there who could resist the winsome charm of Mr. Cowper's extremely youthful \" sitter \" ? Mr. G. A. Storey, who has long been a favourite with the general picture-loving public, has also at Burlington House a painting dealing with a familiar, homely subject. The title, \" Her First Letter,\" explains itself. Mr. J. Lomax has painted many a stirring picture, but it is seldom that he has exceeded in dramatic interest the gambling scene we next reproduce. \" The Last Deal \" is the title, and realism the predominant note. The whole story impresses itself vividly on the imagination at once—there has been hish play with the cards, hot words, a bitter quarrel, and a tragic ending. Another subject, \" Rose Mary and the Bcrylstone,\" by Mr. A. C. Cooke, lacks nothing in dramatic intensity- The theme is from Rossetti's poem, \" Rose Mary,\" and depicts the doomed girl before the altar and the bcrylstone, the magic crystal which showed her a false picture of her lover's fate. By reason of a succession of what have been termed \" problem pictures,\" the Hon. John Collier has won for himself a very wide popularity, and it is s.afe to say that his work is as eagerly looked for at the Academy as that

POPULAR PICTURES OF TME YEAR. 111.

IV. THE STRAND MAGAZINE. 'ROSE MARY AND THE HERYLSTONE.\" By A. C. COOKE. Ezhtbtial at tltf livuul Academy. of any artist. In 1905 the most-disrusscd picture of the year was his \" The Cheat,\" and since then there have been \" Mariage de Convenance \" and \" The Sentence of Death.\" This year we have \"A Fallen Idol,\" next reproduced. At first glance our readers will probably sum this up as depicting an erring wife kneeling at the side of her husband in all the agony of a pitiful confession. And in the look of hopeless sorrow on the young husband's face they will doubtless detect the shattering of a man's happiness and his faith in all he held most clear. A second glance, and a very different solution may present itself. Maybe the man is the wrongdoer and the young wife, bowed down with grief—her idol fallen— kneels at his side, ready, perhaps, to forgive. Another picture that is bound to attract attention is \" St. Christopher,\" by Miss E. F. Brickdale, A.R.W.S. Handled in a strong, masterly style, Miss Brickdale's picture deals with the legend of St. Christopher's journey across the water carrying the child Christ on bis back. Mr. James Clark, R.I., has an altogether delightful picture at the Royal Institute of Painters in Watcr-Colours this year. He calls it \" The Incoming Tide,\" a tide that has brought with it a crowd of jolly-looking Water-babies, painted in the artist's happiest vein. At the same galleries Mr. W. Rainey, R.I., exhibits his cleverly executed water-colour, \"Sanctuary,\" a picture lhat tdls its own story in the attitudes and intense expressions on the faces of the refugees, and also in the figure of the monk, cross in hand, keeping their pursuers at bay. Miss I. L. Gloag, R.O.I., has won fame in the Art world by reason of her strong technique and fine colour effects, and she is worthily represented in this year's Academy by her picture \" The Choice.\" The motif lies in the choice to be made between the beautiful embroidered shawl with which the standing figure is draped and the several others shown. A looking-glass on the wall shows an old lady as an interested spectator.

POPULAR PICTURES OF THE YEAR. •A FALLEN IDOL.\" >it l!\"- Rtiyul Academy. By Tnii Ho.s. JOHN COI.I.IKK.

VI. THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \"ST. CHRISTOPHER.\" Eilaliittd at Ik- R'lyal .1, ,.,/,• i,.s. lly Miss K. F. BKICKDALK, A.K.W.S.

POPULAR PICTURES OF THE YEAR. vii. t -. Im r .- - • '• • • ,' •THE INCOMING TIDE.\" By JAMKS CLARK, R.I. EzliibUed at the Hanal laitUult of Paiaten « \\Vater-Coloitrt. •THE CHOICE.\" K:'liil.,!,:l at tlic Royal Academy. By Miss I. L. GLOAC, K.O.J.

Vlll. THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

\"I HE LITTLE GROUP STOOD STILL FOR A MOMENT, TO ACCUSTOM THKIR EYES TO THE DARKNESS.\" THE DIVIDING LINE. By FRANK E. VERNEY. Illustrated by Christopher Clarke! R.I. HE dividing line between sheer funk and reckless pluck,\" asserted the little captain of Sappers, \" is very thin.\" \" On the contrary,\" re- torted Major Helton, of the \" Fifth,\" almost angrily, \" it couldn't be wider. A man is either a coward, or he isn't. And there's an end of it.\" There was a murmur of agreement from the brown-faced, khaki-clad listeners, and one man, tall, straight, and young, with the two stars of a senior subaltern on his shoulder and the Egyptian ribbon on his breast, rose from his seat and began buckling on his belt and sword. \" There's as much difference,\" concluded the major, \" between the two as there is— between Tracey here and—a farmyard chicken.\" There was a general laugh, and Tracey's ears flushed as he tightened up his belt. \" Do you think,\" he asked the Sapper, \" we are any nearer a scrap up here ? \" Everyone eagerly awaited the answer, for the little man had only come up from the main line an hour before. \" Not much ; though there were signs of Dutchmen down at Wetersdorp.\"

654 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" Bad luck ! \" commented Tracey, briefly, picking up his waterproof. \" You're bloodthirsty beggars,\" growled the weary Sapper. \" You don't know when you're well off. You've got the best camp on the whole line; you've bagged this yeomanry kit to keep you comfortable\"—he pointed to the dripping canvas of the large mess-tent, illumined by sputtering oil lamps that swung from the ridge-pole—\" the whole battalion is bedded down like a summer camp at home—and yet you're grousing ! \" The major smiled, and there was pride in his face as he said :— \" The ' Fifth ' are not out exactly for their health, are they, boys ? \" But the officers of the \" Fifth \" had become dubious on the point. It did not appear that either the G.O.C. in C. or the Boers believed they were there for the detriment of anyone else's health. For several months the com- mandeered canvas of the '• Fifth's \" lines had reverberated to forceful observations regard- ing Line of Communication work and an enemy who did not come near, and \" scrapping,\" which every corps got but the \" Fifth.\" And not the least emphatic and earnest of these \" grousings \" were \" Dreadnought \" Tracey's, as they called him in B Company. Tracey lifted the dripping flap of the tent and stepped out into the black darkness, followed by several of the others. Baadjste Valley sloped gently away from them along five miles of rocky river in a great, kopje- guarded basin, to the rolling veldt, alon^ which had been laid, by tireless men in khaki, the double line of rails that fed the Western Advance. Sheltered on either side by a bulwark of hills lay the comfortable lines of the \" Fifth\" and the Sappers' temporary depot, the whole forming an outlying picket, as it were, to guard the western loop of the Line of Communication, and to hold the western flank against a possible visit from De Wet's flying five thousand. The little group stood still for a minute, to accustom their eyes to the darkness. Just below them, half a stone's throw, lay the men's lines, luxurious in complete camp equipment and comparative leisure. In most of the tents could be seen the glimmer of lights, silhouetting the occupants on the wet canvas. From one tent, which appeared to contain twice the regulation number of tenants, came the strains of \" Home, Sweet Home,\" rendered on a mouth-organ. \" Fine targets for snipers,\" remarked a young subaltern. \" A rabbit couldn't pass our pickets on the hills,\" answered Tracey, \" and we're absolutely ' doggo ' in this basin.\" \" There's not a Dutchman within two days' march,\" contributed another. \" They're awake up at the signalling post all right,\" observed the adjutant, who had come out with the others. \" How many of you fellows can read the message ? \" he inquired.

THE DIVIDING LINE. 655 pockets and opened it, dis- closing a bundle of letters and a photograph. He looked hard at the photo- graph for half a minute, and then he stood it on the packing-case near the light, in a slit that had evidently been made for the purpose. And while he got together his compass, revolver, haversack, water- bottle, etc., his eyes were constantly turned to the photograph. It'was the portrait of a girl, young, slim, and beautiful, whose lovely, appealing face looked out of the photograph as though alive. When Tracey had com- pleted his preparations he took up the photograph and stood staring at it \" HIS EYES WERE CONSTANTLY TURNED TO THt PHOTOGRAPH.

656 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. again. Slowly he turned it over. On the back, in a large, girlish handwriting, was written: \" Come safe back to me, my beloved. I shall not know peace again until your face bends over me and I look into your dear, brave eyes. For the love of Heaven, come back to me ! \" The words \" come back to me \" were large and dominant. It was a girl's heart speaking. Tracey swallowed something, and then, almost fiercely, he put the photograph back in its oilskin wrapper and replaced it in his pocket. But he carefully buttoned the flap, and there was an unfathomable look in the steel-blue of his eyes, and his clear-cut face was rigid as he blew out the candle. When Tracey re-entered the mess-tent a few minutes later the colonel was seated at a trestle table, with Major Belton on his right, and all the officers who were not out with the pickets stood around. He gave a friendly- smile to Tracey as the latter entered. \" Gentlemen,\" said the colonel, shortly, \" you've all heard that at last we are going to get something that we have all been waiting for. The enemy are executing a movement which the G.O.C. in C. anticipated months ago when he sent us here. As you know, we are guarding an important and vulnerable strategic point of the Line of Communication, and our latest instructions are to hold it at any cost. I doubt if the G.O.C. realized the possibility of an attack on such a large scale, but that makes no difference, and will make no difference, to us. It's our business to keep the enemy out of this valley, and,\" he added, with pride, \" I think the ' Famous Fifth,' as they call us, will do it, or—cease to be. The issue is grave, but it is our chance. Mr. Tracey, B Company will be in the centre of the vulnerable point \"—all crowded round to the large map on the table, where the colonel's finger was pointing—\" that is, where Number One Post is.\" When the colonel had finished his instruc- tions he turned again to Tracey. \" Tracey,\" he commanded, \" you will please repeat my orders to Captain Maude.\" Tracey closed his notebook. \" And,\" added the old colonel, with his friendly smile, \"it is needless for me to say- that I believe the honour of the regiment could not be in safer keeping than ' Dread- nought' Tracey's, as B Company call you.\" Later, when Tracey stood in front of a line of men on the sodden space in front of the orderly tent, superintending the bestowal of many squat boxes of ammunition, amidst the murmur of half-repressed excitement and the clatter of rifle-bolts, and cartridges tumbling into many leather pouches, the colonel's words still rang in his ears, and he would have gone to death itself, as the men would have followed him, for the sake of the \" Fifth \" and its loved chief. At four next morning the sun peeped over the ridges into the zigzag trenches and began to instil warmth into the cold, damp forms of

