The Strand 1912-6 Vol-XLIII № 258 June mich

6o4 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. occurred this evening, and might have had a tragic ending. I have spoken of our English-speaking half-breed, Gomez—a fine worker and a willing fellow, but afflicted, I fancy, with the vice of curiosity, which is common enough among such men. On the last evening he seems to have hid himself near the hut in which we were discussing our plans, and, being observed by our huge negro Zambo, who is as faithful as a dog and has the hatred which all his race bear to the half- breeds, he was dragged out and carried into our presence. Gomez whipped out his knife, however, and but for the huge strength of his captor, which enabled him to disarm him with one hand, he would certainly have stabbed him. The matter has ended in reprimands, the opponents have been com pelled to shake hands, and there is every hope that all will be well. As to the feuds of the two learned men, they are continuous and bitter. It must be admitted that Challenger is provocative in the last degree, but Summerlee has an acid tongue, which makes matters worse. Last night Challenger said that he never cared to walk on the Thames Embankment and look up the river, as it was always sad to see one's own eventual goal. He is convinced, of course, that he is destined for Westminster Abbey. Summerlee rejoined, however, with a sour smile, by saying that he understood that Millbank Prison had been pulled down. Challenger's conceit is too colossal to allow him to be really annoyed. He only smiled in his beard and repeated \" Really ! really ! \" in the pity ing tone one would use to a child. Indeed, they are children both—the one wizened and cantankerous, the other formidable and over bearing, yet each with a brain which has put him in the front rank of his scientific age. Brain, character, soul — only as one sees more of life does one understand how distinct is each. The very next day we did actually make our start upon this remarkable expedition. We found that all our possessions fitted very easily into the two canoes, and we divided our personnel, six in each, taking the obvious precaution in the interests of peace of putting one Professor into each canoe. Personally, I was with Challenger, who was in a beatific humour, moving about as one in a silent ecstasy and beaming benevolence from every feature. I have had some experience of him in other moods, however, and shall be the less surprised when the thunderstorms sud denly come up amidst the sunshine. If it is impossible to be at your ease, it is equally impossible to be dull in his company, for one is always in a state of half-tremulous doubt as to what sudden turn his formidable temper may take. For two days we made our way up a good- sized river, some hundreds of yards broad, and dark in colour, but transparent, so that one could usually see the bottom. The affluents of the Amazon are, half of them, of

THE LOST WORLD. 605 green surface, twining itself round its stronger and taller brethren in the effort. Climbing plants are monstrous and luxuriant, but others which have never been known to Of animal life there was no movement amid the majestic vaulted aisles which stretched from us as we walked, but a constant movement far above our heads told of that \"PROFESSOR CHALLENGER.\" clii«b elsewhere learn the art as an escape multitudinous world of snake and monkey from that sombre shadow, so that the common nettle, the jasmine, and even the jacitara ii l_'__i.ii . *' bird and sloth, which lived in the sun shine, and looked down in wonder at our palm tree can be seen circling the stems of tiny, dark, stumbling figures in the obscure the cedars and striving to reach their crowns, depths immeasurably below them. At dawn

6o6 THE STRAtfD MAGAZINE. and at sunset the howler monkeys screamed together and the parakeets broke into shrill chatter, but during the hot hours of the day only the full drone of insects, like the beat of a distant surf, filled the ear, while nothing moved amid the solemn vistas of stupendous trunks, fading away into the darkness which held us in. Once some bandy-legged, lurch ing creature, an ant-eater or a bear, scuttled clumsily amid the shadows. It was the only sign of earth life which I saw in this great Amazonian forest. And yet there were indications that even human life itself was not far from us in those mysterious recesses. On the third day out we were aware of a singular deep throbbing in the air, rhythmic and solemn, coming and going fitfully throughout the morning! The two boats were paddling within a few yards of each other when first we heard it, and our Indians remained motionless, as if they had been turned to bronze, listening intently with expressions of terror upon their faces. \" What is it, then ? \" I asked. \" Drums,\" said Lord Roxton, carelessly; \" war drums. I have heard them before.\" \" Yes, sir, war drums,\" said Gomez, the half-breed. \" Wild Indians, bravos, not mansos ; they watch us every mile of the way ; kill us if they can.\" \" How can they watch us ? \" I asked, gazing into the dark, motionless void. The half-breed shrugged his broad shoulders. \" The Indians know. They have their own way. They watch us. They talk the drum talk to each other. Kill us if they can.\" By the afternoon of that day—my pocket diary shows me that it was Tuesday, August 18th—at least six or seven drums were throbbing from various points. Sometimes they beat quickly, sometimes slowly, some times in obvious question and answer, one far to the east breaking out in a high staccato rattle, and being followed after a pause by a deep roll from the north. There was something indescribably nerve-shaking and menacing in that constant mutter, which seemed to shape itself into the very syllables of the half-breed, endlessly repeated, \" We will kill you if we can. We will kill you if we can.\" No one ever moved in the silent woods. AH the peace and soothing quiet of Nature lay in that dark curtain of vegetation, but away from behind there came ever the one message from our fellow-man. \" We will kill you if we can,\" said the men in the east. \" We will kill you if we can,\" said the men in the north. All day the drums rumbled and whispered, while their menace reflected itself in the faces of our coloured companions. Even the hardy, swaggering half-breed seemed cowed. I learned, however, that day once for all that both Summerlee and Challenger possessed that highest type of bravery, the bravery of the scientific mind. Theirs was the spirit which upheld Darwin among the gauchos of the Argentine or Wallace among the head-

THE LOST WORLD. 607 very one in which Professor Challenger had suffered disaster upon his first journey. I confess that the sight of it consoled me, for it was really the first direct corroboration, slight as it was, of the truth of his story. The Indians carried first our canoes and then our stores through the brushwood, which is very- thick at this point, while we four whites, our rifles on our shoulders, walked between them and any danger coming from the woods. Before evening we had successfully passed the rapids, and made our way some ten miles above them, where we anchored for the night. At this point I reckoned that we had come not less than a hundred miles up the tributary from the main stream. It was in the early forenoon of the next day that we made the great departure. Since dawn Professor Challenger had been acutely uneasy, continually scanning each bank of the river. Suddenly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction and pointed to a single tree, which projected at a peculiar angle over the side of the stream. \" What do you make of that ? \" he asked. \" It is surely an Assai palm/' said Summerlee. \" Exactly. It was an Assai palm which I took for my landmark. The secret opening is half a mile onwards upon the other side of the river. There is no break in the trees. That is the wonder and the mystery of it. There where you see light-green rushes instead of dark-green undergrowth, there between the great cotton woods, that is my private gate into the unknown. Push through, and you will understand.\" It was indeed a wonderful place. Having reached the spot marked by a line of light- green rushes, we poled our two canoes through them for some hundreds of yards, and eventu ally emerged into a placid and shallow stream, running clear and transparent over a sandy bottom. It may have been twenty yards across, and was banked in on each side by most luxuriant vegetation. No one who had not observed that for a short distance reeds had taken the place of shrubs could possibly have guessed the existence of such a stream or dreamed of the fairyland beyond. For a fairyland it was—the most wonderful that the imagination of man could conceive. The thick vegetation met overhead, inter lacing into a natural pergola, and through this tunnel of verdure in a golden twilight flowed the green, pellucid river, beautiful in itself, but marvellous from the strange tints thrown by the vivid light from above filtered and tempered in its fall. Clear as crystal, motionless as a sheet of glass, green as the edge of an iceberg, it stretched in front of us under its leafy archway, every stroke of our paddles sending a thousand ripples across its shining surface. It was a fitting avenue to a land of wonders. All sign of the Indians had passed away, but animal life was more frequent, and the tameness of the creatures showed that they knew nothing of the hunter.

6o8 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. packages, we set forth upon the more labo rious stage of our journey. An unfortunate quarrel between our pepper- pots marked the -outset of our new stage. Challenger ha^ from the moment of joining us issued directions to the whole party, much to the evident discontent of Summerlee. Now, upon his assigning some duty to his fellow-Professor (it was only the carrying of an aneroid barometer), the matter suddenly came to a head. \" May I ask, sir,\" said Summerlee, with vicious calm, \" in what capacity you take it upon yourself to issue these orders ? \" Challenger.glared and bristled. \" I am compelled to tell you, sir, that I do not recognize you in that capacity.\" \" I do it, Professor Summerlee, as leader of this expedition.\" \" Indeed ! \" Challenger bowed with un wieldy sarcasm. \" Perhaps you would define my exact position.\" \" Yes, sir. You are a man whose veracity is upon trial, and this committee is here to try it. You walk, sir, with your judges.\" \" Dear me \\'J said Challenger, seating him self on the side of one of the canoes. \" In that case you will, of course, go on your way, and I will follow at my leisure. If I am not the leader you cannot expect me to lead.\" Thank Heaven that there were two sane men—Lord John Roxton and myself—to prevent the petulance and folly of our learned Professors from sending us back empty-handed to London. Such arguing and pleading and explaining before we could get them mollified ! Then at last Summerlee, with his sneer and his pipe, would move forwards, and Challenger would come rolling and grumbling after. By some good fortune we discovered about this time that both our savants had the very poorest opinion of Dr. Illingworth of Edinburgh. Thenceforward that was our one safety, and every strained situation was relieved by our introducing the name of the Scotch zoologist, when both our Professors would form a temporary alliance and friend ship in their detestation and abuse of this common rival. Advancing in single file along the bank of the stream, we soon found that it narrowed down to a mere brook, and finally that it lost itself in a great green morass of sponge- like mosses, into which we sank up to our knees. The place was horribly haunted by clouds of mosquitoes and every form of flying pest, so we were glad to find solid ground again and to make a circuit among the trees, which enabled us to outflank this pestilent morass, which droned like an organ in the distance, so loud was it with insect life. On the second day after leaving our canoes we found that the whole character of the country changed. Our road was persis tently upwards, and as we ascended the woods became thinner and lost their tropical luxuri ance. The huge trees of the alluvial Ama zonian plain gave place to the Phoenix and

THE LOST WORLD. 609 limited to the back of Lord Roxton's cotton jacket in front of me, and to the yellow wall within a. foot of me on either side. From above came one thin knife- edge of sunshine, and fifteen feet over our heads one saw the tops of the reeds sway ing against the deep blue sky. I do not know what kind of creatures inhabit such a thicket, but several times we heard the plunging of large, heavy animals quite close to us. From their sounds Lord Roxton judged them to be some form of wild cattle. Just as night fell we cleared the belt of bamboos, and at once formed our camp, ex hausted by the interminable • day. Early next morning we were again afoot, and found that the character of the country had changed once again. Behind us was the wall of bamboo, as definite as if it marked the course of a river. In front was an open plain, sloping slightly upwards and dotted with clumps of tree - ferns, the whole curving before us until it ended in a long, whale-backed ridge. This we reached about midday, only to find a shallow valley beyond rising once again into a gentle incline which led to a low, rounded sky line. It was here, while we crossed the first of these hills, that an incident occurred which may or may not have been important.. Professor Challenger, who, with the two local Indians, was in the van of the party, stopped suddenly and pointed excitedly to the right. As he did so we saw, at the distance of a mile or so, something which ap peared to be a huge dark bird flap slowly up from the ground and skim smoothly \" WE WERE GLAD TO FIND SOLID GROUND AGAIN AND TO MAKE A CIRCUIT AMONG THE TREliS.\"