THE DIVIDING LINE. 657 that flung up earth and chips of rock. Shrap- nel ! The curtain was up. Tracey was on his feet, with his glasses levelled over the breastworks. \" Four thousand yards, and the range to a tick,\" he said to the sergeant on his left. \" Keep well under, the front men,\" he com- manded, quietly. \" No moving about, and, above all, no smoking. We don't want to give away more than we can help.\" The words were repeated down the lines by the N.C.O.'s with various additions. \" That's a smeller-out, sir,\" said the ser- geant. \" They're watching with their glasses, and if they see as much as a cap button, we shall have it like fury.\" There was no lethargy in the position now. \" I's awaiting, waiting, waiting for you, Josey, in the old place,\" hummed a Tommy near Tracey. A light-hearted laugh travelled along the company. Through Tracey surged a feeling of fine pride. Another whining shriek, and a report, and a second shrapnel tore up the earth on the top of the hill well behind the breastworks. Then came half-a-dozen shells together, and the air wailed and whistled. An ear- splitting bang, and the four guns of the defence sped an answer from their hidden position on the valley side of the hill to the wooded cover that sheltered the enemy. The range had been taken to a yard months before; lateral adjustment guided by the smoke-cloud of the enemy's battery gave the exact spot. The commander of Tracey's company, Captain Maude, joined his senior subaltern in the trench. \" Well see the beggars soon, I reckon,\" he said. \" They know pretty well where the weak spot is, and they know we are not far away.\" Tracey nodded quietly. \"The sooner the better,\" he said. \"The guns can't do much damage.\" \" They'll be useful to keep our heads down, anyhow, when the attack develops. How goes it ? \" Tracey's eyes glittered. \" It's better than most things,\" he answered. \" I hope they'll be up here soon.\" \" You'll get a bellyful before you've done, old son,\" said the captain, who had a whole row of ribbons on his khaki jacket. \" It'll be touch and go to save this old depot, and,\" he added, quietly,\" it's up to B Company chiefly, and an enfilade with those,\" and he nodded to the left, where the trench swerved sharply and opened up two vicious, Vol. xlv.-69. dull brass muzzles that stared across the face of the masked trenches, and swept the flats at the valley entrance. For answer Tracey lifted his glasses and began looking over the boulders of the trench mask towards the line of advance. \" You, or whichever of us can,\" continued Maude, \" will handle one gun himself with

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \"TRACBV STOOD LII^B A MAN OF MARBLE. 'COMB BACK TO

THE DIVIDING LINE. 659 COME BACK TO MK!' THE WORDS WPRE SEARING HIS VERY SOUL.\"

66o THE STRAND MAGAZINE. clamour of exploding cartridges and the whistling ping-ping of hostile bullets. Now the wide extended firing-line of the enemy had reached the rock-strewn base ground of the low hillside, and was advancing rapidly in true Boer fashion by odd units, from rock to rock, from cover to cover, taking advantage of every boulder, each man firing carefully with vital effect from shelter, and then dashing ahead for fifteen yards, dropping down behind anything, and then firing again. And two hundred yards or less in the rear steadily followed up the enemy's supports, and in rear of them their reserves. The veldt and the rough ground were alive with the Dutchmen, and the shriek and moan of raining shrapnel conspired with the whistling zip of Mauser bullets to demoralize the British position. Tracey, cool and collected as on parade, had thrown down his rifle, and was calmly standing up directing the fire. \" Steady, boys. Let every cartridge tell, and pump it into \"em.\" The light of battle and the lust of blood gleamed in his eyes. The forward works had suffered badly from the overwhelming fire, and many of his own men were down to rise no more. \" We shall know what's what pretty soon,\" announced an unsteady voice, and Major Belton sat down near Tracey, with blood spurting from the place where his left ear had been. \" It's nothing, my boy,\" he growled. \" Give me your handkerchief.\" Tracey snatched his handkerchief out of his pocket, and with it came the map and the photograph. The photograph dropped face downwards on a mound of blood-stained earth. Tracey, suddenly mesmerized, stared at it. There was a scuffle farther along the trench, and the captain joined them. He clutched Tracey by the arm. With his other hand he pointed to a stripped stake that stuck up, white and grim, to their immediate right front. \" If they reach that,\" he said, \" it's up to us, old man, and Heaven help all sinners.\" As he spoke the last word he staggered suddenly and choked, and slipped down at his subaltern's feet. And his life's blood gushed from the hole in his throat where a Mauser bullet had penetrated. Some of the blood spattered on to the photograph. Swiftly Tracey bent down and picked up the picture. •• \" Come back to me ! Come back to me ! \" burned the words on the back. At that moment another shells-one of the last—exploded quite close, and half a-dozen men cursed horribly and dropped. Tracey stood like a man of marble. \" Come back to me ! Come back to me ! \" The words were searing his very soul. Mechanically he turned the photograph over. Two agonized eyes looked up at him out of a young, tender face that seemed to quiver with bitter anguish. A spot of blood dropped on to the girl's slim neck. Tracey

THE DIVIDING LINE. 661 muttered between clenched teeth. \" I cannot die. I can't—I'm—afraid.\" And he wheeled and ran—ran—like a man possessed, through the blinding smoke towards the cleft in the hillside which led to the valley. And his brain was dead to all but the beautiful face of a girl whose eyes stared up at him in agonized appeal. He did not even hear the whistle of the armoured train that had just slid into the other end of the valley. Tracey hesitated for a moment at the valley end of the stony kloof along which he had just travelled in his mad flight from the carnaged trenches. The whining, bang- ing shrapnel was silent now, but the staccato clamour of rifle fire still sped its ominous message through the clear morning air, though the hill in between muffled its transit to the ears of the panting subaltern. Suddenly Tracey turned and sought the shelter of the patch of thorn scrub that reared -its hot spiked leaves amongst the rocks. He sat down on the warm, shaded earth, and with the sleeve of his khaki jacket wiped away some of the blood and perspira- tion from his face. He was safe now ! No bullet could reach him to drive a hole in his throat, as one had just done to his company commander. No shell-fragment could tear the life from his body, as a shell had just served his dear old major. Heavens ! How the major had shrieked at him at that last moment when he, too, should have thrust himself to gallant death. And the major had loved him, trusted him ! He was safe ! Alive ! Almost unhurt ! But in his lean, blood-smeared, and powder- blackened face was no sign of relief, no peace of security just attained. Instead, the blue of his eyes reflected something of utter horror. He, \" Dreadnought \" Tracey, as his beloved regiment had called him, had run away—RUN AWAY !—and left his brother officers dead at their posts and his men cursing and fighting to a soldier's death. True, he could not have saved one of them by staying ; he could only have died himself. He should have done so ; but—he groaned— he could not—he could not. His expression changed as he lifted his left hand and dis- closed the photograph which he had held in frenzied grip during the last few moments pre- ceding his rush from the murderous trench and the battered remnants of his regiment. He turned it over, and read on its back the inscription that by now was etched in fadeless letters on his brain. For a few moments he stared at it as a man might stare at the thing for which he had sold his soul, and then he took out of his pocket a piece of oilskin, and slowly and reverently enfolded the photograph in it, and buttoned it care- fully away. Suddenly, outside in the kloof was a noise which sent Tracey's fingers instinctively to his revolver-holster. Footsteps, and the rattle of stones being kicked, and a jingle

652 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" HE LIFTED HIS SWORD AND FLUNG IT STRAIGHT AT TKACEV's FACE.\"

THE DIVIDING LINE. 663 Five minutes later he sat down on a rock and inspected his handiwork. The wounded man was propped in a leaning position, with his back against a boulder. Around his head was a puttee, and beneath the puttee, soaked in the precious contents of a water- bottle, were the linen sleeves of Tracey's own shirt. At that instant Tracey's attitude became curiously alert. Rifles had begun to speak again over the hillside, and, amidst the rapidly-growing clamour of small arms, a battery of guns began coughing a peremp- tory message down at the valley end. And then a steam siren wailed out, and echoed along the kloof-riddled ridges. Tracey didn't move, but he looked at the other man. The major's eyes were open, and he was obviously trying to concentrate his thoughts and gaze upon his junior officer. \" An armoured train, sir,\" reported Tracey, quietly, \" has just arrived and engaged the enemy at Number One Post. D'you hear them'? \" \" You've stopped running ? \" asked the major, in a weak voice. Tracey's face flushed. \" An armoured train's in action \" The major interrupted him, his voice growing stronger. \" I can hear,\" he said. \" But—there's something What did you do it for— you, Tracey, the pride of the regiment ? \" He clutched at his empty sword-scabbard. \" Heaven ! are you the fellow who crumpled up those two Arabs in that desert _scrap ? Are you the boy I've loved as a son since you .joined the Mess — the one I trusted as no one ?\" His words grew rapid. \" What did the colonel say ? ' It's up to Tracey and B Company, and I'd choose him through the whole service for this job.' And I agreed. I backed a cursed coward for a hero's job.\" He stopped abruptly. Tracey stood up. He was silent, but his face was grim and drawn. \" I'm talking—like an old woman,\" con- tinued the major, \" because you're—Tracey. But you ran away. Don't stare like that. Say something. Why—why ? What made you ? Speak, man ! \" He swayed slightly and put a hand up to his head. Tracey took two strides, turned about, and came back to his position, facing his senior officer. \" Major,\" he answered, quietly and dis- tinctly, \" I say—nothing.\" The major glared up at him with savage incredulity. \" What ! \" he demanded. \" You have nothing to say—no excuse, no explana- tion ? \" Tracey nodded. \" But you must have !\" cried the major. \" One of the 'Fifth' couldn't do that without some reason. What is it ? Were you knocked

664 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. big Red Cross tent that flapped its flag in the deep dip a mile to the rear of the hills that masked the scene of action where an armoured train was thundering out its conquering pjean. On a table lay the major, and over him bent the P.M.O. The regimental doctor was talking to Tracey, while his senior confrere conducted the examination. \" The train came up just in time,\" the doctor was explaining. \" It's terrible out there —stretcher parties are not allowed in the trenches yet, and we've been idle all the time.\" Tracey heard the words, but did not heed them. The P.M.O. straightened himself and turned round. \" I'm afraid we can't do anything,\" he announced, quietly. \" The shock of the wound and the haemorrhage—he's scarcely got any blood left.\" \" Do you mean that there's no possible chance ? \" asked Tracey. The P.M.O. nodded. \" Practically none whatever.\" \" Why ' practically ' ? \" questioned Tracey, quickly. \" The only chance is transfusion,\" replied the P.M.O. \"If we were in—a London hospital, and if we had a willing ' donor,' as we call him, we should, as a last resort, pump some of his blood into the patient. But as this patient requires a tremendous dose, and his condition is somewhat septic, the donor would be as likely to die as the patient.\" Tracey coolly inspected the tent, with its cupboards of drugs, its cases of instruments, and its array of surgical equipment. His blue eyes came steadily back to the P.M.O. \" Well,\" he observed, quietly, \" your kit seems pretty complete.\" Medical officers and orderlies looked at him questioningly. \" I mean,\" said Tracey, calmly, \" that, with your assistance, I intend doing the rest.\" For a few seconds there was a dead quiet, and then the P.M.O. spoke. \" Tracey,\" he said, \" Tracey, you're a brave man, but it is impossible.\" \" By your own words,\" insisted Tracey, firmly, \" it is not impossible.\" He strode forward and stood at the other side of his prostrate major, confronting the P.M.O. The others in the background watched tensely. \" Even if there were time, and your life was \" Tracey cut the doctor short. \" Heaven knows how long it will be before the wounded come in from the trenches,\" he said, curtly; \" and my life is—my own affair.\" \" Your life,\" answered the P.M.O., \"is the King's, and it is outside my duty as a Service doctor to imperil it like that.\" \" The major's life is more important to the country than mine,\" insisted Tracey ; \" and —he has~a wife and children.\"

THE DIVIDING 665 to say this : In my forty years of active service I have seen many gallant deeds done in the field, but never in my experience have I known one to rank with that which you did in that tent in the Baadjste Valley. It is easy for a man, as we all know, to do brave things in the heat of action, but to perform such an act as yours in cold blood requires a far higher standard of courage. I congratulate a brave officer upon his recovery.\" Tracey's eyes shone, and there was a spot of colour on his sunken, yellow cheeks as the G.O.C. and his aides-de-camp moved away. But in the face of the seated major gleamed feelings that could not remain unspoken. \" Old boy,\" he said, \" I'm now going to return to you a piece of your property which you held in your hand—when you left the trenches,\" and he held out a tattered oilskin packet, from which protruded a photograph. Tracey stretched out a thin, brown arm. \" I thought you had it,\" he said. \" It was in my jacket-pocket.\" \" Wait,\" continued the major. \" I've seen it. May I look again ? \" Tracey nodded. The major slipped the blood-stained picture out of its cover. A beautiful young girl stared up into the two haggard faces. The major turned it over. \" Forgive me,\" he said, simply. \" I have read it.\" \" Read it—again—to me,\" answered Tracey, in a low voice. And in reverent tones the major complied. It was the cry of a girl's soul inscribed on the back of her picture. \" Come safe back to me, my beloved. I shall not know peace again until your face bends over me and I look into your dear, brave eyes. For the love of Heaven, come back to me!\" Tracey closed his eyes as he took the photo- graph that had torn his soul in the last few ghastly moments in the trenches. \" Tracey,\" said the major, deeply moved, \" I know of a braver deed even than that which gave me my life. I know what soldiering is to you, and I know what action is, and I know what you are. And,\" he said,\" when you went out of the trench in trying to obey that cry \"—he pointed to the inscription on the photo—\" you performed the greatest sacrifice of all.\" Tracey stared up at the tent roof. \" You did not ' turn down ' your country or anything. The position was lost. Nothing you did could possibly have altered it; but— you sacrificed—your eternity.\" There was a moment's silence, and then the major spoke again, and his voice rang firmly. \" But,\" he said, in clear, distinct tones that rang, \" there is this for you to realize : while you stooped down in the trench to recover that picture the ' Retire ' sounded.\"

LittL y Dr. NORMAN PORRITT. HE li;tle stranger is either a boy or a girl, but may be both. About once in eighty times the latest arrival comes in couples, though in Ireland there is a double event once in sixty times, in England once in one hundred and ten times. In both countries the latest arrival is a determined and successful Home Ruler. The city most given to doubling is, appropriately, Dublin, where there is a set of twins to every fifty- eight births ; the city least given to it being Naples, where the latest arrival does not come in pairs oftener than once in one hundred and fifty-eight arrivals. The incentive of a Royal Bounty does not provoke a triple event oftener than once in six thousand five hundred arrivals. Sometimes, however, they come with a run, as in the case of a Paris baker, whose wife in seven successive years presented him with twenty-one children on the instal- ment plan of three each year. Not only in France, but throughout Europe, the birth- rate is falling, and we may expect no more epitaphs like that in Heydon I hurchyard on the body of William Strutton:— He was buried on the 18th of May, 1734, 97. He had by his first wife 28 children, and by a second 17 children. Own father to 45, grandfather to 86, greal-yranclfaiher to 97, and great-great-grand- father to 23. In all 251. Such quiverfuls surely justify the lines on the grave of a woman buried near Canterbury :— Of children she bore in all twenty-four— Thank the Lord there will \\K no more. But even these examples look small after the case of the Countess of Henneberg. The story goes that on Good Friday, 1276, a spiteful beggar, whom she had offended, prayed that the Countess might have as many children as there are days in the year. The prayer was answered when the Countess was forty-two years old. All the boys were named John, the girls Elizabeth. One would have called them Legion, if Legend were not so much more appropriate. The latest arrival loves the still night watches. The favourite hour for arriving is three a.m., an hour ever engraven on infantile memory and selected, reckless of all consequences, as that for instantaneous refreshment, for chew- ing father's watch, and for being walked round the bedroom in father's arms.

Stranger. Illustrated by Miss L. Hocknell. If the little stranger fills the parents with joy, its reception by brothers wants the warmth of welcome given by the sisters. The girls hang round the little cherub with a reticence of wondering delight, but the boys are apt to express their feelings in the terms of the little chap who exclaimed : \" I'd much rather it had been a parrot.\" \" What do you think ? \" one little boy asked a playmate. \" The doctor's brought a baby to our house. Isn't it horrid ? \" \" Rotten. Can't you get him to take it back ? \" \" No; it's too late. We've used it four days.\" A little girl, after relating how God had sent her a baby brother, added, as she thought of the straw laid outside the house in order that the mother might not be disturbed by the noise of the traffic, \" And it was well packed.\" Another little girl thought it such a pity that when baby arrived mother should be poorly in bed. One of my little patients told his mother after the arrival of a new brother : \" When doctor wasn't looking I shook his bag—but I didn't make it cry, mother.\" A bright little chap when shown the latest arrival excla med :— ' Why, father, it's got no hair! \" ' No, it hasn't grown.\" ' And it's got no teeth.\" ' They haven't come yet.\" ' Can't it walk ? \" ' Not yet.\" ' But it can talk, can't it ? \" ' No.\" ' Don't have it, father. It's a poor one You've been done.\" The late Bishop Walsham How described how a three-year-old boy was taken to see his new sister. \" Where did it come from ? \" he asked. \" God sent it us,\" his mother answered. \" Then I suppose it is a sort of an angel ? \" His mother explained that it was only a baby. \" Hasn't it got any wings ? \" he asked ; and on being told \" No,\" added : \" Hasn't it got any feathers at all ? \" The sister of a cross, fractious baby had been told that the screaming child was sent by the angels. \"Well, mother,\" she remarked, as the

668 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. to do that from many households they are absentees. And admiring parents, if they do not sacrifice to Fabulinus, when the young darling gurgles or mumbles in its throat, go into raptures at the unprecedented intelligence and loquacity of their infant prodigy. The little stranger is more often a boy than a girl. In England and Wales about seventeen thousand five hundred more boys than girls arrive every year. Of a thousand girls born, nine hundred and four are alive at the end of a year, but only eight hundred and seventy-eight of the same number of mother tried in vain to still the baby's paroxysms,\" you can't be surprised at the angels getting rid of it.\" Popular imagination invests the latest arrival with certain qualities according to the day on which it arrives :— Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for its living. And a child that is born on Christmas Day Is fair and wise and good and gay. When a baby smiles in its sleep, we are told by those who know most about babies that angels are whispering to it. Belief in supernatural cherubs, who sit up aloft and keep watch not only over poor Jack but over babies, goes back to the days of ancient Rome. Vatican, or more correctly Vagitanus, was the god who caused infants to utter their first cry; Fabulinus the god to whom the parents rnade an offering when the child uttered its first cry ; Cuba the goddess who kept infants quiet in their cots ; and Domiduca the deity who brought young children safe home and kept guard over them when they were out of their parents' sight. In these modern days Vatican is the only reality, for Cuba and Domiduca find so much £*e£ boys. The superior vitality of the gentler sex lasts through life, so that the supply of suffragists is not likely to give out. The last census shows that there are one million one hundred and seventy-eight thousand three hundred and eighteen more females than males in the British Isles. The male population must be prepared to be not only out-voted but out-numbered by the gentler sex, for in 1851 there were one thousand and forty-two females to one thousand males. Now there are one thousand and sixty-eight. The lady who, when asked if she wanted a vote, replied, \" No, what I want is a voter,\" will, as time goes on, have more and more difficulty in securing one. The county in which she would have the best chance of doing it is Monmouthshire, where there are only nine hundred and twelve females to one thousand males, and the county where a mere man wanting a wife would have most choice is Sussex, where there are twelve hundred and