6io THE STRAND MAGAZINE. off, flying very low and straight, until it was lost among the tree-ferns. \" Did you see it ? \" cried Challenger, in exultation. \" Summerlee, did you see it ? \" His colleague was staring at the spot where the creature had disappeared. \" What do you claim that it was ? \" he asked. \" To the best of my belief, a pterodactyl.\" Summerlee burst into derisive laughter. \" A ptero-fiddlestick ! \" said he. \" It was a stork, if ever I saw one.\" Challenger was too furious to speak. He simply swung his pack upon his back and Moo os ROOC.H CH**T OF And now, my readers, if ever I have any, I have brought you up the broad river, and through the screen of rushes, and down- the green tunnel, and up the long slope of palm trees, and through the bamboo brake, and across the plain of tree-ferns. At last our destination lay in full sight of us. \\Yhen we had crossed the second ridge we saw before us an irregular, palm-studded plain, and then the line of high red cliffs which I have seen in the picture. There it lies, even as I write, and there can be no question that it is the same. At the nearest point it is about seven miles from our present camp, and it curves away, ( Htifltlr ortt^/ej *•»*- fe ftaU I ^w..^ I\"* ,'. rucrnTilM MALONE'S ROUGH MAP OF THE JOURNEY TO THE CLIFFS. continued upon his march. Lord Roxton came abreast of me, however, and his face was more grave than was his wont. He had his Zeiss glasses in his hand. \" I focused it before it got over the trees,\" said he. \" I won't undertake to say what it was, but I'll risk my reputation as a sportsman that it wasn't any bird that ever I clapped eyes on in my life.\" So there the matter stands. Are we really just at the edge of the unknown, encountering the outlying pickets of this new world of which our leader speaks ? I give you the incident as it occurred and you will know as much as I do. It stands alone, for we saw nothing more which could be called remark able. stretching as far as I can see. Challenger struts about like a prize peacock, and Sum merlee is silent, but still sceptical. Another day should bring some of our doubts to an end. Meanwhile, as Jose, whose arm was pierced by a broken bamboo, insists upon returning, I send this letter back in his charge, and only hope that it may eventually come to hand. I will write again as the occasion serves. I have enclosed with this a rough chart of our journey, which may have the effect of making the account rather easier to understand. CHAPTER IX. \" WHO COULD HAVE FORESEEN IT ? \" A DRKADFUI. thing has happened to us. \\\\ ho could have foreseen it ? I cannot foresee any

THE LOST WORLD. 611 end to our troubles. It may be that we are condemned to spend our whole lives in this strange, inaccessible place. I am still so confused that I can hardly think clearly of the facts of the present or of the chances of the future. To my astounded senses the one seems most terrible and the other as black as night. No men have ever found themselves in a worse position; nor is there any use in disclosing to you our exact geographical situation and asking our friends for a relief party. Even if they could send one, our fate will in all human probability be decided long before it could arrive in South America. We are, in truth, as far from any human aid as if we were in the moon. If we are to win through, it is only our own qualities which can save us. I have as companions three remark able men, men of great brain-power and of unshaken courage. There lies our one and only hope. It is only when I look upon the untroubled faces of my comrades that I see some glimmer through the darkness. Out wardly I trust that I appear as unconcerned as they. Inwardly I am filled with appre hension. Let me give you, with as much detail as I can, the sequence of events which have led us to this catastrophe. When I finished my last letter I stated that we were within seven miles from an enormous line of ruddy cliffs which encircled, beyond all doubt, the plateau of which Professor Chal lenger spoke. Their height, as we approached them, seemed to me in some places to be greater than he had stated—running up in parts to at least a thousand feet—and they were curiously striated, in a manner which is, I believe, characteristic of basaltic upheavals. Something of the sort is to be seen in Salisbury Crags at Edinburgh. The summit showed every sign of a luxuriant vegetation, with bushes near the edge, and farther back many high trees. There was no indication of any life that we could see. That night we pitched our camp imme diately under the cliff —a most wild and deso late spot. The crags above us were not merely perpendicular, but curved outwards at the top, so that ascent was out of the ques tion. Close to us was the high, thin pinnacle of rock which I believe I mentioned earlier in this narrative. It is like a broad red church spire, the top of it being level with the plateau, but a great chasm gaping between. On the summit of it there grew one high tree. Both pinnacle and cliff were comparatively low— some five or six hundred feet, I should think. \" It was on that,\" said Professor Challenger, pointing to this tree, \" that the pterodactyl was perched. I climbed half-way up the rock before I shot him. I am inclined to think that a good mountaineer like myself could ascend the rock to the top, though he would, of course, be no nearer to the plateau when he had done so.\" As Challenger spoke of his pterodactyl I

6l2 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. main cliff overhangs, it is vain to attempt ascending that. I was hurried upon my last visit by the approach of the rainy season and by the exhaustion of my supplies. These considerations limited my time, and I can only claim that I have surveyed about six miles of the cliff to the east of us, finding no possible way up. What, then, shall we now do ? \" \" There seems to be only one reasonable course,\" said Professor Summerlee. \" If you have explored the east, we should travel along the base of the cliff to the west, and seek for a practicable point for our ascent.\" \"That's it,\" said Lord Roxlon. \"The odds arc that this plateau is of no great size, and we shall travel round it until we either find an easy way up it, or come back to the point from which we started.\" \" I have already explained to our young friend here,\" said Challenger (he has a way of alluding to me as if I were a school child ten years old), \" that it is quite impossible that there should be an easy way up anywhere, for the simple reason that if there were the summit would not be isolated, and those conditions would not obtain which have effected so singular an interference with the general laws of survival. Yet I admit that there may very well be places where an expert human climber may reach the summit, and yet a cumbrous and heavy animal be unable to descend. It is certain that there is a. point where an ascent is possible.\" \" How do you know that, sir ? \" asked Summerlee, sharply. \" Because my predecessor, the American Maple White, actually made such an ascent. How otherwise could he have seen the monster which he sketched in his notebook ? \" \" There you reason somewhat ahead of the proved facts,\" said the stubborn Summerlee. \" I admit your plateau, because I have seen it; but I have not as yet satisfied myself that it contains any form of life whatever.\" \" What you admit, sir, or what you do not admit, is really of inconceivably small impor tance. I am glad to perceive that the plateau itself has actually obtruded itself upon your intelligence.\" He glanced up at it, and then, to our amazement, he sprang from his rock, and, seizing Summerlee by the neck, he tilted his face into the air. \" Now, sir ! \" he shouted, hoarse with excitement. \" Do I help you to realize that the plateau contains some animal life ? \" I have said that a thick fringe of green overhung the edge of the cliff. Out of this there had emerged a black, glistening object. As it came slowly forth and overhung the chasm, we saw that it was a very large snake with a peculiar flat, spade-like head. It wavered and quivered above us for a minute, the morning sun gleaming upon its sleek, sinuous coils. Then it slowly drew inwards and disappeared. Summerlee had been so interested that he had stood unresisting while Challenger tilted

THE LOST WORLD. 613 along the edge of this cover when my eye was caught by the gleam of something white within it. Thrusting in my head between the stems, I found myself gazing at a fleshless skull. The whole skeleton was there, but the skull had detached itself and lay some feet nearer to the open. With a few blows from the machetes of our Indians we cleared the spot and were able to study the details of this old tragedy. Only a few shreds of clothes could still be dis tinguished, but there were the remains of boots upon the bony feet, and it was very clear that the dead man was a European. A gold watch by Hudson, of New York, and a chain which held a stylographic pen, lay among the bones. There was also a silver cigarette-case, with \" J. f., from A. E. S.,\" upon the lid. The state of the metal seemed to show that the catastrophe had occurred no great time before. \" Who can he be ? \" asked Lord Roxton. \" Poor devil! every bone in his body seems to be broken.\" \"'WHO CAN UK BE ?' ASKED LORD ROXTON. 'POOR DEVIL ! EVERY BONR IN MIS BODY SKEMS TO BE BROKEN.'\"

6i4 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" And the bamboo grows through his smashed ribs,\" said Summerlee. \" It is a fast- growing plant, but it is surely inconceivable that this body could have been here while the canes grew to be twenty feet in length.\" \" As to the man's identity,\" said Professor Challenger, \" I have no doubt whatever upon that point. As I made my way up the river before I reached you at the hacienda I insti tuted very particular inquiries about Maple White. At Para they knew nothing. Fortu nately, I had a definite clue, for there was a particular picture in his sketch-book which showed him taking lunch with a certain ecclesiastic at Rosario. This priest I was able to find, and though he proved a very argumentative fellow, who took it absurdly amiss that I should point out to him the cor rosive effect which modern science must have upon his beliefs, he none the less gave me some positive information. Maple White passed Rosario four years ago, or two years before I saw his dead body. He was not alone at the time, but there was a friend, an American named James Colver, v/ho remained in the boat and did not meet this ecclesiastic. I think, therefore, that there can be no doubt that we are now looking upon the remains of this James Colver.\" \" Nor,\" said Lord Roxton, \" is there much doubt as to how he met his death. He has fallen or been chucked from the top, and so been impaled. How else could he come by his broken bones, and how could he have been stuck through by these canes with their points so high above our heads ? \" A hush came over us as we stood round these shattered remains and realized the truth of Lord Roxton's words. The beetling head of the cliff projected over the cane-brake. Undoubtedly he had fallen from above. But had he fallen ? Had it been an accident ? Or already ominous and terrible possi bilities began to form round that unknown land. We moved off in silence, and continued to coast round the line of cliffs, which were as even and unbroken as some of those mon strous Antarctic icefields which I have seen depicted as stretching from horizon to horizon and towering high above the mast-heads of the exploring vessel. In five miles we saw no rift or break. And then suddenly we perceived something which filled us with new hope. In a hollow of the rock, protected from rain, there was drawn a rough arrow in chalk, pointing still to the westwards. \" Maple White again,\" said Professor Challenger. \" He had some presentiment that worthy footsteps would follow close behind him.\" \" He had chalk, then ? \" \" A box of coloured chalks was among the effects I found in his knapsack. I remember that the white one was worn to a stump.\" \" That is certainly good evidence,\" said Summerlee. \" We can only accept his guidance and follow on to the westward.\"

THE LOST WORLD. with rounded stones. It was of such a size that a single man could just fit through by- stooping. For fifty yards it ran almost straight into the rock, and then it ascended at an angle of forty-five. Presently this incline became even steeper, and we found ourselves climbing upon hands and knees among loose rubble which slid from beneath us. Suddenly an exclamation broke from Lord Roxton. \" It's blocked ! \" said he. Clustering behind him we saw in the yellow field of light a wall of broken basalt which extended to the ceiling. \" The roof has fallen in ! \" In vain we dragged out some of the pieces. The only effect was that the larger ones became detached and threatened to roll down the gradient and crush us. It was evident that the obstacle was far beyond any efforts which we could make to remove it. The road by which Maple White had ascended was no longer available. Too much cast down to speak, we stumbled down the dark tunnel and made our way back to the camp. One incident occurred, however, before we left the gorge, which is of importance in view of what came afterwards. We had gathered in a little group at the bottom of the chasm, some forty feet beneath the mouth of the cave, when a huge rock rolled suddenly downwards and shot past us with tremendous force. It was the narrowest escape for one or all of us. We could not ourselves see whence the rock had come, but our half-breed servants, who were still at the opening of the cave, said that it had flown past them, and must therefore have fallen from the summit. Looking upwards, we could see no sign of movement above us amidst the green jungle which topped the cliff. There could be little doubt, however, that the stone was aimed at us, so the incident surely pointed to humanity—and malevolent humanity—upon the plateau. We withdrew hurriedly from the chasm. our minds full of this new development and its bearing upon our plans. The situation was difficult enough before, but if the obstruc tions of Nature were increased by the deliberate opposition of man, then our case was indeed a hopeless one. And yet, as we looked up at that beautiful fringe of verdure only a few hundreds of feet above our heads, there was not one of us who could conceive the idea of returning to London until we had explored it to its depths. On discussing the situation, we determined that our best course was to continue to coast round the plateau in the hope of finding some other means of reaching the top. The line of cliffs, which had decreased considerably in height, had already begun to trend from west to north, and if we could take this as representing the arc of a circle, the whole circumference could not be very great. At the worst, then, we should be back in a few days at our starting-point. We made a march that day which totalled