THE LITTLE STRANGER. 66e> a hundred and five, two girls live to be one hundred and six, and one to the age of one hundred and seven. It was an Irishman who, after a voyage, said he thought his berth would be his death, and the birth of the little stranger is sometimes tantamount to its death. Ten out of every thousand die on the day of their birth. One-fifth of the total deaths in England and Wales occur among the latest arrivals before they are a year old. Of every thousand arrivals born one hundred and five never see their first birthday. If the latest arrival chooses an urban district, the risk that he will not have a first birthday is a third greater than if he elects to arrive in a rural district. If the latest arrival can emigrate to New Zealand he will have the best chance of all to survive more than a year. In New Zealand only sixty-eight children out of a thousand hand-fed. Two hand-fed infants in a family of good social position gained thirty-nine and twenty-four per cent, in weight eleven weeks • after birth ; a mother-fed baby in the same family gained eighty-four per cent, of its weight in the same period. The deaths among Liverpool babies less than three months old are fifteen times greater among the hand-fed than they are among the mother- fed. Too often, as has been wittily said, the young man of to-day, in taking to himself a wife, marries but part of a woman, the other part being exhibited in the chemist's- shop window in the shape of a glass feeding- bottle. The little stranger is a provider of problems of which the choice of a name is not the least important. There is a fashion in them. In country districts Bible names—Manoah, .rEneas, Joel, Eli, Gideon, Deborah, Ruth, Miriam—are popular. But among those who ape the ways of gentility, the good old- fashioned John and Tom, Mary and Sarah have given place to Gordon, Cyril, Stanley, Doris, Lily, May, Rose, and Daisy. Some families' of girls are almost horticultural bouquets. When twins require names, we born die before the first year, in Australia seventy-five, and in Ireland ninety-five. About a third of the children who die in the first year of their existence do so, not from any well-defined disease, but simply because they have not the vitality to live. Their little candles give a sputtering glimmer and then fitfully expire. The epitaph of one of them read :— If so soon I must be done for I wonder what I was begun for. If the little stranger wishes to have the best chance of living it should refuse to be \"ON THE INSTALMENT PLAN.\"

670 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. are not all so clever as the father who, having chosen the name Kate for a girl, .called the second one Dupli-Kate. A little boy astonished the people next door by declaring that his new twin brothers were to be called Thunder and Lightning. \" Never !\" was the reply. \"Oh, but they are,\" was the little chap's retort. \"Pa called them that as soon as he heard.\" On an occasion when twins arrived in the home of one of my working-men patients I was detained elsewhere. Another doctor filled my place. \" Eh, father,\" said the little five - year - old son, realizing that something like a calamity had fallen on the household, \" you ought to have had Dr. Porritt. He wou1d n't have brought two.\" And, of course, we have all heard of the little fellow who, when taken to see the twins,asked, \"Which are you going to drown ? \" Then comes the happy moment when the latest arrival, in gown and robes pre- posterously too long for it, the under- clothing part being turned up and secured with pins to prevent the little one slipping out, in the arms of its nurse, is the centre of in- terest in the semi- circle around the font. Dean Burgon once refused to christen a male child Venus. \" Vanus ? \" he muttered, aghast, after asking the godparents to name the child. \" I suppose you mean Venus. Do you imagine that I am going to call any \"REFUSED TO CHRISTEN A MALE CHILD VENUS. Christian child after that abandoned female ? \" The father of the infant urged that he only wished to name it after his grandfather. \" Your grandfather ? I don't believe it. Where is your grand- father ? \" He was produced:

THE LITTLE STRANGER. 671 went red she knew the water was too hot, if the child turned blue she knew it was too cold. Although the up-to-date monthly nurse never goes to her patient without a spring balance to record the latest arrival's gradual increase in weight, there was at'one time a superstition that it was unlucky to weigh a baby, and old-fashioned nurses always set themselves against the practice. The first time the little stranger leaves its mother's room it must go upstairs before going down- stairs, or it will never rise in the world. Where there is no upstairs those who cling to the practice mount a chair outside the room door, and the future rise of the ' cherub is as- sured. In what a large number of cases must this precaution have been omitted ! In the West Rid- ing of York- shire a baby at the first house it visits receives a piece of money, an egg, some salt, a piece of coal, a match, and some bread. The money is to ensure wealth; the egg, full of meat and goodness, implies that the child is to have plenty of the good things of this life. It typifies the beginning of life, and the ancient Romans always began their dinners with eggs. It may be a relic of the pagan belief that the world was hatched from an egg. Salt confers health. It is a symbol of incor- ruption and immortality. It was often put into coffins to keep Satan away, and also had the reputation of keeping away witches, for which purpose brewers used to throw a handful into their mash-tubs. It also typifies energy, and signifies that the latest arrival is to take his place among the salt of the earth. Coal ensure , comfort and warmth, whilst the match bestows wisdom, and denotes that the little one's life is to be illumined by the light of knowledge; and the bread indicates that the child shall never want for daily bread. Tradition asserts that to rock the empty cradle is to displace the latest arrival from its proud position, for if you rock an empty cradle you rock a new arrival into it. The nation cannot take too deep an interest

The Lords or the FoVsle. By MORLEY ROBERTS. Illustrated by A. C. Mictael. HE full-rigged ship Kedron, 880 tons, belonging to Bristol, was a very notorious vessel, and Captain Joseph Bandy, who commanded her, was equally notorious. He was one of the real old-fashioned sort. He loathed steamships in all shapes except when they were tugs, and even then he regarded them as a last resource. The only kind of ship was a sailing ship; and the only kind of seaman was the seaman of the old days ; and the only sort of skipper was the kind of skipper that he was himself. He was indeed a hairy and ancient aristo- crat of the ocean, a violent and preposterous conservative, even in politics, and he had an almighty admiration for lords. \" My notion is,\" said Captain Joseph Bandy, \" my notion is the subordination of so-ciety the same as the subordination of a ship. I expect the men to respect the second mate. I reckon the second mate must respect the mate. And the mate that doesn't respect me, I'll 'oof 'im out of the ship just too quick.\" His admiration for lords was well known over all the seven seas. This admiration was truly in his nature, but, nevertheless, its vaster development dated from the day when he actually shipped somebody before the mast in Melbourne who turned out to be a real live lord—although only an Irish peer—• on his arrival in England. A remarkable series of accidents made a somewhat tough- looking foremast hand into a member of the ruling aristocracy while the voyage was in progress, and Captain Joseph Bandy never forgot the incident. He read up the nature of the English peerage in an old encyclopaedia, and frequently instructed Mr. Sampler, his weary and bored mate, as to the proper titles of the children of peers. As Mr. Sampler said to Mr. Swaffin, who was the second mate, \"Jf the old man, Mr. Swaffin—to speak disrespectfully, which I must do sometimes or burst—if the old man didn't mollify his love for a lord by sometimes getting so blind and so speechless that he can't speak of them, I should jump overboard or chuck the job.\" ' It was quite true that Captain Bandy was somewhat excessive in drink, although he believed himself to be a sober man. lie had taken a pledge of which he was very proud. The nature of this pledge was explained to the second greaser by Mr. Sampler in highly coloured language. \" It's what the old man calls semi-teetotal- ism,\" said Mr. Sampler. \" Ah, I see—I see, sir,\" said the second mate. \" I suppose that means being never more than half drunk.\" \" If it does he doesn't keep to it,\" said the mate. \" But the truth is, I understand it to mean that you make a hog of yourself two

THE LORDS OF THE FO'C'SLE. 673 \" You don't mean to say he hasn't spoken to you about the nobility ?\" asked Mr. Sampler. \" Oh, yes, sir,\" said the second mate, \" he's spoken to me about it, but I never thoroughly understood why he'd got that kink in his mind.\" \" Well, that's the reason,\" said the mate, \" and what's more, the more he drinks the more he thinks of lords, and the more he begins to have a kind of idea that there's another lord aboard the ship. Every time we ship a new crowd he runs his eye across them kind of eager-like, lookin' for a lord. Havin' had one in the fo'c'sle once, he's dreadfully afraid of bein' disrespectful to any of the foremast hands until he's thoroughly sized 'em up. Time and again he's come to me and said, ' That young fellow, Smith, in the starboard watch,' or maybe,' That fellow Brown, in the port watch, looks very haristo- cratic, Mr. Sampler. Just run easy with him till we size him up.' Oh, it's quite remark- able—if the hands for'ard only got the truth into their heads of the way he thinks, they'd all be playin' up they were lords, and a holy time we'd have with them.\" The Kedron was carrying a cargo of general notions to Portland, Oregon, that hard- headed, hard-fisted, notorious port situated far inland up the Columbia River and the Willamette. From Portland she was to load wheat to Liverpool. Now the Kedron, take it all round, especially since the skipper had developed his notion about lords, had always been a pretty comfortable ship for the first part of her voyages. Until Captain Bandy had thoroughly sized up the crew his suspicions as to their nobility pre- vented him being anything else but extremely civil to them. In fact, he kept the list in his pocket of all the men before the mast. He ticked them off as not being peers bit by bit as he ran down his southing. As a general rule, most of them were cut off the list by the time the Kedron crossed the line, and few indeed survived when the old ship lost the South-East trades and got into the region of the westerly winds. As the crew said, \" We begin by bein' white-headed boys to the old man. 'E's very civil an' polite for a long time, but bit by bit he gets savager an' sulkier with us. An' some of us 'e's civil to a long time.\" Of course they gathered gradually what the meaning of it was, and there was great fun in the fo'c'sle in consequence. Every soul in both watches had a title by the time they rounded the Horn. The oldest seamen were mostly dukes, and even the boy had a courtesy title, even when he got a severe kicking for misbehaviour or not being clean. The difference between the beginning and the end of the passage was always so marked that there was a strong tendency on the part of the crew of the Kedron to desert at the first opportunity. If there is a place on earth where it is easy to skip out it is Portland,