6i6 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. half upon our fire. There is a chill in the air after dark, and we had all drawn close to the blaze. The night was moonless, but there were some stars, and one could see for a little distance across the plain. Well, suddenly out of the darkness, out of the night, there swooped something with a swish like an aeroplane. The whole group of us were covered for an instant by a canopy of leathery wings, and I had a momentary vision of a long, snake-like neck, a fierce, red, greedy eye, and a great, snapping beak, filled, to my amazement, with little, gleaming teeth. The next instant it was gone—and so was our dinner. A huge black shadow, twenty feet across, skimmed up into the air ; for an instant the monster wings blotted out the stars, and then it vanished over the brow of the cliff above us. We all sat in amazed silence round the fire, like the heroes of Virgil when the Harpies came down upon them. It was Summerlee who was the first to speak. \" Professor Challenger,\" said he, in a solemn voice, which quavered with emotion, \" I owe you an apology. Sir, I am very much in the wTong, and I beg that you will forget what is past.\" It was handsomely said, and the two men for the first time shook hands. So much we have gained by this clear vision of our first pterodactyl. It was worth a stolen supper to bring two such men together. But if prehistoric life existed upon the plateau, it was- not superabundant, for we had no further glimpse of it during the next three days. During this time we traversed a barren and forbidding country, which alter nated between stony desert and desolate marshes full of many wild-fowl, upon the north and east of the cliffs. From that direc tion the place is really inaccessible, and, were it not for a hardish ledge which runs at the very base of the precipice, we should have had to turn back. Many times we were up to our waists in the slime and blubber of an old, semi-tropical swamp. To make matters worse, the place seemed to be a favourite breeding-pla.ce of the Jaracaca snake, the most venomous and aggressive in South America. Again and again these horrible creatures came writhing and springing towards us across the surface of this putrid bog, and it was only by keeping our shot-guns for ever ready that we could feel safe from them. One funnel-shaped depression in the morass, of a livid green in colour from some lichen which festered in it, will always remain as a nightmare memory in my mind. It seems 'i have been a special nest of these vermin. and the slopes were alive with them, all writhing in our direction, for it is a peculiarity of the Jaracaca that he will always attack man at first sight. There were too many for us to shoot, so \\ve fairly took to our heels and ran until we were exhausted. I shall always remember as we looked back how far behind we could see the heads and necks of our horrible pursuers rising and falling

THE LOST WORLD. 617 our investigation, and it was absolutely certain that there was no single point where the most active human facing could possibly hope to scale the cliff. The place which Maple White's chalk-marks had indicated as his own means of access was now entirely impassable. What were we to do now ? Our stores of provisions, supplemented by our guns, were holding out well, but the day must come when they would need replenishment. In a couple of months the rains might be expected, and we should be washed out of our camp. The rock was harder than marble, and any attempt at cutting a path for so great a height was more than our time or resources would admit. No wonder that we looked gloomily at each other that night, and sought our blankets with hardly a word exchanged. I remember that as I dropped off to sleep my last recollection was that Challenger was squatting, like a monstrous bull-frog, by the fire, his huge head in his hands, sunk appa rently in the deepest thought, and entirely oblivious to the good night which I wished him. After breakfast we unpacked the bundle in which our leader had brought his climbing accessories. From it he took a coil of the strongest and lightest rope, a hundred and fifty feet in length, with climbing irons, clamps, and other devices. Lord Roxton was an experienced mountaineer, and Summerlee had done some rough climbing at various times, so that I was really the novice at rock-work of the party ; but my strength and activity may have made up for my want of experience. But it was a very different Challenger who greeted us in the morning—a Challenger with contentment and self-congratulation shining from his whole person. He faced us as we assembled for breakfast with a deprecating false modesty in his eyes, as who should say, \" I know that I deserve all that you can say, but I pray you to spare my blushes by not saying it.\" His beard bristled exultantly, his chest was thrown out, and his hand was thrust into the front of his jacket. So, in his fancy, may he see himself sometimes, gracing the vacant pedestal in Trafalgar Square, and adding one more to the horrors of the London streets. \" Eureka ! \" he cried, his teeth shining through his beard. \" Gentlemen, you may congratulate me and we may congratulate each other. The problem is solved.\" \" You have found a way up ? \" \" I venture to think so.\" \" And where ? \" For answer he pointed to the spire-like pinnacle upon our right. Our faces—or mine, at least—fell as we surveyed it. That it could be climbed we had our companion's assurance. Hut a horrible abyss lay between it and the plateau. \" We can at least all reach the summit,\" said he. \" When we are up I may be able to

6i8 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. forty miles. I placed one arm round the trunk of the tree and leaned over the abyss. Far down were the small dark figures of our servants, looking up at us. The wall was absolutely precipitous, as was that which faced me. \" This is indeed curious.\" said the creaking voice of Professor Summerlee. I turned, and found that he was examining with great interest the tree to which I clung. That smooth bark and those small, ribbed leaves seemed familiar to ray eyes. \" Why,\" I cried, \" it's a beech ! \" \"Exactly,\" said Summerlee. \" A fellow- countryman in a far land.\" \" Not only a fellow-countryman, my good sir,\" said Challenger, \" but also, if I may be allowed to enlarge your simile, an ally of the first value. This beech tree will be our saviour.\" \"By George!\" cried Lord Roxton, \"a bridge ! \" \" Exactly, my friends, a bridge ! It is not for nothing that I expended an hour last night in focusing my mind upon the situa tion. I have some recollection of once remarking to our young friend here that G. E. C. is at his best when his back is to the wall. Last night you will admit that all our backs were to the wall. But where will power and intellect go together, there is always a way out. A drawbridge had to be found which could be dropped across the abyss. Behold it ! \" It was certainly a brilliant idea. The tree was a good sixty feet in height, and if it only fell the right way it would easily cross the chasm. Challenger had slung the camp axe over his shoulder when he ascended. Now he handed it to me. Under his direction I cut such gashes in the sides of the tree as would ensure that it should fall as we desired. It had already a strong, natural tilt in the direction of the plateau, so that the matter was not difficult. Finally I set to work in earnest upon the trunk, taking turn and turn with Lord Roxton. In a little over an hour there was a loud crack, the tree swayed forward, and then crashed over, burying its branches among the bushes on the farther side. The severed trunk rolled to the very edge of our platform, and for one terrible second we all thought that it was over. \" Our young friend has the thews and sinews,\" said he. \" I think he will be the most useful at this task. I must beg, however, that you will kindly refrain from thinking for yourself, and that you will do exactly what you are told.\" It balanced itself, however, a few inches from the edge, and there was our bridge to the unknown. All of us, without a word, shook hands with Professor Challenger, who raised his straw hat and bowed deeply to each in turn. \" I claim the honour,\" said he, \" to be the first to cross to the unknown land—a fitting subject, no doubt, for some future historical

THE LOST WORLD. 619 THE JOURNEY ACROSS THE TRF.E BRIDGE.

620 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" Now, Challenger, if you really insist upon being the first man in,\" said Lord Roxton, when every preparation was complete. \" I am much indebted to you for your gracious permission,\" said the angry Professor; for never was a man so intolerant of every form of authority. \" Since you are good enough to allow it, I shall most certainly take it upon myself to act as pioneer upon this occasion.\" Seating himself with a leg overhanging the abyss on each side, and his hatchet slung upon his back, Challenger hopped his way across the trunk and was soon at the other side. He clambered up and waved his arms in the air. \" At last ! \" he cried; \" at last! \" 1 gazed anxiously at him, with a vague expectation that some terrible fate would dart at him from the curtain of green behind him. But all was quiet, save that a strange, many- coloured bird flew up from under his feet and vanished among the trees. Summerlee was the second. His wiry energy is wonderful in so frail a frame. He insisted upon having two rifles slung upon his back, so that both Professors were armed when he had made his transit. I came next, and tried hard not to look down into the horrible gulf over which I was passing. Summerlee held out the butt-end of his rifle, and an instant later I was able to grasp his hand. As to Lord Roxton, he walked across—actually walked, without support! He must have nerves of iron. And there we were, the four of us, upon the dreamland, the lost world, of Maple White. To all of us it seemed the moment of our supreme triumph. Who could have guessed that it was the prelude to our supreme disaster ? Let me say in a few words how the crushing blow fell upon us. We had turned away from the edge, and had penetrated about fifty yards of close brushwood, when there came a frightful rending crash from behind us. With one impulse we rushed back the way that we had come. The bridge was gone ! Far down at the base of the cliff I saw, as I looked over, a tangled mass of branches and splintered trunk. ' It was our beech tree. Had the edge of the platform crumbled and let it through ? For a moment this explana tion was in all our minds. The next, from the farther side of the rocky pinnacle before us a swarthy face, the face of Gomez the half- breed, was slowly protruded. Yes, it was Gomez, but no longer the Gomez of the demure smile and the mask-like expression. Here was a face with flashing eyes and distorted features, a face convulsed with hatred and with the mad joy of gratified revenge. \" Lord Roxton ! \" he shouted. \" Lord John Roxton ! \" \" Well,\" said our companion, \" here I am.\" A shriek of laughter came across the abyss. \" Yes, there you are, you English dog, and there you will remain ! I have waited and \\vaited, and now has come my chance. You

THE LOST WORLD. 621 Now that we had the clue to his actions, each of us could cast back and remember some sinister act upon the part of the half- breed—his constant desire to know our plans, his arrest outside our tent when he was over hearing them, the furtive looks of hatred which from time to time one or other of us bounded the huge ebony figure of Zambo, our devoted negro. Even as we looked, he sprang upon the back of the fugitive and flung his arms round his neck. They rolled on the ground together. An instant afterwards Zambo rose, looked at the prostrate man. and then, waving his hand joyously to us. came running in our \" HE SPRANG UPON THE BACK OF THE FUGITIVE AND KI.UNO HIS ARMS ROUND HIS NECK.\" had surprised. We were still discussing it, endeavouring to adjust our minds to these new conditions, when a singalar scene in the plain below arrested our attention. A man in white clothes, who could only be the surviving half-breed, was running as one does run when Death is the pacemaker. Behind him, only a few yards in his rear, direction. The white figure lay motionless in the middle of the great plain. Our two traitors had been destroyed, but the mischief that they had done lived after them. By no possible means could we get back to the pinnacle. We had been natives of the world ; now we were natives of the plateau. The two things were separate and

622 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. apart. There was the plain which led to the canoes. Yonder, beyond the violet, hazy horizon, was the stream which led back to civilization. But the link between was missing. No human ingenuity could suggest a means of bridging the chasm which yawned between ourselves and our past lives. One instant had altered the whole conditions of our existence. It was at such a moment that I learned the stuff of which my three comrades were composed. They were grave, it is true, and thoughtful, but of an invincible serenity. For the moment we could only sit among the bushes in patience and wait the coming of Zambo. Presently his honest black face topped the rocks and his Herculean figure emerged upon the top of the pinnacle. \" What I do now ? \" he cried. \" You tell me and I do it.\" It was a question which it was easier to ask than to answer. One thing only was clear. He was our one trusty link with the outside world. On no account must he leave us. \" No, no ! \" he cried. \" I not leave you. Whatever come, you always find me here. But no able to keep Indians. Already they say too much Curupuri live on this place, and they go home. Now you leave them me no able to keep them.\" It was a fact that our Indians had shown in many ways of late that they were weary of their journey and anxious to return. We realized that Zambo spoke the truth, and that it would be impossible for him to keep them. \" Make them wait till to-morrow. Zambo,'' I shouted ; \" then I can send letter back by them.\" \" Very good, sarr ! I promise they wait till to-morrow,\" said the negro. \" But what I do for you now ? \" There was plenty for him to do, and admirably the faithful fellow did it. First of all, under our directions, he undid the rope from the tree-stump and threw one end of it across to us. It was not thicker than a clothes-line, but it was oi great strength, and though we could not make a bridge of it, we might well find it invaluable if we had any climbing to do. He then fastened his end of the rope to the package of supplies which had been carried up, and we were .able to drag it across. This gave us the means of life for at least a week, even if we found nothing else. Finally he descended and carried up two other packets of mixed goods—a box of ammu nition and a number of other things, all of which we got across by throwing our rope to him and hauling it back. It was evening when he at last climbed down, with a final assurance that he would keep the Indians till next morning. And so it is that I have spent nearly the whole of this our first night upon the plateau writing up our experiences by the light of a single candle-lantern.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A DERBY FAVOURITE. By BERNARD PARSONS. [Through the courtesy of Mr. E. Hulton, the owner of Lomond, we are able to present in the following article—illustrated with photographs specially taken—an account of the work of training a Derby favourite, of the greatest interest not only to devotees of the Turf, but to everyone who, as Lord Rosebery confessed of himself, \" loves a good horse.\"] OME little time ago there resided at Newmarket a cer tain hard-working tout who augmented the none - too - large income he received from reporting training operations at headquarters for several minor sporting papers by sending his \" latest unbeatable specials \" to various confiding clients who, for some reason or other best known to themselves, regarded the worthy tout's judgment on racing matters as superior to their own. Unfortunately, however, results after an all-too-brief span of fleeting success went to THF. FIRST PHOTOGRAPH OF LOMOND AS A THREK- Y BAR-OLD. prove that the said tout's selections were far from infallible, for, truth to tell, the horses he wired to his clients failed to catch the judge's eye with such consistent and depressing regularity that finally, on the concluding of the Cambridgeshire meeting—his clients had for some time past been dropping off one by one—his one and only remaining patron, having backed his seventeenth consecutive loser, hastily summoned his adviser to him, and proceeded forthwith to upbraid him in caustic tones for the inaccuracy of his infor mation. The tout listened in silence until at length, more through want of breath than failing inclination, his patron broke down in his invective, when he furtively wiped his eyes with the back of a much-toil-stained hand, and mournfully expressed his wish that he could change his lot with that of a Derby favourite. \" Derbv favourites 'as the best

624 THE STRAND MAGAZINE, time of any living thing on earth, sir ; all they wants they 'as, and they never gets nothing but gratitude—when they win—and when they don't it's a haccident, sir, that's all.\" Personally, after spending a day with Lomond at Treadwell House, Epsom, through the courtesy of Mr. E. Hulton, the owner of the son of Desmond,, who,at the time of writing, stands at the head of the quotations for the On the day of my visit we rose early, for at Epsom, as at many other training quarters, the most important part of the day's work is half over before the majority of people in town are thinking of even bestirring them selves to commence their daily round. A sharp shower, however, delays the morning's operations for a few minutes, and thus it is close on seven o'clock when I find myself, in company with Mr. Wootton, standing outside A STRIKING PHOTOGRAPH OK LOMOND, SHOWING WHAT AN EXCELLENT WALKER THE FAVOURITE IS. Derby, and the kindness of Mr. R. Wootton, his trainer, I entertain no manner of doubt at all as to the accuracy of the roseate view the tout held of the good time he would have on his second time on earth, always providing the Fates \" transmigrated \" him according to his desires, for unless Lomond suffers from chronic discontent, which I understand is not the case, I at least saw enough to induce the belief that he has every reason to regard his equine existence as almost—if not quite— Box No. 46, Treadwell House, the country residence of the favourite for the most impor tant prize the Turf has to offer. Many racehorses are of such variable temperament that, even though they comport themselves with dignity when about to indulge in the serious occupation of racing, they make up for their docility when \" under orders \" by being unruly in their stables. But in this respect Lomond is exceptional. Indeed, although, like many descendants of Galopin, he is apt to be a little excitable at exercise, in

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A DERBY FAVOURITE. 625 \" A nice horse to ' do,' sir ? I should just think he was,\" remarks Jack Oberne, Lomond's \" boy,\" whose important duty it has been to \" do \" the son of Desmond and Lowland Aggie since he first arrived at Treadwell House, after being purchased for sixteen hundred guineas as a yearling at the Doncaster sales—the highest price that Mr. Hulton had, up till then, given for a yearling. \" Why, he wouldn't hurt a fly, sir; and as for children—well, he's as good as a nurse. Mr. Wootton's youngest son, Master Dick —he isn't three years old yet—can do any thing he likes with him in his box. You can take it from me, sir, he's as sensible as many human beings, and—well, a sight more his stable he is as quiet and tractable as the proverbial \" old sheep.\" unlike some of his stable companions, who show an inclination to try to unseat their jockeys, Lomond does not seem in the least perturbed by the biting keenness of the wind ; he just walks around as soberly as an ancient hack, the while regarding the undue levity cf some of his stable companions with an air of sorrowful boredom as of one who would say : \" What fools to waste superfluous energy in that frivolous manner! You never know when you may want it on the racecourse. Why, therefore, waste it at home in the paddock ?\" In a few minutes Mr. Wootton gives the order to start for the Downs, and shortly before half-past seven the horses set out in Indian file towards the training ground. To the real lover of horses a string of thorough- THE STRING ON THE DOWNS—LOMOND IS THE NEARER HORSE OF THE LEADING PAIR. fnmal sensible than most,\" cynically adds the Derby favourite's \" valet,\" who is as devoted to his charge as he is fully alive to the grave responsibility of the duty with which he is entrusted. A few minutes later Lomond has his clothes and saddle put on, and is made ready to join the string of horses which parade found the private enclosure adjoining the stables before setting out for the training ground. During the winter months, when Frank Wootton made a trip to India, Oberne rode the favourite at exercise every day ; but since the premier jockey's return—Frank Wootton has headed the list of winning jockeys for the past three years—he has ridden the son of Desmond several times a week, and will, of course, steer him at Epsom on the fateful afternoon of June 5th. \" All present\" having been called, and Lomond having amiably consented to pose for a photographer—in a manner that would do credit to a picture-postcard favourite—he is led out of his box to join the rest of the string. The morning is a cold one, but as the day's exercise has not yet actually commenced, 42' breds never fails to provide a series of interest ing character studies, for every horse possesses a distinct individuality of its own. That

626 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. ennui, but is merely rather the result of a thorough appreciation of the fact that stables were intended to rest, sleep, or doze in, and not for undue displays of high spirits ; for as, with swinging stride, the handsome bright bay with the white star canters past, he shows a distinct inclination to \" get on \" to the more serious side of racing. But Frank Wootton, gifted as he is with the lightest of hands, restrains his mount with that perfect ease which characterizes the true artist. What a wonderful gift to a jockey are perfect hands ! It is not too much to say that Wootton, with a silken thread, could hold a pulling horse which would bolt with many an amateur with a \" gag.\" A few minutes' walk to enable the horses to cool down follows the first canter, and then it is time for the real business of the morning. A light sheet takes the place of his more heavy- clothing, and I learn that Lomond is to do a gallop over a mile and a quarter with Haytor —a useful plater who won a small handicap at Leicester recently—and Paravid, with bo'.h of whom he has for some time past done much of his work. Mr. Wootton stations him self close to where the horses are to pull up, and as soon as they can be espied in the dis tance Paravid, a four - year- old, who ran second in the Queen's Prize, ridden by little Smythe. is seen to be leading some three or four lengths, with Lomond— going well within himself and apparently without effort —lyingsecond, while Haytor, who stays for ever, but is now lapsing into the \" sear and yellow\" stage of life, brings up the rear. A hun dred yards or so from the finish, however, a sudden and rapid transformation takes place, for Lomond is momentarily allowed his head, and in far less time than it takes to describe his effort he sweeps past the leader as if the latter had suddenly been attached to a heavy roller. Naturally^ the gallop is nothing at all in the nature of a trial, but the volcanic manner in which Lomond shoots past his stable com

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A DERBY FAVOURITE. 627 luck he will annex both the Derby and the St. Leger. After pulling up at the end of the gallop, warm clothing is thrown over \" Epsom's hope,\" and for a quarter of an hour he is led about to cool down, the while he is also allowed to enjoy a few mouthfuls of grass, which he picks up here and there as the fancy takes him. Lomond at work and Lomond at play are two curiously different animals. At exercise he had shown himself full of fire and dash, but with the important part of his morning duty over he is now once more the quiet, tractable Lomond I had seen an hour ago. I would mention, by the way, that an unusual affection for photographers would appear to be a hobby of his, for as he quietly walks around—a better walker you will not find in many a long day's march—he consents to be snapped here and there in the most amiable manner possible, evidently regarding the attentions of the photographer as an inevitable result of a distinguished reputation. The morning's work is now over, and it is time for the favourite to return to Treadwell House to enjoy the luxury of a real good feed and a \" wash and brush up.\" First of all comes the .all-important toilet. Lomond's hood and bridle are removed, and then, commencing with the head and neck, his \" boy \" proceeds to clean him thoroughly. Then, and not till then, is he allowed his morning drink—a bucket of water. Oberne's next duty is to wash his charge's feet and sponge down his legs, the greatest care being taken to see that the latter are left perfectly dry. Saddle and clothing are next removed, and then, while contentedly munching his hay, an apparently uninterested Lomond is thoroughly dressed over with body-brush, sponge, wisp of straw, and rubber. A few minutes later Mr. Wootton comes round to inspect the colt for himself. After running an expert eye over \" the best two- year-old I ever trained,\" as he describes Lomond, he proceeds to carefully handle his legs and feet, an operation to which the horse submits with an air of the utmost unconcern, after which rugs and roller are put on, a bed of best wheat-straw is carefully laid down in the box, and breakfast is served, the menu consisting of oats, beans, and cut hay. By this time it is almost noon, and, the first part of the day's work being finished, Lomond's box is carefully locked, express orders being given that on no account, unless taken for an afternoon's stroll in the paddock, is the Derby favourite to be disturbed until \" stables.\" \" Is Lomond ' bred ' to win a Derby ? \" is a question that is sure to be asked by those who are interested in the science of breeding. Let me, therefore, on this point quote the views of Mr. \\V. Allison, one of the greatest authorities of the day on breeding. \" If I had to find a fault with Lomond's pedigree it would be that it is almost too good, which may well happen in these days of

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. as her brothers Frank and Stanley, is kind enough to whisper confidentially to me that she is \" quite sure that Lomond will win the Derby.\" ': Why sure ? \" I asked. \" Because by some curious coincidence Lady Conyngham, who bred Lomond, paid her first visit to Treadwell House this year on St. Patrick's Day, and to make doubly certain of his winning the Derby, on looking over the favourite in his box, presented him with a bunch of shamrock, which he wore in his head- collar until the ravages of time suggested that this token of good luck would be more at home in the saddle-room.\" Mr. Wootton himself, remarkably clever course of which, by the way, he frequently looks longingly in the direction of the sand- bath. \" Very human things horses, aren't they ? Like their two-legged brothers, they find it difficult to keep away from their pet luxuries; and if looks go for anything (which they do and they don't, as the village sage says—horses, you know, run in all shapes) he will keep them all busy. But there,\" he adds, philosophically, \" the most that any trainer can do is to do his best for his horses and his patrons; and if doing my best will win Lomond the Derby for Mr. Hulton—well, my friend \"—Mr. Wootton lays an impressive hand on my shoulder—\" then you may take it TAKING A MOUTHFUL OF GRASS AFTER EXERCISE. Prom a Photograph. trainer that he is, is seldom ultra-sanguine concerning the prospects of any of his charges, for, like every racing man of experience, he knows full well that the bookmakers' best friend, the \" glorious uncertainty\" of the Turf, is liable at all times to crop up to upset the most carefully-laid plans. In the mean time he is kind enough to tell me that he is thoroughly satisfied with the progress that Lomond has made since his last appearance in public. \" Oh, yes, he's a nice-enough horse,\" he remarks later on, as we stand in the paddock adjoining the house, watching Lomond enjoy ing a quiet stroll on his own account, during the from me that he has already as good as won it. But there's one sound maxim at racing, a trite maxim which many people overlook— and that is that, no matter how accurately an owner and trainer may sum up the ability of their own horses, until they meet horses belonging to other people they can never tell exactly how good the latter may be.\" There is surely much food for reflection for hap hazard backers of horses in these random words of wisdom. After an hour's quiet stroll in the fresh air, Lomond is led back to his box \" for tea,\" and then, shortly after six, we pay still another visit to the stables. Once more Mr. Wootton