674 •1HE STRAND MAGAZINE. advice and provided the Kedron with a fairly good-looking set of men. It was, indeed, a remarkable jest with everybody in Portland, and only the officers of the old ship were unaware of the joke that was being played. After the usual measly fashion of English ships, to say nothing of American, the Kedron was, of course, grossly undermanned. She carried about one man for every hundred tons on her, and a boy for the extra eighty ; and whereas to be properly manned she should have had sixteen in the foVsle, she only had eight and a boy—that is to say, four in each watch and the boy thrown in to the mate's or port watch. They got away to sea with a cargo of wheat, and their crew on board— in which Simpkins was the leading spirit—in fairly good order. In spite of Captain Bandy's objection to tugs he was, of course, towed to sea down the rivers, and while they were being towed the skipper was as mild and meek as if he had been a maiden aunt. The \" old man \" never let an oath out of him, and with the utmost severity instructed Mr. Sampler and Mr. Swaffin to use no bad language. \" They're a very nice-lookin' crew,\" said the skipper, \" very nice-lookin', fine young men—nice-lookin' boys, a very 'andsome lot, quite haristocratic, Mr. Sampler.\" \" Yes, sir,\" said Mr. Sampler, sulkily. \" We never know \"oo we may 'ave on board, you know, Mr. Sampler.\" \" You don't mean to say you think these are lords, sir ? \" asked Mr. Sampler, choking. \" I wouldn't be surprised at anything after Lord Ballyhooly,\" said the skipper, taking a drink. \" You do as I say, and be very civil to them, because it's accordin' to my principles that you should be, until you know 'oo they are an' where we are. I remember with joy that Lord Ballyhooly was such a good sailor that I never 'ad a cross word with 'im. And what's more, 'e asked me to dinner at the Caffy R'yal, and I went, and 'e did me very well and shook 'ands with me, too, when I left.\" This was his great pride. He felt as if he, too, were a member of the aristocracy, or that the clasp of the hand of his late able seaman, Lord Ballyhooly. had at any rate been as good as a knighthood. When they passed Astoria, rounded Point Adams, and said good-bye to Oregon, they stood away to the south under all plain sail. Now, as it was the homeward passage the mate's watch was on deck. Among the port watch was Simpkins, and he was at the wheel. Captain Joseph Bandy was exceedingly polite to him, not wholly to Simpkins's surprise. \" And what's your name, my man ?\" said Captain Bandy. Simpkins hesitated, and smiled somewhat haughtily. \" The name I shipped under, sir, is ' Simpkins,' \" said Simpkins, still with that reserved and haughty smile. And Captain Bandy looked at him in the most interested manner.

THE LORDS OF THE FO'C'SLE. 675 'ere already,\" said the skipper in an awestruck \"I 'ave my eye on another,\" said the whisper. \" I know 'em. I couldn't be skipper. \" A very big, hairy man, Mr. mistaken. By associatin' at the Caffy R'yal Sampler.\" with Lord Ballyhooly I got to know the tone \" What, him I \" said Mr. Sampler. \" You 'AND WHAT'S YOUR NAME, MY MAN?' SAID CAPTAIN BANDY.\" of the haristocracy. Mind, Mr. Sampler, that you're very civil and respectful to Simpkins, and Wilkins, and Johnson.\" \" Very well, sir,\" said Mr. Sampler, with difficulty restraining his wrath at having to be very civil and respectful to three of the men for'ard. don't think that rough and tough and hairy chap, Guppy, is a lord, too ? \" \" Oh, lords are frequently hairy,\" said Captain Bandy. \" I've seen a portrait of a dook who was awful hairy. Nothin' shaved about 'im—whiskers, beard, moustache—oh, altogether very hairy.\"

676 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Now Guppy was, indeed, a very strange- looking ruffian, but, like Simpkins, he had a gift of humour, as he told the crowd for'ard in the second dog-watch when they were having an awfully fine time and enjoying their titles. \" And,\" said Guppy,\" I've got ambition. I always 'ad, mates. There's nothin' low about me. I ain't content with bein' a poor, bullied seaman, every man's dog. ' Hogs, dogs, and sailors ' is a good motter for many, but it ain't my motter, and I likes to rise. Why, there's Simpkins there, a bright young chap, but got no ambition—'e's a common lord. And then there's another—you, Johnson, bein' a baron. Why, a baron's a low-down kind of lord ! I'm goin' to be a earl or a dook. Blowed if I won't be a dook ; that's the top notch.\" Accordingly the next day he walked past the skipper with his nose in the air. This attitude he considered most suitable for a person of his lofty rank. The skipper asked him humbly what his name was. \" It's Dook—no, I mean Guppy,\" said Guppy, still retaining his lofty air. \" Ah,\" said the skipper, \" I begs your par- don, Mr. Dook—I mean Guppy.\" \" Pray don't mention it, sir,\" said Guppy. \" I may be tempery come down in life, but I knows my dooty.\" With that he touched his forelock and went about his work. That evening, in the second dog-watch, Cap- tain Bandy imparted the news to his officers. \" This is a most remarkable trip,\" said the \" old man,\" engaged vigorously in carrying out a pleasing form of his pledge of semi- teetotalism—that is to say, he drank rum which was no more than half water. \" This is a most remarkable trip, and my luck's extreme. One member of the 'Ouse of Lords was very wonderful, but 'ere we 'ave four or five. Guppy's a dook, Mr. Sampler.\" \" A what ? \" asked Mr. Sampler. \" A dook,\" said the skipper. Mr. Swaffin burst into laughter. \" 'Ow dare you laugh, Mr. Swaffin ?\" inquired the skipper, angrily. \" I beg your pardon,\" said Swaffin, with more respect. \" An' well you may beg it,\" said the skipper. \" Me, your captain, and me tellin' you—I say Guppy's a dook. Most remarkable ! Very like the Dook of Suffolk, now I thinks of it. 'E's a very fine moustache. I've seen 'is face in the papers.\" \" What are you goin' to do about it ? \" asked Mr. Sampler. \" Are they goin' to sleep aft and have no work to do ? '' \" It goes against the grain to make the 'Ouse of Lords work,\" said the skipper. \" It's notorious they does no work to speak of, bar settin' in their crowns and scarlet robes in soft seats in the 'Ouse, with a screw of ten thousand a year. No wonder they gets tired of it at times and comes to sea. They're a noble race, full o' work and energy,\" sighed the skipper. \" Oh, they're fine young men ! \"

THE LORDS OF THE FO'C'SLE. 677 frequently in places like Monte Carlo, where bogus earls and peers are found more fre- quently than good luck. But the only things that Simpkins knew of them were gained from his being somewhat of a newspaper reader, and the con- duct of some of the young lords in the House of Commons —though he did not understand how a lord got into the House of Commons —put him somewhat off the track. He became very haughty and rude, and so did the others. It worked very well indeed while the skipper was on deck, and some- how or another he now managed to be on deck a great deal. He had suspicions that the mates were not likely to behave exactly as he desired. Consequently during the day he was mostly on the poop, and kept on crawling up at intervals during the night in order to see that the peers were not imposed upon. Consequently, until the Kedron was just about the Horn, in the neighbourhood of Diego Ramirez Islands — known to old-fashioned seamen as the Daggarrame- reens—the dukes and earls and marquises, of whom there were now two in the port watch, had a very glorious time. The mates spoke to them with great civility, and begged them to do their work, and all the time their wrath rose, although it was suppressed. The first part of the passage home had necessarily been in very fine weather, and, indeed, as it was summer time off the Horn it was also fine there. However, when they .hauled up for the nor'ard and the Falklands it began to blow a heavy gale, and things had to be done in a rather more lively and perhaps uncivil fashion. When they reefed the main-topsail, the second mate at the weather HE WALKED PAST THE SKIPPER WITH HIS NOSE IN THE AIR.\" earing had a barney with Duke Guppy, who was tending to the dog's ear. \"You miserable swine!\" said the second

678 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" Boot you off the yard,\" said the second mate in a fury, looking as if he would do it. Now Guppy by this time had really begun to think he was something of a duke, and he grew very sulky. He said, \" If you talk to me like that, Mr. Swaffin, I shall complain to the skipper.\" Whereupon the second mate laid hold of the lift, jumped to his feet on the yard, and put his boot under the ear of Duke Guppy and raked his ear up and down with the toe of it. Such surprising conduct to a member of the aristocracy inspired Guppy with a certain horrible fear that the second mate would actually do what he said. He cried out, \" Oh, sir, don't; please, sir, don't boot me off the yard.\" Whereupon the second mate resumed his position and the weather earing was passed satisfactorily. Nevertheless there was great trouble in the fo'c'sle when the watch went below. They held an indignation meeting, and considered whether a deputation of the Maritime Peers should be sent aft to the skipper to complain of the Commons. They decided to do it and appointed Simpkins, Johnson, Wilkins, and Guppy himself to go aft and interview the \" old man.\" They found him on the poop, and requested a few words with him, which he granted in the civillest manner. \" Is there anything you 'ave to complain of ? \" asked the skipper. \" Yes, sir,\" said Guppy; \" we've come to complain about the conduc' of Mr. Swaffin on the main-topsail yard this forenoon watch. 'E threatened to boot me off of the yard, sir.\" \" What ? Threatened to boot you off the yard !\" said the skipper. \" 'Ow 'orrible ! \" \" An' me what I am,\" said Guppy, tapping his chest as if he kept his patent of nobility there, perhaps his certificate as a duke. \" Ah, an' you what you are,\" said the skipper, respectfully. \" Do I understand you, Mr. Guppy ? \" \" Yes, sir,\" said Guppy, in great hopes that the second mate would catch it hot and strong in a few minutes, \" you do understand me. I've never concealed my persition.\" \" Nor I, neither,\" said Johnson. \" Nor me,\" said Wilkins. But Simpkins stood modestly silent as if he were the only native aristocrat among them. \" I'm very sorry to hear of this,\" said the skipper. \" An' so will Lord Ballyhooly be when I tell 'im,\" said Guppy. •' Lord Ballyhooly told me what a fine ship this was, and 'ow well behaved all the officers was, an' it'll be a great disappointment to 'im to think, when I meet 'im in the 'Ouse, that things were different in 'er from 'is time.\" \" Do you know Lord Ballyhooly ? \" asked the skipper. \" Well,\" said Guppy. \" 'Im an' me 'ave boxed together many a time. 'E shoots at my castle reg'lar.\" \" Does 'e, indeed ? \" said the skipper.