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A DERBY FAVOURITE. 629 runs an expert eye over the colt to satisfy himself that all is still well with him. Training a favourite for the most important race in the world is anxious work. For the next half- hour or so he is left standing, until his last meal of the day is served. The evening menu on this occasion comprises corn and chaff, items which arc varied at intervals by a mass of mashed linseed, bran, and oats. Lomond is evidently well aware that he is about to have the opportunity of doing himself well, for he gravely turns round and watches \" dinner being served \" with an air of undis guised interest. He is obviously a gourmet —although he is quite a good doer, it is impossible to imagine that so kindly a gentle man could be a gourmand—and finally, when Oberne remarks, \" That's about all you want, old chap, to-night,\" he still displays no undue anxiety to turn to. Evidently in his early youth one of his copybook maxims must have been, \" Manners maketh horses.\" \" I think he dines better alone, so let's be off,\" says Mr. Wootton, with a laugh, as, with a parting pat on the favourite's neck, he turns to leave the box, followed by the colt's valet, Jack Oberne, who mutters something which I take to be a friendly good night, and to which I add the sincerest of sincere \" best of lucks.\" As we reach the stable-door Lomond sedately turns his head round, gazes for a moment in our direction, as if to say, \" So you're not dining with me, after all ? Good night, then,\" and finally, apparently satisfied that he has done all that a good host possibly can do, his sleek nose disappears in the manger, and he is left alone until the morning to think over the day's happenings and speculate—why shouldn't horses ruminate over the future just as human beings do ?—on what may be going to happen on the morrow. Three hours later not a sound is to be heard in the stables. Lomond and his immediate neighbours in the adjoining boxes, Paravid and Haytor, have obviously finished their after-dinner discussion on the pros and cons of the life of a racehorse. Haytor, I must tell you, is an amiable old gentleman who has reached the mature age in the life of a race horse of nine. If only horses can talk to each other, therefore—and why on earth shouldn't they ?—his worldly experience should be useful to his illustrious neighbour, for what Haytor does not know about racing by this time cannot be worth knowing. For a moment I stand outside Box No. 46. Within all is silence. The moon drifts behind the clouds, and the only sound which reaches me is the hoot of an owl snugly ensconced in an ivy-covered wall close by. The day's work is over. The Derby favourite has settled down to slumber—to dream, maybe, that he is already taking part in the most important race of his career. The field has just turned into the straight. \" What's that leading in black and scarlet cap ? \" \" White Star, of course ; he's two lengths in front, and going

\"Tke Fatk er. By VIOLET M. METHLEY. Illustrated by Gilbert Holiday. HE idlers upon the quay at Vraine were moved to curio sity at sight of the brig which had just rounded the headland and entered their little bay. \" See her flag ! \" cried one man. \" He who flies that must surely be a traitor to France.\" \" Maybe it is only ignorance,\" said another. \" One can tell that she is but newly returned from a long voyage. The paint is flaking from her sides.\" \" They do not mean to anchor here. See, a boat is coming ashore. The brig is only standing by to wait for its return.\" Besides her crew the boat carried a single passenger, who sat by the steersman in the stern-sheets. He leapt lightly ashore as they came alongside the quay, and the men pulled off at once to return to the brig. The new-comer was a tall, slight man of about forty years of age. He glanced keenly from one to the other of the little group upon the pier, and then turned his steps towards the waterside inn, which bore the sign of the Brav' Matelot. The thin, shrewd - looking innkeeper stood in the porch. He stared at the stranger inquisitively, with narrowed eyes, as he approached. \" ' SEE HER FLAG !' CRIED ONE MAN. ' HE WHO FLIES THAT MUST SURELY BE A TRAITOR TO FRANCE.' \"

THE FATHER.\" 631 \" The brig there flies a strange flag, citizen,\" he said. The other started and frowned. Then he surveyed the old man haughtily with raised eyebrows. \" It seems to me that you forget your manners, Pierre Fargeau,\" he said, coldly. The old man stared in amazement. \" You know my name ? \" he began, but even as he spoke a look of recognition came into his eyes. \" Surely—why, yes, it is M. le Vicomte de Beauvais—no, no, not M. le Vicomte now.\" \" Certainly M. le Vicomte nnw, to the best of my knowledge. And why not ? \" \" Oh, it is only the title, monsieur—I mean, citizen,\" stammered the old fellow, glancing nervously at the bystanders, who were listening with obvious curiosity. \" Now,\" he said, sharply, \" I should like some explanations. Why do you address me as ' citizen,' to begin with ? \" The stranger shrugged his shoulders and beckoned peremptorily to Fargeau as he strode into the empty inn-parlour. \" Why—why, it is decreed now that all men are free and equal. There can be no more formalities, no titles \" \" Ah ! And the flag—the King's flag—you called it strange. Why was that ? \" The old innkeeper pointed to a flagstaff upon the quay which was visible from the window. \" Because the tricolour is now the standard of the French people,\" he said, with half- nervous triumph. \" That is the banner of the Republic.\" \" The—Republic ? \" De Beauvais swung round upon his heel and stared amazedly at the old man. \" The Republic ? \" \" Yes. Did you not know ? \" \" I ? I know nothing. I have been abroad for almost five years in the South Seas ; part of the time a prisoner—but that does not matter now. Tell me what has happened— quickly.\" \" You have heard nothing of our glorious Revolution ? \" % \" Rumours of change, that is all. And for more than a year past, nothing. You talk of a Republic.' What of the King, then ? \" \" There is a King no longer. Capet, whom we once called so, was a traitor to the people. Therefore—he was executed last year.\" \" Executed ! Dead ! The King ! \" De Beauvais stood white-faced and amazed, trying to grasp the incredible news. \" Yes. There are no Kings or Queens in France now—nor nobles, for that matter. The sovereign people rule. But you should be glad, M. b—citizen. You always loved liberty. You aided the brave Americans to become free.\" De Beauvais laughed rather bitterly. \" Why, that is true, Fargeau ; but when it comes so near home—well, it is rather a different matter. So everything is changed ? \" He paused, and a shade of keen anxiety passed across his face. \" My son—he is safe ? \"

632 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" Ah, yes, your son—and the Citizeness de Vieuxville. One can easily understand that you will find it more agreeable.\" De Beauvais made his way quickly along the quay and turned aside into the road which led up through the woods to the Chateau de Beauvais and the house of old M. de Vieux ville. His mind was in a whirl of exultant thoughts. It seemed as though his brightest hopes were to be realized. Lucie had been faithful to him all through these years of absence. Apparently it was well known that she only awaited his return to become his wife. Heavens, how he loved the girl! If he but closed his eyes, he could see her image before him, vivid and clear as though pictured on the air. This was real love, not that kindly feeling which he had had for that first wife of his. Gilbert's mother. He had married her at the wish of his family, and she had died at the birth of the boy, leaving him a widower at nineteen—that was all her history. This was another matter. What he felt now was the strong love of a man, a love which had only increased with the years of separation —a love which would last until death. De Beauvais saw the grey walls of De Vieuxville's house before him, and he paused by a little doorway, a smile softening his stern face. Gilbert would pardon him, if he paid his first visit here. He tried the door ; it was unlocked. He pushed it open and entered a garden. A grassy lawn lay before him, all chequered with crocuses, golden, white, and purple. On a seat beneath a tree an old man sat, half asleep. In the midst of the lawn was a moss- grown sundial, and beside it stood a man and a woman, talking earnestly, hand in hand. These two were lovers ; a glance assured De Beauvais of that without a doubt. The two were lovers—and they were Lucie de Vieux ville and Gilbert, his son. He stood by the gate, dumb and motionless, in the first shock of realization. An instant before he had paused outside the closed door, full of hope and triumph. Now—the door was opened. The pair by the sundial turned when they heard the deadened sound of De Beauvais's footsteps on the turf. Gilbert started for ward with a cry of welcome, but his out stretched hand fell to his side, and the words were frozen on his lips at sight of his father's face. The girl stood speechless, gazing at the elder man, her sweet eyes wide and troubled« De Beauvais was the first to speak, and his voice was toneless, almost without expres sion. \" So—I am welcomed home.\" The simple words broke the spell which had fallen upon Gilbert, and he spoke, eagerly and impetuously. \" Ah, father, father, what must you think ? But let me tell you—let me explain \" \" Is there any need for explanation ?

\"THE FATHER: 633 De Beauvais stared at them, scarcely grasping the meaning of their words. He was conscious -only of hot, unreasoning anger against all the world in general, against Gilbert, his son, in particular. \" Welcome ! A fine welcome, truly, gentle men ! \" he cried, passionately. \" I came to seek a son—I find a traitor ! \" A traitor ? The hearers looked at each 'struction which his hearers put upon them, ignorant as he was of the state of feeling in these men's minds. \" Yes, a traitor, I tell you ! I am ashamed that he hears my name.\" He pushed through the little group and summoned Fargeau to show him a room. The old man did so, and De Beauvais was left alone. For hours he paced up and down • \"SHB LAID HKR HAND ON THE KLUBR MANS SLBBVB. 'FORGIVE US—FATHER.'\" other uneasily. It was an ominous word in those days, and carried but one meaning. In the language of the times, France must be purged of traitors. Were they to discover that one was living in their midst ? Truly, his own father must be believed—a father, too, who was so obviously in despair at his son's treachery. De Beauvais repeated his words, mastered by his anger, wholly unconscious of the con- VoL xMii.—43. in impotent misery ; but at last, wearied out, he flung himself upon the bed. Sleep came to him only when the dawn was breaking, and it was broad daylight when he awoke once more. He rose and rearranged his disordered dress. He was calm now, and he could think quietly, could even be ashamed of his anger the night before. He felt hope less and dreary, but the burning resentment against his son was gone.

634 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Once more he stood and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked older than his years in the pitiless morning light—small wonder that Lucie loved the man of her own age the best. Well, he must take up his life as best he could, and first he would send for the boy. He would tell him that he was forgiven, that his father's hard words of the night before had been only words, after all. He descended the stairs with this thought in his mind. He found Fargeau in the hall below, looking pale and disturbed ; but in his own preoccupation he did not particularly notice the old man's uneasiness. \" Have you someone here whom I can send at once to the chateau with a message for my son ? \" he asked. \" But—but he—M. Gilbert—is not at the chateau.\" \" What do you mean ? \" \" He—he was arrested last night.\" \" Arrested ? \" De Beauvais leant heavily upon the balustrade at his side. \" Arrested ? And why ? \" \" Why ? But—it was on your own denunciation ! \" \" My—denunciation ? \" \" Yes, it is certain. You told the citizen municipals that he was a traitor. In con sequence, they have arrested him \" He stopped helplessly, for more words would only have been addressed to the empty air. De Beauvais was gone, striding along the quay to the town-hall, bareheaded and white-faced. He burst unceremoniously into the room where the municipal officers were engaged in doubtless important deliberations. \" There has been a serious mistake, sirs,\" he said, sternly and abruptly. \" You alto gether misunderstood my words last night. You must release my son at once. He is no traitor to France. I spoke in anger, and what I said referred only to a private matter, which is no business of yours, nor of anyone beside myself.\" The officials were taken aback, and their pride was hurt. De Beauvais's words and tone were peremptory, almost insolent. He was treating them, the municipals of Vraine, with scant respect. Still, there were excuses to be made for him, and Lesoir, the schoolmaster, answered him almost ingratiatingly. \" Ah. it is easily understood, Citizen Beauvais. You repent already that you denounced your son. Certainly, it. is but natural in a father, but—the thing is done. You must console yourself with the know ledge that you have behaved like a true Brutus. Last night you seemed as though inspired. If all acted like you there would soon be no traitors remaining in France.\" De Beauvais retained his self-control, although with great difficulty. He sought for words with which to convince the officials, he argued and persuaded with all the skill at his command; but in vain. The men per

\"THE FATHER.\" 635 she held out her hands with a little exclama tion of fear and pity. \" Ah, what has happened ? \" she cried. \" Tell me.\" She had not heard of Gilbert's arrest, and the sight of her stricken face when he told her the news cut De Beauvais to the heart. He concealed nothing of his own share in the matter ; in his overmastering grief and remorse he even exaggerated his fault. \" It is I who have done this—I, his father,\" he said. \" Ah, child, child, can you ever forgive me ? \" With an impulsive gesture, the girl put both hands upon his shoulders. \"Ah, yes.\" she cried. \" Now, this minute ! You did not mean it; it was all a mistake.\" For a moment DC Beauvais stood silent, with bowed head and clenched hands. Then he spoke, and his voice and face were alike quiet and resolute. \" I am going to Nantes at once,\" he said. \" Gilbert shall be saved, he shall. I swear it to you, Lucie. Now, listen to me. It will not lie safe for the boy to remain in France. He must escape at once by sea to England, and it would be far best if you and your father accompanied him. May I leave it to you to make all arrangements, so that you will be ready to depart immediately that Gilbert joins you ? Even if I am not able to come with him, can I trust you to lose no time in escaping ? \" afternoon. The Revolutionary Tribunal and its servant, the guillotine, were very busy, so much so that the townspeople trembled and outvied each other in patriotism. At the inn where he put up his horse, De Beauvais learnt that the prison was full to overflowing, and that large batches were tried and sentenced \"'FATHER, IS IT YOU?' HE SAID, AND THE WORDS ENDED IN A SOUND WHICH WAS ALMOST A SOB.\" Lucie looked up into his eager face, cheered by his strong confidence. \" Yes, you may trust me,\" she said, simply. \" Thank you. And now I must go. Fare well, Lucie, and, if you forgive me, call me once more by the name that you used last night, the name which angered me then.\" The girl raised her sweet eyes to his. \" Farewell, father,\" she said, gently. De Beauvais bent and kissed her hands. Then, without another word, he was gone. De Beauvais arrived in Nantes late that

636 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. ment, entreaty, until at last De Beauvais left the town-hall with the precious pass. It was growing dusk when he arrived before the prison. On showing his permit, he was taken to the room of the head jailer, whom he found overwhelmed with business. \" De Beauvais, De Beauvais ? \" he repeated. \" Aye. I know the name, although I could not pick you out the man. I am overworked here at the prison, citizen. I have no time to learn to know one of my guests from the other.\" He laughed harshly. \" Wait a bit, though. I fancy \" He consulted a list which lay before him, and then looked up with a half-pitying expression. \" See here, citizen, here is the name you ask for, on this paper.\" '' And what does this list mean ? \" \" It means that if you want to see your man, you must do so without delay. These are the names of those condemned to death to-day. To-morrow morning, early, they will be taken to the guillotine.\" \" Then, in that case, may I see my friend at once, citizen ? \" he said, quietly. De Beauvais's pale face grew a shade paler, but he did not hesitate. He had foreseen this possibility, and his plans provided for it. The man consulted a book, and then led De Beauvais hastily to a room in an adjacent corridor. \" He is here,\" he said, as he unlocked the door. \" But you have little time, citizen, for the prison is closed before sunset. I will send one of my men for you in a few moments.\" The large room was crowded with prisoners and dimly lighted. It was some moments before De Beauvais discovered Gilbert stand ing in one of the deep window embrasures. He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder without speaking. Gilbert turned hastily. \" Father, is it you ? \" he said, and the words ended in a sound which was almost a sob. He had been feeling so desperately lonely, with the prospect of certain death before him, oppressed with the thought of his father's anger and Lucie's sorrow. Now all was changed at the sight of his father's face and the touch of his warm hand-clasp. De Beauvais hurriedly dre\\v his son into the shadow of the window-recess. He spoke softly, but his voice was confident and even cheerful. \" There is no time to lose ; we must hasten,\" he said. \" I have a pass here ; you will be able, all being well, to leave the prison at once—in a few moments. Do not stop to ask me questions, Gilbert; there will be time enough to talk—afterwards.\" He laughed softly. \" Now, you must obey me exactly. Take my cloak and wrap it round you—so. Now my hat; pull it down well over your eyes—so. Remember that you represent me. When the jailer comes you are to go with him, showing this paper at the door, and walk straight out of the prison. Go to the Cerf d'Argent in the Rue de Lyons, and ask for the Citizen Beauvais's horse ; they have orders to give it to you. Then ride straight

\"THE FATHER.\" a look of triumph on his face ; for his plan had been successful—the eventual happiness of Gilbert and Lucie was assured. As for himself —well, he had only now to make use of that pass to liberty, the infallible pass of which he had spoken to Gilbert. It was still early next morning when the head jailer came to read the list of those condemned to die that day. As each name was mentioned one of the prisoners left his fellows, and was led through another door to the room where they awaited the final summons. The man read quickly and mechanically; evidently his only pre occupation was to finish the business as soon as might be. Name after name was ticked off; the list was a long one. The tumbrils would be full this morning. The jailer never raised his eyes from the paper before him. These prisoners were all alike to him ; he scarcely knew one from the other, as he had said. They were here to-day and gone to-morrow, and that was an end of them. He had reached the last name now. \" Gilbert Adrien de Beauvais.\" The answer came without an instant's hesitation:— \" I am here, citizen.\" De Beauvais had made use of his pass to liberty. \"THE ANSWER CAME WITHOUT AN INSTANT'S HESITATION, 'i AM HERE, CITIZEN.\"'

EDWARD WHYMPER AS I KNEW HIM. By COULSON KERNAHAN. Illustrated by Steven Spurrier. [The late Edward Whymper. who was cele brated throughout the world as the most intrepid and adventurous of all climbers, was in privace life known to few, and this portrait-study, by one who knew him well, will be found to give a remarkably vivid idea of a man of the most striking character and personality.] M the Memoir of Tennyson by his son there will be a letter — only o n e—t o m y - s e 1 f,\" said Whymper to me in 1897. \" Except for the fact that it was one of the last, if indeed not the very last, letters Tenny son penned, it doesn't strike me as being important enough for inclusion. But it has a curious history. I had sent Tennyson a copy of one of my books, ' Travels Among the Great Andes of the Equator.' Here is his reply. I'll read it to you:— THIS FIIO'KX. DAYS AFTER \" ' DEAR SIR,—Accept my thanks for your most interesting volume. I don't think I have been higher than about seven thousand feet, and so I look on your Chimborazos and Cotopaxis with all the greater veneration. Yours very truly, TENNYSON.' , \" Now you can hardly call that a character istic or even a particularly interestingjetter,\" continued Whymper; \" but the writing appears to have given the poet some trouble, for the present Lord Tennyson tells me that after his father's death he found several drafts of it—I think he said six—in a blotting- pad. It was, as I say, one of the last, if not the very last, letters Tennyson ever wrote, and one of two things about it is true. Either his approaching end had so affected his powers that he found it difficult to frame even an ordinary letter of acknowledgment, or else, realizing that his letters would one day IKAI'H OK EDWARD VYHYMPKR WAS TAKEN THREE THE TERRIBLE MATTERHORN DISASTER, IN WHICH HIS THREE COMPANIONS PERISHED. inevitably be collected and printed, he was too fastidious an artist to let even a casual note of thanks come from his pen without striving to impart to it some touch of distinc tion and originality, some turn of a phrase which would give a hint of the power and the personality of the writer. What's your solution of the problem ? \" As I had no solution to offer, Whymper told me another story ot Tennyson which by this time may or may not—I do not know— have got into print. At a garden-party a rather gushing young girl went up to the hostess and said : \" Oh, is that really, as I'm told, Lord Tennyson sitting there by himself smoking on that rustic seat ? \"

EDWARD WHYMPER AS I KNEW HIM. 639 \" Oh, but I should love to be able to say I've met him,\" persisted the other. \" Well, say you have met him and leave it at that,\" was the answer. The girl, however, would take no refusal, so, losing patience, her hostess said :— \" Very well. If he is rude to you—as he can be to people who force themselves upon him—your blood be upon your own head.\" \" Lord Tennyson,\" said the hostess, when the two had walked together to the seat where the Laureate was smoking, \" this is mine, who is very, very anxious to have the honour of saying ' How do you do ? ' to you.\" Miss B , daughter of an old friend of Seating herself beside him, the girl attempted awkwardly to carry on some sort of conversation, but as all she got in reply \" How d'you do ? \" responded Tennyson, gruffly, and scarcely looking up. \"'YOU'RE LIKE THE RKST OF THEM,\" TENNYSON GRUNTED. 'YOU'RE LACED TOO TIGHTLY, i CAN HEAR YOUR S/AYS CREAK.'\"

640 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. was an occasional \" Humph ! \" or else stony silence, she lost her nerve and began, school girl-wise, to wriggle and to fidget in her seat. Then the great man spoke. \" You're like the rest of them/' he grunted. \" You're laced too tightly. I can hear your stays creak.\" Abashed and embarrassed, the girl with drew. Later in the afternoon Tennyson came behind her and, laying a hand on her shoulder, said, kindly, \" I was wrong just now, young lady. It wasn't your stays I heard creaking, but my braces. They're hitched up too tightly. Sorry.\" And he lounged away. The story may not be new and may not be true, but Whymper found huge enjoyment in the telling of it, possibly because he had himself the reputation of sharing Tennyson's dislike to the intrusive stranger. During the thirteen years in which I was living at Westcliff and he was living at Southend I was, I believe I am correct in saying, the only neighbour or fellow-resident whose home he ever entered or who was invited to visit his house. If I use the word \" house \" rather than \" home \" of the build ing in which he passed much of his life, it is1 not merely because he had chambers at St. Martin's House, Ludgate Hill, but because a more unhomelikc place than Whymper's Southend residence can hardly be imagined. To ensure solitude and quiet he had made an arrangement by which he took practically the whole of what is called an \" apartment house.\" It was a tall building with basement- rooms below and at least three storeys above. In the top storey Whimper himself lived, and in the very bottom—the basement, in fact—his housekeeper or landlady and her family had their rooms. All the intervening storeys were, by Whymper's command, left vacant. The windows of the basement were curtained, but Whymper's own room was curtainless, carpetless and barrack-bare except for a few necessary pieces of furniture, and photographs of his own taking—peaks he had climbed, mountain wastes and wilder nesses he had explored, scenes on the Canadian Pacific Railway, and the like. On the floor was a rollcd-up mattress to which he pointed. \" That,\" he said, with a queer smile twisting at the turned-down corners of his mouth, \" is my bed. The rugs and pillow are inside. At night I unroll the thing and there I am. What could be simpler ? \" If ever a man carried out in practice the precept, \" To know yourself is wisdom ; not to know your neighbours is genius,\" that man was Edward Whymper. And here I may remark that his habits in the matter of sleeping were, like his habits in the matter of meals—unusual. Four o'clock in the afternoon was his favourite and not unfrequent hour for dining, after which he would sometimes go to bed, getting up again late in the evening for the nocturnal rambles which he loved. I have often heard him expatiate eloquently on the joys of finding

EDWARD WHYMPER AS I KNEW HIM. 641 \" And the same suit ? \" Anything else ? \" \" Well,\" I said, desperately, \" you look so cheerful, so well-fed, and so happy, that I can only suppose you had just had your supper. Now, as I lunched at one o'clock, and haven't had as much as a cup of tea since, I'm horribly hungry and in want of mine.\" Saying no more than a mere \" Come along,\" and carrying the pipe and the photograph in his hand, he led the way into the next room, where supper—all cold—was upon the table. But such a supper ! Anchovies, chicken, calves'-feet jelly, clotted Devonshire cream, and other delicacies, with rare old Burgundy and the best of champagne. When I had been abundantly helped, Whymper took up the photograph which he had laid down to carve, and, again pointing at it with the pipe-stem, said :— \" What I wondered whether you'd notice was that the smoke coming from the bowl of the pipe has been painted in upon the negative. There was no smoke visible in the original picture. When you get to know me better you'll find that I'm slow but minutely accurate and methodical, even about little things. I think you told me once that you set some store by the many signed portraits that have been given to you by your literary friends. Since the portrait was the cause of keeping you from your supper, and if you'd care to add so uncouth a face as mine to your gallery, I'll give it to you. But I'll sign it first.\" It was well that he had warned me that he was slow and methodical as well as accurate. Never was there such a business as the signing of that portrait. First he carefully washed and examined his pen, trying it at least half-a- dozen times upon a sheet of note-paper. Then the ink did not run as freely as it should, and further protracted operations of a cleansing and re-filling nature were necessary. Had it been a death-warrant or a cheque for a hundred thousand pounds to which he was momentously affixing a signature, he could not have gone to work more carefully. In a round, neat, clerkly hand he slowly and laboriously penned his name, \" Edward Whymper,\" with the date beneath the por trait—and the deed was done. I have described thus lengthily the slow and methodical way in which he set about signing this photograph for the reason that, trivial as the incident may seem, it is illus trative of the character and methods of the man. He walked slowly, thought slowly. worked slowly, and talked slowly, not because of any sluggishness of brain or body, but because every word, every action, was cal culated and deliberate. It was because he was so slow that he was so sure. Of all the men I have ever known, none so habitually refrained from talking shop as Whymper. Hence of Whymper the moun taineer (and mountaineering was, in a sense, with him a profession), as well as of Whymper