THE LORDS OF THE FO'C'SLE. 679 'AN1 ME WHAT I AM,' SAID GUPPY, TAPPING HIS CHEST.\" mate, who came on deck in a perfect blazing fury, perfectly determined to be disrespectful to the whole House of Lords if he met them in Westminster Hall or Westminster Abbey, and equally determined to say whatever he chose to the skipper, who, from the maritime point of view, was of far greater importance than any peer. Before they went on deck Mr. Swaffin laid hold of the arm of Mr. Sampler and said, desperately :— \" Mr. Sampler, this can't go on.\" \" It can't,\" said Sampler; \" but what are we to do about it ? \" \" Oh,\" said Mr. Swaffin, \" do ? I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go on strike.\"

68o THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" On strike ? \" said the mate. \" What do you mean—refuse duty ? \" \" I mean that,\" said the second mate. \" The old man's old and dotty. All he knows about navigation he's forgotten. Half the time he's so blind he don't know a plus from a minus, or longitude from latitude. Now, you and I will do no more if this goes on. Are you in with me ? \" \" I am,\" said Mr. Sampler, desperately. They went on deck together. \" What's this I 'ear about your bein' dis- respectful to the Dook ? \" said the skipper, as soon as Swaffin's head came in sight up the companion. \" I was disrespectful to no duke, sir,\" said Mr. Swaffin, \" but I threatened to boot that blackguard Guppy off the main-topsail yard, and for two pins I'd go into the fo'c'sle now, drag him out by his ears, and boot him fore and aft for the next half hour.\" \" You're insubordinate,\" said the skipper. \" I am,\" said the second greaser, despe- rately, \" and I mean to be.\" \" You mean to be ! \" said the skipper. \" Oh, this is very remarkable.\" \" More remarkable than the House of Lords in the fo'c'sle,\" said Swaffin, with increased disrespect. \" But we're not going to put up with it, sir.\" \" Not goin' to put up with what ? \" said the skipper. \" To put up with lords in the fo'c'sle,\" said the second mate. \"There ain't going to be any lords in the fo'c'sle any more. Mr. Sampler and I have made up our minds there ain't.\" \" Holy sailor ! \" said the skipper. \" What do I 'ear but insubordination and mutiny!\" \" Right you are, old cock,\" said the second mate, in an increasing rage. \" Mr. Sampler and I are going to do no more until you disestablish that House of Lords for us, and so we tell you. Ain't we, Mr. Sampler ? \" \" Yes,\" said Mr. Sampler, desperately, feeling that something must be done, or that he would indeed go mad. \" Do I 'ear aright ? \" asked Captain Bandy, sadly. \" Oh, I seem to 'ear as if it were a kind of whisper in the far, far distance that my mate that 'as been with me these years is threatenin' insubordination an' mutiny— refusin' dooty—goin' agen the articles of war, so to speak, and threatenin' to disestablish the 'Ouse of Lords.\" \" That's me,\" said Sampler. \" We'll do no more till it's been disestablished.\" \" I orders you not to,\" said the skipper. \" Order what you like/' said the second mate, \" but nobody's bringing it. Come, Mr. Sampler, come down to my berth ; I've got a pack of cards there. Let's have a little game of nap all to ourselves while Captain Bandy runs the ship, for I've done with it.\" \" And so've I,\" said Sampler. With that they left the skipper planted almost as fast as if he was a bollard, or the fore-bitts, and went below. It was a horrible

THE LORDS OF THE FO'C'SLE. 681 Mr. Sampler, who was angry at having lost three successive games. \"Then won't you help me to navigate the ship ? \" asked the skipper. \" We won't,\" said the second mate. \" Ask your dukes. Now, please, do shut the door, sir—there's such an awful draught coming in out of the alley-way.\" \" I'm the worst-treated skipper that ever was,\" said Bandy, with peculiar humbleness. \" Oh, Mr. Sampler, and Mr. Swaffin, do 'elp me out, becos the 'Ouse of Lords don't know no navigation.\" \"Oh, do shut the door, Captain Band y,\" said Swaffin, with great irritation; '' there's a draught coming round the corner that cuts my ears off.\" '\"Ican'thelpit,\" said the skipper, desperately. \" I can't stay on deck day and night myself. If you're down here playin' cards together an' refusin' dooty, who's to run the ship ? \" \" Let her run herself,\" said Sampler. \" Let her run herself under,\" said the second greaser. \" I'd as soon be drowned as be civil to a crowd for'ard, and a crowd that makes a fool of you, sir.\" \"Oh, this is dreadful 'earin',\" said *the skipper. \" I'veeithertolose the ship and my precious life and the cargo and my forty years' repu- tation, or else be uncivil to Lord Ballyhooly's friends—'im as treated me so nicely at the Caffy R'yal.\" \" That's what you've got to do,\" said Swaffin, \" and you can take your choice— and you take your choice quick, so don't make a song about it.\" \" I never was spoken to so before,\" said Captain Bandy. \" You'll be spoken to a great deal worse

Can Putting be Improved by Practice ? A discussion in which six open golf champions, a billiard expert, a famous juggler, a croquet champion, and other authorities take part. Illustrations by Tom T the first blush this looks like a foolish question. It casts doubt on the universally accepted truism—\" Practice makes perfect.\" But a little reflection seems to justify the question. Putting, though in a measure analogous to other feats of skill, is really a thing apart. Variously described by golfers as an inspiration, or, in the language of profanity, \" the devil,\" it is, in many ways, a law unto itself. A thousand things are concerned in the golfer's putt—club, ball (no two are exactly alike), turf, slope of ground, wind, weather, to mention half-a-dozen of the more obvious. As the varieties of each of these are legion, those who are sceptical about the value of putting practice can easily convince them- selves that they waste their time in practising putting. But, contrarily, there are those who see in all this the greater need for practising putting Countless instances could be quoted of the good effects of practice on putting. One, chosen for its uniqueness, must here suffice. A well-known American, R. F. Foster, an authoritative writer on bridge and other card games, and a great theorist at golf, says that as the result of daily drawing-room practice he reckons to hole out in one putt on nine of eighteen greens after an approach. His method of practice is to putt into a cup laid on its side, commencing at two feet away and increasing the distance a foot at a time until the extreme limit of the room is reached. Doubtless there are those who would like to know also the secret of laying nine out ot eighteen approaches within an area the size of a room. Such must be referred to old Bob Ferguson, or the ancient of days, who- ever he was, who said that there should be no \" putting\" in first-class golf, for the approach shot ought always to be laid within a few feet of the hole. In order to give pause to those who deny that there is any analogy between putting and billiards, attention is called to the fact that good billiard-players are almost invari- ably good putters. S. H. Fry and C. Hutchings may be cited as good examples. The same niceness of touch required for billiards is required also for putting. That the question at the head of this

CAN PUTTING BE IMPROVED BY PRACTICE? 683 article is no foolish one is shown by the divided opinions of golfers thereon. On few golfing subjects do opinions so differ. And it may be taken that Vardon, Ray, Braid, Taylor, Hilton, and Herd represent by their opinions an equal number of sections of the golfing community who hold these several views. His experimental knowledge of other games analogous to golf and his proficiency as a golfer are an earnest that A. C. M. Croome's views of this subject will at least be not ill-balanced. Through the eyes of one who is only a billiard-player the golfer may seem to putt unduly badly ; the croquet- player and the curler may think much the same. But one who combines in his own person a practical knowledge of all these games will take a juster view. Mr. Croome writes:— It is seldom profitable to argue by analogy from other games to golf. Billiards, croquet, and curling, in which the thing aimed at is to remove a stationary object to a fixed point unhindered—and unaided— by the opponent, form the only profitable field of com- parison. In all four games practice of an individual coup is valuable proportionately as conditions make mechanical accuracy possible of attainment. The billiard-player is most fortunate in his opportunities. His implements, table, balls, cue, are practically perfect. He, therefore, having taught himself by practice to make certain of doing this or that shot in one billiard-room, is justified in being surprised when he fails in another to bring it off. His experience is bound to make him an uncharitable critic of golfers' putting. Mannock on his first visit to a golf course was deeply impressed by the driving, but wondered why, when the ball was within ten yards of the hole. \" you always rolled it up before putting it in.\" He and his kind would probably attribute frequency of failure at holing to insufficient practice. A curler will lie more generous. He knows how one rink differs from another, and even from itself at times. He also knows that, although some im- provement is bound to come from persistent practice at \" leading,\" which corresponds on the curling pond to putting on the golf course, it is better to devote solitary prac- tice to the acquisition of a good style in the delivery of the stone , 0 than to the attainment of mechanical S,c' f'.'Jlfflk accuracy in one particular shot. So n ' /I55i~ it is with putting. It is quite easy to practise on the drawing - room j-h carpet. But you may hit a saucer 'j>|,| every time overnight, and take three on many greens next day. As it is the billiard - player chiefly who takes the golfer to task for his faulty putting, who throws down the gauntlet, as it were, and incites him to give more attention to practice, it will be well to let a billiard- player \" take the honour \" and speak before those he challenges. Though more or less