642 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. rarely married. When they did marry they were nearly always the fathers of girls. His brother Frank was, he told me, Postmaster- General of India. As proof of his own extraordinary physical activity and stamina, he said that he had actually walked the entire length of the Canadian and Pacific Railway, being nearly accidentally killed while doing so. Speaking of his own career, he said that not mountaineering, nor explor ing, nor authorship so fascinated him and gratified him as his discoveries in geology. One of his geological anec- dotes -con cerned a fossil forest in Green- lahd, which, when Whym per heard of, he at once set out to explore. There he found a large fossil cone, which he was at great pains to split into two halves, that he might the better examine it. The cone was sent to a certain famous German profes sor, an expert of world - wide reputation in fossil flora, who wrote saying that he at tached much importance to the find. He asked Whym- per to come to see him, which Whymper did. \" Two,\" insisted the other. Then Whymper joined the two halves ! Of his mountaineering experiences he said but little, and never once, during the thirteen years that I knew him, did he, of his own accord, refer to the historic Matter horn tragedy. He did, however, tell me of the circumstances in which he became a mountaineer. \" It was purely accidental,\" he said. \" The idea of climbing had never occurred to me, one reason being as you, who have done some climbing yourself, will readily THIS IS THE PHOTOGRAPH WITH THE PIPE REFERRED TO IN THE fy»7n a Photograph 6»J ARTICLE. [P. HoitKtinat, Omem. Producing the split cone, the professor pro nounced it a magnolia—in fact two magnolias, and of different species. \" No, no,\" said Whymper. \" One mag nolia. There can't be any doubt about that.\" \" You are mistaken,\" said the professor,

EDWARD WHYMPER AS I KNEW HIM. 643 abyss and drop of a thousand feet beneath them ; or skyed upon some heaven-piercing and hitherto inaccessible peak that made un-climbing folk turn sick and giddy to think of. \" You know the sort of thing—Professor Tyndall crossing the Great Crevasse, on this or that mountain ; Mr. Leslie Stephen nego tiating the most difficult and dangerous pass on t'other one, or somebody else setting the British flag on a hitherto unsurmounted peak. The question was how to do it, and whom to get to do it. To-day they'd do it by photo graphy ; but photography wasn't then what it is now, and it was evident that their man would have to be a capable draughtsman, and that he'd have to be a man of nerve, stamina, and power of endurance, as he, as well as they, would have to do the climbing. Well, to cut a long story short, someone who had chanced to see my work in art, and to think well of it, suggested me as a likely man. I was glad of a job and jumped at it, but once having started climbing—as I necessarily had to—in six months I had climbed peaks that no one else had ever attempted ; and that is the history in brief, if not the whole story, of how I became a climber.\" Edward Whymper was a man of few friends —I had almost written of no friends—for, though he was upon what, in another than he, would be described as terms of friendship with many of the world's most distinguished men, and though he enjoyed their company and their intercourse as they enjoyed his, 1 should describe the bond which held him and them together as \" liking \" and interest in each other and in each other's achieve ments rather than as friendship in the closer sense of the word. The mould into which he was cast was austere, stern, and could be forbidding. He was a \" marked\" man wherever he went; and in all companies— a man of masterful personality who inspired attention and respect in everyone, and some thing like fear in a few, but who, except in the case of children, rarely inspired affection. That he was aware his manner was not always conciliatory—was, in fact, at times forbidding —seems likely from a story which I have heard him tell on several occasions, and always with infinite gusto. \" I was walking up Fleet Street one day,\" he began, pursing up his mouth and almost smacking his lips over his words, as if the flavour of them were pleasant to the palate, \" when I chanced to see a sixpence lying upon the ground. Now, according to the law of the day, anything we find in the street or in a public place must be taken to the nearest police-station. I wasn't going to be at the bother of picking up a sixpence merely to take myself, and it, to the police-station, so I cast an eye around, and, walking just behind me, I saw a poor ragged devil without so much as a shirt to his back or a pair of shoes to his feet. I didn't require to speak or even to point to the sixpence. I just caught the

644 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. mind if, Sunday morning as it is, I call at the first inn to slake my thirst ? \" \" Of course not,\" I replied. As it was within the prohibited hours, when inns are closed except to bona-fi.de travellers—by which is meant those who have travelled three miles from the place where they slept the previous night—we found the inn-door shut. Whymper knocked sharply I'll say nothing about the qualification of my friend here, but considering that, since the last time I passed this hostelry, I have travelled some seven or eight thousand miles, I think I'm entitled to describe myself as a traveller in a very bona-f.de sense indeed. As a matter of fact, we have come from Southend this morning, which, I believe, is outside the statutory three miles. Do I look, my good \"'ARE you BONA-FIUK TRAVELLERS?' INQUIRED THE FELLOW.'' and loudly at it in his usual masterful way, and when it was opened by a frowzy-looking fellow in shirt-sleeves Whymper said, dryly, in more sense than one : \" I am thirsty and want a drink, please.\" \" Are you bona-fide travellers ? \" inquired the fellow. \" Well,\" remarked Whymper, partly to the fellow and partly to me, \" there was a time early in my career when some doubts were cast upon my qualifications as a mountaineer, and even upon my word in regard to my statement as to what had happened ; but this is the first time I have been challenged in regard to my being a bona-fide traveller. fellow, like a man who'd tell you a lie about a thing like that ? \" \" I don't know/' replied the man, looking Whymper very hard in the face ; \" but I'll tell you what you do look like. You look to me like a man who, if he'd made up his mind to have a drink, would have it whether he was a bona-fide traveller or not. and wouldn't let no one else stop him from having it, and that's more.\" \" I observe, my man,\" said Whymper, sententiously, as the door was opened to admit us, \" that you are no indifferent judge of character ; but I am curious also to know what you'd say to having a drink yourself.\"

EDWARD WHYMPER AS I KNEW HIM. 645 His curiosity was soon gratified, for \" Two of gin, cold,\" was what the man said. To those who knew Whympcr only slightly, and—overlooking the sensitive breathing nostrils, so wide and circular at the opening— saw only the cold hardness of his face and eyes, the rat-trap-like snap of mouth and jaw, he seemed a man of iron ; and this impression the story of his indomitable courage, his dogged determination to succeed where others had failed, went far to confirm. ' That Such a man—a man rough-hewn; as he seemed, out of block-granite and with sinews of steel—could be cognizant of the fact that he had \" nerves,\" much less could suffer from them, would occur to few. None the less, I have reason to know that the shock of that tragedy in early life among the Alps, when, powerless to help, he had to stand inactively by and see his four companions hurled to certain death, left its mark upon him to the end of his life, and was sometimes re-enacted in his dreams. In his later years, when his iron constitution began to weaken, and when his nerves were less steady than of old, any sudden reference to that early tragedy would, in his more irritable moments, annoy and anger him, and would elicit a reply the shortness and curtness of which made those who did not know him well imagine him to be churlish or surly. With children, however, he was another man, and, grim as he could be to \" grown ups,\" children invariably liked and trusted him. My earliest experience of this was on the evening after my first supper with him. He had been to London, and as I was walking towards the station to purchase an evening his own handkerchief to wipe away her tears. The little mite, who hailed from East London, had been sent by some charitable person for a week by the sea to one of the many holiday- homes for the poor in Southend. How she had become lost I do not remember, but lost she certainly was, learning which Whymper had comforted, quieted, and coaxed her into tell ing him where her temporary home was, and when I saw him he was on his way to take her there. My own stepson, then a lad of twelve, and a cadet on H.M.S. Worcester, was devoted to him, being especially proud that the greatest of mountaineers was at the trouble of giving him lessons in climbing. Up and down the cliff-slopes of Southend Whymper marched the lad, impressing upon him the importance of always going at one steady and uniform rate, never, only in exceptional circum stances, when haste was absolutely necessary, forcing the pace or indulging in sprinting ; teaching him to walk from the hips, mechani cally- and machine-wise, so that no strain was put upon the heart and lungs, and instructing him in the control and use of the breath. When, after the holidays, the boy went back to the Worcester, he sent Whymper his auto graph-book, asking him to inscribe his name,

The Boy \\Vno Read Kipling, By AUSTIN PHILIPS. Illustrated by ^7. De-war. ASSETT ! Bassett ! Where's Bassett ? \" he sat. \" This win of ours'll probably do cricket no end of good in these parts.\" The shouts grew louder, stayed at first good-tem pered, then became some thing indignant; finally won on into the roar of a baffled populace robbed of its due sensation, vainly clamorous for the hero of the day. He was hidden from them ; he was in the dressing- room — they knew it — and full five thousand spectators refused to leave the ground. \" Bassett ! \" they called. \" Bassett ! Bas- . sett ! \" There was no answer, only — from the now calm members in the pavilion, whose egress they impeded — smiles which excited them the more. \" I say,\" said someone, presently. \" This isn't good enough. They're cutting the ground to rags. Why doesn't young Bassett come along ? \" A committee-man — one of those leisured persons who redeem their winter idleness by much good summer service to the game of games — turned to the speaker, saw him serious, and took the matter in hand. \" I'll see what can be done.\" he said. \" But the beggar's so blooming modest you may have to wait all night ! \" After which hopeful utterance he sought the dressing-room door. \" Harry, you've got to come and show yourself ! \" The man who had won the match for his county on a worn pitch, by a dashing piece of cricket, against the best bowling of the strongest county in England, shook a sleek, black head, and his dark blue eyes gleamed at the committee-man a half merry, half serious disinclination to obey. \" Oh, I say, Chalford, that's all rot. I'm not a bally actor. Let the beggars howl ! \" \" Bass— Bass— Bass, Bass, Bassett ! \" came the roared-out answer from the ground. And there was now in it a very definite note of resentment ; a plain hint, an angry showing that well-meaning, if hot, humanity resented its hero-worship being put to scorn. \" Better go and show yourself for a second,\" said the captain, from the locker where \" All right—if you' think that, it's another pair of shoes,\" said Harry Bassett, cheerfully. \" I'll cut along at once ! \" In another minute he was confronting the mob. It made a strange, a truly English picture, that apotheosis of youth in the temple of cricket, that loud approving, by men of all ages, of the bank clerk as he stood there on the balcony nodding his thanks. In the distance the grey cathedral; at its foot the railed-in terrace, thronged now with folk from close and city, summoned to the spectacle by the ascending clamour and shout. And, between field and terrace, the ancient Severn, gleaming, sluggish, sun-kissed. To the right —to the right of the pavilion — the ladies'

THE BOY WHO READ KIPLING. 647 to score five-and-twenty, even, would have been worth a hundred at another, an easier time. And in one Swift glance, across the crowd that severed them, he had sent her his spolia opima ; had laid these plaudits, this culminating moment of his glory, at her feet. She—this fair-haired, mobile-featured, silk- shirted, silk-collared, club-tied, coat-and- skirted English girl—was his queen of love and beauty as much as ever old-time maiden had been queen of them at tournament or joust. It was Romance, the ancient and imperish able, the \" angel-playmate \" ; Romance, the world's dear heritage that the world creates and consumes. And at that moment, as never yet in his lifetime, everything to Harry Bassett (who could have turned no phrase nor made one) seemed exquisitely beautiful and good. Yet for one moment only. He knew, knew too completely, too bitterly — could not, even in his triumph, lose the knowledge of it—how ill, how bad things were. Then he ran downstairs to the dressing- room. Men came in and congratulated him ; he could have dined out a dozen times over, but he refused them all alike. He bathed, he changed ; took and gave many handshakes ; then, bronzed and tall, strolled from the empty cricket-ground, and, outside the gates of it, walked more briskly across the Severn's bridge. As he passed people nudged each other, looked their interest, openly admired. Meanwhile Harry Bassett, without eyes for anyone, went hurrying on his way. He reached the Cross, turned into the Foregate, entered a large confectioner's shop. Past the counter and the pay-desk stairs led to a first-floor room. He ascended them, went through some curtains, stood looking round. Half the people taking tea there were acquaintances; he nodded, smiled, and stood still. Then he saw what he sought. He crossed leisurely, care lessly, to a little table—in the far corner of the room. And there came a silence, almost audible in its suddenness ; then looks, head- turnings, glances, and a gabbling, guarded and low. But those two people, the little drama's actors, played to no audience, had no heed of any save themselves. \" Halloa. Joyce ! \" \" Halloa, Harry ! \" And the room, envying, saw hand meet hand in greeting ; jumped, in its gossip, at the delights of a flirtation, divined nothing of the tragedy ; guessed no whit of how, in the very midst of that chattering tea-room, two hear'.s that, all the long week, had yearned for each other were leaping, responsive, unseen. \" Harry, it was ripping ; it was the innings of your life. And how they shouted for you ! Nothing like it has ever happened in Murcester before.\" He smiled—he was human, and her praise was very dear. \" Yes, it was jolly ; I don't mind admitting

648 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. \" They—they are—well, I can endure them—but it's worse—far worse than that. It's Mr. Fortnum, Harry.\" \" Fortnum ! \" Harry Bassett looked at her; jumped at the truth of it, guessed at the horrible worst. \" But Joyce, he's the biggest blackguard in Murcester—though he isn't—he doesn't drink like \" \" He wants to marry me, Harry. He's always with father at the Feathers. He comes to Wyvernhern in his motor ; he comes to take us out. Father insists upon my going. Mr. Fortnum puts father by the chauffeur— and sits in the back with me. He pesters me, Harry. He never ceases—I can see bis red face now—oh, it's horrible, Harry ; he comes every day. Those three days you were at the Oval he came. And it was only by a trick that I got to the ground to-day. I think he gives father betting tips—it's no good saying anything—and, Harry, I can't go on. 'it's getting on my nerves, Harry.\" Her trem bling lips, her twitching nostrils, the clasping, unclasping hands: all these signs, despite her flushed young face and the normal clean good-healthiness of her, told their cruel tale. \" Harry, if it wasn't for you—if I didn't some times see you—I'd leave England altogether. I'm sure Aunt Edie—mother's sister—would take me at Lucerne.\" \" Leave England, Joyce ! \" And Harry Bassett, at the thought of it, went pale beneath his bronze. \" Yes ; if it wasn't for you. Harry—you and Mrs. Hussingtree. It's past all bearing. I can't—I can't go on ! \" He looked at her, mazed and marvelling, as a man looks who, having never known ' HARKY, IT WAS RIPPING ! IT WAS THE INNINGS OF YOUR LIFE.\" trouble, runs up against it for the first time in his life—sat dumb and heart-stabbed by the state of nervousness to which she, the healthiest, most athletic of girls, had been driven by her father and her father's friend. He knew himself, as he had never before known himself, for the detrimental that he was; felt, now, his own great impotence in the real battle, the fight in the larger, not the tented, field. His just-won triumph came to leer at and mock him; applause that had been dear an hour ago now seemed empty and vain. And he longed, deeply, passionately, to do something, to make some

THE BOY WHO READ KIPL1XG. 649 sacrifice which should prove that his love was true. \" Joyce,\" he said, presently, \" it's better to part for a little than that you should stay here—and get ill.\" She shook her head at him. \" Aunt Edie would he good to me—but I can't go from you—I can't! \" He leaned across the table ; knew her too weak, too nerve-racked to do the strong, wise thing ; realized the strength that she needed must come to her from him. And, for just one fugitive second, his right hand touched her left. \" Dear,\" he said, softly, \" it isn't so easy —what one asks.\" \" Isn't it, Harry ? \" \" No; you know it isn't—and if one didn't \" He broke off quickly, then as quickly went on: \" If the future's worth having it's worth waiting for—and if it's a big love it'll get bigger—even though one isn't with one, Joyce—all the time.\" He looked at her for her answer. Her answer did not rome. \" Joyce, you'll promise ? \" he said again. She was silent; then she nodded, gave him her consent (watched in the giving by all the gabbling throng—\" My dear, she isn't going t3 marry him—that's what they're talking about; see how serious they are. She's engaged to that awful Fortnum person—I saw her yesterday in his car ''). \" I'll promise—I'll promise, since you ask me. I'll promise—to prove to you that I can make sacrifices, too. But, Harry, dear, I sha'n't—I sha'n't know how to say good bye ! \" Then, suddenly, her whisper came to him, quick, eager, afraid. \" I shall cry if I stay here any longer ; people are looking at us—I must go; oh, I must go ! \" And she rose hurriedly and walked doorwards across the long, full room. Though as she went, with a woman's instinct, to Harry Bassett, who followed her, she uttered an audible commonplace, waved acquaintances greeting, carried herself as one with whom all the world is well. But outside, as a car drew level with them, her lips quivered again and her voice came very tremulously upon Harry Bassett's ears. \" Harry,\" she whispered—and she was crying—really crying now—\" don't, oh, don't let it be Switzerland. I've promised—but oh, Harry, I don't want to go away ! \" It was then, at the sound of her voice and the sight of her suffering, that an infinite, as yet unjustified, faith in himself and his own capacity for making something out of nothing Vol. xliil-44. consumed Harry Bassett, fairly carried him off his feet. And as he put Joyce Calvert into the tram he committed himself to a promise hard indeed to keep. For cricket is cricket, and life is a battle, and who wins the first may lose the second, and lie with the trodden slain. \"You sha'n't, Joyce. You sha'n't, if I can

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. been one of twenty-five hundred ; numbers are no barrier against the dynamic force. As it was in Harry Bassett—as Mrs. Hussing- tree's instinct had shouted to her—only it needed strong opposition to set it concen trating ; to send it, like a juggernaut, ahead. He was back in his rooms now: in his square, high-ceilinged sitting-room, with its photographs of cricket and football teams, its bat-racks, golf-clubs ; its innumerable ensigns of sport. It was cleanly, finely Philistine ; a man's room, not a woman- man's, yet as innocent of woolly mats and wax fruiteries as of fat-necked Rossetti ladies and the anaemic gentry of Burne Jones. There were easy-chairs and a Chesterfield ; there were cups ; and caps on the photograph- frames ; and a small bookcase chock-a-block with books—some Doyle's, some \" Q.'s,\" and a Dumas or two, several treatises upon bank ing, a stray Stevenson, five or six second-hand Badmintons, volumes by Grace and Ranjil- sinhji, volumes by Braid and Taylor, and a volume of Warner's as well. And, cheek by jowl with them, in one red, magnificent row, a dozen or more Kiplings, magnificent to possess. The room of a real live person ; a room which would have given a modern the horrors, but where a true—not a canvas— knight-errant would choose, re-incarnate, to stay. Harry Bassett went into his bedroom, got into a dinner-jacket (Mrs. Hussingtree had, indeed, been good to him), and came back to his evening meal : the chop, the sweets, the salad for which club fare and well-kept tables had found themselves disdained. He took a book, according to his habit, and the custom of men who live alone. The book was \" Plain Tales,\" the story \" Consequences,\" and he already had it by heart. But he read it, every word of it; and, having finished it, he read it again. By that time (he read slowly) he had finished the frugal meal. He got up, strode about the room, paused by the mantel piece, looked at Joyce's photograph, picked up the book again, turned over a page or two ; finally put it back on its shelf. \" They all got on,\" he said to himself, marvelling. \" The beggars all got on ! \" It was, of course, an exaggeration, since in the same book is the story of the boy who threw himself away. But Harry Bassett was right enough in the main. The people—most of the people—in those dozen books on his book shelf did get on, since they did things, and, therefore, deserved to ; which was why, in her wisdom, Mrs. Hussingtree made excuse for giving him a red-covered, elephant- m^dallionecl volume every time he made fifty runs. Happy is the boy—indeed, half life's battle is won for him—who may call a well-bred, far-sighted, middle-aged woman his friend. It was to Mrs. Hussingtree, who had never advised him wrongly, that Harry Bassett was going for guidance now— quickened with a new and splendid, brain- rioting, Kipling-begotten scheme. He got upon a tram, rode up to the Cross ;

THE BOY WHO READ K1PL1XG. 651 diately; sat look ing, mothering, sympathetic, at his flushed and eager face; then she poured on a scheme that was risky and prob lematic the ice- cold water of her middle-aged com mon sense. \" It's a chance, Harry, certainly. But you'd have a struggle, and you' vc been twelve years in the bank. Why not — why not go to Bir mingham, see the general manager, and ask him for a branch ? \" \"A branch?\" He gasped his astonishment at her, fairly taken aback. \" But I haven't got an earthly. He'll only see me, as he sees everyone who calls, and send me away empty, like everyone else. He's got a regular name for seeing people — and doing nothing for them; and be sides, it's ridicu lous. I'm only second cashier in a second - class branch.\" MRS. HUSS1NGTREE LOOKED AT HIM, SAW HIS GRAVENESS, AND TURNED TOWARDS THE HOUSE. ' IT'S JOYCE, HARRY?' SHE QUESTIONED.\" \" With a con nection, Harry, and a reputation, and a whole host of friends. If they're worth money in business they're worth it in banking, too. And \"—she could not very well tell him that his face and figure were his finest assets—\" you've other qualities, Harry —qualities which with some people might count for much. And Mr. Gordon—he's an old Rugby International, you know—he was low down in the Bank of England when I knew him, and he isn't altogether a fool.\" \" Gordon ! You know him ? \" Mrs. Hussingtree did not answer imme diately, and when she did speak she was looking at her shoe. She had known Harry Bassett for a long time ; she had, in fact, made him what he was. But that was no reason why she should tell him that she, who had married at thirty, had married the wrong

6S 2 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. and if, as you say, he sees everybody and sends them away empty, doesn't it strike you that he's looking for something—something that he wants and can't find? Go and see him, tell him what you're worth, and ask for a branch like a man. Go in and win, and if luck's against you—well, there's always the coal, and I'll—I'll see you get properly launched. But try your own job, Harry, dear. Try Mr. Gordon first. And if he won't give you anything, I'll promise you this, too, though I haven't met him for—for centuries. I'll go and see him myself. He—I knew him very well once, Harry. And—I think he'll remember me well enough to know that I'd sooner perish than ask him to be interested in anyone who—who wasn't any use. You see, Harry, he used to read Kipling to me-—\" She broke off very suddenly, looked at that jogging foot again, and said no more. But Harry Bassett was now at grips with all that she had told. \" You mean he's a white man.\" he said, slowly. And he added, after a little silence, \" By Jove, Mrs. Hussingtree, there's a chance ! \" In Mrs. Hussingtree's eyes, as she answered him, there were, as it seemed to Harry Bassett, tears of pleasure—and Harry Bassett chanced to be right. But (even great women have their weaknesses) whether those tears were shed for Harry's prospects or his praises, only Mrs. Hussingtree could have told. And then, most astoundingly, she got up and put out her hand. \" Good night, Harry. Go home and go to bed.\" At her words and action Harry Bassett rose to his feet and stared. \" But it's hardly nine, Mrs. Hussingtree— unless you want me to go ? \" \" I do, Harry,\" came her answer. \" I want you to get a good rest. Have that milk of yours—try and sleep sound. Go into Bir mingham by the ten-fifty. I'm going in by the eleven-forty-five. If you fail—well, I'll make my effort. Meet me, at one exactly, on the steps of Boyd's Bank.\" \" Right! \" said Harry Bassett. He shook hands and turned to go. Then, as he reached the door, he swung impulsively round. \" I say, you are a good sort,\" he called. \" You're a perfectly ripping good sort.\" \" Am I, Harry ? \" wondered Mrs. Hussing tree. \" Any way, go and get to bed. Remem ber, to-morrow you break a lance for Joyce ! \" Then as he left her, and she heard him hurry down the drive, Mrs. Hussingtree went over to her bureau and took paper and pen. She wrote one letter—it was a brief one—to Joyce. Then, pen in hand, paper before her, she sat long and pondered much. \" I won't write,\" she decided, finally. \" It would be foolish to send him a letter. I'm sending him what's better—a man ! \" And she rose from her bureau and put pen and paper away. Harry Bassett slept dreamlessly, as only a