684 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" HE COMPILED A BREAK OF 3,304, DURING WHICH GREAT RUN DID NOT HAVE A STROKE FOR A DAY AND A HALF.\" E. Ray, the present open golf champion, replies :— In my opinion, and where the advanced golfer is concerned, no good can be obtained by practising putting ; but in the case of the beginner it is otherwise, putting practice is undoubtedly beneficial, for he must acquire the art of judging distances, search for \" bor- rows \" on the greens, and generally learn by experience what he will probably soon forget. Putting is an inspiration, a psychological question, and therefore a difficult proposition. I arn firmly of the opinion that the best kind of practice is, not to spend an hour on the nearest green, but to put our skill or our nerves to the test by playing in as many competitions as possible. For some reason, not always easy to explain, we can most of us putt decently when there is no particular need for it—that is to say, when nothing of any great importance hangs on the result but no sooner are we called upon to produce of our best than we are found wanting in the one phase of the game that is all- important. Therefore, I repeat that the more competitions we can take part in the better prac- tice do we obtain. Even assuming that greens were perfectly level and true, and that as much practice was devoted to putting as to billiards, I am sure it would be found impossible for the golfer to reach the same state of perfec- tion obtained by billiard experts. The Londitions are so different ; the wind is an important factor in putting ; even the manner in which the green has been cut has an effect on the stroke played. But the chief difference lies in the fact that the putting green is so much bigger than the billiard- table. In the case of the latter the player has both the objects in view, whereas on the putting- green the player must first take a look at the hole, then fix his gaze on the ball, and finally en- deavour to strike the latter cor- rectly and with the right amount of strength. If all greens were true, naturally more putts would be holed ; but there is no possibility of discovering the perfect green. I have known players to putt in the manner em- ployed in croquet, where the player faces the hole, so to speak, but their putting was no better for doing so. Even if a croquet-mallet type of putter was permitted, we should not fear the opponent who used it. A dub cannot bring perfection ; everything rests with the player. Harry Vardon, many times open golf champion, views this question with different eyes from Ray. He writes :— When I declare that putting most certainly can be improved by practice, the reader may be inclined to ask why I did not put this belief to the test during

CAN PUTTING BE IMPROVED BY PRACTICE? 685 In the case of the long putt it is much easier to be confident. For you do not expect to hole it. At any rate, you are not overpowered with the feeling that you ought to hole it and that it would be a disgrace not to do so. Then, also, you have the sense of security that even if you do play the putt badly you still have one putt left. It pays handsomely to practise the long putt of from ten to twenty yards. If you can lay the ball six inches from the hole time after time there is little need to bother about the short putts. There is always something to be learned in the pursuance of this ideal. In time you develop a sort of instinct which tells you at ;i glance the pace of the green with undulating ground. Though the putting area is small, there is much to be studied therein. J. H. Taylor, another member of the histor c golfing triumvirate, and open cham- pion on several occasions, is not in agreement with Vardon. His answer to the question, \" Can putting be improved by practice ? \" is as follows :— What I am about to say will, doubtless, be received with derision, but I say it with the full consciousness of what it means, that practice, except so far as it is competitive, is of little real value. This statement may seem astounding and heretical, but if the reader will kindly bear with me I think I can make out a good case in support thereof. To make my meaning quite clear, I will admit that practice will undoubtedly enable the player to execute the putt in a mechanical manner which will give him satisfaction ; but the real test of the merit of any given stroke is its satisfactory performance under stress of competition. To play stroke after stroke perfectly in practice is an alluring sort of pastime, but \" it cuts no ice,\" as the Americans say. The player may think he has mastered the intricacies of the game, but is he going to reproduce the same skill in competitive play when his mental apparatus is at high pressure and all his faculties alert ~f If not, what real or abiding good has his practice done him ? To win matches and competitions a player must be able to rely on playing his strokes as he does in practice. During the purely elementary period of his pil- grimage the player will find ordinary practice beneficial. During this period he will learn, more or less correctly, how a stroke should be made. But playing a stroke 'IN TUB DARK OF THE EVENINOS I USED TO SCRAMBI.F. OUT AND PRACTISE PUTTING UNTIL NIGHT FELL.\" that long and wretched period in which I missed almost as many short putts as the average player would crowd into a lifetime. In the first place I should like to say that I sacrificed not one single opportunity of adjourning to a green armed with a putter, or sometimes two or three which seemed suited to the purpose of knocking the ball into the hole. What with teaching, playing matches, and looking after the work of the shop, the golf professional has a fairly busy day and little leisure for ordinary practice. But in the dark of the evenings I used to scramble out and practise putting until night fell and the hole was no longer visible. I am sure that this assiduity was not wasted. Its reward, though long in coming, was the greater when it did come. It may be reasonably argued that just as putting is different from everything else in golf, so is the short

686 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \"JAMES BRAID IS THE SHINING EXAMPLE OF WHAT PRACTICE AND PERSEVERANCE CAN EFFECT.\" when nothing special depends on it and then when pitted against an opponent who is pressing one hard are two totally different things. Experience alone, often very bitter, can teach a player to succeed in the latter circumstance. The brain is stimulated and the nerves steeled, the player learning that initiative and control without which he can never go far. It is the brain, of course, that controls and directs the operation, and I have a theory that may appear fantastical, to the effect that when the brain is rightly keyed to the object in view the desired result will be obtained, even though the stroke be not played accord- ing to the book. Each stroke played has an individuality all its own, different from its predecessors and different from all succeeding ones. Nor is the putt an exception. Every putt is different from its fellow — another reason for saying \" No\" to the question which forms the title of this article. This individuality was given to the stroke by the brain at the moment of inception, and the same characteristic can never occur again. School the brain to its highest golfing function, and school it early. And the best of all means to this end is a tireless and per- sistent opponent. Practice will undoubtedly aid the muscles to respond more readily to the player's will, but that inspiration which, after all, is the foundation of all good strokes, can come only through the medium of competitive play. It is not surprising that James Braid is a believer in, and advocate of, putting practice. Indeed, it would be passing strange if he were other- wise, for is he not the shining example of what practice and perseverance can effect in transforming a bad putter into a good one ? And Braid, unlike his old rival, Taylor, is free from abstract fancies, but, like Taylor. Ray. and Vardon, he sets considerable store by \" competitive practice.\" Here are his views :— Putting can be greatly improved by prac- tice, provided there is method in such practice. It is of little use going out on to a green with a number of balls and putting at the hole by oneself. After a very few minutes interest will begin to flag and carelessness substitute itself for concentration. The fact is that solitary putting of this kind is seldom interesting enough to absorb one's whole energies and attention. The best method is to practise on a green or lawn on which a number of holes have been laid out, in company with another enthusiast as opponent. To obtain the greatest benefit from practice the competitive spirit must be predominant. Personally, I recommend that the practice should take place on slightly rough and bumpy ground, as this teaches the player to hit the

CAN PUTTING BE IMPROVED BY PRACTICE? 687 on going to smooth and keen greens ; at least this has been my own experience, just as it has been my experience that I always find a difficulty in putting well on slow greens after playing on fast ones. f have heard that a famous billiard-player says that there is no reason why a player who would practise putting three hours a day for three years should not become so expert as to hole out in one on almost every green. Personally, I have never come across anyone who has been bold or patient enough to try the experiment. But I am convinced that, however much and sedulously one practised, one would still be a long way from achieving such a measure of pro- ficiency. In fact, I consider it practically impossible. My own theory is that the nerves must be calm at the moment of hitting the ball. If this is so, the player generally putts fairly well. \"SOLITARY PUTTING OF THIS KIND IS SELDOM INTERESTING ENOUGH TO ABSORB ONE'S WHOLE ENERGIES AND ATTENTION.\" Those of us who have watched H. H. Hilton, one of the two most renowned of living amateur golfers, at work on the putting- greens will be eager to learn what he thinks. Few players can have experimented so with their putting. Has he not confessed some- where that in the course of a single round he tried some thirteen or fourteen different styles of putting, including the one-handed method, in his endeavour to discover the whereabouts of the hole ? Well, Hilton takes a middle view ; it is neither \" Yea \" nor yet \" Nay.\" He says :— I candidly believe that a great number of golfers could improve the general standard of their putting by assiduous and methodical practice. But, on the other hand, there are a certain number of players who would find such a course of procedure of little or no use to them when they came to play in a serious match. In the excitement of the moment they would forget the scientific principles evolved in practice and instinc- tively fall back upon the methods most natural and easy to them. To my mind, it would be easier for a man who had taken up golf late in life to carry out the scientific theories evolved by careful practice than for one who had played from boyhood. There is always a strong disposition for those who have com- menced the game early to revert to the methods and mannerisms acquired in youth. Assiduous and methodical practice in the art of putting must of a surety do more good than harm, but whether the benefits accruing would compensate for the labour involved is, to my way of thinking, a very open question. As regards my own case, I do not believe that assiduous, practice would be of any service to me. The good and evil of my work upon the greens is almost entirely dependent upon my powers of quick con-

688 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. ' CINQUEVALLI, THE PRINCE OF JUGGLERS, DID NOT ATTAIN HIS EMINENCE WITHOUT ASSIDUOUS PRACTICE.\" the putt and also swung more accurately. I made a putter of an upright build for one of my members at Coombe Hill for swinging between his feet, pendulum- wise. I have tried it. For long putts it is no use, but for three-yarders and downwards it is absolutely deadly. The only reason I do not adopt this putter and this style of putting is that brother pros, might hand me a few rotten eggs. The marvellous, even miraculous, feats performed by the juggler and equilibrist as the result of long years of patient practice and hard self-denial should give the golfer to think seriously. Has he any right to say that putting cannot be improved by practice, when he is a stranger to the kind of practice which brings the juggler his success ? Cinquevalli, the prince of jugglers, did not attain to his eminence without assiduous prac- tice. And his view of this question naturally tallies with his own experience. He says :— My opinion is that any game which requires skill, precision, or accuracy can only be improved by prac- tice. Practice is as absolutely essential in this instance as oil is to the smooth running of an engine. It took me eight years of almost daily practice to perfect my feat with billiard-balls, and I still have to practise this to keep it in perfection. Things that are like unto the same things are like unto one another, and if there is an analogy between billiards and putting, there must be an analogy between croquet and putting, for croquet has often been termed lawn-billiards. Cyril Corbally, many times croquet cham- pion and the pioneer of the now popular pendulum stroke, says :— Putting by first-class amateurs and professionals has always struck me as being extraordi- narily good, except in holing out at serious moments, and then it is wondrous how futile it can be. Players usually brilliant are then overconscious of the dangers of mistiming, slicing, or pulling, and miss putts that a child would easily hole. I believe that, no matter how nervous they might be, such lapses would be unknown if they putted in the pendulum style. In this style the player faces the line of play, the move- ments of the club are along it only, and the face of the cluh is at right angles to it throughout the stroke. The player is be- hind his gun, and should easily sight the line. During the stroke the club always faces the same direction,so that timing is nearly unimportant, and the tendency to pull or slice very slight. The whole movement is so natural that it is bound to give confi- dence. As the mallet-putter is

rr-r I wo in a Cabi in ana an d »ony Stick. Being a Study of Three Characters. By F. THICKNESSE-WOODINGTON. Illustrated ty Tony Sarg. VERY large lady was slowly climbing the gangway to the first-class deck. The crowd on the wharf began to call out their farewells to those on board. The old quarter- master, who had charge of the deck-chairs, was hanging over the rail watch- ing the ascent of the last passenger and criticizing her appearance with the freedom of an old salt, and a stewardess at his side was chuckling at his rude remarks, while together they watched the slow approach of the colossal passenger. \" Guess she's booked two berths,\" said the quartermaster. The words seemed to strike his companion with a shock. \" Oh, lor' ! I believe she's No. 54 ! \" she cried, in dismay. \" And it's a top berth. Vol. xlv.— 72. My word, quartermaster, how are we going to hoist that up every night ? \" \" Who's the other one ? \" \" Oh, a little bit of a thing as big as my thumb.\" \" I know; blue serge and red tam-o'- shanter ; feet no bigger'n a baby's. To see 'er stand on 'em wi' half a gale o' wind blow- ing is a treat you don't forget in a long while.\" \" Are you the stewardess for No. 54 ? \" The voice matched the body. A deep, affable bass rolled out the words with unctuous condescension. A large, hard blue eye fixed the stewardess and waited for an answer. \" No. 54 ? Yes, madam. Is that your luggage going down ? Then, if you'll follow me, madam. I'll show you your berth.\" With a despairing glance at the quarter- master and a vicious tightening of her thin lips, the stewardess walked forward and led

69o THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \"THE OLD QUARTERMASTER WAS HANGING OVER THE RAIL WATCHING THE ASCENT OK THE LAST PASSENGER AND CRITICIZING HER APPEARANCE WITH THE FREEDOM OF AN OLD SALT.\" the way down the companion stairs to the long row of double-berthed cabins running through the centre of the ship. They took some time getting down, for the lady's size was an obstacle to progress, and the commo- tion usual to a large steamer starting for a fresh port filled the passages and stairways with a throng of excited people. The door of the cabin was jammed open by an enormous brown trunk, which blocked the entrance. \" Is this your luggage, madam ? I am afraid you won't be able to have it in the cabin. You see, there is another lady \" She broke off, seeing the floor still further encumbered. \" Ah ! you have a cabin trunk.\" \" Ah, yes, of course; but unfortunately

TWO IN A CABIN AND AN EBONY STICK. 691 I can't let that box go down the hold, as I am constantly wanting things out of it. Now, what can we do ? Can't you propose something, stewardess ? \" The hard blue eye looked at the hard-set mouth and the two gauged each other. The silent contest lasted some seconds. The passenger suddenly melted into an ingratiating smile ; her large hand burrowed among the folds of her dress and brought forth a purse. With two fat lingers she prodded the stewardess on the arm. \" I am an old traveller,\" she said, with bland amiability, \" and I rely entirely on your kindness and discretion.\" Something passed from one hand to the other. \" It can stand round the corner by the bathroom,\" said the stewardess, with a thin smile ; \" and if there's any bother about it I'll get th» purser's clerk to put it in his store- room, so that you can get it whenever you want. Thank you, madam.\" She called the cabin steward, and between them the trunk was placed in the position indicated. \" Now, which is my berth ? Oh, good heavens ! not the top one ! My good woman, I shall never be able to get up there ! Who shares this cabin with me ? \" \" A young lady, madam—Miss March.\" '' Ah ! Young and unmarried. Is she anything like my size ? \" The woman's grimness was not proof against her sense of humour. She laughed and answered with the familiarity of her class, \" Oh, lor', no, madam ! By the side of you she's no bigger than a mouse.\" The lady instantly took off her massive black hat and laid it on the lower berth, close to the dainty pink nightgown-case. \" Thank you, stewardess, then I think that will do. I will settle with the young lady, and we will change berths.\" \" Well, madam, perhaps she will, as there is only a fortnight left for the run home ; but, of course, she was first comer, and she's had the cabin all to herself up till now.\" \" Yes, yes.. Thank you, we will settle it all very nicely together.\" She slowly pivoted round, and the stewardess had to retire for want of space. The woman stood looking at the closed white door. \" Well, I'd like to know how you're going to manage it,\" she muttered. \" I see faces enough to know something about 'em, and Miss March ain't got that square chin for nothing. She's made me cave under before now, and it ain't often I find my master.\" With a laugh and a shrug she went about her business. Inside the cabin the new-comer was shaking down and arranging matters to her own satisfaction. The lower berth was now covered with cloaks, skirts, the contents of a dressing-case, and such things. The large lady smiled at her reflection in the long, narrow glass over the basin. \" My usual luck,\" she said, aloud. \" My name's not Alice Hamlyn if I can't get my own way with

692 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" WITH TWO FAT FINGERS SHE PRODDED THE STEWARDESS ON THE ARM.\" apt to delude strangers into the belief that she was seventeen), was perfectly able to take care of herself. She grasped the situa- tion in a glance, and with a sudden nod of decision she rang the. electric bell, and with a smooth brow awaited the answer to her summons. Twice she had to ring again, for the stewardess was taking advantage of the dinner hour and a clean bill of health among \" her ladies \" to enjoy a breath of fresh air and a chat with an acquaintance on the steerage deck. To her a messenger came running to say No. 54 was ringing like mad. She found Miss March in an advanced state of undress, taking out her nightgown from its pink sachet. \" Lor', Miss March, I thought you was at table ! Are you ill, miss ? \" \" I have a headache and am going to bed. The new passenger has evidently mistaken her berth. You should be more careful about the numbers, stewardess, and then you wouldn't have all this trouble. Kindly put her things on her own bunk, will you, and then go and get me a tray. You'd better find out first what's for dinner, and bring me

TWO IN A CABIN AND AN EBONY STICK. 693 the menu. Food's the best thing for a head- ache, and I'm very hungry.\" The stewardess was of a rebellious disposi- tion, and apt to rule her passengers with a rod of iron, calmly pocketing handsome fees at the end of the voyage with an untroubled conscience ; but, as she had said, long and varied experience on the Australian run had taught her a good deal about human nature, and a side glance at the firm face with its aureole of yellow curls showed her it was useless to resist, so she complied, and returned meekly to the cabin with the menu in her band. Miss March, sitting up in bed with a blue silk dressing-jacket round her shoulders, gave her orders in a regal manner and enjoyed an excellent dinner. She was about to order a final cup of coffee, when the stewardess remarked, with a curious intonation, \" They've finished dinner in the first saloon, and half the folk have gone on deck.\" Miss March promptly removed the blue jacket and returned the tray with a droll look in her eye. \" My head is much better,\" she said, gravely, \" and I will try to get to sleep before the new lady comes to bed. Any attempt at conversation would bring it on again.\" The grim propriety of the stewardess suddenly gave way, and she laughed aloud. \" Have you seen her, miss ? \" she asked. \" Yes,\" admitted Miss March, with a trill of wicked mirth. \" I was coming down with the crush when the boat started, and I was just behind you. When I saw the lady was coming here, into this cabin, I turned and fled ! \" \" She says she's an old traveller, and I believe her, but I think she's found 'er match this time, miss; though, if I was you, I don't know as I wouldn't liever have that weight below me than above.\" A sudden noise without made her change her tone. \" Well, I'll wish you good-night, miss, and I hope your headache'll be better in the morning.\" It was a false alarm, but Miss March turned her face to the wall and the woman withdrew. Meanwhile Mrs. Hamlyn, having eaten her dinner with the large appetite of the abnormally stout, began to look about her, wondering which could be her cabin com- panion. She asked her table steward if he could point out Miss March, but the man looked vague and was not sure; so Mrs. Hamlyn made up her mind that she would go up on deck for a little blow before turning in. Her ample meal had renewed her confi- dence in her usual luck and' the chocolate drops, and she felt at peace with the world. At a little after nine she resolved to go do\\vn. The cabin was in darkness, and Mrs. Hamlyn, feeling for the electric button, indulged in her usual audible soliloquy. \" Ah ! I shall be able to get undressed before she comes down. I dare say if she's alone she's got a little flirtation on hand; these long voyages general!}'—where is the